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Air Force Days articles
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July 2006
I want to say it, but it’s almost as if I haven’t earned the right. I mean, yes, I’m a veteran of the U.S.
Air Force, both active duty and the guard. But that was years ago. Twenty-one, to be exact. Back
then, when I joined the Air Force, it was more of an “ooo-lah-lah” sort of thing. A decent wage,
free food, free housing, free medical, free dental; all in exchange for my service. As a weather
observer stationed in Anchorage, Alaska, the term became more of an “ooo … ahh …” sort of
thing. The first time I saw the Northern Lights, I stood there like a dummy trying to figure out how
high it was. I thought it was a cloud layer that needed reporting on my hourly observation.
Not long after that, the term became more of an “ooo-waah” sort of thing. I’m not proud of the
times I whined during my Air Force stint. We all whined at one time or another. Rotating shifts,
mind-numbing cold winters in Alaska, military logic that still, to this day, makes me wonder. Oh, I
whined as I scraped ice from my car’s windshield, then had to scrape it from the inside of the
windshield, then had to hurry back out to re-scrape the outside again. Whine, whine, whine. But
hey. I was young. And just a wee bit stupid. I’ll blame it on that.
After my enlistment ran its course, the term became more of a “oh, whew” sort of thing. I received
my official release papers from the DOD in June of 1990, just weeks before Saddam kicked up his
hijinks in Kuwait. Then, watching the TV coverage of the buildup of Desert Shield, I found myself
whispering, “Oh, wow,” on more than one occasion. But then, not long after that, I heard it. The
term of all terms in the way it was meant to be said.
Hoo-ahh.
Brings a shiver of “oh, yeah” to my soul. Hoo-ahh. The most positively awesome term for
describing that ultimate moment. That ultimate feeling. That ultimate adventure. That grunt of … oh,
yeah.
But then it started to morph. I started hearing all kinds of variations. Hoo-rah. Hoo-uhh. Then just
hooah. And now? Well, I’m at a loss to spell the term y’all rawl these days. Can you help me out?
If I was to write a novel based on your adventures in Iraq, Afghanistan, and around the world
today, how would my character speak the word, grunt the grunt, rawl the hoo-ahh so it sounds just
like y’all would rawl?
Seriously. I want to get this right.
And even though I have a feeling the term was first used by a soldier or a Marine, is it okay for an
old Air Force vet like me to borrow it and use it on occasion when no other word will do? You
know what I mean. Sometimes the only word that will work in a given situation is the word cool.
(Though I do try to avoid use of the word neat. I’m not that stuck in the eighties.) Yes. Cool is a
word that will always remain a permanent part of my vocabulary.
But at those moments when I read or hear about the awesome things you all are doing in places all
over this planet to help others live in freedom and security, I feel that shiver of “oh, yeah” start to
build. The only two ways for me to express this shiver is to either stand in place and bounce up
and down like an idiot, or to simply whisper the term to myself. “Hoo-ahh.”
Sometimes I want to shout it from the rooftop.
Sometimes I even want to thump on my chest, as if to punctuate the hoo-ahh with the fact that it
springs up from the bottom of my heart.
Hoo-ahh, y’all. Thump thump. Please know this one is for you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
You doctors, nurses, and medical support staff; you folks back away from the front lines who make
everything fall into place; you all out on those front lines; all of you at home waiting desperately
for your loved ones to return; and especially all of you who have paid the ultimate price. To all of
you in command, all the way up to our Commander In Chief.
Hoo-ahh. Thump thump.
Thank you.
I want to say it, but it’s almost as if I haven’t earned the right. I mean, yes, I’m a veteran of the U.S.
Air Force, both active duty and the guard. But that was years ago. Twenty-one, to be exact. Back
then, when I joined the Air Force, it was more of an “ooo-lah-lah” sort of thing. A decent wage,
free food, free housing, free medical, free dental; all in exchange for my service. As a weather
observer stationed in Anchorage, Alaska, the term became more of an “ooo … ahh …” sort of
thing. The first time I saw the Northern Lights, I stood there like a dummy trying to figure out how
high it was. I thought it was a cloud layer that needed reporting on my hourly observation.
