Chapter 10: Dad Gets Assigned to the Pentagon and We Move to Woodbridge, Virginia
- Anthony Carbone
- Jul 22
- 11 min read
Updated: Sep 7
BELIEVE NOTHING YOU HEAR, AND ONLY HALF OF WHAT YOU SEE — A Memoir of Service, Shame, and the Search for Truth
Dad Gets Orders for the Pentagon & We Move to Woodbridge, Virginia
Job at the Pentagon
In the late summer of 1971, we arrived in Woodbridge, Virginia, just in time for the start of the school year. My father had returned from Vietnam and was assigned to the Armor Officer Branch at the Pentagon. To the outside world, this seemed like a prestigious post — Washington D.C., the Pentagon, a desk job with influence. His section was eventually moved to the Hoffman Building in Alexandria, Virgina, but that didn’t make things any better for him — to my father, it was the worst assignment of his career.
His new job involved issuing deployment orders — sending fellow Armor officers into the very war he had just come home from. It was the kind of responsibility that haunted him. But what I believe truly embittered him were the officers who looked for ways to dodge their duty. He loathed cowardice. For a tanker who thrived in the field, where courage was tested in dust and diesel and sweat, being confined to an office, moving paper instead of people, was a kind of death. Gone were the tank engines, the battalion maneuvers, and the brotherhood of warriors. Now he was just one more suit commuting to a beige building full of bureaucracy.
New Friends the Callens
There was, however, one redeeming element of that year: Mr. Richard Callen. A civilian with a GS-11 rating, Mr. Callen lived nearby and carpooled with my father to the Pentagon. But he was more than a work buddy — he and his wife Karen became lifelong friends to my parents. The Callahans were kind, sincere, and the kind of people who asked real questions and listened to the answers. In a time when shallow relationships were the norm, theirs was a friendship that endured, shaped by mutual respect.
Dale City in Woodbridge, Virginia
We moved into a brand-new, single-family home in a sprawling Dale City subdivision, located at 4201 Harvest Court. The house was pistachio-green on the outside, with green shag carpeting and dark wood paneling on the inside. I hatedthat pistachio-green exterior, but this was our first home — the first one my parents actually owned.
After years of base housing and temporary quarters, just having a steady address for three full years felt like luxury. Harvest Court was a quiet little cul-de-sac with just seven homes, tucked away in a sleepy pocket of suburban Virginia.
Washington DC Monuments & Museums
Another great advantage of living in Woodbridge, Virginia was that we were now close not only to Washington, D.C.and its historic monuments — the White House, Capitol Building, Smithsonian Museums, and all those gleaming marble landmarks — but also to our Carbone relatives, the Carluccios.
The Carluccios
My father’s cousin Lucille (Carbone) had married Uncle Joe Carluccio, and they lived within visiting distance. Their home was spotless, warm, and always welcoming — thanks in no small part to Auntie Lucille, who exuded quiet elegance and grace. She was pure Carbone: classy, demure, and always composed. Her husband, Uncle Joe, was more than family — he was one of my father’s closest friends. If you didn’t know better, you’d assume they were brothers by blood.
They had two daughters: Debbie and Donna. Debbie was just a year older than I was but in the same grade, and she looked like a college coed — tall, stunning, with long, dark hair parted straight down the middle in true 1970s fashion, and a dazzling smile. She had a cool-girl edge to her — tough on the outside, but genuinely sweet when you got to know her. Her younger sister Donna was her polar opposite: smaller, louder, and a bit of a brat. While Debbie exuded grace and maturity, Donna brought the chaos.
A fun genetic twist: Debbie and I were technically double first cousins, or whatever the proper genealogical term might be. Both of our grandfathers were brothers, and both of our grandmothers were sisters. We saw the Carluccios regularly — about once a month during our three years in Woodbridge — and those visits added a sense of family rootedness in what otherwise felt like a season of drift for my father. You’ll hear more about the Carluccios in chapters to come — they remained an important part of my story.
Camping with My Father
My father took full advantage of the U.S. Army's Morale, Welfare and Recreation (MMR) which provided tickets to baseball games, boating and camping equipment and passes. We went camping often. My father was a gormet camping cook. We had meals like roasted chicken and spaghetti. And of course we did our best fishing.
