Growing Skin

By Terry A. Degner

What actions did Terry take in the middle of a deadly event predicted by the psychic Jeane Dixon?

In 1964, Terry joins the Navy and finds himself back in the real world, a world far removed from the "soul modeling community" he had been adopted into. Here, he returns to the world of fighting. In Radar A School

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Bandi Media Group LLC
• Release date: May 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9780983663652

Terry A. Degner

Terry Degner is a husband, father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. For over twenty-three years, he designed, wrote, directed, and edited hundreds of video, sound, and multimedia productions; including children's shows, documentaries, dramas, and training and promotional programs. For twelve of those years, he owned and managed his own production company, and his skill at script-writing is what brought in the repeat business. In addition to his media career, the author spent twelve years in sales and marketing, climbing the corporate ladder and winning many awards along the way. He got an education in electronics from the U.S. Navy, a degree from the University of Minnesota in speech (broadcast) journalism, and he is a certified webmaster. Terry was ideally suited to write, with captivating dialogue, this continuing true account of his life-a goal he set for himself at the age of twelve.

Book preview

Author’s Introduction

This is a true story. Many of the names are correct, some were changed, and some I simply couldn’t remember so I made them up. In one case, I didn’t use a name because I couldn’t prove it was the person in question. In another, the person spent time in prison and I didn’t want to cause further harm to his family. Throughout the book, I did my best to focus on facts and the impact an incident had on me, and not on the motives of others.

To understand where I’m coming from in this book, it would be beneficial for you to read Book I & II of the memoir series. Book I: My Brave Little Man, covers the years I spent growing up in the middle of the north woods, followed by three-plus years in an orphanage. Book II: The Weight of the World, covers the eleven years I spent hardening up on a farm in western Minnesota.

In this, the final book in the series, I cover the years I spent in the Navy, followed by college. Of the three books, this one was, by far, the easiest to write. I say this because, as you will see, one dramatic incident is followed by another. As my brother-in-law once said, I wish I could have done half the things you’ve done, Terry. When he spoke those words, I was twenty-three years old.

Why did I write the memoir series?

I believe the more one reaches back for experience, the more one matures in relation to the present, and the greater it is for the mind to penetrate deeper into the unknown future.

Enjoy the book(s), and if you have questions or comments you’d like to share, please don’t hesitate to visit my website: tadegner.com. I’d love to hear from you.

The unexamined life is not worth living. – Socrates

PROLOGUE

May 1972

Bill, someone told me you’re leaving to take another job, I said, walking up to my friend Bill Dean, who was the radio-television program supervisor at the University of Minnesota.

Where did you hear that? he asked in a low and questioning manner. I just made up my mind yesterday, and I’ve only told a couple of people.

Well, you know how gossip spreads. I heard one of the cameramen talking about it just a few minutes ago.

Oh, Christ, he muttered under his breath. I suppose now everyone knows.

Is it true? I asked again.

Yes, I’ve been here long enough, and I thought it was time to leave.

Where’re you going?

I’ve taken a job with a private company. They produce commercials, promotional videos, and training programs for corporations here in the Twin Cities.

Who’s taking over your position? I asked.

No one yet. I won’t be leaving until the end of the school year. Aren’t you graduating this year?

Yup. I’m carrying a heavy load this quarter, but I won’t have any problems graduating.

Why don’t you apply for my position? You’ve got more than enough experience. Heck, you have more experience than anyone else. Bob might qualify, but he isn’t graduating, and I don’t think they’ll hire someone who doesn’t have at least a bachelor’s degree.

I knew Bob. We had worked together in the Television Department for the past four years but, unlike me, his focus was photography, not television, so I wasn’t sure about his qualifications. Besides, he had been taking the minimum number of credits every quarter to stay in college. Put another way, to stay out of the draft.

I went home that evening and talked to my wife about Bill leaving and about the opening. Her face lit up at the very thought of me working at the university. She knew I had more than enough experience in production to get the job, but that wasn’t what excited her the most. What excited her was the prospect of starting a family.

