Please enjoy an excerpt from a mostly true story. Four adult leaders and seventeen scouts had arrived at the training area early on a Saturday morning. There I stood waiting. My mission? To provide them with instruction in the art of wilderness survival so each scout could earn a wilderness survival merit badge. There’s a bunch of requirements for the badge, about a dozen or so. One requirement is that each scout must create a personal survival kit and explain its contents. The show-and-tell of the kits would begin at 9 am, on Sunday morning, on Day Two, after the scouts’ breakfast. It was a time I looked forward to, seeing what the kids had brought. Before a fella could say that long word from Mary Poppins, Day One was gone. Sunday had appeared full of sunshine and chirping birds. Using the time, I moved my truck to a better patch of shade. Then put a two-burner Coleman stove on the tailgate and started brewing a pot of coffee. Next, I settled into my favorite camping chair and waited. Waited for the coffee to finish and the arrival of seventeen youngsters. Right about when I was pouring my first cup of coffee, I caught a glimpse of the scouts. They were heading my way faster than beans through a cowboy. The adults? Hardly moving. Finally the cats were herded and the group assembled. The boys ended up being lined up in a fairly straight line starting at the back of the truck. Just when things were looking halfway organized, a tussle broke out for first in line. But that ended quickly when Scoutmaster Ted put his boy in front. I bit my tongue. From out of nowhere, from out of the blue, a scout leader leaned over and poked his head in front of my face. He was demanding I look at his personal survival kit first. Before anyone else. Whaat? “Look at it, survival guy!” the man demanded as he held out an Altoid tin. “There’s a lot of stuff in this tiny box! And I can open it quick. Watch! Watch me! I’m gonna open it!” “Sir,” I whispered. “What is your name?” “Ernie. Folks call me Ernie,” the man said. ”Ernie, do you have a metal canteen cup in that Altoid tin?” “Well, no, no I don’t. That item completely slipped my mind.” “Ernie,” I continued. “Do you have a grilled hotdog on a bun slathered with mustard in your pants pocket? "Well, I'm pretty sure I don't," Ernie answered. "Then you’d better get the you-know-what away from me this very instant.” Ernie looked at me like his best friend had died. Then, after double-checking all his pockets, he went straight to his chair and sat down. “Alright, young man,” I said to Scoutmaster Ted’s son. “Show me your personal survival kit.” “I can’t,” the boy said in a most direct way. “My dad forgot it.” “Ted,” I said, looking to my immediate right. “Is it true what your boy says?” “Well, of course it’s true! He ain’t no danged liar.” Ted winked at his boy. “You’ll still give him credit for this requirement won’t you Mister Merit Badge Counselor?” The nerve of this guy. Straight into my eyes he was staring, waiting for an answer. I glanced at his boy and he was staring at me too, wearing a devilish grin. No matter what I said, Scoutmaster Ted would win ‘cause he had access to all the merit badge paperwork. “Sure, no problem Ted. No problem at all. Have it your way. Next boy, please!” The kits of boys #2 through #14 were terrific and each boy explained their contents well. Boys #15 through #17, the last in line, were a whole different story. These boys were at the rear for a reason. They were the youngest. Before me stood boy #15, holding a red, draw-stringed bag bulging with stuff. I asked him to empty the bag’s contents onto my tailgate. “No way!” the boy exclaimed. “That would be crazy. If I take that stuff out of this bag, I’ll never get all back in.” “Dump your bag!” I said, maybe a tad too roughly and toughly 'cause the kid got angry. Real angry. So much that he was clenching his fists, shuffling his feet, and calling me names like Potato Head and Snake Crawler. I looked in the direction of the adult leaders for help. Scoutmaster Ted sauntered over and led the boy away, telling him everything would be okay. "That kid with Ted, that’s Benny Smith’s kid," Ernie stated with a smile. "The boy’s been acting like an absolute nut case lately.” “Why? Did something happen to him?” I asked. “Well,” Ernie replied, “I reckon maybe it’s because of his daddy. He got fired from his job a couple weeks back.” “Oh no,” I said. “That’s awful. Did his dad do something bad?” “That boy’s daddy worked for years at the juice factory. Maybe he just worked too hard. Rumor has it ol’ Benny got to where he couldn’t concentrate any more and they let him go.” Ernie slapped his thigh and brayed like a jackass. “That’s funny ain’t it?” he said with a snort. I instantly wanted to maim him. After slowly counting to ten I said, “Next boy!” Boy #16 was a tiny fellow, barely four-foot tall. In front of me he stood. Deftly tossing a 32-ounce dark blue aluminum water bottle back and forth, one hand to the other, in a sideways juggle. “Toss the bottle here, son,” I said as I held my hands outwards, palms up. A gentle underhand toss would have been nice. Instead, the boy wound-up like a Major League baseball pitcher and delivered the bottle with surprising velocity directly at my face. Before I could block it, the bottle ricocheted off my forehead above my right eye. “Nice throw!” I said. “You should have stood closer, then you could have knocked me out!” Taking a bandana from my rear pocket, I applied direct pressure to the wound to halt the bleeding which was moderate. With my other hand I reached down and picked up the boy’s bottle. Attached was a white tag. After reading it, all I could barely mutter was, “Damn.” I was holding a personal survival kit purchased for $39.95 at Sammy’s Surplus Store. “What’s in the water bottle?” I asked boy #16. “Tell me. Please.” “Ain’t gonna happen, sir,” the boy replied in a matter-of-fact way. “Truth is I haven’t a dern clue what’s in that bottle. Mom gave it to me after school last Thursday and told me not to open it because she’s taking it back tomorrow so she can get her money back.” The boy finished his explanation with his arms crossed. I had a giant desire to throw the bottle back at the kid, hard, really hard, but instead I gently handed him the bottle and told him to get lost. There before me, finally, stood the last scout, boy #17. I heartily shook the youngster’s hand and congratulated him for his patience for waiting in line so long. The boy's grasp was weak, but his voice strong. "Hi Mr. Kerns! I'm Timmy Williams, the youngest scout in Troop 318, and I'm super pleased to meet you! I haven't been ten years old much more than two weeks and my muscles are already getting bigger and I really, really like the scouts and wild animals, bears especially, and I like trees and clouds and dirt and moun...." “OK, Timmy, all that’s swell. Really swell. But could you please show me your personal survival kit?” He handed me a rectangular box - a small metal suitcase of sorts. A checkerboard design of red and white one-inch squares completely covered the box. As an added touch, pink poodles were roller skating all over the place. I was holding a case meant to hold roller skates and now it was supposedly full of survival items. I returned the case to Timmy, asking him to open it. And that’s when the dam broke. The little guy started crying. “Sorry, Mr. Kerns. The key isn’t with me. I plumb forgot it. And I been standing in line this whole time knowing it. I’m really sorry, Mr. Kerns.” “It’s alright, son,” I said. “No worries. Everything will be okay.” “No, it won’t! I worked hard on every item in this box. Even made a gill net using the seven strands of line from inside parachute cord. I could go on and on telling you about the things I got in this box.” The boy was serious. Survival serious. He meant every word. I gently took the box from Timmy’s grasp and in several seconds, using the tip of my knife, the lock was picked. The boy’s smile would have melted butter. For twenty minutes I let the last scout, Timmy Williams, go on and on. Talking and talking about his personal survival kit. Without a doubt, his was the best of the day. Not long after the event I did some snooping. Timmy's poodle box wouldn’t leave me alone. I was amazed at what I found out. The box, the case, whatever ya wanna call it, belonged to a three-time National Roller-Skating Champion. And that person was Timmy’s grandmother. Damn. The boy never even mentioned it. Not once. In my book Timmy Williams is a champion too. A champion full of moxie. Wouldn’t have caught me messing with pink poodles when I was ten.
