In so many ways, Southern California was the antithesis of Loudon. It was bigger; there were more people and a lot more was going on. Even the surroundings were different. Instead of the many shades of green of the Tennessee mountains, everything was the dull green, brown and grey colors of the desert. All in all, it was somewhat intimidating for a country boy, especially one like me who was a little bit on the shy side.
The town butted up against a mountain range that rose to about 5000 feet, but because of the smog, I was there almost 2 weeks before I saw them. I heard people talking about the mountains so I knew they were close, but I never realized how close until one day the smog cleared enough to see them and they dominated the northern horizon. They were no more than 8-10 miles away from the base. In all fairness, there was a forest fire going on at the time that added to the smoggy conditions, but it was an indication of how thick the smog could get.
My very first “Toto-I-don't-believe-we’re-in-Kansas-anymore” moment came just about a month after I got there. It was 6 in the morning and my alarm had just gone off. I had my feet on the floor and was ready to grab my towel and head to the shower when the doors on the metal lockers began to rattle. It started as a light rattle at first but within seconds, the doors were banging violently. The metal frame of the bed I was sitting on began to slide back and forth on the tiled floor. It didn’t slide that much, maybe an inch or two, but it was more than enough to get my attention. It finally occurred to me it was an earthquake, but I had no idea what to do. Should I stay where I was or should I run outside? I finally decided to sit there unless I heard running in the hall. It seemed like a long time, but it wasn’t any more than 30-45 seconds before the rumbling stopped. There was no real damage around the base, but there was significant damage further west near LA. Welcome to California, country boy.
I will admit it took me a couple of months to get in the swing of things and start doing something other than going back and forth between my room and work. Obviously, I had a lot to learn and the guys at the shop made it easier. They introduced me to other people and took me to various places. I saw the ocean for the first time and tried snow skiing for the one and only time in my life. I really enjoyed the mountains. They weren’t the Smokies, but they were nice. The trees were mostly pine so the wind didn’t rustle through them, it whispered. A very peaceful place to be.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
California, Here I Come
A week or so before the end of basic training we got our orders to our next assignment. Most the guys went to their next training base but I was going DDA (direct duty assignment) to be trained on the job (OJT), at Norton AFB, CA, about 60 miles east of Los Angeles. Those going to other training bases went there directly, but I got to spend a couple of weeks at home first.
Obviously everyone was more than a little antsy by the time we left for the airport, For whatever reason the bus didn’t pick us up until almost noon, and by the time we got to the airport it was around 1pm. In those days the military usually gave you a standby ticket. Everybody with a regular ticket boarded first, and if there were seats left over, you could get on. When I walked into the San Antonio airport, I knew I was in for a very long day as there were hundreds of GIs waiting for flights.
After I found my gate, I put my ticket on the counter as instructed and found a seat. A few minutes later, the lady called me back up to the counter. They had forgotten to note the time I had dropped off my ticket, so when she asked me, “When did you get here this morning?” I thought about how long I was going to have to wait there and then lied through my teeth, “Oh, I’ve been here since about 9 this morning.”
Whether she believed me or not, she accepted it and I was on the next plane to Atlanta. Those were the days you went through Atlanta no matter where you flew, or as the old joke said, “When you die anywhere in the southeast, you have to go through Atlanta on your way to Heaven.” At any rate, the Trailways bus dropped me off at Richeson’s about dark.
It was a little odd being home. Even though I had only been gone six weeks it was the first indication to me that people go on with their lives. If you’re not around, you’re not a part of their lives, or at least not as much as you once was. In the beginning that irritated me a little, but then I realized that I was going on with my life too, and it didn't always include them, so it went both ways.
I walked around town in my uniform once. That’s and unwritten rule, at least for some of the relatives. Everybody wants to see you in your uniform, but after an hour or so, you want to take it off. You had just spent six weeks wearing one every day, so it didn’t carry the same significance for you. Before long, it was time to leave again. This time was scarier than the first time. This time I was going to be gone almost 4 years, if not longer, in a place that was physically and socially many, many miles away.
I got to LA International at about 8pm that night, well after my little puddle jumper connector flight had closed down for the day. I would have to wait for their first flight at 6am the next morning. There is nothing quite like spending the night in an airport, especially one as large as LAX. In the daytime, it’s bustling with a million people but at night, it’s almost a ghost town.
