Air Force Basic Training: A Survival Story

"PICK 'EM UP!......PUT 'EM DOWN!........PICK 'EM UP!......PUT 'EM DOWN!" So this is the Air Force. "PICK 'EM UP!..... PUT 'EM DOWN!" The front lines of America's defense against the Communist hordes. "PICK 'EM UP!.....PUT 'EM DOWN!" The best and the brightest. "PICK 'EM UP!" The cream of the crop. "PUT 'EM DOWN!" Standing in front of the In- Processing Center, picking up the one suitcase, satchel, or gym bag of personal belongings we were each allowed to bring to Air Force boot camp and putting it down again. See, the first time we put them on the ground we did not put them down as a unit with one precise motion creating one precise thump. We put them on the ground as forty eight individual human beings comprising a mob with no precise motions, and we created multiple thumps. Which precipitated much yelling.

Yelling, we were almost accustomed to by now. Fifteen minutes earlier, this unruly mob was standing inside the In-Processing Center, receiving multiple assaults by screaming for multiple infractions, real and imagined, against the good order and well-being of the United States Air Force. We had all handed over our Social Security cards, had our names checked against a computer printout, eight numbers written on the back of our cards, and our ear drums ruptured by teams of Air Force Training Instructors, or T. I.'s. The eight numbers denoted the Basic Miltary Training Squadron (BMTS) and the Basic Military Training Flight (Flight) to which each of us were now assigned. Which brought forty eight of us to a ragged formation of one flight fifteen minutes later in front of that same building, or on the side of it, or behind it....that night was really a blur......picking up and putting down our suitcases, satchels, and gym bags. "PICK 'EM UP!........DID I SAY 'PUT IT DOWN'? DID I? WHAT IN THEEEE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? PICK 'EM UP!!!!!!"

And so it went. Every time we managed to get in sync, every time we managed to pick 'em up and put 'em down in one fluid motion and one precise thump, somebody, some masochistic civilian holdover, would put his case down before the T.I. told us to put it down. Or pick it up before the T.I. told us to pick it up. Or, for crying out loud, just plain drop the darn thing. You've all seen the television shows and the movies, you know the ones, with the hapless klutz or the smart-mouthed bad ass that just can't or won't get with the program, and they're told to "drop and give me fifty" by the drill instructor every time you turn around. Doesn't happen. Nope. Oh, you get the klutzes. And you get the smart-mouthed bad asses, but not for long.

You see, on that first night one individual's screw-up or attitude is the whole flight's screw-up or attitude. Drop one bag at the wrong time and the whole flight plays "Pick 'Em Up and Put 'Em Down" until your shoulder sockets and knees are on fire. Fire off one smart-ass remark and you'll find yourself surrounded by Four Hundred Screaming Banshees with buckets of spittle and magnitudes of decibels to spare. And then the whole flight plays "Pick 'Em Up and Put 'Em Down" until your shoulder sockets and knees are on fire. The smart-mouthed bad asses learn quickly to keep their mouths shut. The klutzes learn quickly to pay close attention to everything that they are doing.

And then we marched. Well, we attempted to march. "YOUR MILITARY LEFT! LEFT! LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT! QUIT BOUNCING, DAMMIT! YOU ARE MARCHING, NOT DANCING WITH YOUR MOMMIES!" The T.I.'s talked a lot about our mothers that first night. "OH MY $!?%!ING GOD, WHAT ON EARTH HAVE THEY SENT ME THIS TIME? LEFT! LEFT! LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT! GET IN STEP NOW! YOUR MOMMIES AREN'T HERE TO HOLD YOUR HANDS!"

And so it went. What follows was a blur, but I remember entering a room with a strong odor of antiseptic, where I was poked and prodded, peed in a cup, yelled at, instructed to stand at attention, told not to lock my knees, then told to get my sorry ass back outside in formation and to be quick about it.

And then we marched again. Badly. "JEEZUM H. HOW IN THEEE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO TURN THIS LOAD OF DUCK TURDS INTO BY GAWD ANYTHING BUT USELESS PIECES OF TURD-PRODUCING TURDS. AND THEY EXPECT ME TO FEED YOU USELESS DUCK TURDS? JEEZUM H. ALMIGHTY. WHAT IS MY WORLD COMING TO?"

