Basic Training: The Ultimate Culture Shock

Having outsmarted Uncle Sam's draft by enlisting in the US Air Force in December of 1966, I soon enough found myself winging my way to Lackland AFB, in San Antonio, Texas on February 7, 1967. To keep me out of the draft my recruiter enlisted me in the reserves for 90 days. They called it the DEP (Delayed Enlistment Program).

Let me start with my induction physical, which was back on December 7th of '66. We were put on a bus in Riverside and sent to the induction center for all armed services on S. Broadway in downtown Los Angeles. The induction center was in a building built back in the 1920's. It looked old and smelled old.

Since we had to be at the induction center at 6:00 am, we were sent the afternoon before and spent the night in a flea-bag hotel (which appeared to be as old as the induction center) on Spring street just around the corner.

We were awakened at 5:00 a.m. rudely by a nerve-jangling telephone wake-up call. At least they could have warned us. The bell volume was set to wake up the dead, or at least the drunken bums outside in the alley way.

We were rushed downstairs to eat a complimentary breakfast of hot cakes, syrup, and scrambled eggs. Little did I know this crap would taste good compared to the future meals we were to consume a few months later. Ugh!

After breakfast was over we were marched from the hotel to the induction center where we were all stripped of our (pride, dignity, and) clothes. We went through the whole humiliating process mostly naked, but sometimes with a little towel to save us some form of dignity. Thank heaven for small favors. We were shuffled from one room to another and one floor to the next where an army of doctors and nurses inspected us like so much horse flesh at an auction.

At last we came to the last station where we were apprised of our physical status. To my surprise my name was called out and I was sent back to have my blood pressure re-checked. I was told at that point that my reading and heart rate were too high. Small wonder! Let me parade you around here in a room full of strangers buck-naked, letting people poke you in places you can't mention and see if you don't get a little nervous!! HAH! (Well, I didn't say it but I was thinking it loudly enough).

Anyway, after about the second attempt they made me lie down on a gurney to get me settled down. It worked! I was in. Boy, I had the chance to beat this and it never occurred to me! How dumb is that?

Back to a room where we all put on our clothes back on then on to another room where we were sworn into the appropriate branch of service en masse. Relieved it was over I was ready to go home. Yeah, Right! Standing in front of the exit door was a smartly dressed Marine sergeant that looked mean enough to eat raw meat.

"Gentlemen", he barked in a raspy voice, "men in Vietnam are dying and bleeding on the battlefields. We need your blood!" Sheepishly I volunteered mine. We were whisked off to the local Red Cross chapter to offer our blood to them. Turned out it wasn't so bad after all. At last we went home on the bus. It was a long day to be sure. We arrived in Riverside well after dark.

In February our recruiter set us up on a flight to San Antonio Texas on Braniff Airways. We landed at the airport where we were met by blue air force busses and taken to the intake center at Lackland Air Force Base. We arrived around midnight.

It was cold and frosty but I didn't need that to make me shiver, though. I was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I would never hear my first name again. I would never know what privacy was again.

I was assigned to the 3706 BMTS (Basic Military Training Squadron), Flight "B". Our training Instructor (T.I.) was Airman McGee. He was, without a doubt, one of the most unlikable men I have ever met. He was skinny, and only had three stripes. He didn't have a commanding appearance due to this, but he sure knew how to spit shine those shoes. His voice was nasal, and he just did seem like he should have been a T.I.

Basic training was a real cultural shock for me. I was an un-sophisticated kid from the rural parts of the county (hick from the sticks). I wasn't used to having people yell at me 24 hours a day! Half of our flight (a flight was a part of a squadron) was made up of men from California, while the other half was from mostly Pennsylvania. The guys from Pennsylvania didn't like us Californians. I never heard before the things they would say to us. Claiming they weren't sure of our sexual orientation, they warned us they were sleeping with one-eye opened.

They all talked like they were salty sea-dogs raised in the local taverns of Pennsylvania. And, they played pool like it, too. Heck, no one could beat them. I never saw so many guys smoke like they did, either. Smoking was forbidden in the barracks and was only allowed during patio breaks, or whenever the T.I. said you could.

