Funny how a mind that can’t remember why it drove a body to enter a room can yet recall things from almost 50 years ago. Must be some strange electrical firings going on up there.  Think it’s the diet?  Maybe too few salty potato chips?

You know, I heard or read someplace that pure water doesn’t conduct electrical signals nearly as well as salty water.  Maybe I should go back on a heavy chips diet.  I mean if we’re made mostly of water, I’m wondering if the fix might be just as simple as more chips, or more salty rims on a wide glass.

Got to check into that, though a diet of a large bag of chips and a soda for lunch three or four times a week quite a few years ago damned near killed me.  Doc told me if there wasn’t a pretty fast change in my blood work and treadmill results he’d put me where he could control my intake.  He could do it, too.  Military docs can pull some strong stuff out of the toolbox when they need to, if they want to.  Got to tell you though, my mind was sharp and I had a hell of a memory then.

………………..

I’d been up in the morning bright and early, very early, over to the Custom House across the river in New Orleans, signed in, said “Hello,” not realizing that was the last of that word I’d utter for quite some time.  Come to think of it, it would be the last word, other than a very limited vocabulary, I’d utter for several weeks.  The list of words would be short and almost exclusively of short responses to questions and demands of simple acknowledgement.

Most of the paperwork already having been done, and observed proof that I was of sound mind and body, well, to government standards anyway, having been accomplished some days before, I ended up down a hallway with quite a few others my age and engaged in a brief ceremony.  It was the beginning of a way of life that was to affect me to this very moment.  The effect was to be permanent and shared by others vicariously.  Who could have known…

After a semester of college, taking two courses of advanced placement immediately after high school, I was now an Airman Basic in the United States Air Force.  Not particularly proud, more like numb.  More like, “I thought this was a good idea a few days ago, and I think I think it still is.  I’m right, right?”

He said to get in line and follow.  Keyword — follow.  A LOT of that to come.  “This is Airman Basic so and so.  He is your group leader.  He has all your paperwork.  Follow him until instructed otherwise by proper military authority.  Congratulations and good luck.”  I put that in quotes because I’ll lay a 20 on the table that I’m not more than 2 words off.  It was August 15, 1963.

Out to a bus – it’s around midday, and we head out to the Moisant Airport (now Louis Armstrong – from politician to musician, that’s progress) on the outskirts of New Orleans.

Group Leader looked to me like, well, like, a dipshit.  I didn’t know that term then, so if asked, and if I were exceedingly brave, brave enough to criticize my new military leader chosen from our own group of new recruits, I don’t know what I would have said.  But now that I have “dipshit” in my vocabulary it is a word I would have used if I had known it then and had had the opportunity to use it.  I spent the rest of the afternoon pondering just how the Air Force I had most recently joined went about choosing its leaders.  In retrospect, the distraction was a good thing.

It was a pretty long drive then, and in August not a comfortable one.  I now know that was my hands-on first experience with the concept of governmental contract “low bidder.”  No air conditioning and definitely not class service.  Sort of what I remember providing service between Mayberry and Mount Pilot.

So there we were, all feeling pretty much apprehensive and obvious to the world, sitting FOREVER in the airport.  Clearly we were out of someone else’s hair and “on our way” in a manner of speaking.  Group Leader looked as if he felt really important, sitting there with that valuable package of documents.

Finally, an airplane with two wings and two engines, a nice combination I thought, each engine with propellers spinning, pulled in and we climbed on board along with the “regular” passengers, who were dressed a lot nicer than we were, but we had been given instructions on how to dress.  In those days, people really dressed up to fly, but we were told to dress in slacks and shirts, some looking a lot better or worse than others, but none up to the standards of those other folks.  We may as well have been in pink tutus.

Now, it really isn’t all that far from New Orleans to San Antonio, but I do believe we might have driven it faster than we flew it, even in our Mayberry RFD transportation.  “Shake, rattle, and roll” turned out to be not only a great rock ‘n roll lyric, but also a pretty good description of air travel.  But, we did finally arrive at the airport in San Antonio, marking our collective official “away from home” on the same day we had left.

