Basic Military Training chapter 1

Earlier this year I had the dubious honor of participating in our nation's military basic training program. Most readers know why this undertaking was initiated, and if you don't, ask me some other time.

Aside from being a means to an end, basic military training (or BMT) was one of those life experiences I considered on my list of "things I should do before I die," somewhere between base jumping in Hawaii and drinking a quart of paint.
I'm not suggesting that BMT was something I didn't think I couldn't live without, but it was on my list because of the desire to push myself, physically and mentally, just so I knew how far I could go. Besides, who wouldn't want the bragging rights?

This is the first in a series of posts where I will try to (as accurately as I can) re-create my experience at Basic Military Training for the United States Air Force. I hope to avoid a lot of the bravado and machismo that comes along with the territory. I have wanted to commit as much of the experience to the record for a while, before more of it is lost my own shabby memory. So, here goes.




I began the enlistment process at a recruiting station in a poorer neighborhood in Cleveland, Ohio. It wasn't destitute, but it was the sort of neighborhood that you wouldn't probably have much business in. I wasn't out of place - quite, but my unwillingness to roam the streets wearing nothing but an undershirt and baggy jeans did make me stand out a little bit. And, I was (for better or worse) employed.

This sort of environment is perfect for Armed Forces recruiting. As much as certain points of view may sneer on the "preying on poor inner-city youth," the simple truth is that the military is one very good option these kids have for getting out of their "poor inner-city" existence.
For most of the kids I met who were also in the process of enlisting in the Air Force, they were either finishing high school, were aimless, slightly stupid and without any real motivation to begin the next chapter in their lives. Whether it was their parents' or their own idea to join the Air Force, their complacency was about to be removed. Forcibly, if necessary.

Without going too far back into my recent life history, it should be understood that my journey through the enlistment process was not without hiccups. My first task was weight loss (so that the Air Force planes wouldn't fall from the sky because of my body mass,) and then I was faced with a six-month wait in the Delayed Enlistment Program (DEP) simply because there was no available spot for me to fill at basic training.

So from a job offering in April of 2006, we don't actually take the next step in this adventure until February of 2007, when I, and 11 other gentlemen from Northern Ohio were slated for departure on Feb. 14.

One thing no one should ever forget about in planning adventures in Northern Ohio is what time of year you plan on having this grand adventure. In our case, February 14 happens to fall (on Valentine's day, yes, but also) during the winter season. Duh.

February 13: A group of 200+ young soldier/seamen/airmen/marine hopefuls are roused from our slumber at 0430 (civilian translation: way too early) and bused down to the Military Entrance Processing Station (MEPS) to complete a last-minute physical, sign some papers, take an oath and then jump aboard a bus to the airport bound to sunny Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio.

This day, however, was not to go quite so smoothly.

Our bus arrives to the MEPS station amidst an early morning snowfall. We all climb off the buses, our bodies running on little more than adrenaline and fear. We are ushered inside, given our cursory warnings about firearms, drugs and ill intention and proceed to have our possessions searched.

A word on packing for basic training: Don't. Whatever items that the Air Force suggests you pack along for your foray into the wild blue abyss they will promptly take away from you on your arrival. Best plan: aside from the clothes you are wearing, take a toothbrush, a razor and some shaving cream. Everything else that you could use/need they will make you purchase once you're down there anyway. And in case you are unsure about what kind of product to buy, don't worry! Your Military Training Instructor (MTI or TI) will kindly assist you in only selecting from a prescribed selection of items that you may purchase.
The more stuff you bring, the more you'll love playing the TI's favorite game "pick it up, put it down" during zero week. More on this later.

The final processing at MEPS underway, our hapless heroes had only one final underwear-only processional to complete, another urinalysis, and then finally, the first real taste of military precision and order: hurry up and wait.

The group (interchange "flight" from henceforth) going to our relaxing stay in Lackland made it out of MEPS by late morning, after taking our oath of enlistment and enjoying a little USO hospitality. Our arrival at the airport was through more snow showers. However, as dully appointed leader of the dozen idiots from Ohio, I was more concerned with the charge of getting all of these kids through airport security, baggage checked and to the same gate without losing anyone. And on top of that, I had been handed a stack of manila envelopes, containing the medical and enlistment paperwork for every member of our troupe that I was to hand-deliver to the personnel at Lackland. Any deviation from this plan was considered a felony, and compromised official military documents. So far, I'm in love with the Air Force.

No sooner do we nestle into our wait at the crowded gate than we begin noticing "delayed" signs beginning to flash above our heads. Yes, dear readers, our plane had been delayed. But not just delayed. After a couple of hours, the air traffic was shut down because of the snow, so our flight was cancelled, and we were sent back to the hotel, confused, perhaps a little frustrated, but mostly relieved that we'd gotten such a late stay in our sentence. It didn't take too much imagination to think of the "fun" we would be missing during the first 24 hours of basic training.