I grew sick and tired of their endless Californian jokes. I found out from them I was from the land of the "whispering bushes". Huh? "Yeah, you know-- whenever you pass buy a bush a voice would whisper from inside 'hey, buddy, come here!'..." I never laughed with them.

At night after lights-out, I would finally have a little peace and quiet. It was a good time to pray.
Being in the habit of prefacing every thing we would say to the T.I. with "Sir", I immediately fell into the same routine when addressing God in prayer. Believe it or not, it was a hard habit to break!

Inspections were a daily routine also. They had them more than once a day, too. Our rooms were inspected for proper order, as were our closets, shoes, beds and anything else you could think of. We had latrine inspections where you couldn't let a spot of water be found on a sink or shower wall.

In the closets all our shirts and coats had to be hung with the left shoulder to the outside, and two fingers of spacing between each hanger. Our hankies had to be folded in four folds with the closed end of the fold facing the left side of the drawer. They had to be stacked one atop the other without any one sticking out on the side. Our razors had to shine like chrome, as well as our belt buckles. We bought a lot of Brasso!

Because in recent years a couple of airmen recruits had died from meningitis, our rooms had to be totally dust free. The Venetian blinds had to be wiped down constantly, and not only that, they had to be opened at a forty-five degree angle. This was checked by inserting a pencil between the blinds and allowing it to hang on its own so that the pencil rested on front edge of the lower slat, and the back edge of the slat above it. The pencil had to be parallel to the floor, proving that the blinds were opened to the requisite angle.

When we dressed, the edge fold of our shirt front had to be in perfect vertical alignment with our pants fly edge, and the belt buckle had to have the right edge of it in perfect alignment to that. They called it a "gig line" and if it was off even the slightest, you got "gigged". (written up)

Our shoes had to be spit polished so well the T.I. could comb his hair in the reflection of his image. Let me tell you how boots are spit-shined. You get a clean white hankie; dip it in bootblack, then spit on it or the boot as you rub it into the leather. As you build up the layers of polish, the shine begins to become mirror-like in appearance.

Once this technique was mastered, it became our 'badge of honor' in basic training. As we strutted our stuff around the other men in the group, we would take surreptitious glances at their boots as we passed each other. We were like peacocks comparing ourselves to each other.

Our beds had to have a white collar as wide as a paper dollar is in length. And the covers had to be pulled over the bed and tucked in with a hospital corner with the fold at a 45 degree angle. The blanket had to be so taut that a 50 cent piece could be bounced off of it.

Our shoes and boots had to sit under the bed and in perfect descending order according to height, and in perfect horizontal alignment with the tips of the toes aligned with each other as well as an imaginary vertical line from the bed's support bar to the floor. You would kill anyone in the room who bumped into them.

Our towel had to hang folded on the end of the bunk railing with the fold to the left and the last four of our service number showing in the lower right hand corner. The ink-stamped number also had to be in perfect alignment with the towel's right edge and bottom edge not favoring either edge, by the way.

We were given an ink stamp with the first initial of our last name and the last four numbers of our service number carved in it. My number was H-2637. It became our official laundry number and had to be stamped in everything we could wash or wear, even the tongue of our shoes or boots. Heaven help the man who stamped anything crookedly!!

P.T. was a drag. (Physical Training) When called we had to fall out in full PT gear in five minutes. And you had better hang anything you took off according to the rules. If we were late, the entire flight had to fall out again, but in full uniform. Then P.T. was called again, and we had to do it all over until we could do it in the allotted time.

The easiest part of P.T. was the sit ups, the most difficult was the mile run. I failed my first test and was set back two weeks in training and had to do that part all over again with a new flight. At least I had gotten rid of Airman McGee.

Being the senior basic trainee had some advantages, the others who had not gone through what I already had looked to me for help. I found a niche!

The new T.I. noticed the men came to me for help and gave me kudos on graduation day for it. I'll never forget him. He was Sergeant Fierro. He spoke with a heavy Mexican accent, but it sounded familiar to me being from California and all. I liked him. I remember he always told us to keep our chews chiney (shoes shiny)

Many times were humiliating. Whenever we would goof up good ol' Airman McGee was there to make you feel lower than whale poop on the ocean's floor. One day the barracks didn't pass muster. He grabbed several bunks and literally turned them over. He shook Ajax all over the latrine floor and in a few dorms. He emptied closets and duffel bags and then ordered us to have it ready in one hour for inspection. I had to talk one man out of wanting to ambush the T.I.

