He told me that he would take mercy upon me and let me out of my Army obligation, but only if I agreed to leave the University of Colorado. While the commander of my ROTC already had me firmly by the short hairs, he then proceeded to make a massive blunder. In a nutshell, I was now royally screwed. As quite a few folks now sitting in Iraq can attest, the Army enforces enlistment technicalities very aggressively, even when verbal promises were made to the contrary. By conveniently forgetting to inform me that by not dropping out of ROTC in May, my commanding officer had tricked me into a technicality under which I was now bound to serve in the Army in active service for 4 years, with another 2 years of service required in the reserves. That's a critical variance from what I was told (by my commanding officer) prior to asking for my leave of absence, which was that I would only trigger my 6-year obligation to the Army if I began my junior year. I was in for a shock, however, when my company commander informed me that I now had no choice but to continue with my Army career, as the strict rules my ROTC enlistment were that I could drop out (without any further obligation) until the end of my sophomore year. While I was only three months into that experiment, my success at the three larger shows I attended during the summer of 1974 had convinced me that I definitely wanted to permanently abandon my ROTC scholarship. As you may recall from the beginning of this story, in May of 1974 I took a one-year leave of absence from my University of Colorado ROTC company to try my hand at dealing comics for a living. Upon my return to Boulder, I took the time to visit the commander of my Army ROTC unit. My second bit of good fortune began as a disaster. Luck was with me, however, so I made it back to my home in Colorado. That would be bad under any circumstances, but since I had just experienced such a debilitating illness I was particularly at risk for a relapse. If that tire had given out in the high desert I would have been alone and cold in the dark. Worse yet, when I went to change the tire I found to my extreme dismay that the tire iron that my mother had provided when she loaned me the car didn't fit the lug nuts. When I awoke the next morning, I discovered that I had picked up a small piece of sharp obsidian rock in one of my tires, and it was consequently completely flat. Since the high desert can be quite cold at night even during high summer, I rented a $10 a night motel room rather than sleep in my usual spot across the back dash of my old 1963 Chevy Impala.
Despite still feeling quite weak, I was so determined to make it home that I drove until I reached Winslow, Arizona sometime after midnight. Those auspicious circumstances began during the evening of my first night on the road home. The gods must have been looking out for me during that time, as the events that followed led directly to the formation of my company, Mile High Comics, and my continuing participation in the comics world for the next 30 years.
Those two kind men nursed me back on to my (wobbly) feet, and then helped me finally get on the road for the 1,000 mile drive back to my home in Colorado. The last couple of evenings were spent at the apartment of two orderlies from the Balboa Naval Hospital, who took me in after the hospital was unable to admit me due to a lack of space. As a result of that mysterious intestinal illness I lost nearly 20 pounds, and was forced to stay over in San Diego for over a week after the end of the convention. In last month's column, I related for you how I became seriously ill at the 1974 San Diego Comics Convention.
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