I’ve told this story before, but I think it bears repeating, especially since we are about to celebrate the Fourth of July holiday and because our nation seems increasingly divided as our focus becomes more and more about our own individual concerns and less about the nation as a whole.
It’s also because today is July 2, the 41st anniversary of my Basic Military Training start date in the United States Air Force.
What you are about to read is all true: a little bit of humor, a little bit self-realization but mostly the justification for why I believe every American citizen should undergo basic training.
Continue reading at your own risk. Remember, I am sharing my story. Things may operate much differently today at Lackland Air Force Base than when I was there more than 40 years ago. Secondly, I may get some minor details wrong, but again I’m going back more than four decades.
******
It was a long day of travel, from waving goodbye to my mother and sister at the Portland Jetport, to a connecting flight in Boston, landing at Dallas/Ft. Worth and finally San Antonio. It was July 2, 1982.
I had no fucking clue about what I would soon experience.
I learned two very important lessons within 30 seconds after stepping off the bus at Lackland Air Force Base. First, if you are considering military service, work with your recruiter so that your first day of training doesn’t fall on July 2 in southern Texas.
It was so friggen hot! The heat hit me like an unforgiving concrete wall. I was also tired. I had been awake since 4 a.m., filled with equal parts anxiety and excitement. By the time we got to Lackland, it was close to midnight, not considering I was now on Central Time.
Lesson Two: Pack Lightly. Seriously, there is no need — despite my mother’s best advice — to bring your own iron to boot camp. You will also not need several changes of clothes, a box of Twinkies or a camera or even a jar of your grandmother’s pickled dandelion greens. Trust me on this.
From the darkness, a voice began screaming at us. “Drop your bags next to your right foot!” Easy. So far, so good. This isn’t so bad.
“Now pick your fucking bags up!,” the voice screamed only two seconds later. Okay, dude. No need to yell. “Put your fucking bags next to your right foot!,” the voice screamed again. Wait. What? Didn’t we already do this? “Pick your bags up, you stinking piles of shit!” Okay, there’s no need to scream, and we can certainly do without the insults. Just make up your mind.
“Put ‘em down! Pick them up! Put them down! Pick them up!” This went on for a few minutes. Most everyone else had a very small bag. Maybe some toiletries and clean pair of underwear. I had like 165 pounds of shit in my bag. (Okay a bit of an exaggeration) But I did, unfortunately, catch the attention of my Technical Instructor (commonly known in other branches as a Drill Instructor).
It was my very first time meeting TSgt. Edward Ramirez face-to-face. It was not a pleasant meeting. “What is your major malfunction?” he screamed at me, only inches from my face even though I was about a foot taller. I didn’t know what to say. That, apparently, really pissed him off and pretty much set the tone for the next six weeks of training.
There we were. Roughly 50 of us rainbows standing there on the hot asphalt next to the bus, with no idea what would happen next.
When you first arrive at Lackland you are referred to as “rainbows” because you are all wearing different colored clothes. You stand out from everyone else because you are different. Rainbows get zero respect from either the instructors or other troops who are further along in their training.
In fact, a popular chant is: “Rainbow, rainbow, don’t be blue – My recruiter screwed me too”
We were marched to the place that would be our home for the next six weeks. It was a relatively modern building, not much different than what you see in the movies. There was a line of cots (no bunk beds) lining both sides of the room. Upon arriving, we were told to “Find a bunk, Now!” Fifty-one guys scrambled to find and stake out one of 50 available cots.
I was lucky. Found one near the door. Airman Basic Stanton from Iowa was not so lucky, so — much to my chagrin — he stood at attention right next to me. We kept our eyes straight ahead but could hear the approaching clicking of Tsgt. Ramirez’s heels on the tile floor. “Are you two sweethearts gonna sleep together?” he inquired. “Sir, no sir,” I replied, as instructed.
*****
Essentially, basic training in the Air Force (at least back then) is pretty much divided into three equal categories. During the first 12 days or so, your instructors do everything possible to break you down into your most basic form. You are no longer an individual. No one is concerned about your individual needs or wants.
On the first full day of training, your head is shaved. No facial hair is allowed. You receive your fatigues, a pair of combat boots, six pair of black wool socks, six white crew-neck t-shirts and six pairs of briefs. You are no longer rainbows. You are now pickles. All green and prickly.
On about the fifth day of training, you receive your name tags that are worn above your left pocket. Just your last name. No one gives a rat’s ass about your first name. Now you are canned pickles. You have a label. The tag above your right pocket reads: USAF. That’s it. No rings. No jewelry. Nothing. You are part of a unit. You are all eat the same food. There is no special treatment. You are an Airman Basic. E-1 on a scale that goes all the way to E-9 for enlisted men.
E-1. You are worth about as much as a pint of frozen cat piss. You get zero respect. You are worthless. You are nothing. You do not think. You follow orders without hesitation. You do not speak unless spoken to. You are worth less than a fart in church. You are not Catholic, Jewish, Protestant, Atheist or Muslim. You are not white, black or Hispanic. Nobody give’s a rat’s ass about your level of education, your parents’ bank statements or where you were raised.
None of it matters. None of it. You are now part of something far more important and meaningful than you. You are part of a unit. If the unit fails, you fail. If the unit succeeds, you succeed. There is no quiet time. You go to bed when told. You get up when told. You get five minutes (no more) every morning to “shit, shower and shave.” Enjoy it. That’s about as relaxing as it gets. At least for the first few days of training. You are responsible for every other man in Flight 016, Squadron 3704. They are responsible for you. There are zero exceptions and you do not ask questions. You follow orders. Period. End of story.