We were met in the San Antonio airport by someone in uniform who seemed decent enough as he took the paperwork package from dipshit, uh, Group Leader, and he told us to sit down in the area – we would be there awhile.

The sun went down and we were still sitting there, having been joined by another arriving group or two.  It seemed we were destined to form an Air Force unit right there in the terminal, right there at the end of that, ah, concourse.  Yeah, that’s what I learned they call them – concourses.  Other than an occasional comment by someone about nothing at all, it was pretty quiet.  Quiet except for a lot of rumbling stomachs, in the evening, our own sort of private area, it really was pretty nice once you got used to it.

It got quite late and the seemingly endless stream of arrivals had finally ended some time ago, filling the entire area that I now realized was roped off from the rest of the concourse.  We were in our own special area at the end of the concourse, reserved just for us.  That was really nice of them, don’t you think?  I mean, we must have been pretty welcome folk, right?  Their hospitality when it came to meals and entertainment was definitely lacking, but a special area?

Dipshit, no longer Group Leader, but having been stained by his identification as a leader, looked lonely.  I didn’t know it then, but right there in that foreign airport would be the last time I’d ever see him.  But I would later meet a lot of his cousins.  Turned out there were an amazing number of dipshits around that I had not yet met.   It also turned out, farther down the road, that loneliness and leadership aren’t necessarily strange bedfellows.

********************

We had been suddenly ordered to line up in our private area of the airport and escorted to a convoy of busses, those in much better shape than to the one to the airport in New Orleans, then driven in the dark of night to a run-down building somewhere on obviously-even-in-the-dark government property.  Welcome to Lackland Air Force Base, “Gateway to The Air Force.”  It is almost midnight…

Bedded down very late on rows and rows of bunk beds — steel, gray, indestructible, bunk beds — despite the nerves and the first official “night away from home” I think most of the group slept pretty well.  That’s a guess though, because I wasn’t awake to check out the rest of the people.  I slept soundly.

At an hour only those of us who had in past years traveled across the city by ferry and multiple busses to high school could identify, the door must have been blown open by explosives of some kind, because I awakened to much noise.  There was shouting, stomping, the rattling of steel beds, and many, many feet hitting the floor.  The entire group had suddenly, if somewhat unwillingly, come alive.

I vaguely remember being told how long we had to “shit, shave, and shower,” and though I don’t remember how much time we were allowed, I do remember thinking that no human could do any two of those things in that short time, much less all three.  After that time we were to report outside.

It was fair to assume, I thought, that being late to that kumbayah would be a very bad thing.  But it was a setup all the way.  There was absolutely no way that many people could use the bathroom facilities, uh, make that, “the latrine,” all at the same time.  Planning and prioritizing were to quickly become new skills, of necessity.

I had been correct in my assumption of late arrivals’ consequences.  There were a couple of people doing pushups and one sprinting to the end of the block and back, only to be told on return to do it again because he had not done the first circuit quickly enough.

To “planning’ and “prioritizing” add “quickly.”  The world was changing rapidly as new vocabulary and concepts formed.  And they seemed destined to form at an accelerating pace.

So there we were, eating breakfast, quickly, and feeling very very, ohhhh so very, obvious.  We came from various parts of the country, different backgrounds, and different lifestyles.  Our hairstyles from back home and our multicolored civilian clothes made us stand out as obvious newcomers.  Fresh meat soon to become roadkill.

Everyone else knew more than we knew, had seen things we had never seen, and had lived experiences we couldn’t even dream of.  Everyone else was wearing highly polished black boots, green fatigues and caps, and virtually no hair.  Thanks to our hairstyles of many shapes and lengths, and clothes of many colors, we were “rainbows.”  That would change in just a few hours.

It was our second such activity, the first being “the march” from where we stayed the previous night to where we ate breakfast, but the lack of teamwork and marching skills were matched by our personal appearance, all still rather individualistic.

