Security Police

Author © Scott D. Zachary

       I’m embarrassed to tell you this story because it involves some of the most foolishly daring and dumb things I’ve ever done. The outlandishness that didn’t kill me should’ve gotten me locked away for life. Even so, I willfully stitched these knuckleheaded stunts into the garment of my existence, so here we go anyway.

       I won’t lie to you and say that I enlisted in the United States Air Force to do my part in defending our freedom. The GI Bill enticed me—four years of college in return for doing my part to serve and protect our country. All my grades were above average, however, not quite good enough to merit scholarships. Thus, I enlisted in the military to fund my college education.

       My scores in all four categories of the ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery) test were highly respectable. That qualified me for nearly any job, but I didn’t know which career field I wanted to pursue. The recruiter duped, “With your scores, you’ll have your pick of Air Force specialties. You should wait until you talk with the counselors in Basic Training before choosing a career specialty.” He reeled me in with that line.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

       I stepped off the bus at Lackland Air Force Base to the reception of a screaming madman and instantly regretted my decision to enlist. Nuts! I wasn’t used to being force-fed discipline.

       I received my first letter from Mom after one week of Basic, which gave me the disheartening news that the scholastic board had finally awarded me the Federal Opportunity Grant. That would’ve paid for my college tuition. Now I wanted out!

       I went down to the Chaplain’s office and pleaded, “I did drugs, lots of drugs. Does that disqualify me from being in the Air Force?”

       “This decision could haunt you for the rest of your life, Scott,” he compassionately replied. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

       “Yes, sir!”

       “Will you please grant me a big favor—give it another week, then come talk to me if you still want out?”

       I reluctantly agreed.

       In reality, I had only smoked marijuana occasionally. My drug of choice was alcohol—lots of it, and as often as possible. My obsession for alcohol prompted a bizarre motivation for completing Basic Training, which involved the two guys whose bunks were next to mine in the open-bay dormitory. Nikolas, a boisterous, jovial Greek fellow, kept our mood peppy. Gordon’s mature, soft-spoken manner, on the other hand, counterbalanced Nikolas’s playfulness. Both were magnets for Air Force Form 341, which the TI (Training Instructor) issued for discrepancies in the maintenance of our personal areas and uniforms. For instance, the coat hangers in our locker had to be spaced precisely one inch apart. No deviation. The slightest speck of toothpaste in the cap of our tube of toothpaste also earned us a demerit. The TI checked off a long list of these nit-picky rules. In only two weeks, Nikolas and Gordon received nearly a hundred demerits each. I had none. They bet me a boatload of drinks that I couldn’t graduate without a demerit. I accepted their wager. If I won, they would buy all the Bacardi rum and Coke that I could drink at the airport upon departure. Now I was committed to finishing Basic Training!

       I received another positive motivator during M-16 rifle training. The firing range instructor looked at my silhouette. “Hot damn, boy! I want to go into combat with you!” he applauded.

       I didn’t shoot a pattern with my M-16; I shot one snug tattered hole. I am ashamed to say that the hundreds of hours I spent as a young boy killing all those poor little birds in my backyard contributed to my marksmanship medal. I am proud to say, however, that the hundreds of hours I hunted rabbits, squirrels, and pheasants as a teenager to put meat on our meager table also earned that medal.

       Five weeks into Basic Training and with only a week to go, Nikolas, Gordon, and I nearly got kicked out of the Air Force on my account. We went into San Antonio on town pass for the day. We first took a bus to visit my brother Steve at the burn center on Brooks Air Force Base. Steve had gotten into a terrible automobile accident in Las Vegas and had severe burns over much of his body. Even though I could only visit with him for a few minutes before his next surgery, I was glad that I could be there for him.

       After that sobering experience, all I wanted to do was shoot pool and drink lots of beer. Nikolas and Gordon were hell-bent on scoring with a prostitute as there were lots of them offering themselves to the trainees. The guys were afraid they might get mugged, so they wanted me to join them in their folly. I wasn’t interested in such scuzzy sex, but they seduced me by offering to pay my fare if I accompanied them. I always said that I wanted to do everything once, and that was once. It seemed more like a business transaction than sex. We each took our turns while the other two stood behind the closet door. I was intimidated by the situation; I never even knew her name.