Not long after that, the term became more of an “ooo-waah” sort of thing. I’m not proud of the
times I whined during my Air Force stint. We all whined at one time or another. Rotating shifts,
mind-numbing cold winters in Alaska, military logic that still, to this day, makes me wonder. Oh, I
whined as I scraped ice from my car’s windshield, then had to scrape it from the inside of the
windshield, then had to hurry back out to re-scrape the outside again. Whine, whine, whine. But
hey. I was young. And just a wee bit stupid. I’ll blame it on that.
After my enlistment ran its course, the term became more of a “oh, whew” sort of thing. I received
my official release papers from the DOD in June of 1990, just weeks before Saddam kicked up his
hijinks in Kuwait. Then, watching the TV coverage of the buildup of Desert Shield, I found myself
whispering, “Oh, wow,” on more than one occasion. But then, not long after that, I heard it. The
term of all terms in the way it was meant to be said.
Hoo-ahh.
Brings a shiver of “oh, yeah” to my soul. Hoo-ahh. The most positively awesome term for
describing that ultimate moment. That ultimate feeling. That ultimate adventure. That grunt of … oh,
yeah.
But then it started to morph. I started hearing all kinds of variations. Hoo-rah. Hoo-uhh. Then just
hooah. And now? Well, I’m at a loss to spell the term y’all rawl these days. Can you help me out?
If I was to write a novel based on your adventures in Iraq, Afghanistan, and around the world
today, how would my character speak the word, grunt the grunt, rawl the hoo-ahh so it sounds just
like y’all would rawl?
Seriously. I want to get this right.
And even though I have a feeling the term was first used by a soldier or a Marine, is it okay for an
old Air Force vet like me to borrow it and use it on occasion when no other word will do? You
know what I mean. Sometimes the only word that will work in a given situation is the word cool.
(Though I do try to avoid use of the word neat. I’m not that stuck in the eighties.) Yes. Cool is a
word that will always remain a permanent part of my vocabulary.
But at those moments when I read or hear about the awesome things you all are doing in places all
over this planet to help others live in freedom and security, I feel that shiver of “oh, yeah” start to
build. The only two ways for me to express this shiver is to either stand in place and bounce up
and down like an idiot, or to simply whisper the term to myself. “Hoo-ahh.”
Sometimes I want to shout it from the rooftop.
Sometimes I even want to thump on my chest, as if to punctuate the hoo-ahh with the fact that it
springs up from the bottom of my heart.
Hoo-ahh, y’all. Thump thump. Please know this one is for you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
You doctors, nurses, and medical support staff; you folks back away from the front lines who make
everything fall into place; you all out on those front lines; all of you at home waiting desperately
for your loved ones to return; and especially all of you who have paid the ultimate price. To all of
you in command, all the way up to our Commander In Chief.
Hoo-ahh. Thump thump.
Thank you.
August 2006
All the Pretty Rainbows.
That’s what they called us. Do they still? And no wonder. As we were ordered off the bus and
took our first few hurried steps across the dusty pavement at Lackland Air Force Base, we looked
the part of the normal society we left behind. Most of us wore jeans, khakis, or shorts. We all wore
multi-colored T-shirts of some sort, or blouses, or tank tops. On our feet were everything from
hiking boots to sneakers with holes in them to sandals to hot-pink flip flops.
No wonder they called us Rainbows.
Standing on that dusty pavement, lugging my suitcase and trying to keep the butterflies in my
stomach from exploding, I knew one thing for sure. There was nothing normal about this society. I
had signed on that dotted line. I was now property of the U.S. government.
And hey. You know what they say about memories. We tend to forget the bad and only remember
the good. That’s why, twenty-one years later, I can sit here in my recliner wearing an orange and
yellow tie-dyed T-shirt and say, “You know? Basic Training wasn’t that bad. It was actually
almost fun. At times.”