My Friend, Tim Ring
My closest friend on the block was a younger kid named Tim Ring, though calling him “little” would be misleading — he was at least three times my size. Despite the age difference, we clicked instantly and spent countless afternoons riding bikes, tossing footballs, and watching cartoons. Tim had an older sister who looked like she had walked off the cover of a minidress catalog — exactly the kind of teenage beauty that defined the early 1970s. His older brother had been set to attend the U.S. Air Force Academy, only to drop out of high school at the last minute — a shocking move that reflected the strange, restless spirit of the time.
The Ring household was also one of the first I knew that fit the mold of a “modern” American family. I almost never saw his parents. He was a latchkey kid before the term became common — independent, self-sufficient, and raised more by circumstance than supervision. It left an impression on me.
Next door to Tim lived a man who spent most of his free time working on classic cars in his driveway. That summer, I watched him restore a 1955 Chevy Corvette from the ground up. Piece by piece, he brought it back to life — gleaming chrome, leather seats, flawless curves. The final touch came when he had it painted a beautiful metallic blue that shimmered in the sun like an oil slick. I was mesmerized. Then, one day, I stopped by and asked where the car had gone. “Sold it,” he said casually. I couldn’t believe it. How could you spend all summer creating something so beautiful, only to give it away? I didn’t understand it at the time. Maybe it was about the process, not the product. But to my young mind, it felt like watching someone build their dream — then hand it off to a stranger.
Mills E. Godwin Middle School
I started 7th grade that fall at Mills E. Godwin Middle School, a so-called “progressive” school that actually lived up to the label. It ran on a year-round 45–15 schedule — forty-five school days followed by fifteen off. This meant we got breaks in all four seasons, which I loved, but it made family planning chaotic since my sisters were on a traditional schedule at the local high school.
The Progressive School
The school was divided into four rotating color-coded groups: Red, Yellow, Blue, and Green. I was in Blue, while kids just across the street from me were in Red, which meant we never had school at the same time. Only three groups were in session at any given time, which kept the building under control but gave everything a weird rhythm. The structure of the school itself was equally unconventional. Classes were co-ed, and all students took both Shop and Home Economics. Our main subjects were blended into a long “Block” session, mixing English, history, and science in one flowing period.
Even the physical layout was strange. Godwin was housed in a single massive room — basically an old auditorium — divided only by six-foot-high partitions. You could hear the teacher in the next “room” while trying to concentrate on your own. Students didn’t sit at desks either. Most of us sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor, grooving through the school day in true 1970s fashion.
The Watergate Hearings
Because I scored so well on my placement tests, I was exempted from most of the regular coursework and spent much of my time in the library, where I became completely absorbed in the Watergate Hearings on television. I didn’t fully understand the intricacies of the scandal, but I recognized that I was witnessing history. The drama, the questions, the fall of a president — it felt massive.
IQ Testing & Genius IQ, But Can’t Memorize
Despite being an excellent student, I struggled constantly with memorization. Locker combinations, phone numbers, names — I forgot them all. Memorizing the Boy Scout Oath or prays for First Communion and Conformation terrified me. Spelling made no sense to me. I assumed something was wrong.
The school psychologist tested me repeatedly, and every time I scored a Genius IQ — 160 or higher. He was baffled and asked me, “How can a genius have trouble memorizing?!” I had no idea. I still don’t. It’s just how I am wired. I love learning, breezed through assignments, and earned straight A’s, but the basic act of remembering facts or phrases left me panicked. That contradiction — genius but with difficulty memorizing— has shaped my professional and social life ever since.
Middle School Activiites
Surprisingly, none of this ever made me feel like an outsider. I made friends easily–was even elected class representative by write-in vote, which surprised everyone, including me. Joined the school choir, where I discovered a passion and a gift for music. I eventually made regional and all-state choir as a first tenor, a rare honor for a middle schooler. Life at Godwin was strange and beautiful — a little chaotic, a little brilliant, like the 1970s themselves.
Visit From My Cousin Johnny
Another good memory is when my cousin Johnny Lakos from the Boston area came to visit us. Johnny was the oldest of the four boys of my godmother, Auntie Yole, my mother’s oldest sister. At the time, he was growing up in Billerica, Massachusetts, which had a reputation as a tough neighborhood. One summer when we were back in Medford, I broke my right hand after John got into a fight with a group of local tough guys at the corner store. Things might have turned out much worse if the store owner hadn’t come charging outside with a baseball bat to scatter the crowd.
