BMT Chapter 2

The plot thickens.



We are herded off of our bus and told to line up in four columns outside of the processing center. We must carry our baggage in our left hands, and God help us if anyone of us made so much as a peep.

I disembark the bus, replaying the advice administered by others who had gone before me in my head. "Don't be the first one off the bus, but don't be the last one, either."
I had the sense, however, that due to our late arrival, we had caught the normal welcoming committee off guard. Perhaps we would escape some torture for the first evening. As it turned out, they had a whole different method of torture reserved for late-comers.

We line up and stand at attention, bags in our left hands, and the stack of manila envelopes containing super top secret military information tucked into the sweaty crook of my right elbow. Dusk is settling, and the light brown bricks of the processing center give off a rosy glow. After a few minutes, a middle-aged sergeant comes out of the door flanked by two young airmen doing their best to look feisty.

"Put your bags on the ground!" the sergeant yells at us. At least three of our group drop their bags on the cement.
"Pick 'em up!!" he screams.
"Put 'em down!"
More bags drop.
"Pick 'em up!"
"Put 'em down..."

Eventually the dimmer members of our flight began to understand that this would continue until none of us dropped our bags when instructed to "put 'em down." Rather, when all of the bags were placed on the ground at our side, then we would be allowed to proceed inside the building.

The super secret military documents surrendered to the rightful authority, we proceed inside in single file. We pass giant posters informing us about the Airman's Creed and the proper form for a salute, and finally to a reception desk where you recite your name fourteen times, your social security number, answer "yes" or "no" to anything else they ask and then one by one, we are all seated in one long line of chairs, in a room that looked like it could have accommodated ten times our number.

By the time we are all seated, it's 8 o'clock.
No sleeping.
No talking.
No leaning on your hands.
No crossing your legs.

Little happens for the next hour. A senior airman (SrA) comes out to a computer and begins punching a few cursory keys. Occasionally he asks one of us a random question. Finally he calls my name.
"Do you play a musical instrument, trainee Sieh?"
Yes, sir, I do.
"What do you play?"
The violin, sir. (If you question my response, ask me about it sometime.)
"How long have you played the violin?"
Fourteen years, sir.
"You are going to be in the band flight, is that understood?"
Yes, sir.

This compelling conversation completed, the SrA begins to look up new weight lifting routines to try out on his next visit to the gym. This proceeds for the next two hours.
We sit silent, trying hard not to fall asleep. I exchange glances when I can with the other members of the group, hoping to communicate silently that it would be a really bad idea if one of them decided to do something stupid. Like, talk, for instance.

This was our first test. Perhaps we had avoided two days of torturous marching, screaming and organization, but we were to be dangled over the edge of consciousness and not allowed to fall into sweet slumber.

"Everybody move to the other side of the room."

We stagger out of our chairs, shuffle across the room to a group of chairs facing towards us.

Another hour passes.

"Move to the other chairs."

We were barely being watched. By this time, it was past midnight, and I was getting a sinking feeling about how long we were going to be drug back and forth across this room in the middle of the night. The SrA and his constituents were watching a television program in the adjacent room, and would step out every once in a while to ensure that we hadn't fallen asleep. If they got too bored with us, then we would have to move to the other side of the room again.

Finally another group of late arrivals shows up at the processing center. We glumly watch them file in and go through the same process of name and number recitation. We are fed a half-frozen packaged meal containing a ham sandwich, Knottsberry Farms' boisenberry cookies and a not-quite-liquid Capri Sun.

More hours pass. I know it takes precisely 95 seconds for the second hand to go around the clock face once. It doesn't seem fair, somehow.
We are stood up and led into a room to sign our names on W2's and make arrangements for our life insurance, should anything befall us while we were here at BMT. Perish the thought.
Our next-of-kin adequately provided for, we are led back to our original seats where we wait some more.

Finally, we are told that we are departing for our respective squadrons. We are put aboard a bus and driven through the night a mere seven and a half hours after we arrived. Looking at the clock with some curiosity, knowing that reveille came at 4:45 am, (or 0445) I did hope that I would be allowed to go to bed rather immediately.

Only myself and another girl were separated from the pack to join the 323rd training squadron. I now realize that the dark bus was the last time I saw most of those Ohio boys. They were all going to a flight together, and I was the only one who got taken away. Because I played the violin.

Standing under orange halogen bulbs on the drill pad outside of the 323rd's "Tunnel" (headquarters) at 0330. Life suddenly became very surreal. I was exhausted. I smelled horribly, and I badly needed a shower. I looked at the girl standing next to me. She was hyperventilating. I wanted to say something to her, but decided against it.
The door to the Tunnel flew open and our presence was demanded inside.

You must look directly ahead.
You may only stand along the right-hand wall.
Don't you dare lean on the wall.
Keep your arms at your side.
"Who do you think you are?! Don't you dare look at me ever again, or I'll rip your eyeballs out of their sockets!" said the kind CSS clerk.

This was going to be fun.

I am met by a staff sergeant (SSgt.) who takes me up a flight of stairs and into my new home. There is a guard at the door, and he asks for the sergeant's name and mine.
I follow the SSgt. into the day room where I fill out a Red Cross emergency information card; information that will be used to ship my dead body to my parents in a few days' time. The handwriting is scrawled and illegible, the pen uneven on the paper because of writing on the tile floor ("How dare you write on my desk!! You'd better get on your face and write that out on the floor right now!!")

I am shown how to hang my clothes up for tomorrow morning. I am made to shave off any hair touching my ears. I am shown a top bunk that will be mine. I am shown where my bag may be placed. I am told that I will go to sleep now.

Staring up at the ceiling only a few feet away, I listen to the cacophony of snoring, breathing and coughing swirling around me. I listen to the night watchmen having a conversation in the hallway. I realize that it is 4 o'clock, and in forty-five minutes we will have to get up. I shut my eyes.

The first notes of reveille have started when the fluorescent lamps blaze to life and our dorm chief and element leaders run down the aisles, hitting bed posts and screaming for all of us to get up! Get up! Get up!
I fall out of bed onto the tile floor and try to scamble into my jeans and t-shirt. Not even given the opportunity to take of the one I had on yesterday, I am left with no choice but to wear two shirts today.
There is a bleary half-dash to the bathroom, toothbrushes and razors in hand. Fifty bodies crowd around ten sinks, all trying to accomplish our duties first. Of course, you had to make sure they were done correctly. If you were caught with even a trace of missed facial hair, several TIs would descend upon you like freshly-killed prey.

Quickly, from the bathroom to your wall locker to lock your toothbrush, toothpaste, razor and shaving cream in your security drawer. Hang the key around your neck and keep it tucked inside your shirt at all times. Get your shoes on. Now! Heel-to-toe in the hallway! Now!

Lined up, chests and hips pressed against the back of the person in front of us, we await the order to charge down the stairs and prepare for breakfast chow. The time: 0500.

Thus began the longest day of my life.