When a friend of mine entered the Air Force in the 1950s, he was asked his preference for what today is called an MOS — Military Occupational Specialty — and he said he’d like to attend foreign language school and become an interpreter of the Russian language.

Back then, it seemed like an MOS that America’s military would need to have in good supply (and the way things are going, it will be again).

However, the officer who interviewed him greeted that idea with derision.

“You’re from West Virginia,” he said, “and you people don’t know how to talk,” or words to that effect. The problem wasn’t so much that West Virginians weren’t capable of speaking proper English, but that they didn’t know which English to speak.

“You don’t know whether you’re from the North or the South,” he said, “or the East or the West. You eat ice cream (pronounced with a long ‘I’ sound), but you went to hah school (soft ‘A’ instead of a long ‘I’).”

My mother the English teacher would have agreed with that assessment, especially in my case. She said I wrote one type of English, but spoke another.

Each year after my return from two weeks in the country for deer season, Mom held off for a few days until her patience was exhausted before finally telling me, “You know how to speak English. It is time for you to resume doing so.”

Not all West Virginians speak alike, as I discovered in college when I dated a girl from Princeton, which is next door to Bluefield and as far south in West Virginia as you can get.

Her brand of English more closely resembled that of a southwestern Virginian. Many of the words in her vocabulary contained one more syllable than I was accustomed to hearing, usually an “uh” sound.

My first name, as it came from her attractive lips, was pronounced “Jee-uhm,” and she lived in “Pree-uhnce-ton,” rather than “Princeton.”

Never having been one to leave well enough alone, I sometimes began to ta-uhlk the way she dee-uhd, and it rarely failed to get her day-uhnder u-uhp.

“Naow, youall stop thay-uht!” she’d protest, after whee-uch Ah wou-uhd behave untee-uhl the nay-uxt tahm. (You think it’s easy to write in someone else’s accay-uhnt? Just trah ee-uht.)

When I went to visit her in Pree-uhnce-ton, her parents greeted me with a decided lack of southern friendliness that had me puzzled until she explained.

“They thee-uhnk youall are a hee-uhppy,” she gasped between snickers the first time we were alone.

My hair was considerably shorter than it appears in the accompanying outdated picture of me, and I was clean-shaven. However, even though I was from West Virginia, I became suspect because this was 1969, there were no whitewalls over my ears, my sideburns were longer than even my own father was comfortable with, and I was a student at a big university where there were, in fact, hippies.

I told her I would take it from there. The first chance I got, I began talking to her father about squirrel hunting and the fact that his neighbor’s 1965 Chevelle was one of only about 200 that came from the factory with a 396 cubic-inch engine, and that’s all it took.

Being bilingual (so to speak) gives me an idea of what I might do when I go to Gettysburg with my buddies who do living history. They talk about the battle with tourists who come to have their pictures taken with a vintage cannon and two guys in authentic Union Army lieutenants’ uniforms.

Tourists frequently ask them about the cannon and ... well, we’ll get to that later. I’d have to wear some kind of uniform, but should it be blue or gray? I had relatives in both armies and have found a solution that will honor all of them.

There is also the question of my rank. I have no particular desire to be an officer. I was a sergeant first class in ROTC, so I decided to become a first sergeant because after 42 years I deserve a promotion of some kind. Also, “first sergeant” has a distinguished, grownup ring to it.

Being an noncommissioned officer also means I won’t have to buy belts, boots, swords, pistols or other expensive accoutrements. All I need is a blouse, scruffy-looking shoes and a pair of pants that could have been worn by soldiers in either army.

One day, I’ll wear a homespun blouse and the gray cap of a Confederate soldier, in which case tourists will probably ask what I’m doing in the company of two Union officers. Most will want to know if I’m a prisoner, to which I’ll respond:

“No, ma’am (or ‘suh,’ as the case may be). These heah bluebelly officers ride hosses fo’ a livin’. They don’ know they (beast of burden) from fried meat about this heah field piece. My boys taken enough cannon off’n ’em an’ put ’em to good use, that they reckon Ah kin tell y’all tourists about ’em.”

If someone makes the mistake of calling me “sir,” Ah kin answer that insult the same way any self-respecting sergeant would, by bellowing out, “Don’t call me ‘suh’! Ah WORK fo’ a livin’!”

The next day, I’ll be there in the same pants and shoes, but wearing a white blouse and the blue forage cap of a Union first sergeant.

Should someone ask if I hadn’t been a Confederate the day before, I’ll tell them in language my mother would have approved:

“No, ma’am (or ‘sir,’ as the case may be), the trooper who was here yesterday was my cousin. He and I take turns because these two officers are friends of our family, and they decided this would the only way someone in his uniform could ever make it to the top of this hill.”

If they ask our names, I’ll just tell them mine is Jim ... and his is Jee-uhm.