       We went back to the pool hall after our frolic in that seedy hotel near the Alamo. I was shooting for beers and winning. Nikolas and Gordon had to drag me away from all the beers I had lined up in front of me. We caught a bus to the main gate of Lackland and then had to run as fast as we could to get to the dorm before they locked the doors on the hour. I don’t know what the precise penalty would’ve been if we hadn’t made it in time, but the TI had said we could kiss our Air Force careers good-bye. Five weeks before, I would’ve said “toot-a-loo” to this insanity. Not now. I still hadn’t received a demerit, and I fixated on collecting all those rum and Cokes that Nikolas and Gordon would owe me at the airport the following week after we graduated.

       I don’t recall any counselors in Basic Training. My “chosen” career field appeared on a bulletin board—Security Police! It could’ve been worse, though. I learned that many of the recruits who don’t have a guaranteed job are either chucked into Security Police or become a cook. I hated cooking!

       I did complete Basic Training without a single demerit. Nikolas and Gordon bought me somewhere in the neighborhood of a dozen rum and Cokes at the airport before I let them go their separate ways.

       My few days of leave between Basic Training and Security Police Technical School were a blur of partying. Then I hung out at Lackland Air Force Base for another ten weeks of intensive training, this time to become a Security Forces Specialist. In a sentence, they taught us how to protect high-value weaponry and critical resources. The instructors never even broached what a party it would be.

       My first assignment was at Spangdahlem Air Base in Germany. The Germans certainly know how to party! Every town throws a festival. There were wine fests, music fests, beer fests, pig fests, and just plain old fests. I attempted to attend them all. I’m amazed that I managed to rack up thirty semester hours with UMUC (University of Maryland University College) Europe on the airbase during that two-year assignment, and I did it with a 3.5 average! My primary focus, though, involved drinking as much and as often as I could.

       We worked six days on and three off. During the first year, I frequently hitchhiked to Luxembourg on our three-day breaks with a fellow named Escobar. I faintly remember getting into a ruckus one time in Luxembourg City. The next thing I remember is waking up under a bridge, curled up inside my flight jacket. Two truckers stopped alongside the road and walked up to me. One of them nudged me with his foot to see if I was alive.

       “Je suis d’accord,” I slurred, still drunk from the night before.

       They grumbled and walked back to their truck.

       I stood up and stumbled down the road. As I watched their truck disappear beyond a ridge, I grunted, “Damn, I should’ve asked them what country this is!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

       Escobar and I rounded up a couple of German chicks who were attending Trier University. His gal was named Melissa, a spunky, dark-haired beauty. Mine was named Helga, a stocky blonde girl who everyone called “Pepsi.” They were language majors and fluent in numerous languages. The girls enjoyed talking in another language so we couldn’t understand them. Escobar and I had learned enough German to follow their Deutsch, so they switched to Spanish. They had no idea that I was semi-fluent in Español and that it was Escobar’s first language. They caught on when we both laughed at one of their jokes. They then switched to French—my alternate forte. I slipped and interjected a French quip, so they began speaking Russian. Damn!

       One midnight shift, Escobar and I were assigned adjacent posts guarding alert F-4 bombers in their arched shelters. Standing at the edge of our restricted areas, we chatted into the wee hours killing time. One of us came up with the idea of learning to speak Pig-Latin so we could also talk to each other in another language that Melissa and Pepsi couldn’t understand. The Flight Chief, Tech Sergeant Perry, thought we were nuts when we told him why we wanted to be assigned adjacent posts every night, but he figured if it helped keep us awake, then so be it. Eway entspay anymay ourhay earningslay igpay-Atinlay. If you don’t know Pig-Latin, oh well. Our bizarre speech stymied these language majors. They thought we were babbling; though, it soon became apparent that we understood each other’s babble. The girls stopped talking behind our backs in front of us.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

       Most of the Security Police who lived in the barracks rarely left the base. They typically sat around drinking, complaining, and counting down the number of days remaining in their assignment. To be a “short-timer” was to be envied. Granted, I drank more than my share, but I also went off base and explored Germany. For example, I booked a week at the U.S. military ski resort in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Bavaria for January 1976. Making $400 a month before taxes as an Airman “one-striper,” the price of accommodations, ski rental, and ski lift passes at Garmisch was so inexpensive that even I could afford it.

       The tapestried scenery along the train’s route through the countryside from Spangdahlem to Bavaria was stunningly beautiful, especially as the train approached the majestic snow-spackled Alps. Their striking contrast to anything in my prior visual experience was complete. The mural-dressed cottages along the tracks quaintly reminded me of storybook images from my childhood. I imagined blossoms draping from their window flower boxes like showy buttons on a lovely gown.