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When I'm in the mood to stir up a little trouble, I present my students with a scenario that goes something like this: “You are comfortably asleep in a Leer jet flying high above the Canadian wilderness. Onboard are a pilot, a co-pilot, and yourself. All is good. Until the aircraft crashes brutally in the forest. When you come to, you instinctively check yourself for injuries. There are none. Slowly you crawl past two severed heads and exit the damaged aircraft. About the time your feet hit the ground, the front section of the plane erupts in fire. Tell me. Tell me now. What are you going to do?" Please take out your notepad and start writing your answer. You have ten minutes.” Without delay, each student starts writing like their writing hand is on fire. Sentence after sentence. At the ten-minute mark most are still writing. Two ask for more time. “Time’s up!” I announce. “Please hand me your papers.” “Mr. Kerns are you going to grade them?” a lady asks. “You know, give each of us a score like an A or a B.” “No, ma’am,” I politely answer. “It’s gonna be pass or fail.” I laboriously read every submission and announced the results: “All of you failed.” I immediately sensed the students were not happy. The lady who asked about the grading? Wow was she ever giving me the stink eye. All were expressing their disproval one way or another and it took me an eternity to calm ‘em down. “Each of you should have written only eight words.” They stared at me like I was crazy. “How in the Sam Hill do you know what you would have done?” I asked, waving my arms all around my head. “You aren’t even there! You aren’t in Canada! You haven’t been in a horrible and deadly aircraft crash! You aren’t smelling bodies burning! You’re here! In the state of Georgia!” An older lady held up her hand. “What are the eight words, Byron?” “I do not know, I was not there." The lady and the others suddenly stopped looking at me like I was crazy. They got it. They understood. The reality is you’ll never know for certain what your will to survive will be until you are smack-dab in the middle of a wilderness survival situation. Will you panic? Will you give up? Will your attitude be positive? Will you help yourself and others? Your will to survive, no matter the overwhelming obstacles, is your desire to live. Never have I forgot the day I went with Dad to Benny’s Barbershop. We were waiting to get our haircuts and I was reading a magazine. The article was about a logger who accidentally sawed off his leg with a chainsaw, from the knee down. Then, the guy went and crawled two miles through some woods for help. That’s when I got my first inkling of a person’s will to survive. Since then, I’ve read hundreds of stories about people and their will to survive. On the flip side, I’ve read plenty of stories about folks who have received some of the best survival training money can buy and still gave up and died during a survival situation. Go figure. Back in 2003, a fella got his arm trapped by a large boulder in a Utah canyon. After being trapped several days with very little water, the man escaped by breaking his trapped arm and amputating it with a knife. He then hiked seven miles to safety. The media got wind of the man’s survival story and it wasn’t long before my phone started ringing. Reporters were phoning from all over the world asking, “What would you have done Byron under those circumstances?” The callers were friendly and sweet as pie. But only at the first part of each call. Looking back, maybe them reporters were trying to butter me up. Well, anyways, you should have heard their responses after they went and asked, “What would you have done Byron?” and I answered with “I don’t know, I wasn’t there.” Wow! Each of them turned into a birdbrain that wanted to bite my head off. Shucks, one reporter from New York City angrily exclaimed, “How dare you waste my time, you f***ing hillbilly!” That’s what she said, right before disconnecting. My feelings were crushed, but only for a second. Thank goodness for the will to survive. A contest was held a few years back and people from all across America did what the contest rules said to do: submit your funniest video of your best survival tool. Six months later the judges had themselves a winner. A winner who widely surpassed every other entrant. His name was Wheaty McRipp and he was a fourth-generation woodchopper from West Virginia. There on my laptop was Wheaty, all five-foot-two of him, standing and talking to the camera. “I’ll tell ya what the best survival tool is,” Wheaty exclaimed with an air of bravado. “It’s my right hand. This here right hand of mine can chop through anything!” With nary a hint of nonsense, Wheaty violently sliced his right hand through the air. “Imagine what this hand could do in a survival situation!” Strutting like a peacock, Wheaty approached a nearby, three-board fence. With his back straight as an arrow and with shoulders over heels, Wheaty raised his right arm, screamed