The First Day of the REST of My Life: SEPT. 21, 1964

 

An eternity ago, last night, I was in a cheap hotel room, on the corner of Second & Central in downtown Albuquerque, awaiting the morrow, when I would fly to San Antonio for Basic Training.

(I had enlisted in April, just after my 18th, and gotten an induction deferrment for six months so I could play all summer in Santa Fe, where I had the position of Lifeguard at the city's preeminent and most reknowned hostel, La Fonda. I had a side gig operating an arc-light during performances of the Santa Fe Opera, too, which came with the very best lagniappe, the post-performance parties at the Ranch. But I digress...)

In the morning, they fed us at a nearby diner, then formally inducted the lot of us at the recruiting office. They then loaded us onto a Bluebird military bus, took us out to the airport, loaded us onto a commercial flight (an American Airlines Constellation) and off we went. I don't recall "making friends" or attempts to be made friends with at point with any of my fellow inductees. 

We arrived mid-morning in San Antonio. It was hot AND humid, still, in September,  unlike my accustomed haunts and runs in the High Chihuahuan. I had descended nearly a MILE in elevation from 'Burque. I soon learned what a difference that made--the same as for athletes who train at altitude.

There was a collection area at the airport, where enlistees waited upon arrival. It was manned by Sergeants of assorted stripes who maintained stern order in the terminal.  Another AF Bluebird bus collected a gang of enlistees from the civilian airport on the north side of town and shuttled us to Lackland AFB, far on the southern edge of the city.

Debauching from the bus, inside the gate, gut tight with anxious anticipation, we were rudely introduced to what was to come by a short, round, angry little "Senior Airman" named Bottelieri (after 57 years I remember the sonofabitch's name and appearance). That's where and when the adventure began. Bott (as we soon called him) lined us up in approved military style and performed the first of MANY inspections we/I'd endure in the forthcoming years. When he got to me, he reached up, wordlessly took the RayBans from my face, and unceremoniously stomped 'em into fragments on the drill pad. Message: Received.

Air Force "basic" was not of the same order as that experienced by enlistees in the other branches. It was notoriously 'easier' than the Army, not to mention the Marines. There seemed to be a tacit understanding that, since we were probably NOT destined for the front lines or infantry warfare, the rigors of training were somewhat relaxed. 

For instance, I never had to march 20 miles under a full pack, or run a mile under six minutes. We did pretty extensive PT but, for me, coming from a MILE higher than Lackland, it seemed I could take a deep breath at reveille and exhale at taps.

But what the USAF lacked in physiological rigor, it more than made up for in gratuitous, capricious humiliations, inflicted with glee and malice by the "Drill Instructors"--witness the incident of my (expensive) shades. I think they were recruited for the jobs BECAUSE they were capable  of such asswholery and shittery.