That's how we were introduced to our first U.S. Air Force dining facility, officially known as the Mess Hall, and affectionately known as the Chow Hall and other names that, quite frankly, use words that I try not to use anymore. The chow hall was located on the ground floor of one of the brand spanking new dormitories that my recruiter told my parents would be my home for my six week stint in basic training. My recruiter told a bunch of whoppers back then.

We came to a halt, raggedly, underneath the overhang. We listened to the T.I.'s bemoan the state of today's by Gawd Air Force. We played "Pick 'Em Up, Put 'Em Down" for another fifteen or twenty minutes, then we received a new set of instructions. "YOU WILL ENTER THE CHOW HALL. YOU WILL TAKE A TRAY. YOU WILL TAKE A PLATE. YOU WILL TAKE UTENSILS. YOU WILL TAKE YOUR FOOD. YOU WILL PROCEED TO THE TABLE TO THE REAR OF THE RIGHT COLUMN. YOU WILL PLACE YOUR TRAY ON THE TABLE. YOU WILL STAND AT ATTENTION UNTIL YOUR TABLE HAS FOUR OF YOU TURDBALLS PRESENT. YOU WILL THEN SIT DOWN, BACKS STRAIGHT. YOU WILL EAT. YOU WILL NOT TALK. YOU WILL NOT LAUGH. YOU WILL NOT SMILE. YOU WILL EAT EVERYTHING ON YOUR PLATE. YOU WILL CHOW DOWN QUICKLY. YOU WILL TAKE YOUR TRAY TO THE WINDOW. YOU WILL DEPOSIT YOUR UTENSILS IN THE TUB. YOU WILL PLACE YOUR PLATES AND GLASSES IN THE WINDOW. YOU WILL DEPOSIT YOUR TRASH IN THE TRASH RECEPTACLE. YOU WILL STACK YOUR TRAYS. YOU WILL EXIT THE CHOW HALL. YOU WILL FIND YOUR PLACE IN FORMATION. YOU WILL STAND AT ATTENTION. DO NOT LOCK YOUR KNEES. DO NOT MAKE ME REPEAT MYSELF. FIRST COLUMN....OUT. MOVE IT. MOVE IT. MOVE IT."

I'm murky on this point again, but I'm pretty sure that we managed to eat and get back in formation inside of fifteen or twenty minutes. I'm pretty sure we all thought we were going to march into another entrance to that brand spanking new dormitory and collapse in our bunks. It had been a long day, after all, and most of us had been on the move since about six o'clock in the morning. It was now somewhere around one o'clock in the morning and we had put in a full day. We deserved a rest.

And then we marched again. "QUIT BOUNCING IN THE RANKS! IF I WANT YOU TO PLAY JUMPING JACKS, I WILL DAMN WELL TELL YOU TO JUMP, YOU BUNCH OF DAMN USELESS, TIT-SUCKING DUCK TURDS!!!" And then we played "Pick 'Em Up, Put 'Em Down" in front of our new home, a delightful two-story, white relic left over from World War I. The Great War. The War to End All Wars. The last time that building was brand spanking new was about the time the Lusitania was sunk.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later, I stood in front of my bunk. I was trying to close the clasp on a beaded chain that held my newly issued locker key and would later hold my dog tags. My hands were sweaty, the chain was slick with my sweat and wouldn't close, and Sergeant Hart was pacing back and forth in front of me and saying, "You are not going to make it in My By Gawd Air Force." Just that. No yelling. Just pacing back and forth while Sergeant Walters did all the yelling. Then, Sergeant Hart would stop, stare at my sweat-soaked hands and sweat-slicked chain, glare into my eyes, smile a sadistic smile and say matter-of-factly, "Yessirree, duck turd, I can see that you are not going to make it in My By Gawd Air Force." He was a big help.

Somehow, I got the clasp to close. Just in time, too, because the next orders were to hit the bunks, and "Gawd help the turdball that makes a @#%Damn sound. Gawd help him." We hit the bunks. We closed our eyes. The lights went out. The first day, the longest day of my young life, was over.

I was in the Air Force now.