I Want To Fly Jets! Really? My Grandmama Wants To Fly Jets Too!

 

Another IU story, but this time with a little different twist.

Ever since I can remember, I have been fascinated with flying, and I thought being a fighter pilot was just about the bestest thing a guy could do.

The idea of being blown to pieces by a SAM (surface-to-air missile) never entered my mind.

Gregory "Pappy" Boyington, Richard Bong, Francis "Gabby" Gabreski, and Chuck Yeager were all heroes of mine, and I devoured any material I could find about them and their contemporaries. 

The way things ought to be

Charles Lindberg was on my list as well.

So, second year first semester, while I was at IU/Bloomington, I had the brilliant idea to check out their U.S. Air Force ROTC program.

In order to be a fighter pilot you had to have 20/20 uncorrected vision. This I learned at IU ROTC. 

My eyes were/are fucked. 

I could be a navigator, but hell...with my math aptitude? Forget that. 

I could be a refueling boom operator, but that didn't appeal to me at the time. Glorified gas station attendant. 

In the Marines I could shoot the tits off a mosquito at 500 yards. 

Fuck being a pilot! 

Sorta.

Anyhoo...I took the first year class.  I had no idea what I was getting into.

They gave us uniforms, but not much training on how to wear them, customs and courtesies, etc.

The Marine that I would later become would have been amused and horrified at my ROTC behavior whilst in uniform.

We had a few lessons about Air Force history with an Air Force officer as the instructor, but I remember thinking that I could have given a better lecture.

I also remember thinking, "I shouldn't have smoked that bowl of weed before walking over here from the dorm...in uniform.  I can't handle this shit right now."

An officer/instructor once asked me what was wrong with my eyes.  There was nothing wrong with my eyes, because I hosed them down with Visine before I came into class.  I replied something about allergies or having just left the swimming pool and the chlorine and all...

He knew better I'm sure.

I often blew off a ROTC classes, and when I did show up, I was ordered to write an explanation.

(Ordered is funny because I was not obligated to do shit at this point.  I had signed nothing, and nobody was gonna tell me what to do.  Not even me!)  

I said I was running late and I thought it would be rude to barge in and interrupt the class. 

How thoughtful of me, right?  

It was all bullshit of course.  

The real reason was that I had gotten a snoot-full of beer and weed with my buddies back in the dorm, and I blew ROTC class off.

Now, some of you might be saying at this point, "Gawt Damn Zoomie!  You were a gargantuan fuck-up!  Stoned outta yer mind and yer gonna fly F4s and kill commies for Christ?  Nobody's ever gonna even let you get near a pushback tug.  Kill yourself!"

Guilty as charged!

I took the above picture with the same camera my dad used in Vietnam in 1966. 

The occasion was an ROTC "field trip." 

We rode in vans from Bloomington Indiana to Grissom Air Force Base near Peru Indiana. 

Then we hopped on a KC-135 refueling aircraft (think Boeing 707) and headed for March Air Force base in California. 

 

On the way, we refueled the flight of F4s. 

Up to that point, I had NEVER flown in an airplane before!

We arrived at March AFB California, got up close and personal with various mesmerizing aircraft, and then settled in. 

By "settled in" I mean I and few buds got into some cheap government subsidized beer...but nothing crazy or outta hand.

One fine California dusk we were gathered outside the barracks smoking and joking when evening colors was called.

"Evening colors" is when the post flag is lowered and "retreat" is played.

At this time, all persons are required to stop whatever they are doing, stand at attention facing the colors or the bugle music, and render a proper hand salute until the bugle music ends.

We never got the memo, and we continued with our shenanigans during colors, so a salty and attentive staff NCO Airforce bubbuh made sure we got the good news.

IU ROTC was very lax, and they didn't really give much attention to customs and courtesies. 

It was, "Here's a uniform. Wear it." 

Very little practical instruction on how to do anything properly. I guess we were supposed to absorb such knowledge thru osmosis or some shit. 

 

The USMC was wildly different. That shit was pounded into us daily for a solid three months. 

Later as a Marine...whenever I was on a base and colors sounded, I absolutely LOVED rendering the proper respect to the event. 

It was an honor and privilege. The history of it, the folks who served and sacrificed before me all came to mind. 

 

I absolutely DESPISED the Marines who "ducked colors." Those are the shit-birds who would run into a building to avoid having to stand at attention for 30 seconds and salute.

Anyhoo...Even with all this glorious immersion into flying and the Air Force, I was still drinking too much and smoking weed.

I was spiraling outta control.

I said goodbye to ROTC, and dropped out of university. 

I had dead-end, shitty jobs making fuck-all-nuthin' for money.

I was getting depressed.

I guess the good thing is that I actually realized all of it, and I knew I had to make some changes.

Drastic changes, or I was gonna end up dead or in jail.

I needed discipline and structure.

So I found myself in a strip mall parking lot that contained a multi-services recruiting center.

"Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines!  What a great place to start!"

I didn't have any idea which branch, and didn't care either.  I just knew I had to go.

I wasn't all gung ho, Semper Fi do or die, goodnight Chesty Puller where ever you are.

I sat in my vehicle for quite some time, then I went in.

I looked at a few brochures of all the branches for a few minutes...and I was being totally ignored by pretty much all of them.

While the Army, Navy, and Airforce recruiters were smoking and joking and jerking off, the only guy who bothered to come out of his office and approach me was a Marine.

His name was Staff Sergeant Stanfield.  

I'll never forget him.

He never lied to me.  He told me it'd be tough, and that it wasn't for everybody.  He didn't make any promises.  He said the change would be forever, and he was right.

I signed on the dotted line.  It was November 1983, and I would ship for boot camp in January 1984.

In the meantime, I had one more wrong mistake to make.

Wearing my old IU ROTC shirt...

When it came time to ship, I wore my IU Air Force ROTC t-shirt to USMC boot camp! 

THAT went over real well. 

I was still a moron at that point.

Now, some of you might be saying, "Zoomie!  You can't POSSIBLY be that stupid!  Please say you're joking and you really didn't do that!"

On the contrary.

I was, and I did!  

I actually gave it some thought. 

I figured it would show them that I was a fellow traveler and supporter of the military. 

That I was on THEIR side, and we could be pals! 

 

About 30 seconds after stepping onto the yellow footprints and seeing that nothing ANY one of us recruits did would stop the coming hell-storm, I was clawing at that goddamn t-shirt with my bare hands trying to rip it apart so it wasn't legible! 

 

Mission failed.

Louis Cameron Gossett Jr. is not amused

Anyhoo...

As the plane rotated and went wheels up from Indy to San Diego, I thought of Led Zeppelin and "Going to California."

"...with a weekend...in my heart," crooned Robert Plant.

Right.

I also thought, "This is my last chance.  If I fail at this, I'm done, and I won't return to Indiana ever again."