Growing Up in a Military Home

By Rudolph Alan Wegert, 2019

 I am grateful to say that I had the privilege and honor of growing up in a military home. My dad had enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps eleven years before I was born and had already served through the Korean War as part of the 1st Marine Division. He served in the Marines from 1948 thru 1963 (15 years), and then immediately enlisted in the U.S. Army where he served another 27 years. There were several reasons why he chose to change from the Marines to the Army; but the main reason was so that we as a family could be allowed to grow up in the same place.

One of the hardships of growing up in a military home is having to move from place to place, relocating to a new deployment and never having any roots. We were so fortunate to have been able to live in the same home from 1963 to 1976, all through our school years. I carry with me only the most warm and precious memories from all those years. I remember what a wonderful treat it was to wake up in the morning after my parents had come home from the Marine Corps Birthday Ball with extra slices of the cake that they had brought home for us to enjoy. And all of the many rides that I remember taking with my dad down to the “center” as it was called where he worked; whether it was the U.S. Marine Headquarters at 1046 East Washington Ave., Madison, WI, or U.S. Army Post Headquarters on Wright St., Madison, WI. Sometimes I got to ride in a Military Jeep without any doors (only a chain that latched on each side),
or a U.S. Army 5-ton truck. It was so much fun.

Even the building headquarters were adventures for me with their firing ranges and strange colored Gyms (Gray and Olive Drab O.D. Green) and locker rooms with heavy, black locked steel cages full of all kinds of combat equipment. Dad found an old Army Belt from the Korean War with Ammo Pouches and a canteen from an Army Surplus Store, and I remember how much fun I had playing “Army” with my combat equipment.

I remember the simple pleasure I had watching my dad polish and lace up his boots each morning before he left. And how amazing his uniform looked on him. Sometimes he would “ten-hut!” me, just to playfully invite me into his world. We had just poured the concrete pad beneath the brand new flag pole my dad and I installed in our front yard of 26 Garnet Lane, when he received his orders that he was being called up to go to Viet Nam with his unit, the 826th Ordinance Co. Ammo & Supply, 1968. I remember
how my mom was crying, and we all felt so sad and concerned. We fought hard trying not to think of what possibly could happen to my dad. I was only in fourth grade, but he had showed me how to respect, honor, fold, and care for our flag. And he wanted me to raise and lower the flag each day for him while he was gone, which I proudly did.   

I remember that day we said “Goodbye” and hugging my dad as if it possibly could be the last time I saw him. I was already aware of the dangers and possibilities even though I was not yet 9 years old as that big plane took off from the airport. It was a sunny day and back then family members could stand outside in an area behind a fence, quite close to the plane. But it was so quiet in the car as my mom drove us kids home alone.  

Yes, my Mom was the glue that held our family together through all those years growing up. My mom was alone, but she had her best friend and next-door neighbor, Gerry Sprague, to talk to every day; and her Women’s Auxiliary group made up of all the other wives of the soldiers that had gone. Many of the women we became good friends with. In fact, I remember watching the first man on the moon mission, live, in the home of Orville and Pat Fisher on July 20, 1969, and my mom said, “Oh, there’s the flag; maybe we should all stand.” And all of us stood as Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong planted that American flag on the moon. 

My mom took care of everything while my dad was gone. Jay was only a year old, Lynn was 6, Shelia was 11, and I was 8; and she fed us, washed all the clothes, cleaned and took care of the house, went to all of our school functions, took us to the commissary to buy groceries, took me to cub scouts, and hundreds of other things, and—oh, yeah, she went to work each day. My mom’s mother, my Grandma White, lived with us at the time; so, she could watch Jay while mom was at work. I got home from school a little before my mom did, and I remember trying to wash the kitchen floor, or clean the bathroom, or dust, or some chore that would make my mom happy when she got home, because it was quite a strain on her emotions trying to take care of everything all by herself. It was different back then. We couldn’t just call my dad to talk to him and see how he was doing. But we did have an incredible system of communication that brought us all the greatest sense of joy imaginable. During those 18 months my dad was away, both he and my mom had tape recorders on which they would record all the events and happenings each day of that month and then, at the end of the month, they simply mailed each other that cassette tape. It was such a joy when that tape from my dad would come in the mail each month! We could hardly wait to hear about how he was doing. I have every single one of those tapes, both my dad’s and my mom’s, from which we made CD recordings for all of us to have. 1968 and 1969 had many historical events occur, which both my dad and mom talked about while they were happening. My mom tried to fill each tape with as much positive as she could. We kids all got our turn to talk, and “tell on each other.” When relatives would visit, Mom would get them to talk and say “Hi” also. Birthday parties with the neighbor kids over, Easter at Bill & Verla’s, January 1969, when I got the mumps, picnics with relatives, Christmas Eve Day 1968 at Grandma Hoskins, when it was 22° below zero and Grandma, Hollis and Yvonne all talked, and dozens of everyday events recorded, some even while they were happening—like when Shelia snuck into the bathroom to record my little brother screaming while mom was giving him a bath and mom was singing all kinds of funny songs to him to quiet him down! Recording all of life’s everyday events became exciting and we couldn’t wait to tell Dad all that happened that day. 

