In Air Force basic training, there are many roles and responsibilities for the trainees. The trainee-leader is the Dorm Chief and he is responsible for ensuring all the members of the dorm perform their jobs. He is the one the military training instructor (MTI) yells at when anything is wrong.

There is the Latrine Queen. This person is specifically in charge of the bathroom/showers and their cleanliness. This person has a crew and the LQ keeps the crew in line, doing their job. However, if the MTI finds something amiss in the bathroom, the Dorm Chief gets yelled at.

Each bay, and there are two, has a leader who ensures the beds are properly made, the floors buffed, and the upkeep is performed each day. However, if the MTI finds something amiss in the bays, the Dorm Chief gets yelled at.

This is the extent of the “official” leadership roles in basic training. However, there are many “unofficial” ones as well.

Boot Polisher. The Air Forces wants its members’ boots to shine. The boots are made from leather pulled from diseased cows, probably from the 1850s. But there was a kid from Alabama who could’ve started his own boot-shining business. He set the tub of polish on fire and used a spit-n-shine technique that turned the leather into mirrors. And because he was so good at it, the LQ offered to let him out of cleaning his assigned stall if he polished the LQ’s boots. Natch, he took the trade. Eventually, the Boot Polisher did no bathroom cleaning, no bed making, no dusting, nothing. He polished boots, that was it.

TeeShirt Guy. The Air Force wants its trainees to fold their teeshirts into perfect six-inch squares. Not six and an eighth, but six inches exactly. One guy was an absolute pro at using an iron and didn’t even need a ruler to make exact squares from the low-bidder-produced teeshirts. TeeShirt Guy did similar deals with the LQ and did no bathroom cleaning, no bed making, no dusting, no boot polishing, nothing. He folded and ironed teeshirts, that was it.

BedMaking Crew. The Air Force wants perfectly made beds, with hospital corners and covers so taut you can bounce a quarter off of them. We had two people who worked as a team and made every bed, every day. They could make a bed in thirty seconds, each one as perfect as the last. As you guessed, they did no bathroom cleaning, no dusting, no boot polishing, no teeshirt folding, nothing. They made beds, that was it.

House Mouse. The Air Force requires the MTI to complete lots of paperwork. The MTI has a little desk with a typewriter and assorted secretarial supplies to accomplish these duties. Some MTIs abhor the paperwork involved with the job and find a typist in the trainees to do the typing and note-taking and other administrative functions. I have previously written on this blog on how I became the House Mouse, so if you missed it, now would be a good time to catch up.

Now the House Mouse is not exempt from bathrooms and dusting and boot polishing and teeshirt folding. In order to get out of this stuff, a House Mouse must find alternative uses for his secretarial powers, some way to barter services. I found that letter-writing was a perfect solution.

Most kids don’t write letters, and basic training is the first time in their lives they cannot communicate with their family and friends at a moments notice. The Air Force puts restrictions on phone calls, but trainees may write as many letters as they like.

One day, as I was typing out the daily report form the MTIs notes, our Boot Polisher approached me.

“Hey mouse, do you write letters on that typewriter?”

“Yeah, man. I send out at least one letter a day.”

“Could you write one for me? I’d talk and you’d type? I’ll do your boots for a week if you can write a few letters for me.”

Score. I opened the typewriter and rewound the black ribbon; if the MTI attempted to see just what I’d been typing all day, he’d have a had time deciphering the ribbon since it was reused. Rewind complete, I put a fresh piece of paper in the typewriter and said Go.

He spoke to his girlfriend, in a southern drawl, about how lonely he was without her. He said that he was surprised that his boot polishing had earned so much praise and admiration from the people in his dorm. He talked of what they’d do together… in rather explicit terms… when he graduated. He told her he loved her.

His voice stopped and he ended his letter simply. I torn the page of out of the typewriter, folded it into thirds, and handed it to him. He unfurled the page, scanned the writing, muttered an expletive in appreciation. He thanked me without looking at me, turned around and grabbed my boots. I heard the tell-tale “phoomph” of the boot polish being set ablaze. Not a bad barter.

“Hey Mouse, I heard you’ll write letters?”

The Dorm Chief was at the door to the MTI’s office now.

“Sure thing. What do you want to say?”

He spoke a letter to his father, about how he was the Dorm Chief and how much it sucked. He got yelled at everyday for thing other people did or didn’t do, and he had no authority to force people to correct their behavior. He was getting used to it, numb to the MTIs yelling in his face and the stress of the position, but that didn’t mean he liked it. He said he couldn’t wait to graduate, and that he missed his sister and hoped she was behaving herself.

I gave him his letter, he too gave it an up-n-down perusal.

“You type really fast. Could you write more letters?”

“I can type all day long if necessary, but I can’t stop doing my other jobs.”

“Where are you assigned?”

“Shower and dusting.”

“I’ll talk to the Queen and get you out of shower-work. You’ll write a letter for him?”

“Of course!”

And that’s how I became The Typist. The Typist writes letters for his dorm so they can focus on the other parts of basic training. The guys who haven’t written anything and get sad when they look down at their handwriting visit The Typist and he transcribes their thoughts almost as fast as they say them. The final letter looks neat and orderly, even if the black is starting to slowly fade from the ribbon being reused. The Typist connects people to their loved ones when all other communication is cut off.

And The Typist doesn’t do showers or shine his own boots or fold his own teeshirts or make his own bed.

Around the end of the fifth week of basic training, our dorm had finally grown accustomed to the machinations of our MTI. We understood his mood swings and had become numb to the yelling, so life was much easier.

So imagine our surprise when he disappeared, replaced with a “finishing MTI”. It was this person’s job to take the roughly formed trainees and perform slight alterations to make them graduation-worthy. We trainees, as a group, protested loudly… behind closed doors. To the MTIs, we said nothing, of course.

Did you know there’s a Suggestion Box in the chow hall at Air Force basic training? Well I had a suggestion: give us our old MTI back. We liked him, we were happy with him, we didn’t want the “finishing MTI.” So I wrote that suggestion and placed it in that Suggest Box. Or more to the point.. I typed it.

Two days later, we were having Mail Call, the chief MTI of our squadron came to visit and spoke to our MTI, “I need to speak to your Mouse.”

Everyone stared as I stood and walked out of the room with the Master Sergeant, a man with so many stripes on his sleeve it was a wonder he could raise them to salute.

“Airman Howell, did you write a suggestion about your MTI returning?”

“Sir, yes sir, but I thought the suggestion process was supposed to be anonymous.”

“I inspect every dorm in this building on a daily basis and this is the only one where the typewriter is going all the d@mn time. So when the commander calls me into her office and asks to know why one of her MTIs is being reassigned without her authority, and I ask her how she has come to believe someone is being reassigned without her permission, and she shows me a typed letter from the Suggestion Box stating that her MTI is gone, and she does some research and finds out he’s been working a deal with an MTI over at Officer Training School to trade positions without their commanders’ authority, she has all the proof she needs and she’s pissed to hell, and I know exactly who typed the letter; the damn House Mouse of dorm A7.”

