In the early Autumn evening, we gather in the Continental Airlines departure area at San Francisco International Airport, 10 young men who may become USAF pilots or navigators. Outside on the ramp are the four engined, propeller powered airliners I have worked on as a mechanic and hope someday to fly as a pilot. I watch the flight engineers in their airline uniforms perform the pre-flight ‘walk arounds’ checking the plane’s exterior and I envy them their knowledge and skill. In less than ten years, I shall be one of them, but the reciprocating engines will have been replaced by jet turbines.

Most of us are accompanied by family members, a few from the outer Bay Area towns are alone.

The Recruiting Sergeant takes me aside and tells me, “You’re in charge here, Critch! Be sure they all make it on to the flight.” I wonder why, but suspect it’s because I’m the oldest and am dressed a cut above the others. “Yes, sir,” I say. “Thank you, sergeant.” I feel as though I’m already a commissioned officer and fully in charge of lesser beings.

We have been instructed to bring very little to our first phase of training which is called “Pre-Flight.” What we don’t fully appreciate is that, it’s the beginning of a process which will not only teach us to fly, but will eliminate 50% of us from earning our wings and commission. It is truly as Brown, the mechanic on my United Airlines graveyard shift has said, “It’s a real tiger program!”

My bag is stuffed with what I consider essentials: ‘hip’ narrow cut ties, loafers, slacks, a dress shirt and aftershave. What I shall shortly discover, is that these items are totally unessential – the United States Air Force will provide me with everything I need to complete my training. Civilian clothing will not be permitted on Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas, for the next four months.

Our flight is called and having been involved in talking to my older sister, I have forgotten to round up the other newly sworn-in recruits. The sergeant has left long ago for the nearest tavern and I count the heads as they pass through the boarding gate – only seven! I panic! Where did the other two disappear to? As I wait at the entrance, the final boarding is announced and I climb the ramp into the Continental Airlines DC-6. What if they miss the flight? Will I be held responsible? Will the Air Force sergeant report me to someone? Who?

I enter the airplane without glancing at the smiling stewardess, and frantically look for the missing men. I relax, they have boarded early and before I took up my post at the gate. I feel stupid and learn a first lesson in military manners. You may be in charge, but to be officious is an admission of insecurity and ignorance.

We arrive in San Antonio and are shepherded onto a blue Air Force bus. Not having yet learned the lesson we quickly learn in the future, to stay in the background and become inconspicuous, I push to the head of the line and announce, “All present and accounted for.” The driver looks at me with his large white eyes and says in a bored and deep southern voice, “Yes suh, I ‘spose y’all are.” We are wired and tired after such a long flight and the burning Texas mid morning sun, is right in our face as we emerge from the bus. Looking out of the window, we see our greeters in starched khaki uniforms, large blue garrison hats, gleaming shoes and white gloves. If the Recruiting poster is to be believed, these are our buddies, “the best crowd of guys you’ll ever meet.”

I’m the last off the bus. I look down to be sure I don’t miss the step and as I look up, I am eyeball-to-eyeball with a fierce looking Aviation Cadet Upperclassman.

“Hit one, mister,” he screams.

I think, “Hit what? Him?”

What he means is that I should come to a rigid position of military ‘attention’.

“Mister, you are a spastic, a poor excuse for humanity!” he screams again.

“What is going on,” I wonder.

“Are you a pilot, mister!” Again the loud voice

“Yes!”

“Yes, SIR, spastic. When you speak to me, it’s sir. Ya got that?”

“Yes sir.”

“And, spaz, you are not a pilot and by the look of you, you never will be. What’s all that crap in your side pocket?”

Crap in my side pocket? Handkerchief, RayBan case, change, a packet of M & M’s.

“Take it out,” he yells. “Put it in your back pocket. Crap in the side pocket spoils the crease in your pants.”

I comply, but it’s difficult. The pocket isn’t built to carry much more than a wallet.
Meanwhile, the rest of the recruits have been lined up in a loose marching formation and are being harassed in much the same way as I.

There is no evidence of physical abuse; it’s all shouting and provocative questions to which there is no correct answer.

“Cage those eyeballs, mister!”

“You’ll never make it, mister!”

“Mister, mister, mister.” Yes, we are cadets, not enlisted recruits, not “Airmen” and we will conform to this discipline and quickly, or be given demerits and forced to march in starched uniforms in the hot sun.

One of the Upper Classmen takes a look at my highly polished jump boots I purchased when discharged from the California Army National Guard in which I was a Private First Class, and assumes that I know something about marching.

“You, with the jump boots, get out there and be the road guard.”

“What’s a road guard?” I wonder.

I’m confused and show it. I look left, then right. The Upperclassman assumes that I’m as stunned as the rest of the guys and quickly reverses his order. I fall into line and we are marched toward a distant barracks, my back pocket bulging from the unexpected surplus of contents. One of the Upperclassmen, joins me in the formation and says, “Take that stuff and put it back in your side pockets, you look ridiculous.” I sense he is not enjoying this any more than I am, and I realize that it’s all part of a game, but a game that will continue for the next 18 months.

