"Welcome to the military, grunts!" the DI yelled, sounding ridiculously like Tom Bodet of Motel
6 fame.
"This ain't no hospital where you get to lay around all day, and it sure ain't no golf camp,
ladies!"
His voice was making it hard not to laugh, and I needed to use the latrine. I struggled to
keep the smile off my face, unsuccessfully.
"We got us a funny boy here!" The DI yelled, stomping over to stand in front of me. "What's
your name, Mr. Giggles?"
"Cadet Thompson, Sir!" I managed to get out before he cut me off.
"Don't you 'Sir" me, Cadet. I work for a living. You will address me as 'Drill Instructor!' Do
you understand me?" By now he was so close the spittle was landing on my face, allowing
me to see the stubble on his right cheek where he had missed a spot shaving.
Chords of the Wagner's Ring Cycle ran through my head, along with the pictures of the
opening scenes of a war movie whose name I couldn't remember. "Yes, Drill Instructor!" I
replied in almost as loud a voice as his.
He seemed satisfied, because he backed away and addressed the group again. "You
ladies have just learned the first of many lessons. Your in-processing to the Air Corps began
30 seconds ago at that building across the way. YOU ARE LATE. MOVE IT!
As the group broke into a run, my self-examination began. "What are you doing here,
Thompson?" I asked myself. "Who is John Galt?" the sarcastic reply came back from the
funny little man who lived inside my head. I knew the answer to the first question. I had not
had much choice in the matter. It was join the Air Corps to get away from the mafia, or spend
another summer in Antarctica with the penguins and my very eccentric mother, "who just
ordered nine pizzas" I automatically added under my breath.
As all 30 of us tried to crowd through the door at once, my mind jumped to another topic.
Each person I jostled with received one of several labels; "sanctified Bible thumper," "scared
witless", "Not gonna make it," "wanna-be tough guy." The predictions came effortlessly, and
looking back now, I see that most were accurate.
We processed quickly through the building, giving vital information such as name, date of
birth, next-of-kin, and such. We were each issued the usual PT shorts, shoes, socks,
underwear, fatigues, boots, belt, toothbrush, razor, soap, shower sandals, toothpaste, shaving
creme, teeny-tiny towel and an even more microscopic washcloth. As we exited the other
side, we were rushed across the pavilion into a bunk house where we dumped our gear onto
the nearest empty bunk, changed into the PT gear as instructed and formed up again
outside.
A pompous looking man with stacks of ribbons on his chest was waiting on us, with what
seemed to be a swagger stick tucked under his right arm. When we were all assembled, he
addressed us. "Today begins your life in the Air Corps. We will train you to fly, fight, and win.
In the air, or on the ground." And that's when the swordplay began. He put on a display of
bladed weapon fighting technique that I have never seen rivaled. I, the most decorated
swordsman on 4 continents. I, the head of the Air Corps saber dueling program. I, the second
most decorated swordsman to ever live, was privileged to witness first-hand, and be trained
by the greatest sensei of any age, General Tso!