“Um…”

“So our commander has relieved your MTI of his duties pending an outcome of an investigation as to his activities regarding improper movement of personnel without permission. She is, in a word, livid as all fuck.”

“oh…”

“Airman Howell, I am not going to tell him the commander it was you who revealed your MTI’s transfer-plans because you typed a suggestion, but if I were you, I’d forget you ever wrote that thing and destroy the ribbon you used to type it.”

“Sir, yes sir…”

As I watched him saunter with extreme military precision out of the dorm, he turned over his shoulder and said one last thing,

“This dorm is using more paper than every other in the building combined. I hope those letters you’re writing are at least getting you out of latrine duty.”

/danielmode off

Post from: BigRedKitty, foshizzle.

Every Day in Basic Was a Story

“OOO!! Mememememe!” I waved and jumped and made a fool of myself.

“Anyone?”

“CHIEF! I’ll do it!”

“Anyone at all?” and the assembly started to titter.

“CHIEF CHIEF CHIEF!!!”

“It’s a two week trip to Sheppard AFB in Texas. Sheppard isn’t Vegas, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

“Sheppard, Chief? Well forget that. I thought it’d be a trip to Lockheed Martin somewhere on the coast. No way I’m going to Sheppard.”

“Airman Howell, you’re volunteering?”

“Heck no. You’re not sending me to Sheppard.”

“Gotcha. Pack your bags, you’re going to Sheppard.”

“AW COME ON!”

“Aw c’mon *Chief*.”

“Aw c’mon Chief…”

So I got my temporary duty assignment to Sheppard for fiber optics training.

The wonderful thing about using fiber optics on an aircraft is that the electrical interference is eliminated. With all the systems and cables and moving parts so closely packed together on airplanes, the data on the wires can be made noisy, which interferes with the operation of the systems.

Induced-noise is very difficult to troubleshoot. The pilot returns from a mission and reports that the systems weren’t working as advertised, but when you start them up on the ground, everything works perfectly. What could be happening is that, at altitude, the signals on the wires are being degraded due to everything being powered up at the same time. Using fiber optic cables eliminates the interference, thus making a more stable operational platform.

There are two downsides to using fiber optics: they are much more expensive than traditional copper wires, and the techniques to repair and manufacture these cables aren’t taught in the traditional electronics schools. Every electronics technician is taught how to solder and build multi and single-pin cables, but nobody was trained to fix fiber optics cables. So the squadron needed someone professionally trained, and Sheppard apparently had a course in fiber optics cable maintenance, so the squadron commander “purchased” a slot for a technician of ours to attend the course, and I was selected to go.

I got my orders, hopped in the super-green Honda Del Sol, drove from Beale to Sheppard, and prepared to attend class on Monday morning.

Something was amiss in the class. I, of course, was a flightline and backshop electronics technician, but I was the only one in the class who actually worked on aircraft. There were some combat engineers, some computer network technicians, lots of communications people, and even a Navy SeaBee. But the only person who actually knew what an airplane felt like was me.

“This course is going to teach you how to build and repair fiber optics cables,” announces the instructor. Ok, that’s why I was there. “And we’re going to show you the best way to integrate fiber optics into your underground trunks and the best way to string them between facilities, using traditional poles and tunnels, and some new scaffoldings.”

Underground? Poles?

For the first three days, we used lasers to etch and fuse the tiny glass cores to connectors and join two pieces of fiber optic glass together, and then used microscopes to determine the quality of our glass-welding. These tools I had never used before, but the others seems to rattle off their specifications from memory. Something just didn’t add up…

“OK, let’s get to work on the most important part of fiber optics, and that’s installing them. Let’s go out back and start digging.”

Digging?

We trundled out back and sitting in the grass was a bulldozer. A backhoe, specifically. You’ve seen them, right? Big yellow monstrosities?

“Now you’re all got your Class Q license with you yes?”

“Oh yeah!” they all exhaled.

“A what?” I quietly muttered.

“Good. So who’s going to dig a 5’x5’x5’ hole in the ground for us?”
And lots of hands went into the air, but one person’s hands remained glued to his back.

“Airman Howell, how about you dig us a nice hole.”

“I think one of the Red Horse guys could probably do a better job…”

“Cmon, let’s get this done.”

“Really, someone with more experience with dirt should probably do this.”

“More experience with dirt?”

“Yes. If you need someone to get that backhoe to 70,000 feet, I’m your guy. But underground, I’m pretty worthless.”

“70,000… what the {bleep} are you talking about?”

“I’ve never used a backhoe!”

“HOW CAN YOU BE IN THIS CLASS AND NEVER DUG A HOLE TO INSTALL COMMUNICATIONS CABLES!”

“BECAUSE I WORK DEFENSIVE ELECTRONIC COUNTERMEASURES AND ELECTRONICS SENSOR SUITES FOR U-2 AIRCRAFT! I’M NOT A GOPHER!”

And the class muttered at being compared to a gopher, but were still mostly transfixed at a student trading spittle-shrieks with the instructor.

“Wait a minute! You’ve never installed communications cables?”

“Never.”

“You’ve never worked on telephone poles?”

“Like dancing?”

“You’ve never installed a splice box on a cherry picker?”

“What does fruit have to do with this?”

“You’re in the wrong {bleeping} class, you know that?”

“Well that seems bloody obvious now, doesn’t it.”

And the instructor stood there a minute, stuck in some logic-loop.

“I’m getting the Chief.” And he stomped back to the classroom and called his Chief. There was little we could hear, until the yelling started.

“He’s finished a third of the class already and he’s the best glass-welder here! We shouldn’t send him home, what’s the point of that!”

Now the other students all gave me the stink-eye.

“WELL COME DOWN HERE AND THROW HIM OUT OF THE CLASS YOURSELF!” /phone-slam

The instructor walked back outside, his nose in the air. “Airman Howell, the Chief is coming to see you.”

The class continued with someone who knew how to use a backhoe digging a very pretty hole. Then they started installing the underground fiber optic boxes using very important skills, the details of which I had no idea what they were, as I was ensconced on a dented, empty box.

The Chief arrived. “Airman Howell, I’ve checked your records, and you’re in the class that your squadron signed you up to attend. But what they should’ve realized is that this is a class for fiber optics cables installers for facilities and combat engineers, not for avionics troops. So I should send you home.”

“Understood. I get outta here.”

“But I have a better idea: we’re going to teach you these skills and charge your squadron extra.”

“You want me to use the backhoe?”

“I’m *ordering* you to use the backhoe.”

“I live to serve. Point me at the business end of the backhoe and I’ll do my duty.”

“That’s the spirit!” and he marched off back to his office.

So I learned the basics of how to operate a backhoe, a huge forklift, and a cherry-picker truck. I was taught the best ways to weather-seal fiber optics junction boxes to survive underground and inclement weather. I got to dive into manholes and use my fiber optics repair techniques on wire buried in tunnels. I was a gopher.

I graduated, like a good airman should. They gave me my diploma, I saluted the commander, packed up my things, and drove back to Beale, where I submitted paperwork to get some new codes added to my military drivers license. As anyone in the military knows, a properly-filled-out form can move mountains; I got the backhoe and cherry-picker truck added to my license easily, no questions asked.