This second attempt was from breakfast to The Green Monster, so called because each group, or “flight” who went in the front went in as a rainbow exited the other end in all green and carrying duffle bags of even more green.

Uniform issue was an interesting place, if for no other reason than its being my first experience with boxer shorts.  Only the male of the species can appreciate the physical and mental significance of changing from an adolescent lifetime of Jockey briefs to government issued boxers.  I somehow ended up with one pair a size larger than the rest of those handed to me.  That wasn’t bad, however, because the tradeoff was the fact that my boots fit well, which was more than a couple of the others could say, and for them that would be a major problem in the coming weeks.

From the Green Monster we went next to what in the civilian world would be a barber shop.  Well, not really.  In a barber shop there is styling, conversation, sitting in chairs reading magazines while waiting one’s turn, and a number of barber’s tools.  A true barber shop is a social place as well as one of utilitarian value.  People there know each other from repeated visits.

The “barber shop” in this case was more like a sheep shearing pen.  No conversation, all strangers, no waiting chairs or magazines, and no styling choices.  The methodology and result of each rainbow, recently converted to a piece of the green military machine, was the same – rapid strokes of the clippers was the method and a virtually bald head the result.  The only tool needed was a clipper.  No combs, straight razors, or scissors used; none were needed to achieve the desired result.

Some flights attended the barber shop before going into The Green Monster.  I’m sure there was a scheduling system that made maximum use of the resources, and the first evidence of that had been at breakfast, where a single member of the group had been dispatched to inform the chow hall that the group was on the way, and he went inside again to report our actual arrival.  Maximizing resources and results of effort, selection of the “chow runner” had been accomplished simply by identifying the person who apparently needed to lose the most weight, that is, the chubbiest member of the flight.  He got to do extra running before every meal to accomplish his necessary task of informing the chow hall of our status.  “Efficiency” and “effectiveness.”

Up to this point, all our contact with “proper military authority” had been in the form of a person who looked to be in his late 30’s, but who wore only two or three stripes.  I don’t remember his exact rank as much as I do the fact that my impression was that he was exceptionally poor at getting promoted or that he had seen his current rank once before and had done something that resulted in his being returned to that status.

But on this morning, there in front of the barber shop, as we all, nicely and closely shorn, stood in our version of attention, we were introduced to our primary instructor, Technical Sergeant Ormiston.  I can’t tell you the names of some people I worked with only 4 or 5 years ago, yet I assure you of the name and rank of my instructor in August of 1963.  I find that a testament to how effective the Basic Training experience can be when it is shaped properly to function as a life-changing event.

Technical Sergeant Ormiston was to have an effect, as all Technical Instructors, or Drill Instructors, do every day, shaping the lives of your men and women.  It was his turn to shape me, and I would find out later that I was in his last Basic Training flight before he moved to a prestigious position elsewhere.

So, “new” seemed to be the key word of the day — new haircut, new clothing, and new mother, father, and counselor.  We would do nothing without his permission and would do all things as he directed, questioning nothing, thinking nothing, and obeying all.  The new experience was about to begin.

********************

I suppose it is tradition that each of the services’ members compares his or her basic training to that of the other services.  Of course, those with the more physically demanding requirements win the tough guy award, but I’m not so sure that’s an important difference.

Obviously my Air Force basic training was easier than I’d imagine that of the Army or the Marines might be, and that makes sense.  The mission requirements are different, and it makes no sense to train beyond requirements.  So in that sense I was lucky.  My daily physical requirements were certainly easier than that of other services.

However, I wonder if that is true of the other side of training – the mental side.

Does the term “scared shitless” mean anything to you?  How about “pucker factor”?

If they don’t, well, use your imagination and you’re probably on track.  If they do, then you know of which I speak when I say that basic training is one massive mind game.  And that is really what it is all about.

It is the training of many minds of many experiences, born of many races, backgrounds, religions, educational exposures and accomplishments (or non-accomplishments), family styles, all those varied things that make us all different.