The next morning it was fun flying low over the big slab of concrete that was LA and its suburbs. There seemed to be streets, buildings and houses for as far as the eye could see. Imagine Loudon to Chattanooga covered with houses, streets, parking lots and shopping centers, and then every road bustling with traffic.
A little while later, I had the non-pleasure of being of taken in by a slick taxi driver for the first time. I flew into Riverside and had to catch a taxi to San Bernardino. I didn’t know it at the time, but he took me the longest way possible. He also lied to me and dropped me at the main gate, explaining that they wouldn’t let his taxi on base. But then, in an example of the old saying that God looks after fools and children, a GI pulled up and asked me where I was going. He ended up being part of the same unit I was reporting to and took me everywhere I needed to go. I guess for each bad person you meet, there’s at least one good one.
I was given a bunk in the barracks, sharing a room with 2 other guys. It worked out because one was rarely around and the other one liked the kind of music I did. When I got to my shop, it wasn’t so bad either. Yes, there were rafts, but also parachutes and a fabric section that did upholstery. I’m still a pretty fair country sewing machine operator and have done everything from headliners in cars to seats and benches, and even clothes. Plus, each year we helped set up the planes Bob Hope used for his Christmas Tour, so we got to hob nob a little.
So I was set. It was a little bit like the Clampetts going to Beverly Hills, but I was ready for anything. Wasn't i?
Obviously everyone was more than a little antsy by the time we left for the airport, For whatever reason the bus didn’t pick us up until almost noon, and by the time we got to the airport it was around 1pm. In those days the military usually gave you a standby ticket. Everybody with a regular ticket boarded first, and if there were seats left over, you could get on. When I walked into the San Antonio airport, I knew I was in for a very long day as there were hundreds of GIs waiting for flights.
After I found my gate, I put my ticket on the counter as instructed and found a seat. A few minutes later, the lady called me back up to the counter. They had forgotten to note the time I had dropped off my ticket, so when she asked me, “When did you get here this morning?” I thought about how long I was going to have to wait there and then lied through my teeth, “Oh, I’ve been here since about 9 this morning.”
Whether she believed me or not, she accepted it and I was on the next plane to Atlanta. Those were the days you went through Atlanta no matter where you flew, or as the old joke said, “When you die anywhere in the southeast, you have to go through Atlanta on your way to Heaven.” At any rate, the Trailways bus dropped me off at Richeson’s about dark.
It was a little odd being home. Even though I had only been gone six weeks it was the first indication to me that people go on with their lives. If you’re not around, you’re not a part of their lives, or at least not as much as you once was. In the beginning that irritated me a little, but then I realized that I was going on with my life too, and it didn't always include them, so it went both ways.
I walked around town in my uniform once. That’s and unwritten rule, at least for some of the relatives. Everybody wants to see you in your uniform, but after an hour or so, you want to take it off. You had just spent six weeks wearing one every day, so it didn’t carry the same significance for you. Before long, it was time to leave again. This time was scarier than the first time. This time I was going to be gone almost 4 years, if not longer, in a place that was physically and socially many, many miles away.
I got to LA International at about 8pm that night, well after my little puddle jumper connector flight had closed down for the day. I would have to wait for their first flight at 6am the next morning. There is nothing quite like spending the night in an airport, especially one as large as LAX. In the daytime, it’s bustling with a million people but at night, it’s almost a ghost town.
The next morning it was fun flying low over the big slab of concrete that was LA and its suburbs. There seemed to be streets, buildings and houses for as far as the eye could see. Imagine Loudon to Chattanooga covered with houses, streets, parking lots and shopping centers, and then every road bustling with traffic.
A little while later, I had the non-pleasure of being of taken in by a slick taxi driver for the first time. I flew into Riverside and had to catch a taxi to San Bernardino. I didn’t know it at the time, but he took me the longest way possible. He also lied to me and dropped me at the main gate, explaining that they wouldn’t let his taxi on base. But then, in an example of the old saying that God looks after fools and children, a GI pulled up and asked me where I was going. He ended up being part of the same unit I was reporting to and took me everywhere I needed to go. I guess for each bad person you meet, there’s at least one good one.
