United States Air Force Turns 74
I wanted to serve in Vietnam. However, it would be months after I joined before my request was even considered.
So, I decided on the Air Force and had asked for Air Police duty. “No problem,” The recruiter said. “With your scores, you’ll easily qualify,” said the recruiter. Wrong, I had taken the wrong test and instead I took the one they gave me for administration and technology. I did score high marks.
“Mom and Dad, I have an announcement to make, I’m selling my car and going into the Air Force.” At that time I thought I was going to be an air policeman. My parents knew that all I ever wanted to be was an attorney or a policeman. No college, an attorney was out of the question. So, a policeman was absolutely in my future starting with the Air Force, or so I thought.
What I haven’t shared is that I went into the Air Force on the Buddy Plan. This meant that the three of us would stay together (we were told) while in the Air Force.
There was Dave that played football with me. We were both pulling guards when the team played offence. I also played center linebacker when we played Defense. Dave and I were the two heaviest men on the team our senior year. Dave was 5 ft. 10 in and weighed north of 270. I was 6 ft. 3 in and weighed in at 260.
Then there was Leonard, who ran cross country. He was probably 5 ft 8 inches and maybe 170 (more or less).
When we were processing in at the Los Angeles terminal annex, we all had to be poked and prodded and give up a pint of blood. When they came at Dave with the needle, he passed out. They woke him up and then they showed someone else giving blood. As soon as he saw the blood, he went down like a giant redwood in the forest. The decision, Dave was out and was sent home.
We left Los Angeles, LAX, on a typical Southern California day, 72 degrees and very few clouds in the sky. We arrived in San Antonio on a rainy 47-degree day. As luck would have it, a cold caught me within an hour of being in San Antonio. I felt awful.
A short bus ride to the base where we were greeted by our new best friend and drill instructor (DI). This was the gospel according to him, and his faithful sidekick (assistant). The DI’s name was Frank Anderson, a 24-year career airman that joined when it was still the Army Air Corps and everyone wore Army uniforms with brown shoes. His assistant was Joe Pine. It really didn’t matter what their names were, they were Sir to each of us.
The orientation included an overview of the next 8.5 weeks (59.5 days). After which we loaded onto another bus and were taken to our new home, a stand-alone two-story wooden barracks (building). It had not been used since 1938. We had to clean it (every inch) and buff the floors to a very high shine. The degree of shine would determine if we were going to have to clean the building twice. Oh, joy. The DI said if we worked together as a Team under a team leader it would demonstrate to him the type of men we were.
Our DI asked how many of us played sports. Next, how many of us were Captains of the sport we played. There were two of us. Great, you take half the men upstairs and Rawson, you’ll take the other half downstairs including the showers for the entire group.
Two buildings made up a flight of men. Each building was a group and there were four sections per group.
It was 10 am or so when we arrived and we worked until 4:30 pm (approximately) to clean and polish the building. We only had to clean once. Now we were further divided into sections (or squads). I was told to be a squad leader. In addition to being responsible for their actions, I would sleep on a bed that didn’t have a bunk above me.
It was a rule for fire purposes, that the window over the squad leader's bed had to be two feet away from the bed and the window over that bed had to be open. The nights were cold and my cold wasn’t getting any better.
Every night the squad picked one person to be on a 4-hour shift guarding the building as we all slept. Well, everyone but me. I spent the night trying to get warm. I’d close the window and then a rotating barracks guard would open it back up.
After two nights of the window being partially open and then me closing the window I got very angry. I told the guard that I was sick and if he didn’t leave the window closed, I would toss him out of the window.
I entered the Air Force as a 6 ft 3 in, 260 lbs recruit. In those days I still worked out. The only one in better shape was literally Mr. Ohio for 1964. All the men from Ohio lived on the top floor and those of us from California lived on the first floor.
After repeated warnings, the guard was opening the window [again]. I grabbed the back of his neck at the collar and by his belt and tossed him out of the window into the bushes below the window. His fall was about 5 ft. Then I closed and locked the window and the front door of the building so he couldn’t get back in.
Our DI must have been around 5 ft 7 in or so and weighed about 160 on a good day. He reported directly to a young Lieutenant fresh from Officer Candidate School (OCS) that was charged with 4 flights of men.
