37 years today... Wow. December 15, 1977. Charleston AFB, South Carolina. The long awaited day had arrived! A transfer to the 3d Infantry Division was in the works. Id made my way to Charleston as a slick-sleeve private E-1 over the course of a long day, ostensibly to catch my flight to Frankfurt. The prospect seemed exciting a year earlier as I signed my delayed entry enlistment contract in Oakland, CA. Id acquire new skills in accordance with my plans to enter law enforcement, attend college on the GI Bill and hopefully leverage a few years of maturity for scholarly benefit. The first few months at Ft McClellan seemed to bear that out as the C-10-MP training cadre morphed us from civilians into raw Military Police development material, ready for global shipment. The plan looked great on paper. Catching a flight to nowhere at the dirty end of a thousand days commitment made things seem bleak at best that night. Id just been through a few soul-stirring exchanges with friends and family before departing California for South Carolina. As an 18-year old, I hadnt anticipated how permanent goodbyes affected relationships. Emotional payloads of youthful friendships and relationships I hadnt realized were actually close had spontaneously increased by orders of magnitude at the prospect of saying final goodbyes. Id anticipated earlier that strong relationships would endure, but didnt realize that they change forever due to the decisions we make. Sadness permeated the air as I reflected on my upbringing, my friendships, and the unknown paths that lay ahead. Hey Gillam! someone said from across the terminal at Charleston AFB as I entered with my head hanging low. I looked up to see the familiar face of Alan Gover, another Charlie company guy and fellow member of the first platoon. Gover waved me over -- come on. Lets go! He was grouped up with a number of other guys I didnt know. I declined the invite and waved him off. He shrugged and headed out the door with his duffle bag to parts unknown as I went to the counter to check in, where I was told by a corpulent Air Force E-6 that the flight for Germany was scheduled for the following afternoon (it was 8-9pm at the time). The NCO was helpful with suggestions. Have a seat he said, a smirk on his face, as he gestured to the rows of interlocked, molded plastic chairs with chromed legs that filled the terminal. I was alone, hungry, and destined for who knew where. I staked out a place, dropped my duffle bag, and allowed my body to slide down into the hard molded plastic. Night crawled by as I and a number of other guys clad in class-A uniforms quietly reflected on our dispositions and wondered what the future might bring while our joints stiffened against the rigid seating. Gover returned as daylight entered the terminal, relatively fresh and rested. I looked at him blankly in my semi-groggy, sleep-deprived state as he sat next to me asking why didnt you come? They bunked us down! We had breakfast too!. My pulse rate quickened and my jaw clenched tightly -- F----rs! I looked around for the fat-ass USAF sergeant so I could throw a row of the chairs at him. Hed been replaced sometime during the night by a different skinny guy. All for the best; as an MP Id never see street duty by giving in to my base instincts which now exuded pure hatred for all overweight air force NCOs. Fortunately, fatigue prevailed and my anger diffused quickly as I slumped back into my seat beside Gover. As fate would have it, there would be ample opportunities to let our base instincts run wild in the years that lay immediately ahead.
Posted on: Mon, 15 Dec 2014 17:26:24 +0000
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