I was given a bunk in the barracks, sharing a room with 2 other guys. It worked out because one was rarely around and the other one liked the kind of music I did. When I got to my shop, it wasn’t so bad either. Yes, there were rafts, but also parachutes and a fabric section that did upholstery. I’m still a pretty fair country sewing machine operator and have done everything from headliners in cars to seats and benches, and even clothes. Plus, each year we helped set up the planes Bob Hope used for his Christmas Tour, so we got to hob nob a little.
So I was set. It was a little bit like the Clampetts going to Beverly Hills, but I was ready for anything. Wasn't i?
When Is A Church Not A Church?
Prior to joining the Air Force, 98% of the times I attended church, I went to a Baptist church. The rest were occasional visits to Methodist churches. I didn’t even go to the Presbyterian Church and we lived beside it for several years.
So when the time finally came in basic training that I could go to church, off I went without even considering where I was going. After all, most churches were Baptist, right? In what was undoubtedly my first “country boy in the big city” moment, I walked right into that church without batting an eye and sat down on the end of a pew about half way up the main aisle. If I had bothered to take more than a glance at the sign outside, I would have noted that military churches are used by all denominations, but all I checked was the time of the next service.
Everything seemed fine as I watched people come in. It was nice to see families again. It had only been two weeks but it seemed like a lot longer. Nothing seemed odd until the service began. The music started and everyone stood up, which seemed normal to me, but as the procession walked pass I did a double take at the two young boys in robes carrying candles. Okay, I shrugged, so maybe they do things a little different in Texas. Next the preacher walked by in a robe too. Well, preacher was what I was used to calling them, but this one didn’t look like any preacher I had ever seen.
When the music stopped, I knew I was in the wrong place. The preacher was no preacher at all, he was a priest! I wasn’t so naïve that I didn’t know what was going on when he said, “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit”, and made the sign of the cross, as everybody around me did too. “Oh Lord,” I thought to myself, “How in the world are you going to get out of this?”
My only experience with a Catholic in Loudon was one Sunday morning when all the smokers gathered out in front of church, catching a last smoke before the service started. As we stood there a man walked up the street in front of the church, and two of the older men on the stoop were talking about him and one said, “He’s a good man, but he’s Catholic.” Up until then I didn’t know there were any Catholics in Loudon.
Anyway, as I sat there I could see there was no way out, so I stayed. I could have gotten up and walked out, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. In the end, it wasn’t all that bad. The congregation participated a lot more than I was used to, and the kneeling was a major adjustment, but I made it through. At the end, I did not go up for communion. I saw several people hanging back, so I did too. It’s a good thing too, because the sacramental wine would have really thrown me for a loop.
That was 40 years ago, and looking back it sounds a little like one of Andy Griffith’s early album cuts. The most ironic thing about it, is now I am Catholic. Go figure.
So when the time finally came in basic training that I could go to church, off I went without even considering where I was going. After all, most churches were Baptist, right? In what was undoubtedly my first “country boy in the big city” moment, I walked right into that church without batting an eye and sat down on the end of a pew about half way up the main aisle. If I had bothered to take more than a glance at the sign outside, I would have noted that military churches are used by all denominations, but all I checked was the time of the next service.
Everything seemed fine as I watched people come in. It was nice to see families again. It had only been two weeks but it seemed like a lot longer. Nothing seemed odd until the service began. The music started and everyone stood up, which seemed normal to me, but as the procession walked pass I did a double take at the two young boys in robes carrying candles. Okay, I shrugged, so maybe they do things a little different in Texas. Next the preacher walked by in a robe too. Well, preacher was what I was used to calling them, but this one didn’t look like any preacher I had ever seen.
When the music stopped, I knew I was in the wrong place. The preacher was no preacher at all, he was a priest! I wasn’t so naïve that I didn’t know what was going on when he said, “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit”, and made the sign of the cross, as everybody around me did too. “Oh Lord,” I thought to myself, “How in the world are you going to get out of this?”
My only experience with a Catholic in Loudon was one Sunday morning when all the smokers gathered out in front of church, catching a last smoke before the service started. As we stood there a man walked up the street in front of the church, and two of the older men on the stoop were talking about him and one said, “He’s a good man, but he’s Catholic.” Up until then I didn’t know there were any Catholics in Loudon.
