1966 - Basic Training and the Big Surprise

In July, 1966 I received an official-looking letter in the mail.  It began with the words “Greetings” and invited me to visit my local indoctrination center to determine if I was fit enough to join the Army.  I was basically cruising though life; mediocre job, no career plans, and neither the ambition or money to attend college.  At the time, television and newspapers were full of coverage of the Viet Nam war, and having no desire at that time to visit the orient, I visited the local Air Force recruiter.  My only real interest at the time was working somewhere in the medical profession.  I was volunteering as an emergency room orderly at the local hospital, and after a couple of years was fairly well trained.  The recruiter told me I was a lock for the medical career field and that I shouldn’t worry about guarantees – after all, one look at my credentials would assure my schooling as a medical technician in the Air Force.  I signed on the dotted line, he told me to be sure and take my golf clubs to basic training, and in September, 1966 I finished my first-ever plane ride with a trip to San Antonio, TX and Lackland Air Force Base. 
San Antonio in September is hot – high 80s at least, mostly 90s, and humid.  On arrival, it was just like the movies – lots of screaming, yelling (them) and whining and crying (us).  We were formed up into a ragged rectangle and marched (sorta) to our new homes – four bunk beds to a room with a common latrine.  Over the next few weeks we marched, cleaned, organized, marched, went to classes, fired the M-16, marched, and slowly became Airman.  Some memories:
Each morning marching to the chow hall at 5:00 AM, standing at attention in line to get half-cooked eggs, gulping it down in the short time allowed, and marching back to the barracks, with a stop each day to throw up the half-cooked eggs.
The base had a “red flag” system; when the flag was flown (temperatures over 90 degrees), no physical training was allowed.  Not wanting to impact our molding into combat-ready killers, our Drill Instructor (DI) would have us form up in the basement and do our PT there. 
On the first Sunday morning, the DI announced that anyone who wanted to could attend chapel instead of staying in the barracks.  Very few hands went up until he added…….”and you can have a smoke break before and after”.  Suddenly the Christian population multiplied and almost everyone’s hand went up.
Our DI was the template for all DIs.  He looked like R. Lee Ermey, the Drill Instructor in “Full Metal Jacket”.  Except leaner and more weathered, and with a diabolical sense of humor.  On one occasion, we were late forming up in the morning.  After lunch, instead of marching, we were told to go to bed, and do everything we would do at night.  We folded clothes, organized, cleaned, and jumped under the sheet and wool blanket (remember, it was 90+ degrees) and waited.  Suddenly he started banging trash can lids together which was our signal to form up.  We jumped out of bed, made the bed, dressed, and formed up.  But not in time apparently, as he screamed at us the “You ladies apparently didn’t get your beauty sleep, go back to bed!”  So we repeated the ritual.  Again.  And again.  After five tries we apparently had it right, or he was tired of banging together trash can lids, because he let us go on to our next class.
But my all-time favorite memory is his punishment for screwing up something he deemed important.  The violator would have to sit in an office chair with rollers, and while another airman pushed him up and down the main hall, and with a jock-strap over his face, chant over and over “I am a dickhead!”.  Now that’s diabolical.
Finally came the day when we would receive our career field assignments.  I stood smugly as names and jobs were read off to stunned airman (Strategic Air Command Aerospace Protective Coating Specialist = painter), patiently waiting for my name and the announcement that I was going to be a Med Tech.  I knew there must have been some mistake when my name and “air traffic control specialist” was called.  What?  What the hell is an air traffic controller?  I couldn’t believe it!  But, I explained to the DI, my recruiter said it was a lock!  “Don’t worry if you don’t like it”, my DI said with a smile, “most everybody washes out or commits suicide”.   And that’s how I became an air traffic controller…..
To be continued…….