several Japanese words, and swished his right hand straight down, karate-chopping the top board of the wooden fence. Wheaty screamed. This time in English. And he hopped around a good bit, all bent over, holding his right hand. I got to admit, when I observed Wheaty’s face after he hit that board, I started laughing and feeling sorry for Wheaty at the same time. He had apparently broken his best survival tool. It turned out there was more to the story. Witnesses say once Wheaty painfully packed up his camera gear, he sped off in his car and didn’t get more than 50-yards up the road when he went and hit a telephone pole, head-on. Wheaty emerged from the car, blood dripping all over the place, mumbling, “That will be the last time I drive left-handed.” Hopefully one day Wheaty McRip will understand and know that a person’s best survival tool is his or her brain. Because the brain makes decisions. Preferably good decisions. But, who knows, Wheaty McRipp might be the exception to the rule.` I met the trapper quite by accident up on the side of a wooded hill. I was hiking when I spotted him and both of us stopped doing what we were doing and looked at each other a spell. The trapper spoke first. “I am Wild Coyote Bill who lives on the hill! How do you do!” “I’m well, thank you,” I replied. “My name is Mountain Goat Byron. Just call me Goat.” “Well, if that’s the way it’s gonna be, call me Wild, plain ol’ Wild,” the man said cheerfully as he reached his hand toward mine for a shake. I quickly stepped back. “Sorry about that, Goat! Forgot my hand was a bloody mess. I trap using blood. Fresh-smellin’, rabbit blood. Hey, got a minute? I wanna show ya somethin’ up at the cabin. Ain’t too far.” We walked sideways on the hill a distance, then up. There in a tiny meadow sat a dilapidated log cabin. Every outside wall of the small structure was blanketed with what appeared to be coyote pelts. The trapper seen me staring and said with a smile, “I like dogs.” “See this big ol’ log layin’ here?” Wild asked. “It’s a part of one of my coyote traps. Right here in my front yard. How about that?” I noticed a large stain on top of the log. A large red stain right near the middle. It look like dried blood. “Once ya got a big ol’ log like this one with the bark left on, ya need a razor blade. Ya put it in the log like this.” Deftly, the trapper inserted the razor blade into a fissure of the log’s bark, wedging it sharp edge up in the middle of the crimson patch. The man retrieved a clear bag from his coat pocket. “Fresh rabbit blood,” the trapper said as he poured the entire contents onto the razor blade. “The trap’s set! No more to do but get away a bit and watch. Don’t usually take long. Not long at all.” We walked over to a nice carpet of grass, fifty yards or so away, and sat down. And from there we watched. Sooner than an old guy has to pee at night, a healthy-looking coyote boldly walked up to the log and began licking the blood. Steady-like. Then rapid-like. Then ravenous-like. Licking and licking until he was licking his own blood. Because of the razor blade. Unexpectedly, the trapper stood up and took off running. In seconds Mr. Quicker-Than-the-Dickens Wild Coyote Bill was standing behind the coyote holding an axe handle. With one swing the trapper crushed the coyote’s skull. “Supper be ready soon. Coyote and grits. Ya stayin’?” the trapper asked. “Jeez, I’m sorry Mister," I said. "The wife’s fixing hot dogs and fries.” “Well, so be it young fella. Nice meetin’ ya!” I waved and went down the hill a changed man. Ever since that fella that day, the word coyote has me seeing red. Sometimes what you’re looking for is right in front of your face. At other times what you’re looking for can be hidden. Being a talented observer in the wilderness can be critical to your safety and the safety of others. When in the wilderness the astute observer will locate and memorize an assortment of wilderness details, including landmarks and unique geographical features. Learn to be a keen observer to the best of your ability, every step of your life. One day years back I wanted to do a test, so I spaced out six one-hundred-dollar bills, hanging from branches, along a flat stretch of the Appalachian Trail. Thirty-three hikers, four dogs, and a Boy Scout Troop of eleven passed by all six bills and didn’t see a one. Look around folks. Be observant to the best of your ability. And understand that observing can take place anywhere. Even at a barbershop. Rodney, an Air Force buddy of mine, came back to the dorm one afternoon from