Anyway, as I sat there I could see there was no way out, so I stayed. I could have gotten up and walked out, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. In the end, it wasn’t all that bad. The congregation participated a lot more than I was used to, and the kneeling was a major adjustment, but I made it through. At the end, I did not go up for communion. I saw several people hanging back, so I did too. It’s a good thing too, because the sacramental wine would have really thrown me for a loop.
That was 40 years ago, and looking back it sounds a little like one of Andy Griffith’s early album cuts. The most ironic thing about it, is now I am Catholic. Go figure.
Thursday, November 04, 2010
Smoke 'Em If You Got 'Em
Imagine it is right after high school; so soon after graduation that you can almost hear your friends talking in the hall and locker doors slamming shut and you can smell the aroma of lunch cooking in the cafeteria. Now, image you are picked up and dropped into a totally foreign environment, away from your family and friends and the safety of home, to a place that feels dangerous and hostile, where you are constantly pushed and prodded, and almost threatened; a place where fear and intimidation are the order of the day. Welcome to boot camp.
The first day there began with our training instructor (TI) flipping on the lights at 5am while banging on a garbage can lid and yelling at the top of his lungs for us to “Get the hell out of bed and fall out on the drill pad downstairs.” And he was only giving us 5 minutes to do it. Those 5 minutes was all the time we had to go to get showered, get dressed, make our bunk and secure our area for the day; in military order of course. To this day, when the alarm clock goes off, I am up and headed to the shower. I have never used a snooze button in my life.
The antagonist in all this, the TI, left no doubt in your mind that he was one mean SOB. It didn’t matter if you were 6’5” or 5’6”, he put his nose as close as he could to yours and started screaming. How you reacted was his first clue of whether you were going to require a little or a lot of his attention. In retrospect, it is amazing how efficiently it worked.
For the next two weeks, he was after us almost every minute of the day, and our entire world consisted of him, the other guys in my unit and a few acres of ground that he used to drill and drill and drill and drill us some more. Then, when he began to like the way things were progressing, he lightened up a bit. He no longer treated us like we couldn’t find our butt with both hands without his help, but instead he treated us as a group of guys who were coming together as a team, and we could be trusted to stay within the limits he set for us. We got more breaks and they lifted some of the restrictions. Breaks now came regularly with him shouting the command, "Fall out! Smoke 'em if you got 'em." If you didn't smoke, you just relaxed. Either way, it was a sure sign things were getting better.
Our second weekend there we actually got to spend a couple of hours on Saturday down in our squadron area. We could drink a coke, eat a pizza, play pool, ping pong or pinball, or sit and watch TV. It was nice to spend some time relaxing, but it also gave you more time to think of home and everyone you missed, so it was bittersweet. On Sunday I got to go to church for the first time and live up to those silent prayers I had made over and over when things were tough --- “God, get me through this and I will go to church every chance I get!” Only I didn’t bother checking the schedule outside the church and walked into a Catholic mass, but that is another story.
One ironic incident occurred about this time. The TI was chatting with us one day during a break. I had shipped out to basic with a guy from Morristown named George Taylor, while everyone else in our flight was from the northeastern part of the country. Our TI asked us about Tennessee and mentioned he had a brother who lived near Maryville. He said his brother worked in a small town near Maryville at a muffler plant called Maramont. For the first time I looked closely at my TI and his name tag and realized his brother was my old supervisor at Maramont. The one I had some issues with. I didn’t mention I knew his brother.
Another event with ties to back home came back to haunt me. During senior year, military recruiters came to the school to administer tests to those of us who thought the military might be an option. I fully realized that the military might be in my future, but being the immature one who was thinking more of the moment, I saw it as a day out of class and the tests didn’t get my best effort. Sure enough, during the 3rd week of training they marched us into this big room with all the jobs the Air Force offered listed on one of the walls. They told us there were no guarantees, but they would try to give us what we selected from the board. The jobs list was in order by the grade on the military tests we had taken before coming to basic. Yep, those same tests that I had lazed my way through back in high school. It was also the first time I had seen my scores for those tests, and they were embarrassing. No matter what job I looked at, it was way above my test scores. Finally, out of frustration I found something called ‘Rubber Raft Repair’. In my scrambled brain I thought, “How may rubber rafts can the Air Force have?. That’s Navy stuff.” Take my word for it, they have a lot.
From there on, basic actually wasn't all that bad. During our last week we had to qualify on several things, including fitness tests, marksmanship, and the obstacle course. But overall it was fun; even counting the two rounds of KP we had. The last weekend we were there, they let us go to downtown San Antonio. The bus dropped us off right in front of the Alamo.
