Seven Shades of Blue - Tales from the Streets

Chapter 1:

Jumping into a Career in Public Service

At the advanced age of seventeen, during my senior year in Saint Mary’s High School, I enrolled in the United States Air Force (USAF) delayed enlistment program. This meant I would start Basic Training right after graduation in September of 1973. I knew at that age; I wanted to be a cop. (Just as a side note, cops like to refer to themselves as cops but prefer others call them police officers—sort of a respect thing.) I was conflicted on which career path to take: I was interested in mechanics but already longed to get into policing. Air Force friends advised that “If you go in as a military cop, you will just be stuck guarding the flight line for four years.” Since I was interested in mechanics, these same friends said I should go into aircraft maintenance as a crew chief. They felt working on aircraft would be far more exciting and rewarding, as that is really what the Air Force is all about. In addition, I would be able to travel. The appeal of working around jets won out; I was destined to be a crew chief.

Growing up, all of my friends’ fathers had been in the military, and they would often repeat their dads’ war stories at lunch recess, bragging about their dads. To be honest, I sort of felt left out in this regard. My dad had been a mechanic and never went into the military because of vision issues. This made my decision seem easy, and thus began the start of a twenty-two-year Air Force Career, both active duty and reserves. I have no regrets about my decision to be an aircraft mechanic. If I had chosen to be a military cop, I would not have been activated for Desert Shield/Desert Storm and learned what being in a MASH-type unit was really like (more on this later).

Choosing the Air Force over the other branches was also a no-brainer for me personally. They tend to have the best facilities and the best food—generally all-around better treatment even in war times. Overall, they do seem to be more demanding mentally. Of course, my friends in the Marines would say that we are their bus drivers. This is a true statement of sorts, as the Air Force is often tasked with moving troops to the front lines. While I have the utmost respect for Marines, I never felt a desire to be a “Ground Pounder.” I would take the kinder, gentler branch of the military any time over the rough and tumble ones. Once I witnessed a unit of Marine’s field strip and wash-up right on the aircraft ramp. They were waiting for their plane to be fueled. Then they were flown into a base closer to the ground fighting. On the flip side, Air Force types had large trailers with showers. Heck, we even had air-conditioned tents in the middle of the desert during a war. Plus, my favorite color happened to Air Force blue.

On September 27, 1973, I boarded my first aircraft ever, an American Airlines flight to San Antonio, Texas. For some reason, I was put in First Class and was told this would be a champagne flight, so have a drink (the drinking age was eighteen, as it probably should still be). A few drinks later, and after a short bus ride, I arrived at Lackland Air Force Base to start Basic Training. Being eighteen and really leaving home for the first time, I was terrified of the unknown. Upon arrival, we were marched into a latrine for a urine sample, and I was about to experience my first memorable “Texas” moment. Being a Buffalo boy with a cleaning fanatic Irish mom, I had never seen a cockroach (palmetto bug for you Floridians) before. Well, it is true that everything is indeed bigger in Texas. As I went to wash my hands, in the sink was the most gigantic roach I had ever seen, even to this day. This six-inch critter was trying to get out of the slop sink, but the water was running slightly, and it kept sliding back in down the slippery side of the basin. This is a vision like many I have had as a cop that is permanently etched into my memory. Welcome to Texas and the military soldier. Your life will never be the same.

Next came a short night of not so restful sleeping, with sixty men crammed together on steel-framed squeaky bunk beds. Early the next morning, I was awakened at 0500 hrs to a screaming 6’, 250 lbs., bald DI (Drill Instructor). He was not wearing a shirt and had a big gut hanging over his belt. He was yelling in a heavy southern drawl, “Get up, you hoggies. Do you think you are going to get to eat free Air Force food, wear-free Air Force clothes, and work on our multi-million-dollar aircraft without having to earn it?” “For the next six weeks, I am going to be your mother, your father, your boyfriend, and your girlfriend, so get used to it.” Thus, my military journey began. That was, without a doubt, the longest six weeks of my life. It truly seemed like six months.

