The Perils of Raising Your Hand in Basic Training

"...and whatever you do, don't volunteer for anything. Keep your hands down, your mouth shut, your eyes and ears open, and try to blend in with the middle of the pack."

These were the wise words of wisdom imparted to me by my uncles, cousins, and stepfather before I left for Air Force basic training way back in October of 1975. Words spoken by men who knew what they were talking about. My stepfather had been in the Air Force and the Army. Two uncles had been in the Army. One uncle had been in the Army Air Corp and then the Air Force. Two cousins had been in the Navy. One uncle and two cousins were serving in the Air Force when I stepped on the bus on my way to the Gateway To the Air Force at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas.

A lot of people offering words of advice. A lot of people who had walked the walk rather than talking the talk. They knew what they were talking about. I've often wondered whether they failed to follow their own advice during their time in the service. I've often wondered whether the reason they were telling me to keep my hands and head down was because they had personally learned what happens when one doesn't keep one's head and hands down. Or were they simply passing along the same advice given to them by their knowing elders when they marched off to serve their country?

Well, it really didn't matter much, because I had already raised my hand. In October of 1975 the United States no longer drafted 18 and 19 year old kids into the military services. I had to raise my hand to volunteer. I had to raise my hand to take the oath. Three times, if I remember correctly. I had to raise my hand so they could draw blood with which to sign my oath. Okay, I'm just kidding about that last part. Oh, I did have to raise my hand so that they could draw blood, but no blood was used in the signing of any oaths. Nor were any animals harmed. Many trees, however, were sacrificed to provide the paper necessary, in triplicate of course, to facilitate my entry into the Air Force.

I had raised my hand. All else followed. For the most part, I followed the advice I had been given. I tried to blend in with the middle of the pack and I kept my hands down when the Training Instructors asked for bowlers (to clean the toilet bowls), track and field stars (to be chow runners), car mechanics (to be road guards), and guys with Chinese friends (to do laundry). It didn't matter. Everybody eventually volunteered for something. You were volunteered if you failed to volunteer. There were plenty of crap work details to be filled and plenty of hapless trainees to do the filling.

I failed, spectacularly, to blend in with the crowd on my first night. I caught the eye of Staff Sergeant Hart (all names, except mine, have been changed, though all events are accurate and true) when I stood in front of my assigned bunk and, with sweat-soaked hands, tried unsuccessfully to fasten the beaded chain that would hold my locker key and dog tags and that would slip over my head and be tucked beneath my t-shirt. Sergeant Hart paced back and forth in front of me, stopping occasionally to stare me in the eyes and say, "You are not going to make it in my by Gawd Air Force." That certainly helped me with the whole sweaty hands thing. The TI pacing back and forth, then leaning in to tell me that I was not going to make it in his by Gawd Air Force was a wonderful calming influence. From that point forward, Sgt. Hart could pick me out of a crowd, no matter how much I had blended into that crowd.

Eventually, other members of my flight brought themselves to the attention of Sgt. Hart and Sgt. Walters (yes, his name has been changed, too). As other trainees crowded into the middle of the crowd to avoid detection, I was able to gravitate toward the edges of the crowd while still avoiding the unwanted gaze of the TI's. Something about keeping my nose clean and doing what I was told to do when I was told to do it.

And then came that fateful day. It was our flight's turn to pull details. Work details. The whole flight would be chosen to pull one big detail such as painting buildings, policing the squadron grounds, or moving the contents of several buildings to other buildings. Or, the flight might be split up, with some trainees pulling KP (kitchen patrol, in the days before civilian contractors took over those duties) while others went off with a couple of old time Air Force civilian employees to clear brush, paint picnic tables, move office furniture and other sundry tasks (that was the best detail to get assigned to. Those guys were a hoot) and still others pulled CQ (Charge of Quarters) runner.

Well, on this particular day, our flight was to be split up. Nobody wanted to pull KP. Nobody. It was a long, hot, dirty job and the chow hall guys were a sour lot. Several guys got their hands up before I could get my hand up for the detail with the old time Air Force civilian employees. That was a long, hot, dirty job, also, but that's how much of a hoot those guys were. I had resigned myself to KP duty or CQ runner, which was a long, cool, clean job at the Squadron Headquarters building with a pissed off NCO who was taking his turn at night duty and was determined to make his trainee runners' lives more miserable than any TI had before him.

Much to my surprise, Sgt. Hart said, "I need three volunteers to work at the Enlisted Club." Stunned silence followed. Had we heard right? The Enlisted Club? Where women could be seen? And beer could be had? And nobody was yelling at anybody? You see, Basic Trainees see no women, no alcohol, and no fun times during their time in basic training, except for one semi-free day in San Antonio a few days before graduation.