After a while, the DI, his trusted Assistant, and the Lieutenant showed up demanding that someone open the door. Someone did. The man I threw out of the window was also with them. They all came over to my bed and woke me up. The DI told me to stand at attention. I complied. The Lieutenant chewed me out and then the DI added his comments.
I had to apologize and a compromise was reached. The window would only be open 4 inches and I got to keep my position as squad leader. If anything further happened, I would be dishonorably discharged from the Air Force. In the weeks that followed, I became a poster boy for decorum and compliance as was my squad.
While in boot camp, everyone had to do turns at kitchen police (KP). You had to show up at 4 am and by the time the dinner mess was cleaned, it would be 11 or so at night by the time you arrived back at our living quarters. On that first day, we were all sitting in the hall waiting for instructions. Then we saw the Sergeant for KP come in. The first thing he did was ask if anyone could type. Up went my hand like a rocket. I could type 70 words per minute (thanks to my Dad who made me take the class in high school). I was told to go back to the barracks and get my dress blues on, I would be responsible for typing the menu for the day and taking money from the few that had to pay. Oh, and by the way, I could go home at 8 pm. Sweet deal for me. Thanks, Dad.
About ¾ the way through boot camp, we all lined up outside a cinder block one-story building. We were told that once inside, we would meet with a career counselor and they would give us four choices for a career.
While in line, Leonard and I noticed this guy in uniform with bloused fatigues, a blue flight jacket with a white fur collar, and a special hat. He was obviously the poster child for the Air Force. Leonard said, “Look at that.” I said, obviously he’s a plant. Don’t talk to him. Leonard couldn’t resist by the time we’d reached the door to go in, Leonard asked that fateful question, “What do you do?”
This poster child for the Air Force spoke in a deep rich tone and said, “We jump out of airplanes.” Leonard turned to me and said, “Did you hear that?” Yes, I did, I said. Leonard persisted. “How do you train for that?” The man said, “We run 5 miles first thing in the morning, after breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” Then it happened, remember Leonard was a cross country runner in school. He said, “How do I sign up for that?” The man said, “Come with me.” And, just like that Leonard was gone. So much for the buddy plan. I didn’t see him again until our first High School reunion in ten years!
Me, well, I met with a nice counselor. She told me that I qualified for:
Assistant Drill Instructor — No thanks
Assistant Chaplin — No thanks
Inventory Management Specialist — She said she wasn’t sure what they do, it was a very new designation. Yes, please.
There would be no Air Police training school for me.
When we finished basic training, we all received a transfer letter to the base where we would receive our technical training. I was instructed to leave for Amarillo AFB. My DI said, “You know Rawson, you’re one of the luckiest people I know. You’re going to love it there. There’s a girl behind every tree!”
Have you ever seen Amarillo? It sets in the middle of the Texas panhandle. There are only a couple of trees in the whole area!
When we left San Antonio, it was in the mid-’70s and we were told to wear our 1505s which is a short-sleeved khaki-colored shirt and slacks. In San Antonio, it was 37 degrees and snowing.
The base had always been a Strategic Air Command (SAC) base and jet mechanic training school. They had no idea what to do with us. So, their answer was to have everyone march around the Quad (designated by the fact that there were four three-story buildings facing the center courtyard with a wide walkway running in front of each building). We would continue to march for over three hours until the training Commander could figure it out. The problem is that we were marching while it was snowing.
Most of us were sick after that experience. I lost my voice for a few days. Several of us were interviewed and there were eight of us chosen to lead. We were identified by a special rope we would wear on our shoulders that was held in place by our epaulets. The yellow rope was over a flight of men (385) and a red rope was the yellow rope’s assistant.
There were 4 of us “Ropes” that led a flight. We reported to an enlisted person of our same rank but he had ROTC training and two years of college.
We were assigned to buildings that hadn’t been used since the Korean war back when the base also did basic training. The best part of being a Rope was that I didn’t have to share a room (normally two men per room) with anyone.
It took nearly 6 weeks until they had instructors and equipment in place. We didn’t even know what we’d be learning. Everyone referred to us as the supply guys.
Finally, the big day came and we met our instructor and were able to inspect the newest computers from IBM. Yep, we were going to learn how to program and run the computer.
While I was in technical school, I learned to program the new IBM System/360 model computer. One of the hallmarks of our training was the instructor's comment (repeatedly), “it will be different in the field.” He wasn’t wrong. Given the fact that we were one of the first classes on this subject, I now know the man was a Prophet.
