As my high school years came to an end, my life seemed to grow quite insipid. Although a friend of mine and I worked at a car wash and a hamburger joint, gainful employment was not readily available, especially because we were not college material, at least not yet, anyway. After going to the armed services recruitment office in a nearby town, a group of seven of us high school graduates decided to enlist in the United States Air Force. This was right before the Vietnam war ended. My newspaper route buddy and I just checked off any boxes at random on the long multiple-choice entrance exam that was required. We both were still so obstinate and silly. This exam measured our basic skills and would eventually determine what field of vocation we would be placed in after completing basic training. Having gone in on the buddy system of that era, it was very much to our liking. After the emotional good-byes, all seven of us boarded the TWA international jetliner that would soon take us all over the rainbow. After this big bird took off, we were asked by the pretty flight attendants if we cared for a cocktail or another beverage. We naturally thought now that we were big cheese, serving our country, so we all ordered those very small bottles of vodka. After a few of these with orange juice, all kind of went dim for a while as the plane made its way toward San Antonio.

Five o'clock sharp the next morning and after a very comfortable sleep, we were all awakened by a very mean-looking training instructor whose breath would surely curl your toes. I recall very distinctively the first words that proceed out of this monster's mouth this very first day in the military. "Listen here, slick. I didn't get any last night, and I am not in a mood for games," said the instructor. He was looking at me, of course. I just looked over at my bosom buddy, and I believe we sort of had a serious dirge going on in our minds. I must have let out a smirk of some sort, and before I knew it, the bad-breathed man was in my face. "What are you smiling about , slick?" yelled this terrible man. "Where are you from?" I told him I was from new Jersey, and then he told the whole squadron that he didn't like Yankees. The dirge in my mind, and now in my stomach, intensified.

After this we proceeded to the chow hall for breakfast. The food was great, and we mused about what might happen next. Next came one hundred push-ups and sit-ups and a two mile jog.

Another morning this goofy fellow who slept on the top bunk came down after waking up and asked me to help him make his bed the correct military way. I gladly helped him since I was so good at it. This same morning my foolishness got me into trouble. The training instructor was inspecting our lockers and folded clothes. When he came upon a discrepancy about another fellow's incorrect pile of clothes, he corrected them a bit, and that was that. However, I just had to laugh again, and the mean training instructor heard it. He came over to me and told me that since I laughed and thought it was funny, I would now have to fold his clothes every day as well as my own. If that weren't enough, he also commanded me that when we would be doing our cadence marches, every third refrain I would be required to yell out, "Ha, ha, ha," as we went along our merry way. Of course I was put at the very back of the squadron, and I surely stuck out like a sore thumb. I was humiliated. Me and my big mouth!

There were several times when we went to the firing range for the M-16 hands-on training. The first time we just used blanks for practice with the weapon. The second time came, and this was the real thing. If I recall correctly, if you made close to sixty shots, you received the marksman's ribbon. After the counting began, they finally came to my target since I was placed at the very end. They only found three holes. I shot at the wrong target. Of course I never received the marksman ribbon, but can you imagine how many holes were in the target next to me? I did serve honorably though throughout my military service and received an honorable discharge. But remember back when we took those tests at recruitment time? Well, I ended up in the water treatment plant and my bosom buddy in the auto painting shop.

The End