CHAPTER 1

Boot Camp

Summer of 1964

What’s my last name? the rather large recruit asked.

The priest didn’t give me your last name, I replied. He just said you’d be the only Deric in the barracks.

I’m not going anywhere with you unless you can tell me my last name!

Are there any other Derics in the barracks? I asked, looking around.

That doesn’t matter. I want to make sure it’s me and not someone else, so you find out what my last name is. And then, and only then, will I consider going with you.

But the office is all the way across the base, I said, holding the palms of my hands up in exasperation.

I knew it was him. It had to be. How many other men in this wing of the barracks went by the name of Deric? He was just being obstinate.

And, while you’re at it, he said emphatically, I want to know why he wants to see me. I’m not a Catholic. And with that, he turned and walked away leaving me with no choice but to walk all the way back to the office.

This little scene took place during the second week of boot camp. Instead of working in the mess hall with the other members of my squad, I sat at a desk all day, typing letters for a Catholic priest.

I had enlisted in the Navy on the buddy system on the sixteenth of June, just two weeks after the end of school. My buddy had been Keith Olson, my co-captain on the high school wrestling team. But, as it turned out, Keith needed some dental work done, so they held him back, and I ended up going through basic without him.

Except for all the shots, the first week had been easy. They assigned me to a squad, taught me how to make a bed military style, and we stood in line for hours to get uniforms. On the second day, it was back in line for shots—seven or eight of them, as I recall. The shots in the arms didn’t bother me but the double dose of penicillin to the butt was the real kicker. It didn’t hurt—not at first, anyway. But, we were told in no uncertain terms, if we didn’t do some serious physical exercising for the next few days, our bodies would tighten up, and we’d experience real pain. That’s when we started marching. We spent hours on the parade ground and, by the end of the week, the stiffness was gone.

The second week was probably the most loathsome, at least for most of the members of my squad. As a unit, we were assigned the task of working in the mess hall, setting and cleaning tables and washing dishes.

Don’t ever volunteer, someone in our unit had told me during the first week. But, against his advice, when our unit commander asked if anyone could type, I raised my hand. That’s how I ended up with the cushy job in an office.

The first half of that second week had been rather pleasant. I listened to music as I typed. We even had air conditioning. I had never seen air conditioning before, let alone enjoyed its comforts.

It was the morning of July 1 when the priest sent me off to find and escort Deric to his office. When he refused to come with me and I returned to the office, the priest shrugged and said, Well, I’m sorry you had to do all that walking, but unfortunately I’ll have to send you back because I need to see him.

With that, the priest gave me Deric’s last name. And then he went on to tell me why he wanted to see him. Someone turned him in for putting his penis in another recruit’s mouth, the priest said, and I need to hear his side of the story.

With his last name and a motive for why the priest wanted to see Deric, I made the long walk back to his barracks.

Your last name is Odagard, I said, and the priest has been assigned to look into an issue regarding a sexual act you were involved in. He told me to escort you back to his office.

Okay. And with that, he followed me back to the office.

During our walk, Deric told me why he had done it. According to him, he had joined the Navy to escape being drafted into the Army. Then he told me what had happened. A cook told me to go down to the basement to get something, and when I got there, I noticed this guy sleeping on a sack of potatoes. His mouth was wide open, so I walked up to him and stuck my penis in it.

Why did you do it? I asked.

I did it to get out of the Navy, was his response, and I believed him.

Did Deric tell the priest the same story? I was never told, but I do know that I never saw him again.

Interestingly, the man who had been lying on the sack of potatoes also left. He was discharged due to a disorder called narcolepsy. I didn’t know anything about the disorder at the time, but I do remember him falling asleep on the parade ground once and in the barracks whenever we took a break.