“So, Airman Howell,” the Chief sung from his reclined chair a few weeks later, “are you ready to start teaching some of the other airman how do repair fiber optics cables?”

“You bet, Chief! When do you want me to start?”

“Well, what will you need to get the class running?”

“Do we have a backhoe? If not, I can get one. Then I’ll need some ‘BEWARE – OPEN MANHOLE’ signs, and some hardhats with lights. And a portable air-cart, ‘cause fresh air is mandatory when working on telecommunication trunks underground…”

“A backhoe?”

“Yes, you have to be careful not to try to dig up too much at one time or you’ll tip over, even with the feet down. So…”

“You’re {bleeping} me.”

“No {bleep] Chief. You sent me to a combat engineer class on installing fiber optics cables. Underground. OH! And on poles, too! I could get a cherry-picker!”

“Get out of my office, Airman Howell.”

“I graduated at the top of my class.”

“Get. Out.”

And I never drove a backhoe again.

Post from: BigRedKitty, foshizzle.

It Was Like a Tonka Truck, Only Better

January 1st, 1996 and I was cruising the AOL military bulletin boards, looking for information about a medal I might have earned in England. Perhaps you’ve read about it.

One thing I found that I had not expected to see was a post for a penpal. Heyred1 was the girl’s AOL screen name. Redheads have made me do the most silly things, so of course I wrote her a letter.

She lived in Dallas. I lived north of Sacramento, California. Welcome to Long Distance City, population us.

She wrote back. We wrote each other. We called each other. We rang up enormous AOL and long distance bills. For months we talked and talked. We talked about meeting! Excitement! Hormones! Yeeha!

And then a few days before Memorial Day, another friend of mine invited me to go with her to Disney Land. For the weekend. She was a redhead.

Remarkably, I declined.

That Saturday, the phone rang. It was Heyred1.

“GUESS WHERE I AM?”

“Inside?”

“NO! Well, yes, but GUESS AGAIN!”

“On the phone?”

“NOOOO!!”

“Yes you are. You’re talking to me.”

“Guess where I AM!”

“I have no idea. Just tell me.”

“The Red Lion Inn!!”

“That’s great.”

“THE RED LION INN!!!”

“You said that.”

“There are no Red Lion Inns in Dallas, you dumb@ss. We’re in the same ZIP CODE! Pick me up!”

…

She had flown to Sacramento. I had almost… ALMOST! gone to Disney Land, for the weekend, with another girl.

Talk about fate. And the ABSOLUTE NECESSITY TO COMMUNICATE TRAVEL PLANS!

We met. Enough said there.

She flew back to Dallas. We didn’t meet again for a month, when I flew to Dallas for a week.

A month later, she visited me again for a weekend.

Then, I got orders to Japan.

I arranged my travel plans so I would spend a week with Heyred1 on my way to my new assignment. The last night there, I took her to dinner at Reunion Tower, we had the nine-layer chocolate cake. It was really good!

And I left for two years…

Or so I thought.

I had been in Japan for thirty days, and it occurred to me… I left my wife back in Dallas. I had to fix that.

So I called her.

“Will you marry me?”

“Of course, you doofus!”

So I had some Power of Attorney paperwork created and shipped it off to her. She took my PoA, and the woman I had designated to stand in for me, to the Dallas County Courthouse. We were married by The Honorable Judge Fletcher Freeman – we know this because he had commemorative bumper stickers – on September 16th, 1996. Sort of.

You see, I was in Japan when the papers were signed in Dallas. Specifically, I was across the International Date Line. When I got married, it was the 17th; my wife and I have different wedding anniversaries. She’s not only older than I am, but she’s been married longer, as well.

We had been “dating” for nine months, we had met four times, and now we’ve been married for twelve years. She frequently calls me names, refuses to be nice to me, and generally flounces about in a massive redheaded aura of supremacy. I tell her she’s the worst wife I have, is always in my way, and is funniest at 1am when I’m trying to get some sleep.

And if my son ever does what I did, I’ll disinherit him.

Post from: BigRedKitty, foshizzle.

The Rest of the Story

And one night as we were jibber-jabbering in his office, he got a phone call.

“We found some MREs for you,” said the voice on the other line. “How many do you want?”

“Get ‘em all.” I said, not making a secret that I was listening in. The supply sergeant looked at me.

“All of them?”

“Yeah. We don’t have any. Last time I asked for a spaghetti, they were all out.”

“How many do you have?” he asked the other voice.

“Two lots.”

“Yeah, we’ll take ‘em.”

“OK, you got ‘em.”

/click

“How many is a ‘Lot’?” I asked.

“Well, MREs come 24 to a box, so I guess a ‘Lot’ would be 24 cases. That’d be 576 MREs.”

“Well that’s perfect then. We only have 200 or so people here; that should last us a while as long as the dining facility doesn’t fall apart.”

And we continued playing cards, or whatever it was we were doing.

Two weeks later, the weekly C-130 with parts and mail and supplies arrived. I know this because I got a frantic phone call from the supply sergeant.

“The F**KING MREs are here, and I’ve got a F**KING problem!”

“What’s the problem?”

“They F**KERS sent two PALLETS of MREs! 256 cases on each pallet, two pallets, 24 MREs per case, that’s like 12,000 F**KING MREs!”

“That’s a lot of MREs…”

“I HAVE TO SIGN FOR THEM BECAUSE I ORDERED THEM!”

“You need a pen?”

“NO I DON’T NEED A F**KING PEN! How do I explain to the Colonel that I need space in the hanger to store twelve thousand MREs when we only have 200 F**KING people here!”

“Well… how about you keep one of those pallets wrapped up, and then have everybody in the squadron come by and pick up two cases of MREs to take back to the trailers? That’ll empty one pallet completely, the other pallet can be for Emergency Use Only. It’s sealed, counted, and accounted for. Don’t hide it; advertise it. You’ll get an award for thinking ahead and ensuring our survival in the event of a dining hall tragedy.”

“…You’re a F**KING MORON!”

He got a small award for forward thinking, obtaining emergency supplies, and creating an emergency survival plan.

But also, we all got our own personal inventory of MREs

The thing about MREs is that each pack has something good and something horrid. For example, the spaghetti is great, but the side-items are terrible. The ham-steak is Elune-awful, but the applesauce rocks.

So what I did was to open each one of my two cases of MREs, organize everything individually, and store the stuff in metal bins. All the spaghetti was in one bin, the applesauce in another, the M&Ms, the crackers, peanut butter, jelly, everything in its own home. So if I wanted tuna noodle casserole with a side of peanut butter crackers with grape jelly, I just picked and chose from the bins.

Of course, the best thing about MREs is the little bottle of Tabasco sauce. The story goes that a senator from Louisiana made sure that when Congress passed the law to have the military buy MREs, the MRE manufacturer was required by law to purchase Tabasco-brand sauce, not a knock-off. And we’re glad he did, because the Tabasco can turn a horrid MRE experience into something salvageable.