I was given orders for McCord AFB in Tacoma, WA into the MATS (Military Air Transport Service).
It was a nice fall day when I arrived at McCord. They assigned two of us to a room. What happened next was just one of the many reasons I never really saw the Air Force as a career.
Let’s put the finances of an E2 in perspective. $50.00 a month, really, that’s what an E2 in the military service was paid. I lived off base and was married (at the ripe old age of nineteen). So, add $35.00 for separate rations and $65.00 for being married. In total, I made $150.00 per month. In today’s money, it would be $1,300 dollars. Sounds like a lot, it’s not. By the time, I paid rent, bought food, paid for transportation and some entertainment, the money was gone and then some. There was just never enough to go around. The only reason we had a crappy car with no insurance was because of my Mom.
My Mom hated my girlfriend. My Dad died of a heart attack at the age of forty-two. So, Mom became my go-to person if I needed something extra. She knew that when I was home on leave, I had reconnected with the girl whose legs caused the accident before I went into the Air Force.
My Mom said, “If you don’t marry her, I’ll give you the money to buy that new Triumph motorcycle you’re so crazy about.” Who could resist that offer? I took the money and ran.
The money arrived by Western Union a few days later. The Watts riots were going on in Los Angeles and ashes were literally falling into the yard of my girlfriend’s parents' home in Huntington Park. She was scared.
I told her, “My Mom had just sent me some money and I had enough for us to get married.” That was my elegant proposal. She said, yes over the phone and so I sent her a bus ticket for Tacoma, Washington.
On my first day at the base, we were sent to work in a MATS (Military Air Transport Service) parts repair depot. I thought, really, they have computers, great. Well, they didn’t and didn’t know what I was talking about. It was Friday and the Airman in Charge (AIC) gave me the keys to the worst looking truck in the fleet. It became very apparent that job one was to learn that supply parts are dirty. Really? The truck was parked around the building in the back. I was told that this is where I would work. He said, “That truck is now your responsibility. On Monday at 0700 hundred hours, we’ll meet for inspection. You’ll stand next to your truck for inspection before the week gets under way.” I thought, the instructor was right, it is very different in the field.
The truck had all of its pieces and there was no damage. The truck was at least twenty years old or older. Fortunately for me, I used to make extra money washing and detailing cars for people living in our apartment complex when I was a Freshman in High School. I was very good at it.
Using those skills and my ability to work with others, I cleaned up and fixed up the old truck over the weekend. I was able to get new seat covers, washer arms for the split windshield, new tires, and a tune-up from the motor pool. All I had to do was help with the installation. I did so willingly. After that, I washed the undercarriage and detailed the whole truck even painting the wood undercarriage to perfection. I have to admit, that truck looked great. It was now a “classic.”
On Monday, I showed up looking much like the poster child for the Air Force. I was standing at attention next to MY truck. We were reviewed by the Senior Master Sergeant (SMSgt. E8). His name was Alexander. He was 6 ft 8 in tall and weighed more than 300 pounds and smoked disgusting cigars. He was always smoking or chewing on a cigar. I once told someone it was his pacifier.
The Airman in charge was an E4 and totally full of himself. As the newest member of the team, I received a really brief welcome. The Sgt. asked me where and when I was assigned the truck. The Airman In Charge (AIC) spoke up. The SMSgt. said, “That’s too nice of a truck for him. He found a lessor truck that was dented everywhere and just looked very bad and said, “Rawson, this is you new truck. Try not to wreck it.”
Seriously, I had just wasted a weekend and as a reward, I get this piece of crud truck. I complained bitterly to the AIC. His words of wisdom, “It will not go well for you if you want to complain. I suggest you use the truck you were just given.”
Angry, that was the only word to describe my emotion at the time. In addition, I wouldn’t be working with anything that even sounded technology-centric. I would be a parts runner moving parts from one specialized repair facility to another. I was so angry. What were my chances of getting out of this? It was HIGHLY UnLikely that would happen. If my “career” path followed that of others in the unit, this is what I’ll be doing when they discharge me.
Time to focus on something I can control.
The foregoing is an excerpt from the book I’m currently writing about my life. It’s called “UnLikely.”It was unlikely that I would ever succeed. That’s why I choose that title for the book. I’ll make its publication known in my journal on this site.
Originally published at https://www.drrawson.com on September 16, 2021.