Back then, Basic Military Training in the Air Force lasted roughly six weeks. I say roughly because you must complete 30 days of training in order to graduate. Weekends and holidays do not technically count as days of training, but there is no such thing as a day off during basic training. Every day is a new challenge. Every day is a new opportunity to learn to become better, to exceed expectations.
Now you see why starting Basic Training on July 2 was such a bad move. July 2 (our travel day) was on a Friday. Saturday, July 3 did not count as a day of training. Sunday, which wouldn’t count, regardless — was the Fourth of July and Monday, July 5, was a federal holiday. That’s four days of shit with zero credit. It is tough and demanding. But if you can’t handle the rigors of basic training, what are you going to do if you find yourself in a combat situation?
****
Within 10 days or so, things start getting a bit easier. Make no mistake, it’s still rigorous but the culture shock has started to wear off. You begin to form friendships with your fellow trainees. You can perfectly execute an about-face maneuver; you begin to absorb military culture. The routine itself becomes somewhat comforting. You laugh to yourself when you see a new group of rainbows getting off the bus. You begin to look forward to that final week of training when you trade in your fatigues for your dress blues.
The bonding between trainees is inevitable and necessary. It’s basically one for all, and all for one. If someone screws up, they’re going to get shit from the instructors but they’re also going to get shit from their fellow trainees.
At first, it seems stupid to have to fold your underwear in six-inch squares. But as our TI told us, the Air Force is not going to let you work on Inter-Continental Ballistic Missiles (ICBMs) if you can’t figure out how to fold your underwear in a six-inch square. Pretty much makes sense to me.
Basic training is unforgiving. There is only one standard, and you have no choice. No variables. I could tell you lots of funny stories, including how I earned the name of “wet-man” while running the confidence course or about receiving a hand-written note from President Reagan, but none of that really matters today.
In retrospect, what matters is that Basic Training makes you a better person. What I learned during those six short weeks, some 40 years ago, made me a better employee. It makes me a better husband, a better friend and especially a better father.
But there is something much more important than all of that. Basic training made me a better citizen. It made me care about my country, about the world around me; about my fellow man.
In short, that’s why I think every citizen should undergo some form of basic training within a year of their eighteenth birthday. And now for the hard part . . .
******
For nearly 40 years, I have carried the following fact around with me like a chain of Kryptonite hanging on my neck. I did not graduate from basic military training.
Three days before I was scheduled to graduate, I was told to report to the medical office and a very kind Major told me that I was being sent home.
In my mind, I had failed. I was ashamed to my core. I washed out. I couldn’t hack it. I was a fuck-up. Those were the messages I played in mind that moment and almost every other day since then.
But here’s the thing, and both the Major and Tsgt. Ramirez told me: “You are receiving an Honorable Discharge. There is nothing to be ashamed of.”
I was too busy holding back tears to absorb their words. For nearly two years, I had waited to join the United States Air Force. I bragged about it throughout my senior year at Thornton Academy.
I had come so close. But no cigar. Now, just as most of my peers back home were heading off to college campuses, I was coming home as a failure.
Essentially, there are basically three different types of discharges you can receive once you complete your military career. Dishonorable, which means you were a class-A screw-up or convicted of a felony. General Discharge, sort of a don’t ask, don’t tell situation where the military sends you on your way without any benefits; and Honorable, which means you met the standards of the military, but your service is no longer needed, your enlistment has expired or there is a medical reason that prevents you from serving.
Yes, my discharge was honorable, but I always – until fairly recently – saw it as a failure. Today, a copy of my discharge is framed and hanging in my office. Slowly, I am beginning to reconcile myself with what I always considered as my first epic blunder as an adult.
What happened? Why was I not allowed to graduate with the rest of my flight?
Essentially, about five weeks into my training, I began to sleep-walk at night. I was found wandering the corridors wearing nothing but my underwear. I was told to go back to my bunk, I had no idea how I got out to the hallway. It happened again on the next night, and then once more.
In order to serve in the military, you must first pass a physical exam and a routine mental health questionnaire. If you develop problems during your initial training, the government basically doesn’t want to spend effort or time on your recovery. It makes sense. If you have a habit of sleepwalking, you are essentially a security risk.
So, there it is. I try to give myself credit. You weren’t drafted. You volunteered to serve your country, I try to tell myself. It didn’t work out, . . . or did it?
If I had to make that choice – about joining the military – knowing what I know now — the decision is easy. I would not hesitate to once again swear an oath to defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic . . .
A little more than 60 years ago, a young and idealistic President John F. Kennedy – a Democrat who would be considered a Republican by today’s standards – implored his fellow citizens to “ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.”
Today, it seems, we spend so much time worrying about being triggered; being offended by a book or movie or even a friggen’ beer can. We want to be constantly and incessantly recognized for our own, individual uniqueness; our own individual wants, desires and beliefs. We have little room for those who have different opinions and perspectives. We endlessly expect more and more from government, but what are we giving?
What are we doing, as individuals, to help our fellow citizens –even those whom we despise? Our nation is becoming a trove of self-serving, overly-sensitive and rather greedy bunch of souls, all glued to the mini-computers in our hands, rarely looking up to see where we’re heading.
How would you answer President Kennedy if he were alive today? What can you — yes you – do for your country?
And there you have it: I think everyone would benefit greatly from six weeks of basic training.
*****
P.S. Thank you so much to the roughly 1.4 million men and women who are today serving and protecting me and my fellow countrymen in the United States; and to the millions more who have served. Roughly 6.4 percent of our population joins the military, according to the U.S. Census Bureau.
(The names of my training instructor and fellow trainees have been changed; they were all remarkable men, and I hope they are doing well)
LESSONS IN MEDIOCRITY 