The yes-no Response

I walked into the room fearful of the interview. I had just finished my basic training at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. I was to have a meeting with Captain Goodman and my Drill Instructor. Both men were gods. Not because I worshiped them but because I feared them

What you have to understand is that basic training is designed to break you down to simple yes-no responses. However, most of the answers the military were looking for from you were of the yes type. We were just a bunch of kids from many backgrounds from across the country. We needed discipline, commonality of purpose, and a knee jerk follow-the-orders response. In combat it could save our lives and the lives of our fellow soldiers.

After eight weeks of yelling (them) and cringing (us), it had mostly taken. We marched and ran, did calisthenics, made bunks, cleaned toilets, pulled k.p., studied, took tests, and shook with fear. Our DI's name was Sgt. Dooley, a giant of a black man in starched and creased fatigues, who never smiled nor, apparently, sweated. His deep voice and rapid fire commands and questions kept us constantly off guard. If I had not been so deeply involved in the process, I'm sure I would have found some humor in it.

I was in the Captain's office because of the testing.

I have always tested well. In my pre-enlistment aptitude test, apparently, I did quite well. I enlisted in the Air Force because I had pulled a low number in the draft and because of George C. Scott's portrayal of Patton. I chose the Air Force because the infantry did not sound very appealing. I'm sort of a neat freak and did not think I would be permitted to reorganize my backpack during a fire fight.

During basic training we underwent some more testing. Again, I did well.

Which brings us to the terrified Airman, too afraid to make eye contact, being led by the most fearsome human being he had ever met, into the lair of a man who could make Sgt. Dooley snap to attention. Nothing good could come of this. I was certain.

We stepped into the office and Captain Goodman glanced up and bade us to come forward. Sgt. Dooley stepped smartly up to the olive drab desk, saluted crisply and stated, "Master Sergeant Dooley reporting as ordered, sir."

I was half a step out of pace with the sergeant and a hair behind on the salute. I held the salute tremulously for what seemed an eternity and was, in reality, slightly under two seconds.

"At ease." Goodman commanded as he returned the salute.

I had practiced the at-ease move tens of thousands of times but I could not perform it without looking down to make sure my feet were where I hoped they were. "Oh God, what am I doing here?" I thought.

After several more moments of silence the Captain addressed me. "You may be seated."

I looked at Captain Goodman, glanced over at Sgt. Dooley, and almost did one of those point-at myself "do you mean me?" moves. Finally I sat in a chair facing the desk, trying my best to be seated and at attention at the same time. Then I realized I had last been at ease and tried to formally relax without slumping in the chair or crossing my legs. I only squirmed slightly.

"Airman Bonus, you are here today to discuss your placement options for technical training."

"Yes, sir." I said a little too loudly.

He looked at an opened file folder on his desk then back at me. "You tested very well in a number of areas."

"Yes, sir." I said again.

He gave me a look that said, "Knock it off."

"In fact, we feel that you would be wasted in most of our training schools. You have excellent abstract reasoning, excellent verbal skills, outstanding associative skills and you did very well in several other categories, as well."

I remained passive. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He stared at me for a moment or two. Trying, I suppose, to reconcile the apparent imbecile sitting before him with the person represented by the data on his desk. He cleared his throat. "I would like to recommend that you take your training as a Radio Communications Specialist Analyst. It would require a Top Secret Crypto security clearance."

I continued to sit still. Finally I realized it was my turn to speak. "Ah..., sir! Thank you, sir. But... I... don't really know anything about radios..., sir."

I saw him glance at Dooley, then back down at the papers. "This isn't about radios. This is about code breaking. You would have to go to school to learn Russian and how to be a code breaker. It would mean a lengthy technical training at great expense to the Air Force. We have to make sure you want to do this."

I still wasn't completely sure what this was. As I sat there, trying to process what I had just heard, I felt a heavy hand descend upon my shoulder muscle. Sgt. Dooley's thumb and index finger probed the muscle. Squeezing. Finding a tangle of nerves. Hurting.

I sensed him leaning down, his mouth next to my ear. His voice was fatherly and menacing at the same time. "You don't need to understand it right now. What you need to do in sign the damn papers and quit wasting the Captain's time."

I was still facing forward. Looking at the Captain. I glanced sideways at Sgt. Dooley. For the first time in eight weeks I saw warmth in his eyes. "We're trying to save your life." he explained.

So I signed the papers and I spent the rest of my enlisted time in San Angelo, Texas learning Russian and code breaking and on a little military base along the coastline of Turkey breaking codes. I never went to Viet Nam and so I never really needed my basic training instilled discipline to save my life.

Except for that one time.

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