When I divvied up my MREs, I put all the little bottles of Tabasco in a bin, all by themselves. There seemed to be hundreds of the tiny, 1/8th ounce bottles. It was my tiny gold mine of hotness-love.

Then, one day, the bottles started disappearing! Somebody had found my MRE stash and was pilfering Tabasco!

Couldn’t have that, so I had to hide them. I took a canvas bag that had a Velcro closure and an eyelet for a small lock and stuffed all the bottles I had left – I counted 72 of them – into the bag. I couldn’t just leave the bag of Tabasco in the bins; someone would get a bolt cutter. So I zip-tied the locked bag to a spare equipment rack. This was the test-station rack, where we tested equipment before installed the stuff on the aircraft. The rack was not “air-worthy”; it couldn’t be used on an aircraft due to it needing some repairs. It wasn’t going anywhere, my bag was hidden, all was good.

A few days later, I came to work to recover a jet that was landing and noticed the test station rack was gone! I called my friend who was in charge of the morning shift and asked what happened to it.

“We had a problem with the system on [aircraft tail number] 88 and had to swap racks to get the jet up on time. Just work on the rack we pulled out of 88 and use that for the new test station rack.

“Didn’t you notice anything WRONG with the test station rack?!” I sputtered incredulously.

“Nah. Worked great!”

“But it wasn’t signed off as ready to fly!”

“I signed it off. It looked good to me.”

/click

OMG, we just sent a U-2 over Baghdad with a locked bag of Tabasco sauce bottles strapped in the wing…

“Inbound, 88! All recovery personnel prepare for inbound!” came the call over the loudspeakers. And land the jet did. There was no indication of 1oz Tabasco-sized bottle-holes in the wing, or I’d still be in prison to this day.

The pilot was debriefed, the aircraft de-fueled and inspected. No word about the aircraft being unbalanced or suffering from Tabasco-induced drag. Normal flight, no problems, put it to bed.

I didn’t go to bed.

After everything was quiet, I accessed my equipment rack and found a happily strapped-in and locked bag, right where I expected. Sliced the tie-straps, put the bag in my cargo pocket, sealed the jet back up, got a crew chief to sign off the panel removal and installation, and went back to my office.

Dialed the combination to the lock, opened the bag, all the bottles were there…

No Tabasco sauce. All the bottle were empty.

Somehow, at altitude, the Tabasco evaporated or boiled or was teleported to another plane of existance. These little bottles were sealed, but apparently not vapor-proof.

I gave them out as Christmas presents, along with a little placard:

“This bottle of Tabasco served our country proudly over the skies of Baghdad. It gave its flavor for your freedom.”

Post from: BigRedKitty, foshizzle.

A Few Bottles Are Still Here, Somewhere

When in doubt, get a bigger hammer.

Very few problems cannot be solved by using excessive amounts of force. However, the application of this force always creates a new problem that is worse than the original one.

If someone asks to borrow your tools, they will inevitably prove that they don’t have a clue what they’re doing.

Do not use the “Bypass” feature of the Weigh On Wheels switch, unless all the crew chiefs are in on the joke.

Ask someone in Fabrication to construct a custom bracket or an addition to some equipment that will be unique and possibly award-worthy, and you’ll immediately get five motivated and experienced NCOs busting out the acetylene torches and metal presses to get you the stuff you need. Ask someone in Fabrication to help you extract a 3/32” stripped screw, and you’ll get an angry and sullen E-3 in about four hours.

The coolanol will go everywhere, regardless of how well you plan.

If you want to never have to touch coolanol again, mix 20 with 25R.

You used too much heat-sink compound. Way too much.

You’ll need twice as many wrenches as you brought, and only half as many screwdrivers.

The nut you dropped in the cockpit will not be found until you declare the aircraft FOD’d out. At that time, the nut will be sitting on the seat pan, as neatly as you please.

There is no glory in working in the cockpit, only pain.

If you need a rubber gasket or bumper, a ping-pong paddle is an excellent source of high-quality rubber. Just don’t tell the Production Supervisor what you did until you’ve returned from the deployment.

The time it takes to make a repair is directly proportional to the number of officers watching you work.

Do not wear silk boxers when working on the flightline.

Yes, the female crew chief is hitting on you.

If you strap seventy-two 1oz bottles of Tabasco sauce in the wing of a U-2, and that plane flies at altitude over Bagdad, when it returns, the bottles will be empty. Where the sauce goes is a total mystery.

Sensor systems are the answer to the question: Why. The pilot and the airframe are the answer to the question: How. The defensive countermeasures and parachute are the answers to the question: Oh Sh!t.

The first twist of the connector is the most important, but it’s the last twist that’s evaluated.

You are not as cool with your Leatherman as you think you are.

We once knew a sergeant who could test aircraft voltages by pressing bare wires against his tongue. Do we need to say more?

One stripped screw is not an emergency. Twenty-seven stripped screws is. Get our drift?

If they don’t have their own toolbox, don’t ask them for help. They were denied a toolbox for a reason.

A toolbox is not a step stool, a wedge, a paper-weight, an anvil, or a lunch box.

The fuel-drain hole will look exactly like the ground-plug hole to the person who’s never seen an aircarft wing up-close.

If duct-tape is too obvious, use RTV.

Telling the section chief that they promoted him because they wanted to get tools out of his hands will land you in the Tool Crib, every time. It’s worth it, though.

Label your cannibalization mess, “Awaiting Parts” and nobody will ever question it.

He who controls the little cart that runs around the flightline, controls the universe.

You’ll only cross the red line once.

You are allowed to laugh when someone accidentally rips out $15k worth of fiber optic cables. Just make sure they cannot hear you.

When they say the rules don’t go out the window when war comes, they’re lying.

Don’t install a Playstation in your ground support equipment and not expect the pilots to demand to use it.

When talking to a pilot on a ground connection, don’t say, “Breaker breaker, candy maker! How does your garden grow?”

You should not make up your own hand signals without telling the rest of the crew.

A traveling wave-tube amplifier is a TWT. Nothing else.

Cargo straps should be used only to hold things together, not to pull things together.

Electronics technicians do not need ball peen hammers. Sledge hammers are a totally different animal.

Crew chiefs are not dummy loads.

A crew chief’s spit-can is the single most disgusting object on the planet.

You can earn the respect of a crew chief for a day with lunch. You’ll earn his respect for life with a case of Bud.

Always make sure the cooling fan is spinning, but don’t do it by shoving your finger in the blades.

If you need the little instruction paper that comes with a connector, you’re not a technician.

The ESD wrist strap won’t help if you drop a beenie-weenie on the circuit board.

Don’t juggle oscillators.

Don’t abuse zip-ties.

A bobtail truck can pop a wheelie.

Do not put a “Beer Rig” sign on your truck.

Do not offer to drive the local girls on base with your truck.

Do not pass the installation commander in your truck.

When the maintenance officer announces over the radio net, “Tally ho!” Do not reply, “Who’s this chick Talley, and why is she a ‘ho?”

When the maintenance officer announces over the radio net, “Let’s have a little radio discipline, please,” do not reply, “BAD RADIO! BAD, BAD RADIO!”

Post from: BigRedKitty, foshizzle.