getting a haircut at the base barbershop and I could barely control my laughter. Several large patches of hair were missing. His haircut was absolutely horrible. “If you go to the barbershop, don’t get the barber who’s missing two fingers on his left hand! Whatever you do, don’t get that guy!” Rodney stared into a mirror and started to cry. Two days later I needed to use the same barbershop. I entered the rather lengthy establishment, pulled off ticket #37, and took a seat along the wall. Slowly and methodically my eyes went down the line, scanning the hands of eleven barbers. The farthest chair, station twelve, was without a barber. What a chore observing hands turned out to be, especially when trying to see the hands of barbers far away. I asked the guy sitting next to me if he would hold my seat and he said he would. I walked down a ways to take a closer look and returned to my seat confident that all barbers present were wearing the right number of fingers. I was happy with my observations. The bad barber was not in the building. “Number 37. You’re next!” a barber hollered from down near station eight. I got up, approached the barber, looked at his hands, and counted. All his fingers were there. Not a digit missing. I bounded into the chair and the barber began cutting my hair. Right about the time I was slipping into a sweet sleep, the barber threw up, and the smell was horrendous. I carefully extracted myself from the chair, stepping cautiously. The manager quickly came up to me, offered an apology, and led me to another chair where a barber was standing at the ready. In a matter of minutes, the new barber was cutting away and talking it up. He said his name was Stan. And went on to say my previous barber, Tommy, had been having a heck of a time keeping food down. I totally agreed. At first opportunity I closed my eyes and slipped off to sleep. “Hey, buddy! How should I cut your hair in front?” The barber’s voice startled me, my eyes went wide open and I could not believe what I was seeing. Laying across the top of my forehead was a hand. A hand missing two fingers. I stared upwards and cross-eyed in disbelief. “The front is fine sir,” I said. “Just leave it alone.” The damage was done. Fingers finished and I slid out of the chair, looked in the mirror, and screamed. “Hope you’re screaming for joy, buddy!” exclaimed Fingers. “Because you’re only as good as your last haircut!” Many moons have come and gone since that day with Fingers, and over the years my observations have greatly improved. But lately, I reckon ‘cause old age is upon me, I’ve been having a serious problem. A problem that's messing with my powers of observation. Realized it awhile back while I was playing golf with my friend Max. After teeing off Max asked, “Did you see where my ball went to?” “I did Max! I observed your ball roll to a complete stop!” “Great! Could you show me where it is?” Max asked. “Well, Max, I would if I could, but I can’t remember where the damn thing stopped!” When the written test is administered at the end of a class, well, it’s like the icing on a cake. I don’t have to do it, but I do it ‘cause it’s the right thing to do. Doing a test and all. Besides that, it’s a fun time, especially when I ask questions about things I never even covered. Questions like “What is a mukluk?” “What kind of bird did this feather in my cowboy hat come from?” And “Why did I improvise this item?” I hold up a small can with a string attached and wiggle it around. Stuff like that. During the class students also have opportunities to earn points from various survival challenges. At the end the points are totaled - written test plus challenge points - to determine the class top scorer who receives not only bragging rights but also a gift of some sorts. Not too long ago at the end of a class the top scorer was two people (working as one team) - an active-duty Army man and his teenaged son. They were absolutely thrilled to have won and the other students applauded them with gusto. After the gear was gathered, the students followed me to the cabin where on the porch they were awarded Certificates of Completion, complete with a congratulatory handshake. “Now what about them top scorers? I queried. “Let me run into the cabin and fetch their gift.” Quickly I ducked in the door and came out holding a propane fuel cylinder. “Here ya go!” I said as I handed the item to the Sgt. First Class. He and his boy smiled and thanked me. It got a good laugh from all. Then I ducked back in the cabin and came out carrying a Coleman two-burner