The day the air force told me I get to be a medic.
This is an excerpt from my book, ‘The Adventures of an Air Force Medic.” It’s based on my two years as an air force medic in northern California back in the early ’80s.
Air force basic training lasts thirty ‘training’ days, which takes six weeks because weekends aren’t counted. On day twenty eight everyone got their orders. Orders tell you your future. Orders tell you where you’re going next. Orders are your ticket out of basic training. Handing out orders is a ritual. Our Training Instructor, Technical Sergeant (TSgt) Vogel enjoyed his role as the ‘orders hander-outer.’
“Thy-bolt, get up here!” growled TSgt Vogel. Thy-bolt is how he pronounced the French last name Thibault (Tee-bow). There’s no way TSgt Vogel – a good ole Texas boy – is going to say ‘Tee-bow.’ This late into basic training we were used to TSgt Vogel mangling last names and we all enjoyed the heck out of it. Even Thibault got a kick out of having his last name mangled by TSgt Vogel. Thibault wore the ‘name mangling’ as a badge of honor.
Thibault lifted his tall skinny frame bones off the cold dayroom floor and walked to the podium to receive his orders. TSgt Vogel asked him, “What job did you get Thy-Bolt?”
“Munitions Maintenance Specialist,” Thibault replied.
“Did you pick that job?”
“Yes, guaranteed job. I had to wait a year to get it,” Thibault said with the enthusiasm of a kid talking about getting tickets to the circus.
TSgt Vogel brought the conversation back to earth, “You waited a year? You waited a whole year so the air force would guarantee you a job as a BB stacker?”
The dayroom exploded (no ‘munition maintenance specialist’ pun intended) with laughter. Thibault snickered and TSgt Vogel kept a straight face. You see, TSgt Vogel never laughed. That’s not his job. He told the jokes, we laughed.
TSgt Vogel’s humor reached deep. He could make you feel crappy and have you laughing about it.
Basic trainees are deprived of the outside world. We see nothing and hear nothing that goes on outside the chain link external fence surrounding the base. Basic trainees don’t see family or friends. Basic trainees don’t watch TV. Basic trainees don’t listen to the radio. Basic trainees don’t curl up on the couch with their girlfriend or wife at the end of the day. Basic trainees don’t drink beer.
TSgt Vogel knew this and he played it. He’d take the dayroom podium in the morning and deliver a special greeting. We’d be sitting on the cold tile floor looking up at the ‘boss.’ He’d stand akimbo in his immaculate uniform scanning the room as if to say, ‘Your lives are in my hands.’ Then he’d clear his throat and, in his kicking Texas accent, announce, “Last night, when I was at home (pause), watching TV (pause), with my wife (pause) and (this is the one that finished us off) drinking beer …”
After each pause, we’d let out a collective groan. Then when he delivered the ‘beer’ line, we’d double over laughing at our sorry situation.
TSgt Vogel continued handing out ‘orders’ and, no matter what job the person had, he’d make fun of it.
Then came my turn, “Mitchell, get up here and get your orders,”
I pushed up with my hands and feet, lifting myself off the cold tiled floor and marched to the podium. TSgt Vogel handed me a big stack of papers, my orders. Then he asked the question, “What job did you get Mitchell?”
I didn’t know. So, I told him, “I don’t know?”
At that moment I became ‘fresh meat’ and everyone in the room loved it … except me.
TSgt Vogel continued his interrogation, “What do you mean you don’t know? How can you not know? You came in with a guaranteed job, you telling me you don’t know your guaranteed job, what’s wrong with you?”
“Oh, I didn’t have a guaranteed job. I came in ‘open general.’”
A collective gulp of disbelief reverberated off the dayroom walls. TSgt Vogel looked at me with a face that said, ‘You can’t be that stupid.’
I stood beside the podium holding my orders wishing I could be anywhere else on the planet.
TSgt Vogel broke through the laughter, “Sit down Mitchell.”
I nervously marched back to the open spot on the floor where I’d been sitting and re-parked myself. I scanned for information on the first page of my big stack of papers, lots of gobbledygook, typical government double-talk. I thought, ‘Where does it say where I’m going? What’s my job? What did I get?’
Then I saw it, Sheppard Air force Base. ‘Where’s that? Oh, says here, it’s in Wichita Falls, Texas. Where’s that? Texas somewhere …’ Then I read a little further, ‘Career Field – Medical Service Specialist.’ The official Air Force Specialty Code (AFSC) listed as 902 (NINE-OH-TWO). Yes, my orders made it clear, I got my third choice. The needs of the air force said … I need to be a medic.
My heart sunk. ‘I got my last choice of three bad choices. I get to be a medic. I think I’m going to need a medic.’
TSgt Vogel, executing his role as chief harasser, reinforced my despair. After all, that’s his job. He’d been doing it for six weeks. He’s good at it. And I say that with admiration. I loved the guy. He knew how to create drama and – for lack of a better word – entertainment.
As I sat on the cold dayroom floor reading my orders I heard TSgt Vogel yell out, “OK, Mitchell, Mr. Open General, tell us what job you got,” then he spoke to everyone else, “He don’t have no guaranteed job, he came in open general. Can you believe that? Listen up y’all; this is what happens when you come in ‘open general.’ Let’s hear it, what job they gave ya?”
I gulped, as I pondered the coming embarrassment, ‘Now I have to share the bad news with everyone.’ I continued looking down at my orders and announced, “Medical Service Specialist.”
Without delay, TSgt Vogel elaborated on my new job, “Well, ain’t that sumpin, we got ourselves a bed-pan-commando.” The dayroom erupted in laughter. TSgt Vogel continued, “Y’all see what happens when you come in ‘open general.’ Only knuckleheads come in open general. Mitchell you’re a knucklehead.”
The Adventures of an Air Force Medic, available on amazon in kindle and print. Get your copy today!