Flightline Electronics Lessons

Part I.

In the Air Force, officers do not load C-5s; enlisted people do.

In the Air Force, officers do not move all the equipment out to the C-5 to be loaded; enlisted people do.

In the Air Force, officers fly the planes. They plan the routes, they devise the equipment lists, and do all sorts of planning and operational work.

But generally – and I could write a few notable exceptions – officers don’t lift things. Thus, enlisted people tend to… be creative when it comes to moving things about.

Part II.

“Airman Howell, want to go to Saudi?”

“Yeah!”

“OK, you leave in two days.”

That’s how I was chosen to go to Desert Storm for Operation Southern Watch.

Part III.

When taking stuff to a far-away location, the Air Force has lists. Many, many lists. In order to take a squadron of U-2 aircraft from Beale AFB to Taif AB, KSA, there was a great, honkin’ list of stuff we had to take. Assemble the stuff, get it to the C-5, load it, that’s the idea.

The aircraft load master gets a list of stuff that has to be loaded, uses a computer or formulas to calculate exactly where each piece of gear is going to be placed. This is done to optimize the weight distribution of the aircraft. This is critical stuff and mistakes can be deadly.

Part IV.

When first assigned to Beale AFB, I was part of the Electronic Security Command, not Air Combat Command. The U-2s belonged to ACC, the sensor systems belonged to ESC. As such, we were a “tenant unit”. We got all the privileges of living on an ACC base, and all the privileges of not owning the base.

We got a nice hunk of the maintenance facility in which to work, wired and polished to our specifications. The rest of the U-2 maintenance group got crap.

We got leased Ford trucks with air conditioning and radios. The rest of the U-2 maintenance group got crap.

Our supervisor brought a pool table and set it up in our maintenance bay. Because he wasn’t governed by ACC rules, that’s how.

Part V.

So we’re going to Saudi, we gotta get our stuff on the C-5. Test sets, tool boxes, and the rest of our junk. We got it all on pallets and the supply people came with their forklifts and hauled it to the flightline to get loaded. As a joke, our boss put the pool table on a pallet, strapped it down with webbing, and had it properly tagged as “Morale, Welfare, and Recreation Supplies”. Ha ha, very very funny, right?

Since our unit had never deployed, our stuff took longer to get ready than everybody else’s, so our pallets were the last ones to be loaded on the C-5. And at the back of that line, sat our palatalized pool table.

Part VI.

Paper-pushers have very little of a sense of humor.

“OK, we’ve got to make room for that last pallet, let’s get this stuff off the deck and upstairs!” the load master called. I tapped him on the shoulder and said,

“Hey guy… um, Sergeant? That thing isn’t coming.”

“It’s got paperwork and it’s on my manifest. It’s coming.”

“No no, it’s a joke. It’s not equipment.”

“It’s… MWR equipment, my load-plan is done, I’m not redoing it. Load it!”

“It’s a f-ing pool table!”

“I don’t care what it is. It’s on my list, my aircraft is balanced. It. Is. Going.”

And thus, the very last piece of equipment stuffed into my C-5 to Desert Storm was a very dirty but completely functional pool table.

Part VII.

California, Dover, Spain, Saudi. Slept with my head on a metal oxygen bottle. We landed at Taif AB, KSA, and taxied where a member of the local team met us on the plane.

“OK folks. When you disembark, form up on the line you’ll see on the ground, open your luggage, and the Saudi inspectors are going to check you for illegal material.”

“What’s illegal material?” I asked out of curiosity.

“Anything forbidden by their government, like pornography, alcohol, or gambling equipment.”

Is a pool table gambling equipment? I didn’t think so, but I didn’t want to deal with that kind of questioning from Saudi officials. Fortunately, I wasn’t anywhere close to senior or in charge. Heck, I wasn’t even in ACC; I was a “tenant unit”. And as such when we were lining up to exit the airplane, my lowly status ensured I was the very last person in line.

“OK, the forward door is jammed, we’re exiting down the ramp in back! Turn around!”

I was now the very first person in line. Lucky me, as the first person off the plane, I was first to meet the small contingent of Saudi inspectors.

Across the steaming hot tarmac, the C-5 started to disgorge its contents. Two hundred twenty members of the US Air Force, a couple hundred million dollars of high-tech surveillance and maintenance equipment, and leading the technology and manpower parade… the pool table.

And the inspectors started pointing and gesticulating at the thing, like it was the monolith from “2001 A Space Odyssey”. They got their translator and the ACC-contingent commander together and had a loud pow-wow. Then the commander came back to the group of us who just arrived.

“Who the H#LL owns that!” the commander yelled.

“It says, ‘ESC’ sir!” said the load master.

“Who here is from F-ING ESC!”

“He is, sir!” and of course, the load master pointed at me. The commander made a beeline…

“Airman Howell, is that your pool table?”

“It’s not really my table, sir. It belongs to my supervisor and it was put on last and I didn’t do the paperwork…”

“They want to try it.”

“Sir?”

“The inspectors would like to try your pool table.”

“Try it? Well they can have at it, sir.”

“Where are the cues and the balls?”

…

“Airman Howell, where are the cues and balls!?”

“I don’t think we packed them, sir…”

“YOU BROUGHT A POOL TABLE 5000 MILES TO SAUDI ARABIA AND DIDN’T PACK CUES AND BALLS?!”

“No sir. Well, yes sir, but you see the table wasn’t supposed to be…”

“You’re making me look like a G*DD@MN IDIOT in front of these inspectors, you know that! You think they’re going to BELIEVE that we brought a D@MN POOL TABLE and didn’t bring cues or balls!?!”

“It’s not my table…” and i shoved my chin into my chest, trying to hide.

And he stomped off, told the inspectors that nobody was going to be allowed to play the pool table because some dumb@ss from ESC forgot to pack cues and balls for the MWR pool table they put on the C-5 as a joke.

The inspectors looked mad. Really mad. I’d been feet-dry for 30 seconds and already pissed off the Saudi government. They walked off, gesticulating in a manner I swear looked like they were using a cue to break.

Three weeks later, as requested, my supervisor had a brand new set of cues and balls shipped to Saudi, at his personal expense.

The pool table, of course, had been commandeered by the pilots and put in their ready-room. It was being used as a conference table. I never got to use it.

And as far as I know, it’s still over there.

Post from: BigRedKitty, foshizzle.

We Played Putt-Putt Instead

In the regular military, everybody has a rank and it’s obvious what you are. Enlisted or officer, you have an insignia that tells the world where you fit in the great scheme of things.

In the Air Force’s technical schools, things are a little different.

An E-2 outranks an E-1, and an E-3 outranks and E-2, but Ropes override ranks.

Back in 1991, students were chosen from applicants to attend a Leadership School, and upon graduation, were issued a Green Rope. It was a green, braided piece of ¼” rope that was slung and attached around the left shoulder. A Green Rope was a student leader who had extra responsibilities and a few extra privileges. Any rank could become a Rope, and because of the length of technical schools, one could have an E-2 Green Rope “outranking” an E-3 student.

