This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2015, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

On my key ring is one of the military dog tags I wore during active duty with the U.S. Army in the early '70s.

Whenever I look at it, I'm reminded that I was once young enough to do lots of marching, shooting, latrine-cleaning, running, jumping out of airplanes, K.P. and getting yelled at by truly scary people.

Forty-plus years later, I keep the ID tab on my key ring for the same reason it was issued to me in the first place — to identify something of mine as still being mine in the event that we became separated.

In the Army's case it was my body and its various accoutrements. Whether I was badly wounded or completely dead, the tag would serve to keep track of as much of me as possible. The rest of the time it was just a convenient form of identification for live bodies.

At Fort Gordon, Ga., it worked like this. Master Sgt. E.B. "Godzilla" Dye would suddenly storm through the barracks and select "volunteers" at random for a work party. The first few times were frightening, but we got used to it.

"You, you, and you!" Dye would scream. Then his eyes would light up when he saw me. "And especially you."

Not wanting to lose track of whom he had chosen on his way in, Sgt. Dye would unceremoniously cram his paw down the front of our shirts, grab our dog tags, and loop the chain over a handy bunk post.

There we would remain tethered until he collected us on his way back out. Nobody I ever saw had the guts to unhook and slink away before he returned.

Currently, it's just my car keys that wander off. The tag serves to inform the finder as to the identity of the aging rattlepate who lost them. Countless times I have been spared walking somewhere because an old dog tag ensured their prompt return.

My name, service number, blood type, and brand of faith were all the Army needed if ever came the point when I could no longer supply the information myself.

But it wasn't only official info they minded. On the backside of the tag are the still-visible letters "FTA" that I scratched during a moment of discontent exactly 43 years ago today.

On July 4, 1972, our entire company got half a day off to celebrate Independence Day. Everyone went out and partied. Everyone, that is, but me. I had to mow an entire %&#@* parade ground for something I did (or failed to do) that I don't even really remember anymore.

I do recall that the etched acronym later almost got me hanged by my dog tags when Sgt. Dye saw it. He already knew that it didn't stand for "Fun, travel and adventure."

It wouldn't be the last misunderstanding involving my old tags. When my middle daughter was young, she asked about the metal tab on my key ring.

Me: "It's a military dog tag."

Her: "A dog's tag? Then how come it has YOUR name on it?"

Good point. I wasn't much of a soldier. I never went to war, never got wounded (other than a parachute landing that went horribly wrong) and was never separated from my family for longer than I could stand. I also screwed up a lot.

Most of the time, I don't think about having been in the Army. Except on days like today. When America's holidays roll around, especially those having anything at all to do with the military, I can look at my key ring with just a twinge of pride.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley. Find his past columns at http://www.sltrib.com/lifestyle/kirby.