Back to Basic(s) I

If anyone would’ve told us in October that we would be parked in the Lackland Air Force Base FamCamp within 6-months, we would’ve have asked them if they had recently opened an herbal-remedy store in Colorado or Washington State.  The weather forced us south; the prior campsite amenities forced us to Lackland; and the delay in available medical appointments forced us to park longer than we preferred.

The Lackland AFB Family Campground (FamCamp) is a smallish campground capable of accommodating 3-4 dozen RVs.  The spacing between the sites is tight, and the “normal” view is that of another RV about 20-feet away.  We were fortunate to get a space on the end of the loop, which provided us with a little more “yard” and a view of the adjacent wooded area. 

Unlike several other military FamCamps, this site does not have a camp host—a volunteer who “runs” the campground in exchange for a no-cost RV pad.  This campground had a dedicated staff, but unfortunately the manager had experienced a serious health setback and the staff was being piece-mealed from other base agencies.  Regardless of this challenge, the staff was nothing less than wonderful.

So much of our lives were influenced by this base, it was only fitting that it would be part of our "detox tour"...as we found ourselves relegated to a different (military) social status than when we left.  We were now bystanders on a high ops-tempo base.  This was important to experience, as some fail to realize when they're not part of the starting line-up....but still insist on drawing-up plays.  We will forever be a part of The Team, but we were no longer a part of The Mission.

“All is well, safely rest. God is Nigh.” (Taps; Horance Lorenco Trim)

It had been a many months since I last laced-up my combat boots, and I wasn’t sure how we would react to the sudden re-immersion into a military community after purposefully trying to “un-militarize” ourselves.  

The mornings began with Reveille sounding from one of the large “Giant Voice” speakers adjacent to the RV park.  Although this occasionally stirred us from our sleep, we quickly honed the skill of rolling over and returning to our slumber.  THIS was a good sign that we were embracing the retired life!  All those months of walking dirt paths amongst the tall timbers was working!

As the sun moved westward across the sky, the Giant Voice sounded Retreat.  Retirees would pour out of their RVs to pay end-of-day respect to The Colors, and we stood amongst our RV community and followed suit.  This was not some type of regression into “needing” to be part of a rank-and-file group, but rather a show of gratitude to the symbol of a country that has given us so much to be thankful for.  

A few hours later, the Giant Voice sounded Taps.  We were normally sitting under our awning, discussing the topic du jour.  These 24-notes brought a calm over the base, and provided a moment of daily reflection.  We certainly appreciated this moment, as it gave us the opportunity for brief introspection as to how wisely we had spent the past 24-hours of our lives.  This was important to us, as our “immortality account” continued to dwindle on a daily basis.  Even though this was polar-opposite to sitting on the Cumberland Plateau next to a campfire while listening to the sounds of nature; there was still an excellent opportunity presented for personal reflection.

"Older times we're missing, spending the hours reminiscing." (Little River Band; Reminiscing)

An unexpected opportunity presented while we were on Lackland; the 31st Anniversary of my induction into Basic Military Training (BMT).  Being a sucker for nostalgia, I trekked to the site of my military indoctrination to walk my own personal hallowed ground.  

3708 BMTS - East Wing

Thirty-one years earlier I stepped off of an Air Force “Bluebird” bus in front of the 3708 BMT Squadron; was shuffled up a perfectly manicured sidewalk; and was put in a symmetrical formation with a host of similarly apprehensive teenagers under an expansive overhang that surrounded our future digs.  I was safely embedded in the middle of this technicolor formation, with at least 3 trainees providing “cover” on all sides of me.  

The brown, steel door of Doom

Without warning, the large brown-painted steel door in front of us violently flew open, and out stepped a chiseled warrior wearing a rounded “Campaign” hat with a Blue Rope encircling the base of the crown at the break.  He walked up to the front of the flight and began speaking as if he were giving a mission briefing to a thousand troops.  It went EXACTLY like this (Note: all of these words are his, as we did not utter a sound during this entire process):

“Stand at attention." (in a moderately commanding voice)

“My name is Technical Sergeant Wurdabaugh (pronounced “word-a-baugh”).  My first name is “Sergeant” and my last name is “Wurdabaugh.”

Although I was trying to be as small as possible and not draw attention to myself — intently staring at the back of the guys head directly in front of me — my efforts to remain stealth failed.  Sergeant Wurdabuagh immediately dropped his clipboard and walked through the formation of my fellow trainees--directly towards me.  With a contorted face of utter disapproval, he purposefully put the brim of his Campaign hat on my left temple and monstrously screamed a short and concise phrase into the side of my head; lubricating the high-decibel sound waves with copious amounts of high-velocity saliva.

"PIN YOUR [insert the mother-of-all-vulgarities here] HANDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I didn’t know what “PIN” meant.  To be honest, I’m not sure I could’ve identified either of my hands at that moment.  Being the nurturing instructor that he was, he quickly trained me on how to properly “PIN” my hands, while simultaneously making it obvious that he questioned the martial status of my parents when I was conceived.

So here I stood…31-years later...to the day...in that very spot where I began my long journey into an Air Force career.  If I had known then what I know now, the yelling would’ve been more of a "right-of passage" than a no-notice exercise in bladder control.  I proceeded up the squadron stairwell—one I vaguely remember running down every morning (in a semi-conscious  fog) before the sun was awoke—to stand in formation and make sure all of us were available to be yelled at throughout the day.  I reached the door to my dormitory—a door that I occasionally guarded like a starving dog guards his only bone; and I walked through the door to find…an office.

The 26 perfectly aligned beds have been replaced by perfectly aligned office cubicles (and you're allowed to walk down the "center isle.")

My old dorm had been re-purposed into office space, with cubicles lining the once perfectly polished and aligned open-bay area.  The floor was not the "highly polished and free of scuff marks from leather combat boots" floor that I remembered, but was covered in "un-polishable" carpet throughout.  The only item that remained from my training days was the threshold plate that I was responsible for keeping in "inspection order" during my BMT tenure.  

In its day, this gleaming alloy threshold could not be looked upon without welders goggles.

There it was.  Lying there.  Waiting for my return.  It looked as though it had not been polished in ages.  It missed me.  People had actually placed their footwear on this sacred piece of metal—an absolute taboo action that would have assuredly resulted in compressed sound waves and saliva bouncing off one’s tympanic membrane a few years earlier.  I felt sad for my old friend who suffered from years of neglect.

I was curiously greeted by a Master Sergeant and I quickly told him that I was just revisiting my old BMT dorm.  We chatted for a minute and he told me to take my time and look around all I wanted.  My rack (bed) was 3rd from the front.  That area was now encapsulated in a modular office.  Not being officially relieved of my housekeeping responsibilities since basic, I entered the office where my bed and locker once stood in meticulously perfect condition.  The Major who was working at his desk in that office looked up as I entered.  I explained to him that his office was sitting on top of my sacred personal area; informed him that the area needing to be vacuumed and dusted; and then I quickly departed.  He was nice enough to not call security.

I had revisited a major crossroad of my life—but just as other major crossroads in our lives—it was not the same road that I once travelled.  The opening quote from Episode 18 resonated in my head: "No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.” 

wWw