Yes, it was fun to sleep on a bed halfway down a line of fifteen other beds. With fifteen more beds
across the room. And thirty more in the room beside us.
Yes, it was fun to be awakened every morning by the sounds of flushing toilets echoing across the
huge open dormitory as the early birds got a head start on the day.
Yes, it was fun to always have to line up in four lines, hearing for the twenty millionth time, “If
you’re taller than the person in front of you, tap that person on the shoulder and move up.”
Yes. It was fun to squirm on my belly through an open tunnel of sand enclosed above my head by
strings of barbed wire. I about died when I crawled out of that tunnel and realized the bottoms of
my poorly hemmed pant legs had totally filled with sand, and when I attempted to run to the next
obstacle, my pants just about fell off my bod.
Yes. I enjoyed a fun-filled six weeks at the Air Force Military Training Center in San Antonio,
Texas, in the middle of the summer of 1985. Because of the heat, the red flag flew most of the time.
Anywhere we needed to go, we were able to march “at ease.” I guess they figured it took less
energy not to have to lay down a heel beat when it got too hot.
You know? I’ll even go so far as to say I enjoyed PT. Being a former high school athlete, I didn’t
mind too terribly having to run and do pushups and such. I did mind the heat, very much, but in the
mornings the breeze was pleasant as we ran together, chanting out a cadence. I’ll never forget how
easy it was to run a mile and a half surrounded by all my fellow airmen in my flight, all of us
laying down our right-left-rights in perfect unison.
And I’ll never forget the time I almost passed out.
I’ll save that story for next month.
Funny, how it all stays rooted in the depths of my heart. I thought I had long since forgotten it. But
some things we can never forget. And that feeling of belonging that my training instructors instilled
inside me during those fun six weeks will never go away.
Without that feeling of belonging, I’d be a lesser person. I’d never have felt compelled to write a
novel about two women who met during Desert Storm, that’s for sure. And I wouldn’t care hardly
at all about what’s happening across the world in places like Iraq and Afghanistan. I wouldn’t
care, because I would still be that individual, that same Rainbow I was when I stepped off the bus.
But when I boarded the outbound bus six weeks later, I knew I had become a part of something
huge and wonderful. Even sitting here, twenty-one years later, wearing my orange and yellow tie-
died shirt, I know a part of me still runs Air Force blue. And GI green. Can’t forget the green.
Aim High. Semper Fi. Hoo-ahh. That feeling of belonging. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
All the Pretty Rainbows.
That’s what they called us. Do they still? And no wonder. As we were ordered off the bus and
took our first few hurried steps across the dusty pavement at Lackland Air Force Base, we looked
the part of the normal society we left behind. Most of us wore jeans, khakis, or shorts. We all wore
multi-colored T-shirts of some sort, or blouses, or tank tops. On our feet were everything from
hiking boots to sneakers with holes in them to sandals to hot-pink flip flops.
No wonder they called us Rainbows.
Standing on that dusty pavement, lugging my suitcase and trying to keep the butterflies in my
stomach from exploding, I knew one thing for sure. There was nothing normal about this society. I
had signed on that dotted line. I was now property of the U.S. government.
And hey. You know what they say about memories. We tend to forget the bad and only remember
the good. That’s why, twenty-one years later, I can sit here in my recliner wearing an orange and
yellow tie-dyed T-shirt and say, “You know? Basic Training wasn’t that bad. It was actually
almost fun. At times.”
Yes, it was fun to sleep on a bed halfway down a line of fifteen other beds. With fifteen more beds
across the room. And thirty more in the room beside us.
Yes, it was fun to be awakened every morning by the sounds of flushing toilets echoing across the
huge open dormitory as the early birds got a head start on the day.
Yes, it was fun to always have to line up in four lines, hearing for the twenty millionth time, “If
you’re taller than the person in front of you, tap that person on the shoulder and move up.”
Yes. It was fun to squirm on my belly through an open tunnel of sand enclosed above my head by
strings of barbed wire. I about died when I crawled out of that tunnel and realized the bottoms of
my poorly hemmed pant legs had totally filled with sand, and when I attempted to run to the next
obstacle, my pants just about fell off my bod.
