I was fated to become a missile officer.
I went to OTS to become an Air Force pilot; but during the three-week Flight Screening Program at Hondo Field, flying the T-41 single-engine Cessna, I kept getting airsick. I never got caught up and eventually washed out.
I returned to a new squadron other than the one I was in when I first got to OTS. It would take some time to process my discharge paperwork. I tried to fit in with my new squadron, but I knew that my days in the Air Force were numbered. Then, one day by the slow-pitch softball backstop during a game, my flight commander told me that my paperwork had arrived. I would be discharged the next day.
Then the miracle happened. We began to hear rumors that the Air Force needed volunteers for missiles at such bases as Grand Forks and Minot AFB in North Dakota, and Whiteman AFB in Missouri, and two other bases, one in South Dakota and one in Wyoming. The Air Force was focusing their search primarily upon prior service Air Force enlisted men. (Women were still not allowed to serve in missile launch control facilities.) Those of us who had washed out of the Flight Screening Program were not even an option.
During lunch that day, I was sitting in the cafeteria with others in my flight, feeling sorry for myself. The others told me to get myself over to the OT club where the briefings were being held and tell them I wanted to volunteer for missiles. I had no time to ask for permission, so I went anyway. I was not alone. Two or three of the other washouts from FSP were also there. We were not given much encouragement by the primary missile recruiter, but we weren't going to give up.
The next morning, I was in class with my flight mates when the squadron commander paid us a surprise visit. One of my flight mates brought up my predicament to him and of my effort the previous day to be considered for missile duty. Everyone else in my flight began to speak up on my behalf. The Major looked surprised at this show of support for me, and I was completely stunned. Obviously, I'd made a few more friends than I had anticipated. The squadron commander looked to our flight commander and told him, "Hold up on Greg's paperwork for now and I will see what I can do."
Weeks would go by with no word at all. I'd continue to go to class and participate in flight activities and wait. Once in awhile, I'd get some positive news that some high ranking officer or other would mention that the Air Force takes care of its own and point to my situation. Finally, just a few days from graduation, I got word to report to a sergeant in an office not far from the OT Club. When I arrived and told him who I was, he slowly told me as I stood, waiting impatiently at each spoken word, about to fall over at any second with anticipation, that my application for missiles had been approved. I was ecstatic. I now had a career path laid out: Minot Air Force Base for my four-year missile assignment, and Vandenberg Air Force Base for missile school in California in the late winter and early spring. I was about to become an Air Force second lieutenant and a missile officer.
My mom flew to San Antonio for my graduation, and we drove back to California in my new 1973 Chevy Camero. I spent Christmas in San Pedro at my mom's newly rented house where she had moved from South Gate after I had left for the Air Force (my sister had moved out on her own a few years earlier). In early January 1974, I flew to Minot and got off a Frontier Airlines 737 at Minot International Airport. My face was met by the coldest blast of winter wind I had ever felt in my life, never having remembered living anywhere other than Southern California. The sun may have been shining, but the temperatures and the wind chill were well below zero. I didn't care. I was home at last.
Missile Combat Crewman
Feeling more secure than any other living,
I have been where sun and moon
draw from the sea a motion,
wearing the touching death edge of Point Loma.
As far as I could be a Marine,
I shared enough to feel an equal
but declined to be complete.
I thought to save lives,
but the Coast Guard never chose me.
So I pound no earth and no surf.
I am from all of that,
well beyond and beneath.
Underground is a new inspiring,
a source of unleashing so multiplied--
nearly absolutely efficient.
I am one at the consoles,
and as with others,
I await.
I returned to a new squadron other than the one I was in when I first got to OTS. It would take some time to process my discharge paperwork. I tried to fit in with my new squadron, but I knew that my days in the Air Force were numbered. Then, one day by the slow-pitch softball backstop during a game, my flight commander told me that my paperwork had arrived. I would be discharged the next day.
Then the miracle happened. We began to hear rumors that the Air Force needed volunteers for missiles at such bases as Grand Forks and Minot AFB in North Dakota, and Whiteman AFB in Missouri, and two other bases, one in South Dakota and one in Wyoming. The Air Force was focusing their search primarily upon prior service Air Force enlisted men. (Women were still not allowed to serve in missile launch control facilities.) Those of us who had washed out of the Flight Screening Program were not even an option.
During lunch that day, I was sitting in the cafeteria with others in my flight, feeling sorry for myself. The others told me to get myself over to the OT club where the briefings were being held and tell them I wanted to volunteer for missiles. I had no time to ask for permission, so I went anyway. I was not alone. Two or three of the other washouts from FSP were also there. We were not given much encouragement by the primary missile recruiter, but we weren't going to give up.
The next morning, I was in class with my flight mates when the squadron commander paid us a surprise visit. One of my flight mates brought up my predicament to him and of my effort the previous day to be considered for missile duty. Everyone else in my flight began to speak up on my behalf. The Major looked surprised at this show of support for me, and I was completely stunned. Obviously, I'd made a few more friends than I had anticipated. The squadron commander looked to our flight commander and told him, "Hold up on Greg's paperwork for now and I will see what I can do."
Weeks would go by with no word at all. I'd continue to go to class and participate in flight activities and wait. Once in awhile, I'd get some positive news that some high ranking officer or other would mention that the Air Force takes care of its own and point to my situation. Finally, just a few days from graduation, I got word to report to a sergeant in an office not far from the OT Club. When I arrived and told him who I was, he slowly told me as I stood, waiting impatiently at each spoken word, about to fall over at any second with anticipation, that my application for missiles had been approved. I was ecstatic. I now had a career path laid out: Minot Air Force Base for my four-year missile assignment, and Vandenberg Air Force Base for missile school in California in the late winter and early spring. I was about to become an Air Force second lieutenant and a missile officer.
My mom flew to San Antonio for my graduation, and we drove back to California in my new 1973 Chevy Camero. I spent Christmas in San Pedro at my mom's newly rented house where she had moved from South Gate after I had left for the Air Force (my sister had moved out on her own a few years earlier). In early January 1974, I flew to Minot and got off a Frontier Airlines 737 at Minot International Airport. My face was met by the coldest blast of winter wind I had ever felt in my life, never having remembered living anywhere other than Southern California. The sun may have been shining, but the temperatures and the wind chill were well below zero. I didn't care. I was home at last.
Missile Combat Crewman
Feeling more secure than any other living,
I have been where sun and moon
draw from the sea a motion,
wearing the touching death edge of Point Loma.
As far as I could be a Marine,
I shared enough to feel an equal
but declined to be complete.
I thought to save lives,
but the Coast Guard never chose me.
So I pound no earth and no surf.
I am from all of that,
well beyond and beneath.
Underground is a new inspiring,
a source of unleashing so multiplied--
nearly absolutely efficient.
I am one at the consoles,
and as with others,
I await.
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