The purpose of that training is not to erase all that memory, but to set it aside long enough to focus those minds on teamwork, self discipline, and achievement of immediate goals, particularly group goals.

To that end I have many memories of those short weeks, those weeks that at the time seemed as though they would go on forever.  My memories of that time are not sequential.  Rather, they are specific portraits on the wall in no real order, but in each frame there is a story.

Our flight was both fortunate and unfortunate in the timing of our arrival.  What at first seemed to be an outstanding quirk of fate would turn on us almost immediately. 

Lackland Air Force Base had recently finished the construction of several brand new buildings to house basic trainees.  The lower floor had classrooms and a drill pad, with sleeping quarters on the upper floors.

The drill pad was therefore shaded, in that its roof was the floor of a dormitory (barracks) above.  Great!  We are truly blessed!

It was also used only briefly for formation in the morning and for initial drill instruction.  Like everyone else, our drill actually took place out on a large asphalt surface (May I remind myself that was in August in San Antonio?) under the Texas sun.

The barracks above was a vast sea of open bay space with those wonderfully indestructible steel beds.  The walls were lined with lockers with drawers beneath the hanging spaces, and the floors were of shiny new tile.  The place looked almost luxurious, in a strange and Spartan way.

Those floors were to remain as shiny as the day the best designer produced the highest gloss photo to anyone making a decision on a contract for purchase.  Those floors were to remain with that shine until hell froze over and then a day or two.

This could not be accomplished with the provided buffer and liquid wax.  That was a task I am sure known by the instructors to be impossible, though we recruits would have to learn that the hard way.  The standard simply required we rise above the buffer and liquid polish.

Only in basic training could one find young men polishing such a large expanse of tile by using paste wax, sources secret, applying it with cloth, sources and storage locations secret, and buffing it by having one person sit on a wool blanket of standard military issue and two others pulling it other across the floor in varying patterns.  Multiply that by a factor of “several” and you have what is known as “a G.I. party.”  Well, one aspect of it, anyway.  To this day I cannot smell Johnson’s paste wax without automatically creating the mental image of a green military blanket and a shiny tile floor.

The new floor was both a blessing and a curse, with emphasis on the latter.  As we continuously worked those floors we wondered aloud what the occupants of the old buildings were doing.  Were they achieving the same results despite their old wood construction?  Or were they at advantage because such a feat could not be achieved at all and therefore the standard was lower?

Ah, those memories, defying decades of cramming important and sometimes lifesaving information, still there, after all those years…

There is no taste of water like the taste of water from a canteen.  It is truly unique.  Old or new vessel, it has uniqueness hard to describe.

The aroma of a flight of recruits in freshly starched fatigues as they race up a stairwell after two hours of drill practice on the summertime drill pad.  Yes, an aroma to be remembered in spite of wishing not to.

The successes and failures of polishing boots with Zippo lighters, cotton balls, handkerchiefs, blanket corners, toilet paper, water, 7-Up, Coca-Cola, candy wrappers, whatever might work.  It was an incessant search for quicker, better, longer lasting.  It was an individual quest of inventiveness shared with others in warning of bad results and in encouragement and cheer of successes.  A lifetime lesson, one must loosen to top of the can before applying heat.  Failure to do so is certain to produce disastrous consequences, especially if done 30 minutes before inspection – an important aspect that must be included when relating the overall wax polish heating process to one’s father after basic training, lest the kitchen ceiling…

The group’s goals are as important as individual goals.  This is true even after a particularly upsetting and unsettling breakfast when there are a few minutes in the barracks before the next activity, but everyone knows the latrine is ready for an inspection that will take place only moments after our departure.  It is perhaps the greatest test of diversionary concentration to override those stirrings and rumblings, to sing (but not dance, on that shiny floor), to ask and answer the questions of training, to recall the names and marching positions of each flight member, to do whatever necessary to divert the mind to ensure the inspection-ready remains so.  To achieve the objective is as honorable as it is to die in battle, and more difficult.