The following five weeks of boot camp weren’t as dramatic, but they turned out to be just as easy. I again went against the grain and volunteered. This time, I raised my hand when the unit commander asked for volunteers to join Staff & Drill Team. While the young man who told me not to volunteer went through the riggers and drudgery of boot camp, I practiced marching under the shade of an indoor field house. The heaviest thing I carried for the greater part of training was a pair of white gloves and the inspections were a breeze. Instead of being inspected in the light of day, where every spot was easy to find, our inspections took place indoors, which hid the sweat stains that many a recruit was disciplined for. On the last day of boot camp, our team took first place in the review parade and, for that, I received a medal.

I did find out some of what my fellow mates had gone through in training when our squad marched to the dining hall after the parade. For the first time in boot camp, I was handed a weapon. I thought my arm was going to fall off as we stood at parade rest for a good half-hour outside the dining hall. This was, I later learned, how the Navy collected a squad’s weapons at the end of boot camp.

The next day, I was on my way home to enjoy some leisure time with my high school sweetheart before returning to Great Lakes for schooling. She was a senior in high school. She had sent a number of letters to me during my time in boot camp—a practice that would continue and expand over time.

CHAPTER 2

Master at Arms

Radar A School, 1964–65

Prior to leaving boot camp, the Navy assigned me to Radar A School in Great Lakes, Illinois. After two weeks of rest and relaxation on the farm along with a couple of dates with my high school sweetheart, I took the train back to Great Lakes to begin my education. I wasn’t told why Radar A School, but years later while going through my discharge papers, I found one sentence that read: Mr. Degner is best suited for something in the communications field. I don’t recall taking an aptitude test, but it’s the only explanation that makes sense.

Interestingly, Radar A School turned out to be mainly math—not my strong suit. Indeed, the first month focused entirely on math. After that, the focus turned to electronics and the basics of computer technology. Not only did I do well in class, but for the better part of the eight months in school, I ranked second.

I believe that the method of training had a lot to do with my success. Instead of handing out homework, the instructors expected us to learn during class hours, and much of it was hands-on training. In other words, we worked through problems in class and, if we had questions, the instructor would work with us individually. They most likely figured that taking homework back to the barracks would be an exercise in futility, and they were right on that score.

I’d like to say that classroom work and an occasional weekend leave completes this picture, but that wasn’t the case. I also managed to be at the top of the class in another category: getting into fights. Seven, to be exact.

You know the officers are taking bets on your fights, don’t you, Gerald told me after one fight.

Gerald was one of my new school buddies. He and I, along with another student by the name of Andrew, were in the same class at school and we would often spend weekends together in Chicago and Milwaukee. Andrew and Gerald were opposites in many ways. Andrew was a skinny, geeky city boy from somewhere out west, while Gerald was a solidly built tough guy from International Falls, which was thirty miles north of where I was born.

What are you talking about? I asked.

When you got into that fight between the barracks yesterday, I saw two officers standing by the window overlooking the courtyard, and they were placing bets on the outcome.

You’ve got to be kidding, I said. They were taking bets?

Yes. Why do you suppose they made you barracks master at arms? Because you’re pretty?

I guess I never thought about it, but I did wonder why they suddenly made me master at arms of the barracks.

I don’t remember the details of all the fights because many of them didn’t stand out, but I specifically recall telling someone that I got into seven fights while I was in Radar A School, so I’ll stick with that number.

The first fight occurred not long after the start of school. I was taking a shower one day when my friend Gerald walked into the bathroom to take his shower. The shower area was a narrow, rectangular bay with perhaps ten open stalls. Across from the stalls were hooks upon which we could hang our boxer shorts and towels—everyone wore boxer shorts.

As Gerald started to cross in front of me, I thought I’d have some fun. The shower head in the stall to my left was missing, so I reasoned that if I turned it on the moment Gerald passed, the water would jut out and hit him full force. Grabbing the faucet, I turned it on and, sure enough, a stream of water jutted straight out from the almost-horizontal pipe.

Haha, you missed, Gerald said as he pranced beyond the reach of the stream of water, and with that, we both started laughing.

Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing? a voice to my right suddenly shouted.

Looking, I saw a naked man step out of the shower, anger written all over his face. He walked over to where the hooks were and took a pair shorts off the one mirroring the broken shower head—the one I had jokingly turned on.