Yes. I enjoyed a fun-filled six weeks at the Air Force Military Training Center in San Antonio,
Texas, in the middle of the summer of 1985. Because of the heat, the red flag flew most of the time.
Anywhere we needed to go, we were able to march “at ease.” I guess they figured it took less
energy not to have to lay down a heel beat when it got too hot.
You know? I’ll even go so far as to say I enjoyed PT. Being a former high school athlete, I didn’t
mind too terribly having to run and do pushups and such. I did mind the heat, very much, but in the
mornings the breeze was pleasant as we ran together, chanting out a cadence. I’ll never forget how
easy it was to run a mile and a half surrounded by all my fellow airmen in my flight, all of us
laying down our right-left-rights in perfect unison.
And I’ll never forget the time I almost passed out.
I’ll save that story for next month.
Funny, how it all stays rooted in the depths of my heart. I thought I had long since forgotten it. But
some things we can never forget. And that feeling of belonging that my training instructors instilled
inside me during those fun six weeks will never go away.
Without that feeling of belonging, I’d be a lesser person. I’d never have felt compelled to write a
novel about two women who met during Desert Storm, that’s for sure. And I wouldn’t care hardly
at all about what’s happening across the world in places like Iraq and Afghanistan. I wouldn’t
care, because I would still be that individual, that same Rainbow I was when I stepped off the bus.
But when I boarded the outbound bus six weeks later, I knew I had become a part of something
huge and wonderful. Even sitting here, twenty-one years later, wearing my orange and yellow tie-
died shirt, I know a part of me still runs Air Force blue. And GI green. Can’t forget the green.
Aim High. Semper Fi. Hoo-ahh. That feeling of belonging. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
September 2006
Ahh, Basic Training. Do those two simple words conjure up fond memories for you too? Maybe
you called it Boot Camp. Or Recruit Training. Or maybe you called it something I can’t exactly
spell out here. We do have our scruples, you know.
Actually, for me, it wasn’t even officially called Basic Training. That was only its nickname.
Officially, it was known as the United States Air Force Basic Military Training School at the Air
Force Military Training Center at Lackland Air Force Base, the Gateway to the Air Force. What a
mouthful. Paving the way for people to become Wheeled Vehicle Maintenance Assistants working
on High Mobility Multi-Purpose Wheeled Vehicles. Paving the way for people (like me) to
become Weather Specialists.
Yep, if you ever need someone to tell you officially if it’s raining outside, I’m your girl. I was a
specialist. For the few years I sat in that weather tower at Elmendorf Air Force Base in
Anchorage, Alaska, what I said … went.
Anyway, back to Basic Training. Which, technically, should be called that mouthful above. My
question is, why not call it by the nickname USAFBMTS@AFMTC@LAFB, GAF? Wouldn’t that
follow military logic?
Hey, I don’t know. Go ask the WVMAs working on the HMMWVs.
It’s just basic
Six weeks of reforming, conforming, and transforming. Fifty-one of us ladies in Squadron 3707,
Flight W064. All of us wondering, Just what did I get myself into?
My brother was the expert. In his fourth year of active duty as an Air Force Munitions Maintenance
Specialist, when I told him about wanting to join, he proceeded to offer me some sage advice.
“Don’t volunteer for anything. Keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told. Don’t make waves, roll
your eyes, or talk back.”
He knew I’d have a good time. I wasn’t the type to volunteer, make waves, roll my eyes, or talk
back.
Came away as an honor grad. Have the spiffy little navy blue, gold, light blue, and white ribbon to
prove it.
Came away with something else.
A book. Thin, tall, Air Force blue on the outside, filled with beautiful full-color photos in the front
and hideous black and white shots in the back. We were those black and white shots. Actual
photos from our six weeks at Lackland. What a hoot.