Was there utility in the objectives imposed on us?  Certainly, yes.  Nevertheless, it was a massive mind game.

And it was working.

********************

We had been at it for a couple of weeks, no pressure having been relieved though experience.  We were wound up just as tightly as we had been in the first days of our captivity.  Uh, make that “enlistment,” or “service,” or “time in Basic Training,” or whatever.  It really did feel very much like captivity, though.

As opposed to the freedom we had enjoyed at home, not that many teenagers would have described their lives under a parent’s roof as “freedom,” our existence during basic training was highly regulated and regimented, to say the least.

There was much apprehension, and fear.  Those who in moments of bravado boasted of their courage would, only moments later, be shadows of those around them as orders were given and commands were obeyed — instantly and without thinking, obeyed.

There was clear knowledge that we had absolutely no control over our lives, not even in the smallest detail.  And most notably, we were certain that no matter how well an individual might perform, failure of one was almost always failure of the flight.  Successes were obviously expected and therefore taken for granted by those in power, unworthy therefore of recognition of any kind.  Failures, however, were a totally different matter.

When to sleep, when to eat, when to shave and shower, when to clean, when to study, when to march, when to exercise, when to perform virtually any conceivable move — all were scheduled, timed for duration, observed for procedure and method, critiqued, and immediately reported.  Loudly and forcefully reported.  To all who were within earshot, seemingly a quarter mile or so.  Personal space did not exist, everyone was assumed to be stone deaf, and human foibles were an unacceptable curse to be driven out.

Chow Runner, seemingly not the better despite his frequent sprints in the hot sun to the chow hall ahead of the marching flight, had made a foolish blunder there in the barracks that evening.

Unfortunately, TSgt Ormiston was present to see it and apparently had had enough of the simple errors.  Major errors had a predictable set of consequences, but minor ones seemed to be more a challenge for him.  Some thought he might occasionally entertain the idea of looking the other way, but most of us agreed that just wasn’t a realistic possibility.  There just wasn’t any evidence of the opposite point of view and those who entertained it were late in getting the message.

In any case, there stood TSgt Ormiston, ordering all to the position of attention, which was automatically a command to stand at the end of one’s indestructible bed at the position of attention, facing the person standing in mirror image in front of his indestructible bed on the opposite side of the aisle.

Well, it would have been a mirror image if this had occurred during the daytime because we would all have been in uniform.  However, this being in the evening, we were all in various states of dress, or undress, so via direct observation of one’s mirror image, and via peripheral vision for the more daring, the scene was one of mostly boxer shorts and T-shirts with an occasional green fatigue uniform item thrown in.

Chow Runner was called front and center, properly chewed out for his misdeed, and then sent to run to the opposite end of the aisle, turn left at the end, over to the aisle out of sight on the other side, up that aisle to the end, left turn back into sight on our side, and back up our aisle again, in a continuous loop.

The disappearance on one end of the barracks and reappearance from the other end had its own effect, but the real image of impact was Chow Runner racing along in his boxer shorts and T-shirt, as ordered, flapping his outstretched arms like an heavy bird seeking desperately to take flight, all the while continuously shouting at the top of his lungs, “I am a dipshit!  I am a dipshit!  I am a dipshit!”

After the second circuit, Chow Runner was ordered to properly synchronize his verbalization with his flapping, and the following circuit engendered a smile or two among the at-the-position-of-attention observers.

The position of attention not properly including smiling expressions, those so observed were ordered into the same flight path and to assume the same role as Chow Runner.

By the time it was over, Chow Runner, having been required to continue his performance throughout and tiring noticeably, had a trailing of 5 or 6 fellow dipshits, all bellowing the same refrain and synchronizing their verbalizations not only with their own flapping motions, but also, out of sheer habit of training, with the rest of the flock.

As he commanded “At Ease,” TSgt Ormiston disappeared and the dipshits, most notably Chow Runner, collapsed where their inertia left them.  The remainder of us nervously looked around for TSgt Ormiston, and finding no sign of him, collapsed also, rolling in laughter.