       Of course, I spent much of the ride at the bar in the dining car drinking Löwenbräu on tap. While swilling beer after beer, I made friends with two Americans who were traveling around Europe on a Eurail train pass. Carl, blonde and lanky, was from North Carolina. Randy—small and wiry, black-haired, and always grinning—hailed from South Carolina. The three of us had a blast at the bar joking, imitating our mutual hero Inspector Clouseau, and playing beer-drinking games, such as “Cardinal Puff” and “Around the World.”

       Wanting to continue our party, I invited Carl and Randy to be my guests at the Garmisch ski resort. I offered them the floor of my hotel room since they were on a tight budget that allowed for lots of alcohol and not much else. They accepted my offer and were delighted to have an opportunity to ski the Alps. I checked us into the hotel, and we continued partying into the night.

       My thoughts plodded through the alcoholic haze as we walked out of the hotel the next morning; however, I do distinctly remember looking up in awe at the magnificent snow-shrouded Alpine mountain peaks. The air was crisp and clean. Majesty overwhelmed me.

       Carl was a seasoned skier, having skied many times on man-made snow in North Carolina. After we rented skis, he jumped on a lift and headed up the mountain. Downhill skiing was a brand-new experience for Randy and me. We signed up for an hour of group lessons with a foxy blonde instructor. She began by teaching our class of beginners how to sidestep up the slope. We quickly mastered our next and most important skill—how to fall correctly uphill onto our butts. We spent the remainder of our lesson learning how to turn and to stop using a wedge-shaped snowplow technique.

       Randy and I went into the lodge and drank an early lunch. Our courage bolstered, we jumped on a chairlift and ascended the mountain. Each time a lift came to its final destination, we’d hop on another and continue up the slopes until we reached the upper ridge. We were delighted to see a quaint little shack where a lady, wearing a green Bavarian hat adorned with a feather, was serving draft beer. Randy and I unbuckled our skis, poked them into the snow as others had done, and enjoyed the exquisite scenery and splendid German beer. We heard Carl holler at us as he came skiing along the ridge. He stopped and joined us for a couple more beers.

       We had gathered a small troupe of festive partiers by the time we left that first watering hole. Every hundred yards or so along that ridge another beer shack appeared where they served German lagers on tap. After stopping at several of these beer huts, our party of six or seven revelers skied farther along the ridge. I lost control and fell headlong into a snow drift. By the time I recovered, my party had vanished. Shucks! I continued along the trail, figuring that I’d catch up with them shortly.

       Eventually, I came to a broad, gradual slope. I can do this one—it looks doable. I slowly plowed down the white expanse. Suddenly, and just in time, I dropped onto my butt as I stared down in awe at the perilous, near-vertical slant before me. Sitting there for a long time, I watched in amazement at the people bouncing back and forth as they sleeked down the mountainside. Little kids, some as young as six or seven, kick-turned a couple of feet away from me, covering me with snow. They giggled as they veered across the slope.

       I initially had no desire to ski down that insane incline, but I also didn’t relish sidestepping for a quarter-mile or better back up to the ridge of the mountain. The more those little giggling monsters covered me with snow, the more my ruffled indignity spurred me to ski this slope. I had trained rigorously for more than six months preparing to ski by running and doing calisthenics nearly every day; I wasn’t going to allow a bunch of little kids to show me up. Besides, I did come here to ski!

       I studied the way the skiers were kick-turning and tried to implant their motions into my memory. I stood, took a deep breath, and pushed off at a sharp angle across the slope. I approached the tree line, mustered my spunk, and kick-turned just enough to point my skis straight down that murderous descent. Sensibly, I plopped onto my butt and bulleted down the mountain for half a soccer field, bouncing off the moguls Raggedy Andy style. I slid joltingly to a stop.

       I again scrutinized the skiers’ moves as I built up more courage. I did a repeat performance. Again and again, I did it, completely covering myself with snow. I finally got the hang of kick-turning and slalomed to the bottom of the mountain. On the last stretch, I crouched, zoomed down to the flatland, and slid to a stop, exhausted. I fell over into the snow, grinning.

       Two German ladies stopped on their way to the ski lodge and asked me if I was alright. I cheered, “Ich bin wunderbar!”

