Basic

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

It was late April 1999, and the time had come for me to leave for Air Force basic training. Melissa and I had only been dating for a few months by then. It was a sad time for both of us, but I promised her I would be back as soon as the military allowed me to.

     I took a train to Sacramento, where I got on a plane headed for San Antonio, Texas, with a confused mind and a still-aching left knee. Once we landed in San Antonio, all of us recruits were herded onto a bus at the airport. It was late at night when we finally arrived at Lackland Air Force Base, and we were all exhausted. 

I had a feeling that, at age twenty-seven, I was going to be one of the oldest recruits there. The three drill sergeants who greeted us wasted no time in picking on all of us, repeatedly throwing our bags around and yelling "Go get it!” It was obvious that the next six weeks were going to be very challenging, especially with my injured knee, which still caused me a great deal of pain every time I put weight on it. I wondered again whether I had made the right decision by signing my life away for the next four years.

My first night as an enlisted Air Force recruit was extremely depressing; my mind was swirling with questions about what the future had in store for me. Was I going to be able to get through this with my injured knee? Would I be able to handle it mentally and emotionally? Would I be picked on more than others because of my accent?

The routine was brutal. We were awakened every morning around 4:45 and given very limited time — between thirty seconds and one minute — to shower and three minutes to finish breakfast. If you took too long to finish your food on your plate, you’d be forced to leave the table and wouldn’t eat again until the next scheduled mealtime. Our beds had to be made perfectly and were inspected daily. We ran two miles every day except Sunday and did endless push-ups and pull-ups. While my upper body strength was intact and I could easily perform over fifty push-ups and pull-ups, my legs were in a constant struggle. I could normally run a mile in under six minutes, but during those early two-mile runs I was almost always one of the last ones to finish, because of my knee. 

To disguise the pain I was in and avoid drawing negative attention from the drill instructors, I just acted like I was out of shape and struggling. One day they had us walk all day from one unit to another, starting from early morning to 9:30 PM, and when we arrived at our destination, we were left standing outside a building, not even allowed to sit on the ground for what seemed like forever.

I was so mentally and physically exhausted, I thought I was going to pass out. At that moment, I would have happily gone back to washing dishes. There was no comparison. At least at Coyote Creek, I could have had a cold beer when the work was done.

What helped to get me through those weeks was receiving letters from Melissa and a couple of other friends. I particularly remember my buddies from Sonora, Seth and Charles, sending me postcards of encouragement that really helped alleviate the torments of basic training. Both of my good friends reminded me how tough a workhorse I was and that I had seen much tougher times in Sonora. They also reminded me of the good times we shared together, such as watching Eddie Murphy’s Delirious stand-up comedy show and all the movies we had watched together such as Taxi Driver, Once Upon a Time in America, and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. 

The first three weeks were the toughest, both physically and mentally. A few guys had already quit by then, some due to medical reasons. One went AWOL (Absent Without Leave) twice.

Around the two-week mark, I went up to a drill sergeant with one of the other recruits, a Filipino guy from Sacramento. We were both disappointed, thinking that this was not what we had in mind when we signed up, and worried the next four years were seriously going to suck. We were considering getting out. The drill sergeant, who reminded me of Damon Wayans from the movie Major Payne, simply told us to get back to what we were doing. 

That same sergeant used to yell as we marched, “When we miscommunicate, we lose airplanes and lives,” emphasizing the importance of clear, effective communication. I will forever be thankful that he didn't take my complaint seriously that day.

I became friends with many people during basic training. They came from many different places and backgrounds and they each had a story. Some were from big cities and others were from small towns. We encouraged and helped each other the best we could to get through those tough weeks together.

Having gotten to know many good people from the Philippines throughout the years and having been exposed to their hospitality, I eventually developed an interest in their culture and history. Many years later, I found myself reading about a sad event known as the Watsonville Riots of 1930, when local residents attacked Filipino farm workers in Watsonville, California. This story broke my heart. My love for music also brought the talented Filipino musician Larry Ramos of the Association to my attention some years ago.

Around our third week of training, a few of us were loaded into the back of a truck to ride to another building on base. The sergeant driving had the radio on in the cab, and we all could hear the music from the bed of the truck. I still remember what song it was: “Torn” by Natalie Imbruglia. It was the first time I had heard any music since arriving and it felt amazing. For a big music fan like myself, it was a weird and alienating experience to not hear any music for such a long time, three weeks of no melody at all... Looking back, I think that sergeant knew exactly what he was doing as he rolled his windows down to give us a bit of music therapy, knowing that we hadn’t heard a tune in three weeks. Here is a big “thank you” to the sergeant who drove that truck that day in May 1999 at Lackland Air Force Base.

About five weeks into my training, one of our drill instructors, a Tech Sergeant, asked me where I was from. He had probably noticed my accent all along. When I told him I was from Izmir, Turkey, he smiled and told me he had been stationed there for some time, and he spoke highly of my hometown and the people. Something about my drill instructor having lived in and speaking positively of the city where I was born and had spent my childhood in made me feel happy and proud. From then on, he always called me “Izmir.”

It was only around this time, in the fifth and sixth weeks, that the drill sergeants became a little more friendly, interacting with us on more of a human level. During our fifth week, we were permitted to visit San Antonio and eat lunch at a café by the river. We were even allowed to do some shopping at the mall. I don’t recall appreciating my freedom as much until it was restricted during my first few weeks of basic training. Basic training in the military helps a person appreciate the little things in life. It makes you feel grateful for the simplest things we often take for granted such as breathing, drinking water, eating, and just being alive.

Graduation day finally arrived on June 9, 1999. Some people had family members making the trip in order to share their joy, but a few others like me sat around together and celebrated by ourselves. I felt very happy as I sat on the grass and watched my fellow airmen happily hug their loved ones, but at the same time I was a bit sad because I didn’t have anyone to celebrate with. My mom was over 6,000 miles away in Izmir; Melissa was 1,500 miles away in Fresno; and my friends were all far away from me, too.

After graduation, I had a short stretch of free time before I had to report to technical school at Sheppard Air Force Base in Wichita Falls, Texas. I headed back to Fresno to spend a couple of weeks with Melissa and my friends.

I had done it. I had survived the intense six weeks of basic training, the hot San Antonio weather, and a left knee that never stopped aching. I even had achieved a Marksmanship score, from shooting an M16 rifle and earning a ribbon.