Our trip back to the hotel took hours. The trains were slow, clogged by snow on the rails, and also the inability to stop, therefore it was ill-advised that they go any faster than would permit them to coast to a comfortable stop later on. Arriving at the landmark Tower City Terminal in downtown Cleveland, we then proceeded to wait another hour in the lobby for the hotel's shuttle to come and pick us up.
(Thinking that our trip back to the hotel would take equally long, we were shocked and perturbed when our drive back only took five minutes, which somewhat deflated the hotel clerk's affirmation that "the shuttle was sent out for you over twenty minutes ago!")

Safely back in the cocoon of our hotel rooms, phone calls frantically began to our respective recruiters, MEPS authorities and our parents to notify them what had happened, and what, precisely, were we supposed to do now? Quietly and firmly, we were told to stay put, but plan on awakening at 0430 again the next morning for departure on the next flight to San Antonio.

"Never," we were told "has MEPS been shut down for any reason. The last time it happened was during the east coast blackout. Snow never shuts us down out here."

The next morning we were informed that MEPS was closed, and no one would be coming in for the next 24 hours, so we were trapped at the hotel for the next two days. Sorry about this, just watch some TV, go to the gym, and stay out of trouble.

Those of us remaining did our best to stay out of trouble, eating decent hotel meals three times a day and letting the TV meteorologists tell us that it was a storm like we've never seen in the last hundred years. The most useful thing we did manage to do was bond.

Zwick, Crawford, Cowx and eight other names that don't match up to their faces in my mind spent a lot of time in central hotel rooms, eating together, watching TV together and wondering when we actually were going to leave. I earned the nickname "Chief," (the moniker for a Chief Master Sergeant or CMSgt. - the highest rank of enlisted airmen) since I was the oldest, was the contact with the MEPS authorities and knew how to check baggage, go through security and how to read flight information off of the airport monitors. All in all, this was a fun couple of days. The attitudes remained good, and we entertained ourselves well, making new friends and enjoying thinking about the torture the rest of our flight was already going through.

Finally we received the call. Tomorrow morning. 0430. We are on a flight departing at 1030.

One more early morning, one more groggy bus ride, one more search of our belongings. As we proceeded through the hallways at MEPS, the Air Force liaison came up to me and said I'd done a great job at the airport yesterday, and that we would talk more about it later.

We never got the chance to talk. Too bad.

Again on a bus, again to the airport. Again through security and again to our gate. This time, the sun is shining. There are a lot of people in the airport, equally delayed in their travels, most certainly.

Our arrival in to San Antonio was uneventful, although it was memorable because of the amount of adrenaline beginning to pump through my body. I wasn't sure if we were going to be met at the arrival gate by some firey sergeant in uniform, or if we would get outside before having a combat boot shoved in our faces.

Pausing only to change my voicemail message to something like "If you're hearing this, that means I'm lying face-down, dead in a puddle somewhere in basic training. Don't touch my stuff" we made our way through the airport, following the signs marked "USO" - our designated rally point. Along the way any candy, magazines or other comforts that we had acquired along the trip were disposed of.

The USO lounge in San Antonio is spacious and you can enjoy watching aircraft on the tarmac. There are easily twenty lay-z-boy recliners arranged around the room. We cautiously took a seat in these chairs, after being told that we would met by the bus driver in a few minutes.
Some of us fell asleep, others decided to eat as many of the USO-provided Oreos as possible. For the most part, we were dead quiet. If someone did start to talk, they were hushed by the others. We didn't know when the test would begin, if it had started already, if we were already failing...

A wrinkled old black man walked into the lounge and called for all of the Air Force's recruits. We gather our things and follow him through the airport and along side to where a school bus with "Lackland AFB" painted plainly on the side sits waiting for us. I am pretty sure the driver is not in the military, but still we are deathly quiet. We are already mentally exhausted, wide-eyed and nervously expecting someone to jump out of nowhere and toss a hand grenade at us.

There is one other passenger on the bus in addition to us recruits; a tech sergeant who has been stationed temporarily (TDY) at Lackland as an aircraft maintenance specialist of some sort. He was talkative, and seemed to enjoy laughing at us quite a bit when he found out we were all heading to BMT at that very moment. I wasn't sure if it was safe to talk with him or not. So I didn't.

The bus ride is short. Soon after leaving the airport, you will begin to see signs for Lackland AFB along the interstate. Along the way, I consciously make an effort to take in the fast food restaurants, the hotels, the billboards - any sign of normal life that I could see. The dread was overtaking me that I would never again enjoy freedom like I had.

What exactly have I gotten myself into?

The bus arrives at Lackland AFB at roughly 1900.