"I said, I need three volunteers to work at the Enlisted Club. Am I going to have to volunteer you people?" My hand shot up first. Six or seven other hands shot up. The other hands stayed down, either because the owners were still stunned and drooling at the thoughts of beer, women, and fun or because the owners were still listening to the advice of their forebears. "Whatever you do, don't volunteer for anything." I was chosen. Two of my flight mates were chosen. We smiled surreptitiously at the poor sods who were going to pull CQ runner or KP. Poor sods. Heh, heh, heh. Sgt. Hart snickered along with us.

And then I noticed that Sgt. Hart was looking at us when he snickered. We were the lucky ones. Weren't we? We were going to see women, and beer, and fun. Weren't we? There was no reason to pity us and snicker at us. Was there?

We reported to the Airman In Charge of the Enlisted Club basic trainee work detail. The Airman In Charge was an Airman, a real Airman. He had one stripe on his uniform. In 1975, one stripe on the shoulder meant that he had been in the Air Force for at least four months, but less than a year. The airman with one stripe on his shoulder gets to pull most, if not all, of the crap details in whatever unit he is assigned to. The airman with one stripe on his shoulder gets ordered around a lot by everybody with more than one stripe on his or her shoulder. The airman with one stripe on his shoulder who was in charge of the trainee detail at the Enlisted Club on Lackland Air Force Base in October of 1975 was probably a bitter, bitter man because he had graduated from Basic Training, but was stuck in Casual status at Lackland Air Force Base awaiting orders for Technical School, or clearances to clear, or paperwork to escape from the pipeline, or....well, he was stuck there in limbo for any number of reasons.

Being on Casual status did not mean you got to lounge around and watch tv. Usually. Usually, Casual Status airmen were assigned various work details or, as was the case of our particular airman, assigned to a particular unit on the base to do a job that nobody else wanted to do. Like make sure that the Enlisted Club stays sparkling clean at all times.

This particular airman was a bitter, bitter man who could barely hide his glee at receiving three Airmen Basics with no stripes between them who had to do every stupid little thing he told them to do. And he told us, loudly, to start by scrubbing the toilets. And the urinals. And everything in between. Next, he informed us, loudly, that we had approximately twenty seconds to empty every trash can in the building, scrub them down, dry them, line them, and place them in their proper places. And we'd better not screw up that simple job. Next, we were assigned the jobs that we would be doing for the rest of the day.

My job was to keep the trash receptacles in the lounge and dance floor area empty and clean. When I wasn't pulling trash, I was to hover around the edges of the dance floor and remove every single piece of flotsam, cigarette butt, paper, paper clip, dust mite, and stray air molecule as soon as, or before, it hit the dance floor. Trust me on this: this part of the job did not let me look at a lot of the women on the dance floor. Oh, I saw them all right, but my concentration was on their hands and the assorted flotsam that those hands held. And forget about the beer. My only contact with beer was when it was spilled on the dance floor and I had to mop it up, before it hit the floor, according to the one striper with the God complex.

As for fun....well, let me tell you about the fun I had while I was emptying trash cans and ash trays, and darting to and fro and hither and yon to catch every freaking piece of lint that dropped from the dresses and jeans and slacks of all the pretty young females and their dance partners.

In October of 1975, one of the hottest songs on the planet was "That's the Way I Like It" by KC and the Damn Sunshine Band. Apparently, it was being played on the radio constantly. Being in Basic Training, I had no access to a radio and could not listen to "That's the Way I Like It" by KC and the Damn Sunshine Band. After working in the Enlisted Club on that day in October of 1975, I thanked my lucky stars that I had no access to a radio and therefore could not hear "That's the Way I Like It" by KC and the Damn Sunshine Band being played constantly.

The disc jockey at the Enlisted Club, however, must have been a fan, a huge fan, of the band and the song, because he played the song......about ten or twelve times an hour. Every other freaking song, all I heard was, "That's the way, uh huh, uh huh, I like it. Uh huh, uh huh. That's the way, uh huh, uh huh, I like it. Uh huh, uh huh."

Time slowed. Military time is different than civilian time, but time really slowed. Standing on the edge of a dance floor waiting to scoop up random flotsam before it hits the floor while hearing "That's the way, uh huh, uh huh, I like it. Uh huh, uh huh," over and over and over and over again....well, let's just say that this particular eight or nine hour shift lasted about two or three hundred years.

To this day, my wife can feel me tense up when we are out and I hear, "That's the way, uh huh, uh huh, I like it. Uh huh, uh huh." My apologies to KC and the Damn Sunshine Band, but I am just never, ever going to like that song, or any other song you guys did. Sorry. Blame the Air Force and a bitter, bitter little one striper.

The next time our flight came up on the detail rotation, I kept my hands and my head down. I was volunteered for KP. The shift lasted about twelve hours. It was long, hot, dirty work. There was no music. We didn't whistle while we worked. The twelve hours passed by pretty quickly because I was laughing to myself about the poor sods who had volunteered for the Enlisted Club detail.

That's the way, uh huh, uh huh, I like it. Uh huh, uh huh.