Our squadron’s commanding officers. Major J.P. Sullivan is conveniently absent. A gray box fills
the space above his name. Captain Canaday looks smashing in her blues. MSgts. Cobb and Brown
I don’t remember ever seeing. But turn the page and there they are. MSgt. Quick. I actually drew in
a moustache and smoking pipe over his face! Why did I do that? Don’t remember.
SSgt. Limrick. Sgt. Moses. Sgt. Southard.
Ahh. The three who made our six weeks at Lackland unforgettable. Our Training Instructors. Our
… yep, you guessed it … TIs.
You may have called your TIs DIs. Drill Instructors. Either way, you get the picture. These were
the people I did not want to talk back to, roll my eyes at, or make waves around.
But they were cool. No chips on their smartly carried Air Force shoulders. Limrick was on his last
rotation. We were his last flight. He didn’t give a rip what we did. As long as we cared. And gave
it our all. Moses was the new kid on the block. Being trained as Limrick’s replacement. I
remember sneaking out one night to watch her play softball. Southard was a bit tightly wound, but
he was all right. All in all, us scared bunch of rainbows assigned to Flight W064 had it made from
the get go, and we didn’t even know it.
Until I started writing these columns, flipping through my souvenir book from Basic wasn’t exactly
high on my list of things to do. I guess now I have another reason to thank the creators of this site
for giving me this opportunity. I’m sitting here right now reading over the page with all the
squadron’s crests. 3707 BMTS: This Is Where It Begins. 3708 BMTS: Transition. 3711 BMTS:
Preparing the Finest. 3701 BMTS: Lead, Follow, Or Get Out of the Way. There are others, but
of them all, this one is my favorite. 3743 BMTS: We Train To Serve.
We train to serve.
Feast on that for a while.
Ahh, Basic Training. Do those two simple words conjure up fond memories for you too? Maybe
you called it Boot Camp. Or Recruit Training. Or maybe you called it something I can’t exactly
spell out here. We do have our scruples, you know.
Actually, for me, it wasn’t even officially called Basic Training. That was only its nickname.
Officially, it was known as the United States Air Force Basic Military Training School at the Air
Force Military Training Center at Lackland Air Force Base, the Gateway to the Air Force. What a
mouthful. Paving the way for people to become Wheeled Vehicle Maintenance Assistants working
on High Mobility Multi-Purpose Wheeled Vehicles. Paving the way for people (like me) to
become Weather Specialists.
Yep, if you ever need someone to tell you officially if it’s raining outside, I’m your girl. I was a
specialist. For the few years I sat in that weather tower at Elmendorf Air Force Base in
Anchorage, Alaska, what I said … went.
Anyway, back to Basic Training. Which, technically, should be called that mouthful above. My
question is, why not call it by the nickname USAFBMTS@AFMTC@LAFB, GAF? Wouldn’t that
follow military logic?
Hey, I don’t know. Go ask the WVMAs working on the HMMWVs.
It’s just basic
Six weeks of reforming, conforming, and transforming. Fifty-one of us ladies in Squadron 3707,
Flight W064. All of us wondering, Just what did I get myself into?
My brother was the expert. In his fourth year of active duty as an Air Force Munitions Maintenance
Specialist, when I told him about wanting to join, he proceeded to offer me some sage advice.
“Don’t volunteer for anything. Keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told. Don’t make waves, roll
your eyes, or talk back.”
He knew I’d have a good time. I wasn’t the type to volunteer, make waves, roll my eyes, or talk
back.
Came away as an honor grad. Have the spiffy little navy blue, gold, light blue, and white ribbon to
prove it.
Came away with something else.
A book. Thin, tall, Air Force blue on the outside, filled with beautiful full-color photos in the front
and hideous black and white shots in the back. We were those black and white shots. Actual
photos from our six weeks at Lackland. What a hoot.
Our squadron’s commanding officers. Major J.P. Sullivan is conveniently absent. A gray box fills
the space above his name. Captain Canaday looks smashing in her blues. MSgts. Cobb and Brown
I don’t remember ever seeing. But turn the page and there they are. MSgt. Quick. I actually drew in
a moustache and smoking pipe over his face! Why did I do that? Don’t remember.