There were three colors of ropes: green, yellow, and red. The Green Ropes were in charge of a bay, maybe two, or students, approximately 12-24 trainees. They made sure things got done: cleaning, chores, assignments, etc. For every six or so Green Ropes, there was a Yellow Rope. They supervised the Green Ropes, natch. And for every student squadron, there was one Red Rope to rule them all.

One of the duties of a Green Rope was to march students to school. There are loads of people going to classes, and they weren’t bused; they marched. In columns of four, students assembled in the pre-dawn hours to march to class. A Green Rope would “drive” the formation to class, and back to the dorms again after classes ended. The student leader trainees had to complete a class on driving these formations in order to receive their rope. Driving a formation is, honestly, pretty cool, but it gets tiring after a few months. Thus, one of the perks of being promoted to Yellow Rope is not having to drive formations any longer.

But as a Green Rope at the 3392nd Student Training Squadron, we drove our formation to the basic electronics school for a month before the 3392nd was closed, torn down, burned, shredded, and buried.

If you were in a long-term school, 10 months or more, you were assigned to the 3392nd. But I was in the last group of people who were assigned to the 3392nd, as the powers that Be had decided to close the 3392nd a few months earlier. When they shut my squadron down, the students all transferred to the 3413th.

Now this squadron was known as “Beat and Blow” because all the people who had any musical talent – and wished to use it – were assigned to be in the student band and chorus in the 3413th. So they took us long-term students with security clearances and superiority complexes and shoved us together with the BnBs. Problems were bound to erupt because of the clash of ideologies, so to prevent hostilities, they nominated a Green Rope from the 3392nd to be elevated to Yellow Rope in the 3413th, so we’d have the appearance of not being minority citizens, but equals.

I was the 3392nd Yellow Rope nominee. And I accepted it, and was the only Yellow Rope on Keesler AFB who marched students to the basic electronics course on the other side of the base. I marched students over there for months as a Yellow Rope; no promotion-perk for me.

Eventually I graduated the basic electronics course – having a degree in Aerospace Engineering already didn’t hurt my grades – and went to the Electronic Warfare school. Now this was awesome because I didn’t have to march students anymore; we EW pukes were allowed to “straggle”, i.e. to walk un-formationized. And for five months I got to do my straggling-thing. Sweet.

One month before graduation, the powers that Be realigned the student squadrons again. All EW troops were going to be moved to the 3380th training squadron. Move me right before my graduation? That seemed silly. So I told them so.

“I’m graduating in 30 days, can’t I just stay here?”

“No.”

“But…”

“No.”

“This is really stupid. The military is going to move me to England in 30 days, but you want me to move to another squadron now?”

“Yes, now.”

I had lived on Keesler for eleven months and I had accumulated a lot of crap. Moving all this stuff by hand was going to be a huge pain.

So I applied for a DITY move.

A DITY move is a “do it yourself” move. Normally, when the military gives you Orders to change assignments, they bring a moving company and move you on the military’s dime. However, one can apply for a DITY move where one moves oneself and gets reimbursed by the military. I marched over to the Inbound/Outbound section of the Supply Squadron and presented my case. The sergeant on-call was befuddled.

“You’re being sent to Keesler? But you’re already here.”

“No, I’m a student at Keesler and I’m being told to move to another dorm.”

“You’re graduating and moving to the permanent-party dorms?”

“No, another student dorm.”

“You can’t DITY move to another student dorm; you have to be traveling on Orders!”

“I have Orders, see! I’m being reassigned from the 3413th to the 3380th and here’s my papers. I need to rent a truck to move my stuff, so I need to be reimbursed.”

“Hold on, let me get my lieutenant.”

And the 1st lieutenant was basically just as much help, but he could put that help in the form of an order.

“Airman Howell, I am not going to issue you DITY move paperwork to move from one student dorm to another. Get out of my office.”

Fine. I may not be able to manipulate the Supply Squadron, but I’m pretty sure there’s at least one group of people I can hornswaggle.

Transportation, darn tootin’.

I hustled to the people who kept the military’s vehicles running and told them I needed a truck.

“Why do you need a truck?”

“My commander wants to move some stuff from his building to another building.”

“Sign this.”

And I signed that, and got the keys to a truck.

Now the best way to get away with something in the military is to just do it. Don’t sneak, don’t try to hide. Do it out in the open and act like you’re pissed off that you have to do it. So right in the middle of morning formation, I drove my big blue truck right over the lawn to an emergency exit door, parked, honked the horn, killed the engine, got out, and slammed the truck’s door. The formation turned, saw me fuming, laughed, and got back to the business of being educated.

I started loading my stuff in the truck when the squadron’s First Sergeant came by.

“What are you doing, Airman Howell?”

“I’m being reassigned to the 3380th, they gave me a truck, they told me to move.” I grumbled heavily.

And he sauntered off, happy in my misery. I was being reassigned, they did tell me to move, they did give me a truck; no lies were told. I just rearranged the order.

I finished loading, slammed the tailgate, let out one last, “I cannot believe this!” and burned rubber over to the 3380th. After unloading, I took the truck back to the Transportation Squadron, returned the keys, thanked them, and scooted on foot back to my new home.

Mission accomplished. Thank goodness that the Transportation NCO hadn’t checked to see if I had been trained and authorized to drive a diesel.

So I was the last 3392nd student who was still a student, I was the only Yellow Rope from the 3413th who had been moved to the 3380th, and I was alone. My time was almost up, I was tired, I had no friends in my new squadron, and I would be graduating in 30 days. Naturally, I got called to see the NCO in charge of the ropes. I met him in the lobby of the commander’s office.

“We need you to march some flights for the next couple of weeks.”

“Do what? I’m a Yellow Rope, I quit marching flights six months ago.”

“We don’t have any Green Ropes in the squadron who go to your old basic electronics building after the latest realignment, so you’ll have to do it.”

“Yellow Ropes don’t drive formations…”

“I need you to do it.”

“I just moved from the ‘13th, I’ve been here all of two days, I’m the most senior Rope in the entire student population, and you want me to walk over to the basic electronics building and drive a formation back here?”

“Two of them, actually. One in the afternoon, one in the evening.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Airman Howell, I’m giving you an order…”

“LET ME TELL YOU WHAT YOU CAN DO WITH YOUR ORDER!” and the commander’s office stilled.

“I’ve been on Keesler almost a year, living like a prisoner! PopTarts are all over this base who I helped move around! There are permanent-party people here who I outrank! I’ve been on Keesler longer than any student-squadron commanding officer! I’ve been a Rope for longer than you’ve been assigned here! I’ve been in THREE student squadrons, TWO tech schools, I’m graduating and moving in three weeks, and NOW you want me to drive FORMATIONS again!?”

Yeah, I as a little E-3, I b!tched-out a non-commissioned officer, in hearing-distance of the commander and his staff. I lost it, totally.

I don’t remember how I didn’t go to jail, or how I was escorted out of the office. I do know that I didn’t drive any formations…

But I vividly remember my subsequent defrocking-ceremony.

