CAREER DECISION AT SAN ANTONIO CLASSIFICATION CENTER (SAAC)
When the five month “concentrated” college year equivalent ended, those who graduated were transferred to the San Antonio for classification. There, a series of reactive and mental aptitude tests administered over a few days, and a physical examination, nailed down whether we had the requisite physical and mental skills to become bona fide cadets and proceed to pre-flight training, and then specialize as either a pilot, a navigator, or a bombardier depending on which, if any of these, we were found to qualify from the tests were about to undergo.
After the tests and a nerve racking three-day waiting period, about half the wannabe cadets were assembled in an auditorium and told they did not qualify at all. They were to be transferred to another army assignment, perhaps infantry or tanks. The rest of us were sent in small groups, without explanation, to locations on the base. My unsettling destination, along with about ten others, was the Flight Surgeon’s office. On the way, my imagination alternated between discovering I had a mysterious ailment, or that I was to be tormented with other tests before my fate was decided. Clearly something had gone wrong.
When we arrived a cordial M.D. Major called me into his office and invited me to take the seat in front of his battered desk. His relaxed into his own chair and lit a pipe. The low-key atmosphere reduced my tension. But my heart skipped a beat when he morphed from smiley-face to serious and said, as I recall, “Well soldier we have a bit of a problem.” Did that augur a serious illness, or something else really bad? As he continued, he seemed to think he was congratulating me on a happy dilemma. He told me I had qualified in all three categories; pilot, navigator, bombardier, and needed to make a decision.
My first reaction, a home run. But then the doc threw a curve. Yes, I passed in all categories, but to quite different degrees, I had barely squeaked through in pilot proficiency, a score of six out of ten. I was at the high end in the others.
None of this should have surprised this klutzy kid with two left feet, especially after my flight experience at Knox.
“So”, he went on, “from the way you tested you can stay with your first choice and choose pilot training. But I need to tell you that if you do there’s a good chance you’ll wash out along the way. And that goes double if you elect for single engines rather than the big birds.” Bombers, I assumed he meant. Having reached his bottom line, the good doctor suggested that I choose navigation or go the bombardier route. Because, as I knew (I didn’t until then) the rules are: “it’s up to you.”
Gulp, I’m facing a moment of truth, the rockets’ red glare. After enlisting, the most pivotal decision to date in my young life. Thankfully I am a realist. In a flash, my brain cells spotlight the satisfying simplicity of algebra and solid geometry. I’m tempted to go for glamor, but deep within me my gut shudders at the prospect of wrestling ailerons, flaps and landing gear. Escape from my recently discovered secret fear is at hand. My decision, navigation, was almost instantaneous.
Where would I be without that shattering Aeronca spin? Opting for navigation instead of my boyhood fantasy may have saved my skin?
I’d thank the military minds that let me choose. It was a maturing experience. And employing a medic was a smart way to broker the decision.
DRINKING LIKE DAD
I was off to Preflight training, one more step for all new cadets regardless of specialty; ten weeks at the San Antonio Aviation Cadet Center (SAACC) to add to the tricks and skills we all might: Morse code, enemy aircraft recognition, target practice (with pistols this time); rudimentary navigation know-how, and, inevitably, more physical training. One highlight: idle time when reaching 20 words-a-minute Morse code proficiency. Two of us tied for first well before all the others got there. We sat on the floor, backs to the wall, relaxed, gabbing, and likely feeling full of ourselves for this minor feat. The reward did introduce me to the utility of incentives.
Preflight was also noteworthy for the decreased level of stringent discipline, never my favorite -- and included several weekend passes to remind us that civilians still walked the earth. After a year with no leave we frolicked on these like unpenned puppies without leashes.
For me it was growing up time. Not the best kind. I learned to drink after sharing an alcohol-free house with three abstemious women during my high school years, and living alone with a very sober mom before then. (I didn't know it then, but my father was an alcoholic.) My exploits with old-man-liquor began with a lesson in a how people deal with laws that don’t make sense.
As described in Texas newspaper column:
For most people, the way around this “last vestige of Prohibition,” as the Texas Almanac describes it, was the private club, where people paid for annual or temporary memberships. Technically, “club members” weren't paying for liquor when they ordered a cocktail; they were charged for the setups provided, while their collective membership fees paid for the alcohol. Along with country clubs and NCO and officers' clubs on military installations — federal property not subject to varying state laws — private clubs were the only places that sold legal mixed drinks.1 I don’t know how I gained membership, but somehow bottles were stashed in my name at one such club. 1
Once alcohol got the chance to unshackle my inhibitions I inevitably drank too much. One night in town found me nauseously staring up at a slowly revolving fan while lying on a hotel bed, which, I was certain, was spinning too, but faster. Another evening a friend pounded my back to help me throw up as I tottered on shaky knees, leaning through the crook of a tree’s low-lying branches. I was shocked into sobriety once when a more sober helpmate unleashed a cold shower he had propped me under. I was fully dressed, forcing an unplanned overnight stay to let my clothes dry out. These and a few other cataclysmic experiences finally tempered my thirst.
1 San Antonio Express-News Uncle Sam didn't own private clubs by Paula Allen 3/9/2013
No comments:
Post a Comment