Though we didn’t realize it at the time, we had been taught several profound lessons via that evening’s episode.

Never have so many, for so long, held in so absolutely, emotions that so desperately sought to break forth, instead, maintaining a facade that was impenetrable.  Supportive glances were about, each an effort to assist others within vision to withstand the onslaught of emotions.

It was clear that it was us against them, in a scenario orchestrated by the devil himself.  The more the dipshits performed their ridiculous act, the greater the temptation that the rest of us should succumb, thereby allowing the numbers of dipshits to increase and their power to do likewise.  And the longer it continued the more physical toll it took on the dipshits.

It was devilish.  It was demonic.  It was a seemingly never ending circle of cause and effect, us against them, and they were we.  If allowed to continue, all on both sides would lose, and yet, under the obvious rules, we were in total control, if only we could use that control, as a group.

Yes, it was an absolutely ridiculous scene.  And it was so ridiculous that as I relate it the small hairs on the back of my neck stand erect and I can smell the air in the barracks of that evening.  It is an image so real, so detailed, I feel that if I were to close my eyes I could reach out and touch one of the flapping and bellowing figures as he races by.

But I dare not.

I am at attention.

********************

The first few weeks had come and gone with great predictability, but only in hindsight if that is possible.  The mind game ensured we never knew what might happen next, producing a constant state of unbalance, an ever present fear of the unknown.  But, interestingly, it was really just the opposite when viewed from outside the crucible.

In reality, it was all predictable, all in a continuous stream, and all a regular pattern.  Each day built upon the previous one, partially a repeat of earlier skills and concepts, and partially the introduction of new ones.  As some discovered the pattern they were blessed with more confidence; those who had yet to discover the method and the pace were doomed to receive more personal attention than the others.

There was one incident in the third week, at least I think it was in that week, that stood out as an aberration, however.

Not uncommon, yet not regular, was a fire drill in which everyone in the structure, that is, all barracks floors, hastily exited the building wearing whatever they were wearing when the alarm sounded.  That was not unusual and there was a proper procedure for response.

However, very late one evening, long after “lights out,” the fire alarm sounded along with the sound of much shouting and banging courtesy of the younger instructor, the one who had been in charge on our initial morning of training.  He had been since that point an obvious assistant to the Technical Instructor, TSgt Ormiston, who at the moment was nowhere to be seen.

Assistant was shouting and banging on the door at the opposite end of the barracks, directing us to exist in a manner definitely not the usual practiced one.  In addition, he appeared to be, well, somewhat different.  Closer observation once we were gathered in formation at not-the-correct-location for a headcount would reveal to everyone that he was clearly drunk.  Apparently those on duty in the office building that night took notice of the unscheduled fire drill, too.

We never saw that particular TI again.  His appearing to be in late 30’s, but wearing only two or three stripes began to make more sense as we quietly discussed his disappearance during the following days.  Our collective money was on the fact that he had had those same stripes on at least once before.

Gradually, all but a few came around to an understanding of the program, the game, and the objective, and things smoothed out.  There was always the threat of not being up to standard because it seemed just as one would meet the standard it would inch upward ever so slightly, but in general things became more predictable and therefore more bearable.  Finally we were able to reach a point where there was the anticipation of satisfaction of mission accomplished.  Finally one could prepare for an inspection and feel that the odds were in his favor that no discrepancies were to be found.

I have few memories of those last weeks other than the dreaded tear gas and gas mask exercise, which turned out to be much ado about nothing, and the worst of the worst, the obstacle course.

As I remember, we were given a dry run of the course under some time constraint, but it was not an actual test.  We were told that on the next run, the following day, it would be timed for test on a pass/fail basis and failure was cause for a “setback,” which meant being moved back to another flight that had not progressed as far in training.  That of course would mean not graduating with the flight, joining a group of total strangers in a new flight, and an additional week or two of basic training.