At the next commander’s call, the next Saturday, I was called to the front of the theater. The commander read off my accomplishments, how he, as the commander of a former mid-length school’s squadron, had never heard of a student being on-base for a year… without having been in jail. He smiled, took my Yellow Rope, and proclaimed me Quasi-Permanent Party for the next three weeks until I left. I received a large round of applause, during which, the commander whispered in my ear,

“Stay clean, stay quiet, and get the h3ll out of Keesler.”

And that’s what the recent former Secretary of the Air Force, the recent former Air Force Chief of Staff, and I have in common: forced, mandatory retirement.

Post from: BigRedKitty, foshizzle.

The Truck-Part is Just Bonus

Other students get shorter sentences. The most illustrious of these people were the administrative support trainees. All the typists and clerks needed to do was pass a typing test and –BAM! – they were graduated and sent to various bases hither and yon to do their finger-stabbing duty. These folks were known as Pop-Tarts; in-process on a Monday, complete their typing test on Tuesday, get out-processed on Wednesday.

And while these b@stards got to get out into the real Air Force, yours truly was stuck in a concrete bunker, both day and night, studying how to connect cables and working B-52 flare systems and watching pop-tart after pop-tart come in and test-out.

Being in the triangle – the student training squadrons are arranged inside a road shaped like a triangle – for almost a year, one actually earns a little sympathy from the permanent-party folks who are there to watch over and help you. We called them Student Training Advisors, but the job description has probably changed since then. One such STA was a female sergeant, an E-5, who watched over us boys like we were her kids. And one day, I didn’t show up for the morning formation, for I was sick.

She knocked on my door, asked if she could come in. I sounded in the affirmative, she entered, I stayed abed, sick.

“You have to go to the infirmary. You can’t just stay here.”

“I am sick. Going to school will expose me to lots of other students. There’s nothing positive at all in that recommendation.”

“Not school; Sick Call. Get up, go see the doctor. Now.”

“Sick Call? Fine.”

She departed, I fell out of bed, rolled over to my bathrobe, donned it with as much decorum as my fever allowed, and stumbled out into the early Mississippi morning.

SLAM! The door at Sick Call shut sickeningly behind me with a finality that said, “Dude, you’re here forever.” And it did seem that way, as the lobby was filled with airmen, both male and female, in various stages of illness. Yet all of them were prominently dressed in their uniforms.

I was rather auspiciously bathrobe’d.

The nurse at the desk raised her finger and pointed at me, with a high degree of probability about to tell me that one did NOT report to Sick Call out of uniform. But she was cut short when the doctor came out to retrieve some paperwork, saw me, gave me an up-n-down inspection, and called me into his office. He told the aghast nurse,

“He’s obviously sicker than everybody else here; he couldn’t even put on his uniform.”

It’s called Respect. EWs get preference over Pop-Tarts. D@mn right I get the head of the line!

So I was hustled into the doctor’s office, examined, pronounced Sick, given an antibiotic, a note for my commander, and sent home with an escort, ‘cause I might fall down or get lost or abducted or something.

We stopped at the commander’s office to give the note to the on-duty sergeant, who just happened to be the female STA who sent me to Sick Call in the first place.

“I’m officially Air Force-sick, ma’am. He’s my note.”

“You didn’t put on your uniform?”

“I’ve never been sick before, and I didn’t know there was a protocol.”

And as she was about to splutter something inane like, “You’re in the military; you go EVERYWHERE in uniform!” the commander, a newly-minted Captain, emerged from his office. The STA turned to him and presented my note.

“Sir, Airman Howell is sick and being confined to quarters for 48 hours.”

“Airman Howell isn’t in uniform; what’s he doing in my office?”

And of course, my mouth began to channel those thoughts one should normally keep locked up.

“Sir, the doctor, a Major, not only had no issue with my appearance, but he stated it was a sign of my vigor and stamina that I was able to get to his office at all, and I should be rewarded with a medal or monetary compensation. As it turned out, I got a shot in the @ss and piece of paper that I don’t even get to keep. Can I go to bed now, sir?”

The commander turned to the STA, “If I acknowledge that commentary, I just might court-martial him. Get him to bed and let’s pretend he was never here.”

“This office or the Air Force, sir?”

“I’ll settle for this office, but I reserve the right to exercise better judgment.”

And before I could launch into a phlegm-filled retort, the woman grabbed me by the arm and whisked me out of the office and towards my dorm room.

“You know, you’re gonna get into a lot of trouble if you talk to officers like that.”

“I plan on keeping my mouth shut for the next three years, if that’s any solace.”

I didn’t even last another week before something else happened.

Post from: BigRedKitty, foshizzle.

The Last 3392nd STUS Student in the World

Again, we’re sorry OPG. We look forward to letting you do a BRK Guest Post in the very near future. And you’ll all sit up straight and pay attention when she reads her report, right?!

Moving on.

The birthday oust from power was tremendous, but there are some things we need to clear up.

1. Nerf rules. Don’t diss Nerf.

2. Loincloth of the Monkey, foshizzle.

3. Hobbes is tired of the farm; all the animals were delicious.

4. Mrs BRK doesn’t smoke cigarettes. She’s only down with Montecristo No.4s

5. As for the hostile takeover, like MacArthur, we shall return!

The birthday wishes were fabulous! We want to thank each and every one of you for them. Truly, if a man is judged by his friends, we are blessed beyond measure.

So please allow us to attempt a small Thank You with an Airman Howell story! One of our two Dancing Tales, even.

/daniel mode on

“GET ON THE BUS!”

And we did, all 50 or so of us who had a week left at basic training. We all calmly but quickly filled the bus, the door shut, the airbrakes hissed, and we took off for the stadium.

For some reason, we were being taken to see a World Leage of American Football (WLAF) (think cheap USFL) football game and pfft who were we to argue. Looking spiffy in our trim blue uniforms, six flights of trainees, some 300 people, were bussed to the San Antonio stadium to watch a not-quite professional football game and look good doing so.

We arrived, marched off the bus, into the stands, and filled up a section right on the 50-yard line. I was in the second group of trainees, around the fourth row back. In front of us… were girls.

Lots of girls. A flight of female Air Force trainees was in the front rows, then my flight behind them, then four more flights of guys behind us. Fifty trim, polished, knee-length skirt, uniform-wearing girls. We had been isolated from women for five weeks, this was cool!

No socializing was permitted; we were to remain calm and professional, for we were all representing the US Air Force. So sayeth our instructors, so let it be done!

Professional. I can pull that off, totally. I can do that… wow, golly they smelled nice.

The game began, the WLAF cheerleaders were on the other side of the stadium. We were enjoying the sun, the breeze, the football, and some time to not be stressed to the max.

OK, we need a flashback here. Hold on.

The first real day of basic training, we were all standing against our lockers, quivering at the arrival of our Military Training Instructor. And she burst into the dorm and blew our minds. Tall, muscular, black, and Loud! Holy cow, she could Project and strike fear into any man’s heart, making them sweat all the way into their black cotton socks. Her foul-mouthed invectives thundered around the dorm like a barrel of superballs fired from a shotgun. Personally, I tried to turn invisible or become a chameleon, but something she said warped my brain.

