Right Place, Right Time

The cold rain continued to run past my shirt collar and down my back. I was standing in a hard persistent drizzle, my gaze fixed on a colorful advertisement displayed in a store window. The words were seducing me, calling me. Much like sirens to Odysseus suggesting I enter the store and sign-up for an all-expenses-paid, six-week vacation to San Antonio, Texas.

​Whaat? This has got to be a mistake. It can’t be true. No way!

High school graduation was fast approaching and I had not a clue what I was gonna do. Quicker than a sneeze through a screen door, I was inside the store signing-up for what I thought was the vacation of a lifetime. A nice, clean-shaven young man helped me complete the application - all four pages. After the last ‘t’ was crossed and the last ‘i’ was dotted, the man shook my hand and assured me all systems were a 'Go!' for my trip to Texas. Lastly he told me there would be a three-month wait before I’d get my plane ticket, mainly because there were a whole lot of applicants.

Early in October, thanks to good ol’ Mr. Carlson our mailman, the ticket arrived in our mailbox. I’d never been so excited. A week later, my parents and I were on our way to Chicago to the airport. Dad repeated over and over that he’d never seen so many cars and one after another he inhaled his non-filter Camels. Eventually, after a few big-city struggles, we found ourselves in the airport lobby. Mom hugged and kissed me and cried a lot. My Dad? He gave me a manly handshake and commenced to squeeze the life out of me with a bear hug. Both of them wished me well and said, “Have fun and be safe!” or something like that.
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As my fellow passengers and I cruised upwards over the farms of Illinois, I couldn’t have felt better. Excitement was radiating from every pore of my body. Finally I was Alamo-bound. A few hours later the plane touched down and skidded to a stop. I gathered my bag from the overhead as quickly as I could and deplaned. Not more than ten steps into the terminal I was confronted by a rather tall man, a man in uniform. He grabbed my hand, gave it a few shakes, and said with a giant smile, “Kerns, Byron! Welcome to the United States Air Force!”

I said, “Whaat?”

Looking back, I reckon I should have read the fine print on that damn four-page application. But, what the heck, things worked out okay. Instead of an all-expenses paid, six-week vacation, I received the opportunity to attend USAF boot camp and show-off a shaved head. Boy, there sure are some days I’d like to forget, but there are many days I prefer to remember. Like the day a huge stranger barged into our classroom, shoved our Drill Instructor aside, and bellowed, “Who wants to become an Air Force Survival Instructor?” His uniform was immaculate. The creases in his fatigues could slice paper. His boots were spit-shined beyond the definition of shiny. Around his neck was a blue ascot and his trousers were neatly bloused. On his head? An olive-drab ballcap with the word SURVIVAL. In white embroidery. Despite his neatness of attire, the stranger looked like he could rip our Drill Instructor to shreds.

“Those that want to be an Air Force Survival Instructor, follow me!” the stranger shouted as he abruptly walked away. I stood and followed the man without the slightest hesitation and with nary a glance at my Drill Instructor. The man led me and a few others into a cavernous, dimmed room where dozens of recruits were sitting cross-legged on the floor. A slide projector was flashing images, one after the other, onto a large, screen. I found an open spot, sat down, crossed my legs, and began watching an amazing show of snow-capped mountains, parachute canopies stretched tight above campfires, men wearing backpacks and snowshoes, forests and trees smothered in snow, a skinned rabbit roasting over a fire, airplanes and jets and helicopters of every description, jungle scenes with camouflaged faces, an ocean scene with men battling waves in orange life rafts, and men walking in a desert dressed in clothes made from parachute material. I could not believe what I was seeing. Never had I seen anything like this before.

Without warning the screen went blank and the overhead lights blasted on full bright. As my vision adjusted, I discovered the stranger was standing right next to me.  I dared not look at him for fear he’d snatch me up, bite my head off, and spit down my throat. I surely didn’t want that to happen. Then, the stranger hollered, “All you recruits who thought my slide show stunk like the ass end of a skunk, return to your Drill Instructors! Do it! Do it now!” More than half the audience quickly disappeared. I stayed put.