Music of 1972
One of the things that sticks with me about our time in Woodbridge in 1972 was the music. Two songs that I’ll never forget from that year were “American Pie” by Don McLean and “Everything I Own” by Bread. Yes, I’ll admit it — I liked Bread, and David Gates had a voice that stuck with you. Lynne’s favorite that year was “Motorcycle Mama” by Sailcat, while she was trying to find her 1970s free-spirited nature. And Diana? She was still deep in her Donny Osmond phase, blasting “Go Away Little Girl” from her bedroom while gazing at his poster on the wall. Meanwhile, I found myself falling hard for Michelle Phillips of The Mamas & the Papas — her blonde hair and bohemian spirit were electric.
Entering Woodbridge Senior High School
By the time I entered Woodbridge Senior High School, the world around us felt just as chaotic. It was a wild time in America. The Vietnam War was reaching a painful crescendo before the Paris Peace Accords finally brought it to an end. Watergate was on every television, peeling away the illusion of presidential authority. The drug culture was roaring. The sexual revolutionwas in full swing, and so, it seemed, were my teenage hormones.
I was noticing girls for the first time — just in time to be thrown into the whirlwind that was Woodbridge Senior High. Unlike Godwin’s experimental vibe, Woodbridge was huge and traditional. My freshman class alone had over 1,000 students. The school was so overcrowded that we were placed on split-shifts: half the school attended from 0600 to noon, the other half from noon to 1800. My sisters and I drew the short straw — we were in the afternoon shift.
Eventually, though, a brand-new, modern, and massive school building was completed, large enough to accommodate us all. The moment we walked into that sleek, state-of-the-art campus, everything changed. We loved it. I was finally at the same school as my sisters, and for the first time, we could enjoy high school together. I had the same lunch break as my sister Diana, so I always ate with her and her girlfriends. So I got to know the sophomore girls easily.
Taking Field Biology During the Summer
One of the biggest turning points for me came during summer school, where Diana and I were required to take a class because of our involvement in choir. We signed up for Field Biology — and I hit the jackpot. The class consisted of 26 girls and 1 lucky boy (me), many of them cheerleaders, majorettes, or fellow choir members. Every day we took field trips to local parks, where we studied flora and fauna and wrote reports. I quickly became known as the only student willing to do the dissections, which won me a strange kind of fame. I guess I was destined to become a surgeon.
But let’s be honest — it was the bus rides and field trips with the girls that I loved most. Despite my shyness, I started to meet girls, and for a boy on the cusp of adolescence, there was no better time. Mini-dresses & skirts were still in fashion, and I fell in love ten times a day.
One of those girls, Sue Grizzard, who was a year ahead of me, even asked me to the Sadie Hawkins Dance. I was thrilled because it was my first real date with a girl and Sue was my first high school crush.
The Changing Times of the 1970s
It was also a time when the cultural tides were shifting fast — even inside our own home. Diana had stacks of Tiger Beat Magazine posters of Donny Osmond and David Cassidy from The Partridge Family pinned to her bedroom wall, dreaming of clean-cut pop idols with pearly smiles.
My musical tastes were evolving too. I was drifting away from folk music like the Mamas & the Papas and Don McLean’s American Pie, and moving into the hazy world of rock like The 5 Man Electrical Band's "Signs" and psychedelic rock, hypnotized by songs like “Crimson & Clover” by Tommy James and the Shondells. The innocence of the 1960s was giving way to something more experimental, more sensual, and I was riding that wave right into high school.
Senior High Activities
That first year of high school also brought new freedoms. We were finally allowed to attend football games, school concerts, and other evening events. I especially loved Friday night varsity football games. The energy, the marching band, the lights on the field — it was everything high school was supposed to be.
In just a few short years, I had gone from watching Watergate on TV and wondering why I couldn’t remember a locker combination to discovering music, girls, and football under the Friday night lights. And all of it — the political chaos, the cultural shifts, the awkward first steps into teenage life — was part of the strange and wonderful chapter we called Woodbridge.
Nixon Resigns August 9, 1974