SSgt. Limrick. Sgt. Moses. Sgt. Southard.
Ahh. The three who made our six weeks at Lackland unforgettable. Our Training Instructors. Our
… yep, you guessed it … TIs.
You may have called your TIs DIs. Drill Instructors. Either way, you get the picture. These were
the people I did not want to talk back to, roll my eyes at, or make waves around.
But they were cool. No chips on their smartly carried Air Force shoulders. Limrick was on his last
rotation. We were his last flight. He didn’t give a rip what we did. As long as we cared. And gave
it our all. Moses was the new kid on the block. Being trained as Limrick’s replacement. I
remember sneaking out one night to watch her play softball. Southard was a bit tightly wound, but
he was all right. All in all, us scared bunch of rainbows assigned to Flight W064 had it made from
the get go, and we didn’t even know it.
Until I started writing these columns, flipping through my souvenir book from Basic wasn’t exactly
high on my list of things to do. I guess now I have another reason to thank the creators of this site
for giving me this opportunity. I’m sitting here right now reading over the page with all the
squadron’s crests. 3707 BMTS: This Is Where It Begins. 3708 BMTS: Transition. 3711 BMTS:
Preparing the Finest. 3701 BMTS: Lead, Follow, Or Get Out of the Way. There are others, but
of them all, this one is my favorite. 3743 BMTS: We Train To Serve.
We train to serve.
Feast on that for a while.
October 2006
It’s that time again, and look at me. Again reaching for the souvenir book I brought back from
Basic Training all those years ago. Last month I purposely avoided reading the little comments my
fellow flight members wrote inside the back covers of it. But tonight, I’m reading them. And
remembering every face attached to the names, every smile and voice and friend.
I did a fair-to-midlin’ job of living my faith during Basic Training. I was seven years old when I
first said yes to Jesus, to the Bible, and to my Father God. I turned twenty the month before I left
for Basic. In those thirteen years, my walk with Christ reached all the typical valley depths and
mountain peaks. But on my way to San Antonio, I knew I needed my faith to be strong and real. I
knew I needed to fully belong to my Lord.
Reading over the little comments in my souvenir book, I’m touched at how my fair-to-midlin’ faith
seemed to reach my flight-mates. Lisa wrote, “Your positive attitude was so uplifting when
situations had me feeling down.” Kathy, our dorm chief, wrote, “Your faith and strength helped
pull me through the craziness of Basic Training. I thank you for being my friend.” Sarah, who I
didn’t even know was also a believer, wrote, “God has shown a prosperous path for you in the
Air Force as He has for me. I pray you always follow in His wisdom.” And Stacy wrote, “Thank
you for helping me keep faith in the Lord. (I don’t think you even realized you were doing that.)”
Two things I know for sure: Jesus Christ is irresistible; let Him live through you and others can’t
help noticing. And, belonging to Him is the call of my life.
His, the Air Force’s, and each other’s.
There is nothing like six weeks of intense confusion and intimidating pressure to bring a group of
fifty-one strangers together. All lined up in the huge twin bays of our dorm, we each had a space to
call our own even as we shared absolutely everything else. We learned to need each other. We
learned to belong to each other.
One moment from Basic Training I’ll carry with me forever. This is how I remember it. Every day
at breakfast, then again at lunch, we were required to drink two glasses of lukewarm water before
we began to eat. Not a bad idea, since it was the middle of summer in central Texas, and we all
knew the red flag would probably fly by noon, easily. But one particular day, for some reason, no
one stood guard making sure this know-it-all brand-new Airman First Class drank her two glasses.
So she didn’t. Why? I have no idea.
Later that morning, as I worked out with my flight during PT, I had the strangest sensation. And
then, all I felt were hands touching my back and shoulders. Catching me. Easing me down to sit on
the ground. “Why?” I asked them. “What’s wrong?”
“You were swaying like you were going to fall,” one of them said as she pushed my head down
between my knees so I wouldn’t faint.