You think this is funny? he said, holding up the now-soaking-wet shorts.

I’m sorry, I was joking around with my friend and I didn’t realize your shorts had gotten wet.

Well, they are wet, asshole. And with that, he stepped toward me.

Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t see them hanging there, I said apologetically.

Oh, yeah? If you think you’re so tough, let’s settle things right here. And with that, he raised his fists and came at me.

Fights in the movies seem to last forever, but that’s never been my experience. He took one of those idiotic, arching swings at my head. I ducked, grabbed his arm, swung him around, grabbed him around the waist, and threw him onto the floor. This probably took three seconds, at most. Once he was down, I pushed him across the slippery floor until he was pinned under a bench that sat against the wall. This made it impossible for him to even attempt to use his fists—or any other part of his body, for that matter.

I held him there with my foot until someone shouted, Hey, you guys better settle this somewhere else because the master at arms could come in at any moment.

The master at arms he was referring to was not the barracks master at arms, but a petty officer—and he had the authority to not only stop a fight but write us up. So, upon hearing this, I let him up.

Are you done? I asked as he got to his feet.

I slipped. It won’t happen again. Let’s finish this somewhere else, he snarled.

Do your fighting in the drying room, a voice shouted. He won’t find you in there.

Fine, I said. Let’s get it over with. I’ll meet you there. And with that, I walked past him.

The drying room was only used during the winter months. Since this event took place during the summer, the three-hundred-square-foot room was an ideal place for our fight because it had been stripped of its metal clotheslines, leaving the room essentially empty of any encumbrances. The only clue to its use was the heat. For some reason, the room always seemed to be hotter than the rest of the barracks, even when it wasn’t in use.

I nonchalantly walked across the hall and into the drying room without even thinking about putting on my shorts. Mr. New Jersey, instead of following me, disappeared. My first thought was that he’d bowed out until someone in the growing crowd shouted, He said he’ll be here shortly. He went to put on some dry shorts.

He shouldn’t have bothered. The fight went the same way as it had in the shower room. I didn’t tuck him under a bench this time because there were no benches, but it didn’t matter. I had him down on the floor within seconds, and I kept him there until he finally decided to give up.

Shortly after the fight, I was informed that I was facing a chief’s court-martial and that I couldn’t go off base. How the chief found out about the fight is unknown.

On the day of the court-martial, I went to the office they told me to report to and, instead of a courtroom filled with judges, the only person present was the chief. When he asked me what had happened, I calmly told him about the broken shower head, about joking around with my friend, and about getting the boxer shorts wet, and then I went into the fight itself. When I finished, the chief chuckled and said, Well, try to stay out of fights in the future. And that ended my court-martial. (None of my discharge papers mention this event.)

I later heard through the grapevine that Mr. New Jersey was quartered to the base for six weeks. I, on the other hand, did not lose one weekend pass, other than the one I had lost prior to meeting with the chief. Shortly after this incident, the chief promoted me to master at arms of the barracks.

There were six other fights, two of which happened while on shore (weekend) leave. One took place in Milwaukee and the other in Chicago. I don’t recall any of the details about the fight in Chicago, other than it took place in a hotel, but I do remember a little about the one in Milwaukee. Gerald and I were on our way to a dance when two marines confronted us. A verbal comment by one of the marines about marines being tougher then sailors is what started the fight. I don’t know if they had been drinking or not, but, no question about it, they had intentionally crossed the street to confront us, and Gerald and I ended up accommodating them.

The fight itself didn’t last long. I don’t know what took place between Gerald and his marine, but I grabbed my opponent by the arm, slung him over my shoulder and onto the sidewalk, and there he stayed. With that, Gerald and I continued our journey. I recall looking back over my shoulder and seeing the marine who had attacked me, still lying on the sidewalk, and the Gerald’s marine leaning against a store window, rubbing his chin.

It may seem like all I did was fight, but that’s not true. I spent most of my time in the classroom. But, another fight toward the end of my