His favorite vile directive was to "pull your head out of your ass". It implied an extreme state of stupidity, if the expression was lost on you. I remember thinking how I would like to do the opposite to him. But, I repented of that.

I was lucky to have an LDS chaplain. He was the only one of two in the entire Air Force then. We were not a recognized separate religion to the air force at that time. Now I hear we have hundreds of them and even the Air Force academy will let you go on a mission then return to finish up training at it. It was a break from the crudeness and crassness when we could attend services on base under his direction.

Our first and only pass to go downtown was given to us in our final week of training. Of course, I had no idea where to go or what to do down there, but I went anyway.

I boarded a bus at the base’s main gate and headed for downtown San Antonio. Of course we were not allowed to wear our civvies, so we went in our 1505's. The 1505 was a tan shade of uniform, not classed as classy as the "dress blues". We were required to wear the uniform to identify ourselves for the local Air Police who would patrol the bars to keep peace and arrest errant enlisted men.

Anyone caught downtown wearing 1505's and slick sleeves in a bar or drinking establishment was presumed to be an airman basic still in training and were not allowed to consume any alcoholic beverages. Still, there were those who put their future on the line and drank a few beers. You guessed it. They were the boys from Pennsylvania!

As we neared the outskirts of San Antonio, I spotted a taco stand on the corner. My heart leapt with joy! Wow! I exclaimed to another airman (I still remember his last name was Graham) who was from Ohio, I sure could go for a taco right about now!

Airman Graham's response spun my head around with incredulity, "what's a taco?" he honestly queried. The question seemed to me to be exceedingly stupid. What planet was this guy from?? "What's a taco??", I blurted out. "Man, where are you from? A taco is a fried tortilla folded in half and filled with delicious meat and cheese and a hot sauce!" I explained.

"What's a tortilla?", he innocently asked. I was flabbergasted. Then, as if a light came on he answered his own question with a question, "OOOHH!!Isn't that a Mexican pancake?" It was all I could do to keep from slapping the poor guy hopefully to bring him back to consciousness. I didn't realize there were parts of the nation who had never, but never, ever experienced the Mexican cuisine. What deprivation had this poor fellow been tortured with? I immediately considered myself a privileged soul.

No matter how I explained it, he just couldn't appreciate my fondness for tacos, and declined my offer to stop there and have one on me. Just as well, anyway...the neighborhood looked bad. We were obviously in 'their' side of town.

Once downtown, we walked along the streets aimlessly. I remember we ended up at some amusement park everybody thought was great. They called it "Six Flags over Texas". "Humph", I remember thinking to myself. "These Texans claim to have the biggest and best of everything, but this place is a dump compared to Disneyland! Now, that's a real amusement park!" Little did I know Six Flags would be flying over several states in years to come. One even came close by here, "Six Flags over Magic Mountain", which used to be just Magic Mountain.

After that we ended up at this little white fort in the middle of town called. The Alamo, it was called, was the pride of Texas. I remember my childhood hero Davey Crockett fought there. But this little place was rinky dink! Nothing at all like Hollywood (with Texas influence, I'm sure) made it look. I was so disillusioned!! Davey Crockett and Jim Bowie died for and in this dump?? I couldn't figure out why General Santa Ana wasted so many Mexican soldiers over it.

And the guide there was just dripping with Texas pride as she recounted the glorious stand-off
the Americans endured until they were finally overwhelmed by the brutal Santa Ana forces! With tears welling up in her eyes she drawled on about the glorious Texan genesis begat at the Alamo.

Well, that's it for San Antonio. Oh, the river walk was cool. Kind of like Venice.

Back at base we ended up as planned. A few days later we went on our obstacle course outing, and later our M-16 rifle training. (The best part of the whole experience!) I won a marksman medal which I was able to pin to my chest for the rest of my career!

On our last day there we were given our assignments to technical schools, etc, awarded our first stripe, and given our final paycheck--- A whopping 26 dollars! I was routed by base headquarters along with a large group of other basic grads to Lowry AFB for technical school and flew out the next day. I bid Lackland Air Force Base a final farewell, and never looked back.