stove still sealed in its store-bought box. “Here! Ya might need this too.” There were cheers, the crowd went crazy. I heard nothing as I watched the Army fella tear up. We walked together to the vehicles, happy and fulfilled. Goodbyes were said and off they went, driving away down our lane. All except two. The Army man and his son. The man approached and shook (crushed) my hand, hugged me and said, “This class was good.” Then, damn if he didn’t start to cry. “Being in the Army, deploying, I don’t get to see my son as much as I’d like. And here this weekend, me and my boy, we won! We won! Together!” Hell, about this time I was tearing up too. I love what I do and the magic that happens. Pete, a long-time friend of mine, made the magnanimous decision to take his wife camping. Betty, his wife, had never been before. It would be her first time. Being such a good and wonderful husband, Pete’s thoughts became laser-focused on selecting a charming campground that would be a perfect match for his sweetheart. His requirements were four-fold: 1) the selected campground must have modern amenities, like toilets and sinks and mirrors and showers with nary a cobweb or spider; 2) there must rise from the selected campground stately pine trees with pine needles scattered everywhere on lush green grass; 3) there must be a white sandy beach on a beautiful lake; and, 4) a quaint rustic store must be on the grounds selling a variety of items, like ice and firewood and candy and popsicles and brightly-colored swimming noodles and for sure a good variety of ‘Look-Where-I-Been’ T-shirts. Maybe a selection of pretty postcards too. A nice, clean, easy-to-set-up, modern, roomy tent. Check. An inflatable queen-size mattress. Check. Cozy sleeping bags. Check. Two fluffy pillows. Check. A working nicely Coleman stove with a full propane bottle. Check. A working-nicely Coleman lantern with a full propane bottle. And extra mantles. Check. Check. Food, plates, silverware, pots and pans, and paper towels. Check. A large cooler packed full of Betty’s favorite drinks and crammed with ice. Check. Eight bologna sandwiches with cheese, all made-up on wheat bread. Check. Mustard. Check. Ten bags of rippled chips. Check. A gallon of French onion dip. Check. Pete did his best to think of everything that would bring happiness to his darling Betty. He wanted her to be a happy camper. The camping weekend finally arrived. And off they went. Two lovebirds flying down the highway, wind in their hair (except Pete’s bald), with their car packed full of happy stuff. After a drive of several hours, the darling couple pulled through the flower-filled entrance of the campground. Betty couldn’t stop saying, “Wow!” She was absolutely thrilled at how pretty the campground was and how peaceful the lake looked. At their designated site, Pete and Betty quickly got to work. Together they put up the tent and inflated the mattress. Together they spread their sleeping bags out, making things look all cozy looking. Together they did this and that, one chore after another. They were a team and having fun, laughing and giggling. One could say they were happily oozing happiness. They were feeling good ‘cause together they had put their camping stuff in perfect camping places. They sat in the tent, holding hands, smiling. Then, not more than five minutes later, at about 4 pm, the rain came. And came hard. Unrelenting might describe the cold droplets. It got to raining so hard, no kiddin’, the forest critters started pairing up. Betty was squeezing Pete’s hand so hard that Pete’s fingers were turning white. Together they sat. Together they huddled. And huddled and huddled, until just shy of midnight when the rain and thunder and flashes of light stopped and things got eerily quiet. Through all the raging rain drops, the loud kabooms, and scary cracks, Pete’s wife did … well, she didn’t do so good. She didn’t do good at all. Quite frankly, she screamed her head off damn near eight hours straight. A major rule of camping for dudes: If you are taking your wife camping for her very first time, be sure to check the weather before leaving home. Pete claims to never have heard of such a rule. But, he tells me he has learned from his mistake. When he takes his new wife Charlene camping he’s gonna make sure and check the weather before leaving home. 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. 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!” 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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