The obstacle course, though certainly a challenge, particularly with the added mental pressure that surrounded its completion, was well within the capability of all but a couple of people who were sent through again, and with its completion our training was over for the most part.  There was still a graduation parade to perform, but for all but a few it was just another exercise in following orders of drill.

Then the world changed.  Two things happened that parted the clouds, opened eyes, and threw open the gates.

First, a list was posted.  It gave the names of bases to which each person was to be assigned for training after completion of basic training.  The list was posted on the glass wall of the TI’s office there in the barracks, so it was an exercise of pseudo-orderly chaos as everyone attempted to see where they would be going and, more importantly, what career field to which the Air Force had assigned them.

The second great revelation was that TSgt Ormiston, having been in the role of a constant threat for several weeks, was actually human.  While the chaos reigned near his office, he had strangely and very uncharacteristically taken a seat in a far corner of the dayroom, a room off-limits to us during our entire time there.  Several other trainees were already I there when I entered, and they were all still quite cautious in every way, but it gradually became obvious that things had truly changed. 

We were now recognized in a very different way and TSgt Ormiston was actually sitting down and speaking with us — with us, not to us, and in conversational tone.  That was a major revelation and a total change in behavior.

It took a little while, but as the room gradually filled with those who’d learned of their assignments, the tensions of the past few weeks evaporated and the relationship between TI and trainees changed.  He answered the many “Where is ____ Air Force Base?” questions and attempted to answer as many questions as he could about the various Air Force specialties to which we were to be assigned.

To say that “session” in the dayroom was refreshing would be an understatement without equal.  It was also an enlightening one in another aspect.

TSgt Ormiston, in response to a question regarding his next group of basic trainees, told us that we were the last group of trainees he would handle at the Lackland AFB Basic Training facility.  He too had an assignment and it was to the United States Air Force Academy.

I’ll always remember how I felt when I heard him tell us of that assignment.  He had taken us though a life-changing experience.  He had demanded more of us than we thought we could deliver, yet in almost every case we had indeed delivered, living up to his expectations.  He had torn us down and built us back up, and he had had us in abject fear on many occasions.  On others he had had us in a combined state of disillusionment, hatred, fear, and confusion.  He had played us to the limit.

He of course had been the portrait of any Drill Instructor or Technical Instructor – perfection in every crease, in every move, in every word.  In the summer heat of San Antonio it seemed as if he were incapable exuding a single bead of sweat.  He was flawless.

At that time I was not capable of such an observation, but in later years I realized that portrait went deeper than the haircut and the uniform, deeper than the crisp commands, the flawless instruction, and the keen judgment of trainees’ true limits.  It went to personal character.

He became an evolving role model for me, an 18-year-old kid, right there at the end of Basic Training.  And over 20 years later I would remember him again with great respect.  As the commandant of a Noncommissioned Officer’s Academy it would be my pleasure to see one of my faculty members selected for duty at the Air Force Academy, and the memories of TSgt Ormiston once again stirred.

I’d bet everyone remembers his TI.  TI’s are memorable because of what they do.  It goes with the job.  I wonder, though, if other trainees remember their TI’s the way I remember him.  He accomplished what every TI accomplishes, to be sure, but in his case he just seems to have been special.

And he accomplished it without uttering a single obscenity in the entire time we were in his charge.  Not the stereotypical TI.

________________________________

HEADQUARTERS LACKLAND MILITARY TRAINING CENTER

SPECIAL ORDER AB-7435  13 September 1963

Airman Basic listed below is relieved from assignment and duty pipeline Student Flight and Basic Military Training Squadron 3720th Basic Military School, USAF, ATC, this base:  assigned pipeline student 3350th School Squadron, 3245th Technical School, USAF, ATC, Chanute AFB, Ill, for the purpose of attending training indicated.  Report to commander not later than 21Sep63.  Airman is graduate of Course ABM00010-1.  Electrical Repairman (12/60 Pool) Airman is awarded Primary AFSC 42010.

[Never since have I seen a more unimpressive course number for any course of instruction I have completed…]

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