“Do any of your dumb blankety-blanks know how to type!?”

Utter silence.

“I SAID, DO ANY OF YOU BLEEPY BLEEPY BLANKETY-BLANKS KNOW HOW TO TYPE!!!”

And my world exploded and the chemicals in my body altered their molecular structure. I lost my humanity as I shrieked into the storm,

“SIR! I CAN TYPE SIR!”

I called her Sir? I didn’t. There’s no way I called her Sir. My brain returned to this dimension and quit the job.

“Dude,” my brain said, “You totally called her Sir. Goodbye. Call me back in six weeks.” /doorslam

And the goddess of war thundered, “GET YOUR BLEEP-BLEEP BLEEPING BLEEP IN HERE!!”

I warped to her office, expecting to be eviscerated.

“Thank goodness,” she said, “You really can type? Would you be a dear and use this list of names to type out a copy of this form for everybody? Thank you so much, it’s hard to find someone who can type.” And she smiled, left the office, and started verbally abusing everybody in the dorm, one at a time, while I sat at the Selectric and typed out inventory forms.

“WHY THE BLEEP WOULD YOU BRING CONDOMS TO BASIC TRAINING!!!”

Type, type, type.

“THOSE ARE THE DIRTIEST UNDERPANTS IN THE HISTORY OF THE PLANET!! ARE YOU A GORILLA?!! CAN YOU WIPE YOUR BLEEP AT ALL!!”

Type, type, type.

At some point, I was told that the goal of basic training is to graduate and have the instructor not know your face when they call your name to receive your diploma. That kind of happened to me, as I was never known as Airman Howell in basic training.

I was the House Mouse.

“MOUSE!! GET THE BLEEP IN HERE!”

“Ma’am?”

“Be a sweetie and please take these reports to the NCOIC downstairs?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you. And don’t let them give you any crap.”

“MOUSE!! WHERE THE BLEEP ARE YOU!!”

“Right here, ma’am.”

“Mouse, my husband is going to drive by and pickup my shopping list. Would you please take it to him in the parking lot?”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

Typing, organizing, filing, quick trips to the commissary to get supplies, and one time a birthday card for the instructor’s mother. I saw that she had needed the card, was at the commissary anyway, bought it and left it for her. She was thrilled.

So I was known as “Mouse” for six weeks, that’s critical. Now we can go back to the football game.

Four rows of girls, 50 sparkling examples of what physical fitness can do for a person, spread out before us as we watched the game. Halftime arrived and the cheerleaders changed sides and stood in front of our section. A TV crew came with them and started taking video of the cheerleaders and the girls in the front rows. The halftime show started and dance music filled the stadium. The cheerleaders jumped the railing and tried to encourage the female airman to join them. And when the video crew started taping them all, the female airmen couldn’t help themselves and burst into dance with the cheerleaders! What a show!

Then one of the cheerleaders tried to get the front rows of guys to dance too. No f-ing way, lady. We were all told to be professional and represent the Air Force like good little trainees, we’re not going to get in the middle of 50 gyrating female airmen and 12 semi-professional cheerleaders… Right?

Note: Five weeks of basic training is not enough time to prepare a man to resist the lure of dancing with 62 hot and toned women.

I jumped up, bounded down two rows of bleachers, and broke it down as best I could, anticipating the place was going to be a mob of 250 crazy guys frolicking among the girls! Must stake claim to some prime real estate!

But none of them moved, not a single guy got out of his seat. It was just me, a flight of 50 female trainees, and a cadre of WLAF cheerleaders. No lie.

One of the members of my flight yelled out, “Go Mouse!” It was repeated and turned into a chorus picked up by the rest of my flight, and eventually the entire gaggle of airman.

“GO MOUSE-Y! GO MOUSE-Y! GO GO, GO MOUSE-Y!”

And the stadium rocked as much as a WLAF game could rock. The music blared, the girls danced, and I was smack in the center, my hat jauntily askew and everything was right with the world.

Did I mention the film crew? I must have. At that time, though, I had certainly forgotten about them.

But the next day I was rudely reminded of that filming crew when I was summoned to the commander’s office. (I spent a lot of time at the commander’s office, now that I think about it.)

“Sir, Airman Howell reports as ordered,” and I offered my salute.

The man didn’t say a word. He held up a VCR tape, popped it into a player, turned on the TV, and I got to watch the local news channel and their on-the-scene reporter describe how a group of basic training airmen from Lackland Air Force Base had a great time at the WLAF game, but one airman seemed to have the best time of all.

And there I was, dancing like a goofball with all the female trainees and the cheerleaders, proudly representing the US Air Force with dignity, as we had all been reminded was our Duty.

Did I mention that I missed graduating from basic training with honors? Heck, my training instructor didn’t even recognize my name at graduation, either.

Post from: BigRedKitty, foshizzle.

Like MacArthur, Just Not in the Philippines

But we have some news!

First off, AC downed Solarian last night, our awesome guild is 4/6 in SSC and 2/4 in TK. Grats! But don’t kill anything else without us anymore. So sayeth BRK, so let it be done.

Second, we may be having some new visitors on Friday, thanks to some really cool publicity. We don’t want to jinx it, so we won’t go into more details now. But we’re going to try to get a new movie banged out for Friday, and you all will need to wipe your feet and not leave your empties in the garbage can; the recycle bin is there for a reason, mkay? We want to make a good first impression.

And finally, we have Tuesday off to get some sleep. Probably not going to post again today, but in our semi-comatose state, we can do a very quick…

/daniel mode on

My first non-technical school assignment in the Air Force was at RAF Alconbury, 6952nd Electronic Security Squadron, UK. I was training to maintain the electronic sensor systems on the U-2 reconnaissance aircraft and living large driving to Huntingdon and taking the train to London, (where the 2nd of my Dancing Stories is born).

Now one fine afternoon, I was asked to drive the Commander and her entourage in a 9-pack van out to the flightline to watch touch-n-goes. I had a flightline drivers license, was clean and presentable, and had never been in trouble, so I had been “volunteered” to be a driver for the VIPs. Not a big deal, it was better than being “volunteered” to do any of a thousand other things.

A touch-n-go maneuver is a pilot practicing taking off and landing. The U-2 is the hardest to land aircraft in the inventory, so pilots did these all the time to hone their skills. They take off, do a big oval in the sky, then land and, without stopping, take off again.

When a U-2 takes off, it looks like once the jet lifts off the ground, the pilot just keeps pulling back on the yoke until the jet is almost vertical. It’s called a high angle-of-attack takeoff and is done for several reasons, including aerodynamics, handling, and safety. I was an Aerospace Engineer, I had studied the wing design of the U-2 in college and had as good a grasp on the flight characteristics of the plane as any 1st term airman. If you asked me for a technical report on the reasons for that specific takeoff, I could write something up that wouldn’t be pure conjecture or get laughed at.

But when my commander’s friend, a major from some group other than operations or maintenance, asked out loud, “Wow, why do they take off going up like that?” the completely improper answer burst from my lips, before I could stop it.

“Because if it went down, it’d crash.”

Post from: BigRedKitty, foshizzle.

Zzzzzooonk