       As I lay there resting, two older German men skied to a stop beside me. I don’t know how they could tell I was American, but one of them asked me in broken English if I was okay. Without getting off my back, I chatted with them in my primitive German speech. I managed to explain to them that today was my first day of skiing. I told them that I took my first lesson that morning, got lost along the ridge, and happened onto this slope as I pointed up at the monstrosity behind me. They were stunned, as was I when they told me that I had skied down the advanced slalom slope used in the 1936 Winter Olympics. As they helped me up, they insisted on congratulating me over a beer. Several beers later, the two men drove me to the American resort on the other side of the mountain.

       Well rested, I jumped on the chairlift and returned to the crest of the mountain. Coming down on the intermediate course was a breeze after my horrendous, self-inflicted lessons on the advanced slope. I spotted Carl and Randy standing at the edge of the tree line. I skied up to them and told them about my adventure. Carl was skeptical, so I dared him. “Race you to the lodge, Carl!”

       He laughed.

       “The loser buys all the beer,” I hollered as I lunged to get a head start on him.

       He snickered, “You’re on, Scott!”

       We careened neck and neck around several bends, which brought us to a wedge-shaped ski jump. Feeling cocky after my advanced slalom experience, I veered into the center of the slope and lined up on that launching pad. Hunkering down to give me as much spring in my landing as possible, I rocketed into the air, barely keeping my balance as I landed far down the course. My longshot gamble gave me a walloping lead on Carl. I would’ve beaten him by a substantial margin except my legs didn’t cooperate. Gliding down the homestretch with the lodge in sight, the muscles in my legs resigned the competition. They were so tired that I couldn’t keep my skis parallel, which is a sensible idea when you’re skiing fast. The front tips of my skis went their separate ways. I still wince when I recall doing the splits.

       Hobbling to the bar, I greeted my ski instructor. She asked me if I enjoyed my first day on skis. Beaming, I told her about my adventure along the ridge to the far end of the mountain. She was astounded when I recounted how I had skied the Olympic slalom slope my first day out. She bought me a beer too!

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       I signed up to attend the Rolling Stones’ concert in Frankfurt, Germany. On the big day, everyone loaded onto two tour buses. Only security police and law enforcement people loaded onto one of the buses. The cops had a reputation for being the party animals on base. We hadn’t even passed through the front gate when corks were heard plopping. Every few seconds, a different wine bottle appeared over my shoulder. I swigged and passed them along. We were a short distance from the base when I smelled hashish, and then hash pipes began floating around the bus too. We drank and toked for three hours en route to the concert. I can barely remember the Stones—just barely.

       Party, party, party! It’s a wonder they didn’t bust our whole squadron.

       I cringe when I think back through my insane escapades during that time frame. I can remember drinking Wild Turkey on several occasions while I ironed my fatigues before going to work. Although, the craziest time of all was on New Year’s Eve 1975. The Air Force had reassigned Escobar to Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota, so I found a new friend—a guy named Koontz (don’t remember his first name, always called him by his last name). On this particular night, I was the Entry Controller to the Priority C weapons area. Shortly before midnight, Koontz drove up to my gate in his old Mercedes with Pepsi and another German national gal. I pointed Koontz into my restricted area where he parked behind my guardhouse. With a court martial dangling over our heads, we drank beer and fiddled with our fräuleins.

     THAT WAS ABSOLUTE MADNESS!!! If the Flight Commander or Squadron Commander had caught us, Koontz and I would have gone straight to Leavenworth Prison for a couple of decades! The only mitigating circumstance is that there were no live weapons in my area, just reserve bombers and aerial refueling tankers.

       I’ve taken a good run at it now and then, but I’ve never quite equaled that for dumb.

      Most of my decisions during those days begged a preponderance of ridicule. Somewhere in this hullabaloo, I married a gal just because she jiggled big bazongas. The heifer didn’t let me forget it, either. She baited me all the way from Florida to Germany with lots and lots of pictures in my mailbox displaying her skimpily clad endowments. I’ve nicknamed her “Bubber.” She didn’t get much of a prize; I was an obnoxious, egotistical drunk. Any woman who would’ve wanted me back then must’ve been end-of-the-line desperate. But I was cute!

       There you have it back-to-back, the first and second dumbest things I’ve ever done.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

       My derelict partying carried on at Pease Air Force in New Hampshire. That’s where the Priority A Restricted Area Supervisor occasionally stopped by my post and shared a joint with me while I guarded an alert FB-111 bomber.

       One, two, and three!

       A note in my defense: That is the most mentally trying job I’ve ever performed—staying awake for eight to twelve hours when all you’re supposed to do is watch and respond, if necessary. You’ve done a good job if everything at the end of your shift is exactly the way you found it when you started your shift.