Wish I could remember who said the words. Whose hands gently helped me so I wouldn’t fall.
But yet, I like to think it was everyone. There was not one member of my flight who would have let
me fall. I belonged to them. And they belonged to me.
I’ll never see any of them again. It’s been over twenty years. And we were only together for six
weeks. Ahh, but I’ll see them again. Every time I turn the pages of my souvenir book.
Every time I close my eyes and breathe in that hot, dusty air and see it ruffling the red flag posted
over our formation as we march at ease down the hot, dusty streets of Lackland Air Force Base.
Cruz is singing out a cadence for us. Lisa and her road guards run out to stop traffic. Angel, the
toughest girl in our flight, carries our banner. W064.
For six short weeks, we belong.
It’s that time again, and look at me. Again reaching for the souvenir book I brought back from
Basic Training all those years ago. Last month I purposely avoided reading the little comments my
fellow flight members wrote inside the back covers of it. But tonight, I’m reading them. And
remembering every face attached to the names, every smile and voice and friend.
I did a fair-to-midlin’ job of living my faith during Basic Training. I was seven years old when I
first said yes to Jesus, to the Bible, and to my Father God. I turned twenty the month before I left
for Basic. In those thirteen years, my walk with Christ reached all the typical valley depths and
mountain peaks. But on my way to San Antonio, I knew I needed my faith to be strong and real. I
knew I needed to fully belong to my Lord.
Reading over the little comments in my souvenir book, I’m touched at how my fair-to-midlin’ faith
seemed to reach my flight-mates. Lisa wrote, “Your positive attitude was so uplifting when
situations had me feeling down.” Kathy, our dorm chief, wrote, “Your faith and strength helped
pull me through the craziness of Basic Training. I thank you for being my friend.” Sarah, who I
didn’t even know was also a believer, wrote, “God has shown a prosperous path for you in the
Air Force as He has for me. I pray you always follow in His wisdom.” And Stacy wrote, “Thank
you for helping me keep faith in the Lord. (I don’t think you even realized you were doing that.)”
Two things I know for sure: Jesus Christ is irresistible; let Him live through you and others can’t
help noticing. And, belonging to Him is the call of my life.
His, the Air Force’s, and each other’s.
There is nothing like six weeks of intense confusion and intimidating pressure to bring a group of
fifty-one strangers together. All lined up in the huge twin bays of our dorm, we each had a space to
call our own even as we shared absolutely everything else. We learned to need each other. We
learned to belong to each other.
One moment from Basic Training I’ll carry with me forever. This is how I remember it. Every day
at breakfast, then again at lunch, we were required to drink two glasses of lukewarm water before
we began to eat. Not a bad idea, since it was the middle of summer in central Texas, and we all
knew the red flag would probably fly by noon, easily. But one particular day, for some reason, no
one stood guard making sure this know-it-all brand-new Airman First Class drank her two glasses.
So she didn’t. Why? I have no idea.
Later that morning, as I worked out with my flight during PT, I had the strangest sensation. And
then, all I felt were hands touching my back and shoulders. Catching me. Easing me down to sit on
the ground. “Why?” I asked them. “What’s wrong?”
“You were swaying like you were going to fall,” one of them said as she pushed my head down
between my knees so I wouldn’t faint.
Wish I could remember who said the words. Whose hands gently helped me so I wouldn’t fall.
But yet, I like to think it was everyone. There was not one member of my flight who would have let
me fall. I belonged to them. And they belonged to me.
I’ll never see any of them again. It’s been over twenty years. And we were only together for six
weeks. Ahh, but I’ll see them again. Every time I turn the pages of my souvenir book.
Every time I close my eyes and breathe in that hot, dusty air and see it ruffling the red flag posted
over our formation as we march at ease down the hot, dusty streets of Lackland Air Force Base.
Cruz is singing out a cadence for us. Lisa and her road guards run out to stop traffic. Angel, the
toughest girl in our flight, carries our banner. W064.
For six short weeks, we belong.