In the early Autumn evening, we gather in the Continental Airlines departure area at San Francisco International Airport, 10 young men who may become USAF pilots or navigators. Outside on the ramp are the four engined, propeller powered airliners I have worked on as a mechanic and hope someday to fly as a pilot. I watch the flight engineers in their airline uniforms perform the pre-flight ‘walk arounds’ checking the plane’s exterior and I envy them their knowledge and skill. In less than ten years, I shall be one of them, but the reciprocating engines will have been replaced by jet turbines.

Most of us are accompanied by family members, a few from the outer Bay Area towns are alone.

The Recruiting Sergeant takes me aside and tells me, “You’re in charge here, Critch! Be sure they all make it on to the flight.” I wonder why, but suspect it’s because I’m the oldest and am dressed a cut above the others. “Yes, sir,” I say. “Thank you, sergeant.” I feel as though I’m already a commissioned officer and fully in charge of lesser beings.

We have been instructed to bring very little to our first phase of training which is called “Pre-Flight.” What we don’t fully appreciate is that, it’s the beginning of a process which will not only teach us to fly, but will eliminate 50% of us from earning our wings and commission. It is truly as Brown, the mechanic on my United Airlines graveyard shift has said, “It’s a real tiger program!”

My bag is stuffed with what I consider essentials: ‘hip’ narrow cut ties, loafers, slacks, a dress shirt and aftershave. What I shall shortly discover, is that these items are totally unessential – the United States Air Force will provide me with everything I need to complete my training. Civilian clothing will not be permitted on Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas, for the next four months.

Our flight is called and having been involved in talking to my older sister, I have forgotten to round up the other newly sworn-in recruits. The sergeant has left long ago for the nearest tavern and I count the heads as they pass through the boarding gate – only seven! I panic! Where did the other two disappear to? As I wait at the entrance, the final boarding is announced and I climb the ramp into the Continental Airlines DC-6. What if they miss the flight? Will I be held responsible? Will the Air Force sergeant report me to someone? Who?

I enter the airplane without glancing at the smiling stewardess, and frantically look for the missing men. I relax, they have boarded early and before I took up my post at the gate. I feel stupid and learn a first lesson in military manners. You may be in charge, but to be officious is an admission of insecurity and ignorance.

We arrive in San Antonio and are shepherded onto a blue Air Force bus. Not having yet learned the lesson we quickly learn in the future, to stay in the background and become inconspicuous, I push to the head of the line and announce, “All present and accounted for.” The driver looks at me with his large white eyes and says in a bored and deep southern voice, “Yes suh, I ‘spose y’all are.” We are wired and tired after such a long flight and the burning Texas mid morning sun, is right in our face as we emerge from the bus. Looking out of the window, we see our greeters in starched khaki uniforms, large blue garrison hats, gleaming shoes and white gloves. If the Recruiting poster is to be believed, these are our buddies, “the best crowd of guys you’ll ever meet.”

I’m the last off the bus. I look down to be sure I don’t miss the step and as I look up, I am eyeball-to-eyeball with a fierce looking Aviation Cadet Upperclassman.

“Hit one, mister,” he screams.

I think, “Hit what? Him?”

What he means is that I should come to a rigid position of military ‘attention’.

“Mister, you are a spastic, a poor excuse for humanity!” he screams again.

“What is going on,” I wonder.

“Are you a pilot, mister!” Again the loud voice

“Yes!”

“Yes, SIR, spastic. When you speak to me, it’s sir. Ya got that?”

“Yes sir.”

“And, spaz, you are not a pilot and by the look of you, you never will be. What’s all that crap in your side pocket?”

Crap in my side pocket? Handkerchief, RayBan case, change, a packet of M & M’s.

“Take it out,” he yells. “Put it in your back pocket. Crap in the side pocket spoils the crease in your pants.”

I comply, but it’s difficult. The pocket isn’t built to carry much more than a wallet.
Meanwhile, the rest of the recruits have been lined up in a loose marching formation and are being harassed in much the same way as I.

There is no evidence of physical abuse; it’s all shouting and provocative questions to which there is no correct answer.

“Cage those eyeballs, mister!”

“You’ll never make it, mister!”

“Mister, mister, mister.” Yes, we are cadets, not enlisted recruits, not “Airmen” and we will conform to this discipline and quickly, or be given demerits and forced to march in starched uniforms in the hot sun.

One of the Upper Classmen takes a look at my highly polished jump boots I purchased when discharged from the California Army National Guard in which I was a Private First Class, and assumes that I know something about marching.

“You, with the jump boots, get out there and be the road guard.”

“What’s a road guard?” I wonder.

I’m confused and show it. I look left, then right. The Upperclassman assumes that I’m as stunned as the rest of the guys and quickly reverses his order. I fall into line and we are marched toward a distant barracks, my back pocket bulging from the unexpected surplus of contents. One of the Upperclassmen, joins me in the formation and says, “Take that stuff and put it back in your side pockets, you look ridiculous.” I sense he is not enjoying this any more than I am, and I realize that it’s all part of a game, but a game that will continue for the next 18 months.