       Nearly anything you try to do to make the time go by faster while on post is illegal. Speaking of which, to help kill time, some guys ventured to see how far they could get off post without getting caught. I was always leery of doing that, but if I’d had some alcohol in me, I might’ve taken a stab at it. One of the guys deserted his post and went all the way to the Priority C Restricted Area and back—several hundred yards outside his assigned restricted area!

       I was promoted to Senior Airman at Pease Air Force Base and chosen to become a safe nest tower operator overseeing the special weapons storage area. Now that was a party! The Security Alert Teams would come up into my tower, and we’d smoke pot for hours on end. I did have an alarm panel that notified me if anything moved inside or outside the area. And I assure you that if someone had touched that fence, an M-60 machine gun, grenade launchers, and half a dozen M-16s would’ve snuffed the intruder’s stupidity posthaste.

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       I managed to earn another thirty semester hours attending New Hampshire College during those two years of partying while stationed at Pease Air Force Base. Straight As too! In fact, the senior NCOs on the Squadron Review Board were so impressed with my scholastic achievements that they presented me with the Airman of the Quarter Award! (Little did they know...)

       I majored in accounting at New Hampshire College. My bosses were super about relieving me from post to let me go to class in the evenings. I’d be on post for only a few minutes when the Security Alert Team came to pick me up and take me to my car. I’d go to classes for several hours and then return to post a few minutes before the end of the shift.

       I took four courses my last semester at New Hampshire College: Intermediate Accounting II, Cost Accounting II, Economics, and Business Management. That was tough while working full time. After the next-to-last exam in Intermediate Accounting, the instructor, Mr. Hammond, warned an older man sitting beside me: “You are failing this class, Ralph. You will have to get at least an 85 on the final exam, or you’re going to flunk this class.”

       Ralph slumped as Mr. Hammond returned to the front of the class.

       “Ralph,” I nudged. “How about if you and I study together for both the Intermediate and the Cost Accounting finals? It’ll help me reach my goal, and I’m sure it’ll help you achieve that 85.”

       Ralph latched onto my suggestion as though he were grasping for a lifeline. “Sure, Scott. Thanks!”

       I had an A average in the two accounting classes, but I wanted the top score on that final in both, anyway. All the bankers and businessmen in their fancy suits had looked down their noses at me dressed in my green fatigues. The instructor had always announced the top score, and I had been within a couple of points every time. Now, I was shooting for a pair of 100s, even though no one had ever achieved that mark on an exam in Mr. Hammond’s Intermediate or Cost Accounting classes.

       I had enormous stamina in those days, and I applied all of it in this instance. I studied as hard as I could on duty and off. I took a few days of leave and drilled Ralph from morning till night until we were both confident of achieving our goals.

       Mr. Hammond graded the Intermediate Accounting exam at his desk. After which, he stood in front of the class, looked at Ralph, and smiled. “Congratulations, Ralph, you scored an 88!”

       Ralph cheered, and I high-fived him.

       Keeping his big smile, Mr. Hammond looked at me. “Scott, you have achieved what no one else ever has: a perfect score on the Cost Accounting final exam and a perfect score on the Intermediate Accounting final. Congratulations!”

       Ralph and I high-fived again, and everyone in the class cheered.

       I walked out of that classroom on top of the world. It was time to celebrate. Two weeks of leave—Florida, here I come! It had been several weeks since I had slept more than two or three hours in a day, but I was so high on adrenalin that I drove straight through from Portsmouth, New Hampshire to Clearwater, Florida—32 hours!

       Par-r-r-r-t-y! Yeah, I was bad in more ways than one. I was a train wreck looking for a place to happen.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

       Approaching my re-enlistment date, I applied to cross-train into Computer Programming. I scheduled the necessary aptitude test to be accepted. While working the midnight to 8:00 a.m. shift the morning of my test date, I came down with a bad case of the chills. I curled up in the floorboard of the Security Alert Team truck, shivering violently. I was not going to miss that test! It would be a couple of months before another examination appointment, and I was primed to get out of Security Police—PRONTO!

       Sick as I can ever remember being, and with no sleep, I did take the test that morning. I didn’t score quite high enough to become a computer programmer, but in my delirium, I did meet the requirement to become a computer operator. I was off to Quantico Marine Base for Joint Services Computer Operations Technical School. And, of course—more partying!