One thing I really hated was having to pay ninety cents to get my wavy shoulder-length red hair cut by the military barber for a haircut I didn’t even want! After the buzz cut, we entered an assembly line to receive our military clothing. As we entered the formation, a group of more seasoned recruits were whistling at us and shouted, “Here come the PINGS.” Later, we learned the word PINGS comes from sonar terminology. In sonar, a ping is an audible sound wave. In our case, PING referred to the subsonic sound our freshly shaved hair particles make as they grow ever so slowly, or at least that is what we were told. But, we never heard that term again after leaving Basic Training.

We went back to the barracks with our duffle bag of new gear and were told to strip down and put all of our personal possessions into a plastic bag that we would not see for six weeks. Somehow, we managed to sew hems in our uniform pants and got dressed in our fatigues. Looking around, this was an enlightening moment. Seeing sixty young men, all basically bald now, all wearing the same clothes, and clean-shaven, we barely recognized ourselves, let alone our fellow soldiers. This is the military philosophy of tearing you all down and then slowly building you back up into their mold. This was a bit tough to take for the rebel that I was, but I adapted quickly.

There is no doubt Basic Training does get you in shape. I entered at 6’2”, 166 lbs. and left still 6’2”, but 177 lbs. If you were skinny, they managed to put weight on you (lots of instant potatoes). If you were fat, they slimmed you down. I was a Catholic schoolboy, so I had little trouble complying with the demands, but I seemed to have a problem remembering to always respond to the DI with the “Yes Sir” as they required. After forgetting a couple of times and having responded “OK” instead of “Yes Sir,” I was severely chastised. The DI asked where I was from, I responded, Buffalo, N.Y. I was chastised again for being from New York. Then I found myself part of a work detail that got to wax the barracks floor by hand on Sunday afternoon when everyone else had free time. Lesson learned; when it came time to run the final Physical Training Test in combat boots, there was no way I was going to fail it, even though I had a severe case of shin splints from running in those lousy combat boots.

One of the things that helped you get through Basic Training was receiving mail from home. Having a large family and a good circle of friends, I did receive a great deal of mail. I received so much mail that the DI used to harass me about it at mail call and told me to have it lighten up. I had a few female acquaintances who would write to me regularly, including my girlfriend. I experienced many of the “romanticized” visions of being in the military throughout my military career. This included the highs and lows of going to war, returning home after activations, meeting Bob Hope while in a war zone, and of course, the one letter that all soldiers dread receiving, the “Dear John” letter. I had been dating my girlfriend Terry casually for several months and spent a great deal of time hanging out and drinking coffee at Skaros, the greasy spoon restaurant where she worked.

As you will read later, I seemed to have a thing for coffee shop waitresses. Terry was a typical high school girl, cute, witty, and silly. The last time I saw her was at my going away party. Ironically, at that party, which was a pretty large event, she met an acquaintance of mine who was a friend of a friend. During most of Basics, she wrote me friendly, perfumed, girlfriend letters, which I appreciated at the time. Towards the end, the letters slowed up some. Finally, before the end of Basic training, I received the last one after talking about coming home on leave. This letter was sweet in a way, although it broke my lonely teenage heart at the time. I do recall that she did write, “I will always have room in my heart for Jerry Schoenle.” She did go on to marry that guy she met at my going away party, had a few children, and lived happily ever after, as far as I know. But it did hurt that at my going away party, she was already moving on. At eighteen years old, it was unrealistic to think the relationship would last. But, on the upside, her best friend started writing me letters.

I checked off my first romanticized vision of being in the military, receiving a Dear John Letter, but I still had to go to war and meet Bob Hope.

The next thing you know, it was our last day at Lackland, and we had our one-day leave in San Antonio. We had strict instructions to avoid a particular strip club establishment (virtually every base has a strip club or bar right outside the main gate) as we would surely get arrested and end up in the...