I am not sure how it happened, but somehow even my school principal found out my dad was in Vietnam. I didn’t have a clue when my teacher told me to go right down to Mr. Kitto’s office. It was not the first time for me to visit the principal and I remember well how I broke out sobbing and crying, like I usually did when I had to go into his office. He spoke softly and calmed me down, and then said, “Rudy, I understand your father’s in Vietnam.” “Yes,” I said. “Well, he’s a hero to all of us here at John F. Kennedy School, and I just wanted to know how you were doing. Are you okay? I know it’s hard to be away from your dad, but I know he’d be very proud of you, and I want you to know we’re all on your side.” Although my only response was “okay,” something happened to me that day that I will never, ever forget. I went from feeling somewhat lonely and insignificant to feeling like I had grown 10-feet tall. Somehow, what my dad was doing brought me honor and self-worth like I had never known before. And I will not ever forget the powerful impact that wonderful man, MR. Robert M. Kitto, made upon a young, lonely boy that day. Months later, the day after our family went to the airport to see my dad come home from 18 months in Vietnam, Mr. Kitto came to my classroom and publicly announced to my class how happy we all are to have Rudy’s dad home from Vietnam. I know that my dad did not receive any public hero’s welcome home when he got off the plane, but I could not have felt more proud at my
school that next day when my principal made me feel like I was the son of a national hero. I remember feeling like I was floating as I walked home from school that day. 

Even now my dad quite often apologizes for not doing more with me when I was younger. But truthfully, my memory is far better than his. Because I remember Everything of all the hundreds of things he did with me: He had built, over the course of my childhood, three different playhouses for us kids to play in, he taught me how to paint, sand, varnish; and all kinds of wood working skills as we built cabinets and furniture together in our home; he taught me how to mow and do landscaping, how to plant a garden, plant trees, how to fix a bike, a car, how to cut and chop wood; how to hang a door, how to shoot and clean a gun, how to cast a line, how to shoot a bow; he took me hunting and fishing, taught me how to skin a squirrel, dress a deer, build a
tree stand, scale or filet fish, mix and pour concrete; he took me to Gun Club and Boy Scouts, helped me build Gymnastic equipment right in my own back yard; He taught me how to forgive and not hold a grudge, and always look for the positive, and realize that no matter how bad things look it could always be worse.

When I wanted to enroll at West Point, I remember him encouraging me to pursue what I really love to do, and that he had already given enough for both of us. And even as I have truly pursued my deep love for building and repairing and remodeling, I have enjoyed the past 32 years surrounded by wonderful friends: 21 of the very men that went to Viet Nam with him that live and work in the Wisconsin Dells/Baraboo area. I have become very good friends with them, and it has all been because of my dad. John Van Wie, with Dells Lumber, Al Olson with Olson Paint Store, Pat Walsh—a great builder, who built River’s Edge Restaurant and Resort, Mike Quindt of Quindt’s Town
Lounge, and others—all of which I have met through the years by this one process: “You’re Rudy Wegert—are you related to Rudy Wegert who was in Vietnam in ’68-’69?” “Yes, that’s my dad!” And immediately from that point on—all the honor and regard that they have had for my dad has been bestowed upon me through these years. Each and every one of them, a hero, befriending and helping and guiding and encouraging me—the son of a father whom I revere as my hero and friend through all these years, and the one of whom I wish that I could be to my children one-tenth of the dad that he has always been to me.