Even my job selection turned out okay. After graduating from boot camp, most guys went on to another training base for training in their particular field. Some of those assignments could be up to a year. Mine was considered on the job trainable and I was sent directly to my next duty assignment where I would be trained while actually doing the job; but more important than that, I would get to go home for two weeks first.
The first day there began with our training instructor (TI) flipping on the lights at 5am while banging on a garbage can lid and yelling at the top of his lungs for us to “Get the hell out of bed and fall out on the drill pad downstairs.” And he was only giving us 5 minutes to do it. Those 5 minutes was all the time we had to go to get showered, get dressed, make our bunk and secure our area for the day; in military order of course. To this day, when the alarm clock goes off, I am up and headed to the shower. I have never used a snooze button in my life.
The antagonist in all this, the TI, left no doubt in your mind that he was one mean SOB. It didn’t matter if you were 6’5” or 5’6”, he put his nose as close as he could to yours and started screaming. How you reacted was his first clue of whether you were going to require a little or a lot of his attention. In retrospect, it is amazing how efficiently it worked.
For the next two weeks, he was after us almost every minute of the day, and our entire world consisted of him, the other guys in my unit and a few acres of ground that he used to drill and drill and drill and drill us some more. Then, when he began to like the way things were progressing, he lightened up a bit. He no longer treated us like we couldn’t find our butt with both hands without his help, but instead he treated us as a group of guys who were coming together as a team, and we could be trusted to stay within the limits he set for us. We got more breaks and they lifted some of the restrictions. Breaks now came regularly with him shouting the command, "Fall out! Smoke 'em if you got 'em." If you didn't smoke, you just relaxed. Either way, it was a sure sign things were getting better.
Our second weekend there we actually got to spend a couple of hours on Saturday down in our squadron area. We could drink a coke, eat a pizza, play pool, ping pong or pinball, or sit and watch TV. It was nice to spend some time relaxing, but it also gave you more time to think of home and everyone you missed, so it was bittersweet. On Sunday I got to go to church for the first time and live up to those silent prayers I had made over and over when things were tough --- “God, get me through this and I will go to church every chance I get!” Only I didn’t bother checking the schedule outside the church and walked into a Catholic mass, but that is another story.
One ironic incident occurred about this time. The TI was chatting with us one day during a break. I had shipped out to basic with a guy from Morristown named George Taylor, while everyone else in our flight was from the northeastern part of the country. Our TI asked us about Tennessee and mentioned he had a brother who lived near Maryville. He said his brother worked in a small town near Maryville at a muffler plant called Maramont. For the first time I looked closely at my TI and his name tag and realized his brother was my old supervisor at Maramont. The one I had some issues with. I didn’t mention I knew his brother.
Another event with ties to back home came back to haunt me. During senior year, military recruiters came to the school to administer tests to those of us who thought the military might be an option. I fully realized that the military might be in my future, but being the immature one who was thinking more of the moment, I saw it as a day out of class and the tests didn’t get my best effort. Sure enough, during the 3rd week of training they marched us into this big room with all the jobs the Air Force offered listed on one of the walls. They told us there were no guarantees, but they would try to give us what we selected from the board. The jobs list was in order by the grade on the military tests we had taken before coming to basic. Yep, those same tests that I had lazed my way through back in high school. It was also the first time I had seen my scores for those tests, and they were embarrassing. No matter what job I looked at, it was way above my test scores. Finally, out of frustration I found something called ‘Rubber Raft Repair’. In my scrambled brain I thought, “How may rubber rafts can the Air Force have?. That’s Navy stuff.” Take my word for it, they have a lot.
From there on, basic actually wasn't all that bad. During our last week we had to qualify on several things, including fitness tests, marksmanship, and the obstacle course. But overall it was fun; even counting the two rounds of KP we had. The last weekend we were there, they let us go to downtown San Antonio. The bus dropped us off right in front of the Alamo.
Even my job selection turned out okay. After graduating from boot camp, most guys went on to another training base for training in their particular field. Some of those assignments could be up to a year. Mine was considered on the job trainable and I was sent directly to my next duty assignment where I would be trained while actually doing the job; but more important than that, I would get to go home for two weeks first.
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