Life with Sergeant Young was pure hell. He must have violated plenty of Air Force regulations in whipping us into shape. He wanted us to be the finest flight that ever came through Lackland and would leave no stone unturned to accomplish that goal. One thing I have to say in defense of this mountain of a man. You knew exactly where you stood with him. You were just a number and a thorn in his side. He physically and mentally harassed us into oblivion.
There would seldom be a break in the action. We double timed everywhere, to and from chow, to the rifle range and to the drill pad. At night, lights were out, but we sat on the barracks floor with flashlights, reading The Code of Military Conduct or studying security instructions plus customs and courtesies of the Air Force.
He had us go through the obstacle course at night, marching us quietly to the site. He was obsessed with posting the fastest time on the base and he wanted us prepared. That first evening at Lackland, gave us a taste of what was to come. We fell out into the front yard, enveloped in darkness, with our duffel bags and military clothing. With flashlights in one hand and ink stamps in the other, we marked all our clothing with our Air Force serial numbers. Even though it is nearly 37 years later, I still remember the number, including the last four digits 9849.
We had to throw everything we owned on our bunks to be inspected. Playboy magazines, combs, pens, razor blades, knives, candy and gum were suddenly out in the open. The items were confiscated immediately and the transformation from civilian to military life continued.
Young told us he had some type of affiliation with the Cleveland Browns football team. Looking at his stature as he tossed foot lockers around like toothpicks, made me a believer. While marking our clothes in the yard resembled a humorous Three Stooges film, the next morning was no laughing matter.
I laid motionless in my top bunk (second floor) but was suddenly rousted from sleep by bright lights overhead and an awful voice shouting get up you bastards. Hurry up, we have a lot to do today. Nothing would ever be serene with Young in the picture. He demanded perfection and he wanted things done immediately if not sooner.
Nolan was one of four squad leaders in the flight and I was lucky enough to be in his squad. We never let on we knew one another. We briskly marched to breakfast in the dark and waited to enter the chow hall. In the early days, brogans hit the pavement at various times, but soon enough, 132 feet pounded the ground in unison . Sergeant Young disciplined us right away, and as time went by, we became a finely tuned military instrument.
Meals at the chow hall was a big joke. It was a race against time and you had to inhale your food as quickly as possible. I concentrated some on the food, but when my pith helmet was off and I was sitting in the chow hall, I had chocolate milk on my mind. Young made us march in the wicked Texas sun with a minimum of water breaks. My canteen became a best friend and just getting a swig of water was a huge luxury.
All meals ended the same way, with Young shouting flight 1147 get out. We stood near dumpsters outdoors and our squad leaders asked Airmen their security instructions. I think there were about 10 of them that you had to know by heart. Nolan always asked me the same exact one, and to this day, I will never leave my post without being relieved.
It wasnt long before we became real acquainted with fire drills. One typical training day, Young wasnt pleased with the way we were marching. Fuck it, get in the grass, he said. Give me 25. He did this over and over again and then gave us a hint of what was coming later on. You babies are gonna be doing some fire drills, he barked.
That night we burned the midnight oil again, studying and learning while brandishing our flashlights. We had buffed the barracks floor with a blanket and everything appeared in order. The flight had duck walked around the inside of the barracks for what felt like hours. Punishment was doled out regularly and harassment was a way of life. Our feet hurt from marching and we prayed that a few hours of sack time would arrive. Once we finally slipped under the covers and heavy eyelids closed, a three ring circus began with plenty of loud noise, whistles and bright lights.
The words fire, fire, fire pierced the air as we leaped from bunks, swiftly put on our brogan shoes and wrapped a blanket around our legs. The trick in this fire drill, would be to get out to the front of our barracks in record time. Being on the top floor, I had a flight of steps to run down. Guys were everywhere, fighting to reach the stairs and to get out the screen door.
Young stood near the front door and dared anyone to brush him on the way by. Some of the big guys couldnt help but touch him lightly. They were rewarded by a backhand that had to sting. A stop watch monitored the time for 66 Airmen to reach that small front yard. He shook his head in disgust and berated the flight. Well run these fuckin fire drills all night or until you get it right, he wailed.
Seconds after lights were turned out, we were again whistled and shouted from our bunks. This repetition continued hour after hour. The number 27 sticks in my head for some reason. I recall that someone said Sergeant Young was out to break some kind of base record for fire drills.
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