​The stranger told those of us remaining a bit about himself and went on to explain what an Air Force Survival Instructor did and what the job was all about. He finished by saying there would only be thirty of us selected, and not all selected would complete the difficult training. Once the man had his say, he gave us a test. Multiple choice and there must have been a hundred questions. Questions about wilderness skills and survival knowledge, the different regions of our planet, war and the military and combat, stuff like that. To be honest, I guessed at most of them. After the test was over, a team of men wearing heavy-looking, black-rimmed glasses and white lab coats - the four could have been brothers - messed with our heads. One at a time one of the men took one of us into a small room the size of a broom closet and asked an assortment of strange and weird and personal questions, like have you ever had sex with an armadillo? Or, have you ever wanted to jump off a 300-foot cliff? Then, it was over. “Go back to your Drill Instructors! Do it! Do it now!”
 
The remaining weeks of boot camp flowed like thick gravy. Drill. Physical fitness. The rifle range. More physical fitness. More drill. Classroom lectures. Organization. Fold this and fold that. Polish. Clean this and clean that. March. March back and forth. Eat. Three meals a day. Polish more. Think of home and write letters. Drill. Drill more. “Yes, Sergeant.” “No, Sergeant.” Stuff like that. Over and over.
 
With two weeks of boot camp to go, scuttlebutt was in the air. About our orders - the official paperwork describing Air Force job assignments. Maybe they were coming soon, maybe not. A majority of recruits had guarantees. They knew what their job would be. Me? I enlisted on an ‘open status’ and the Air Force could give me any damn job they saw fit. Now that I knew such a thing as a Survival Instructor existed, I was sure hoping somebody would think that was the Air Force job for me.
 
A the beginning of the last week of boot camp, our Drill Instructor marched us over to the front of the main administration building. After putting us at parade rest, he disappeared through a side door. My fellow recruits and I stood. Waiting and fidgeting. Thinking this was the big moment. In a very short time, our Drill Instructor returned, accompanied by a skinny, bespectacled two-striper holding a neat stack of large manila envelopes in his arms. “Flight, atten-shun! Flight, at ease! When you hear your name called, come and get your envelope. You will return to your place in formation and you will not, I repeat, you will not open your envelope until I say so. Do you understand?” The other recruits and I shouted, “Yes, Sergeant!” in perfect unison.
 
Per military parlance, the distribution of the envelopes was done alphabetically. Since I’m a K, I’m usually darn near in the middle when stuff like this happens. So I waited some. Eventually my name was called and I quickly and excitedly maneuvered sideways and forward to retrieve my envelope. And, just as quickly, with envelope in hand, I returned to my place in the ranks. There I stood and watched as my fellow recruits were called forward. Finally, the last envelope, the envelope on the bottom, was given to a guy named Zitoli. “Recruits!" hollered our Drill Instructor. "Listen and listen well. You will not open your envelope until 1900 tomorrow. That’s 7 p.m. for all you non-military types. Not a peek before then! Flight, atten-shun! Flight, left face! Flight, forward march!”
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Off we went, having to wait. Marching in grumpy way. Then, after about fifteen-minutes of grumpy marching, our Drill Instructor hollered for us to stop and stand at ease. With a sh*t-eating grin he said in a human-like manner, “Open your envelopes!” We all cheered. Silently.

I carefully ripped the end off my envelope, reached in, and removed a packet of paper. After only reading a bit, I had the bodacious urge to jump for joy. My orders were for Air Force Survival Instructor School, Fairchild AFB, Spokane, Washington. Attached was a list of exactly thirty names. And, there was mine, Kerns, Byron, alphabetically placed and highlighted in yellow. Out of nowhere I got the shakes and started quivering all over. I suddenly realized I was holding what had to be the greatest ticket of opportunity in the world: the opportunity to become a United States Air Force Survival Instructor. I couldn’t wait to tell my parents.

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