This might have been in November. The photograph itself is my favorite from all of OTS. I am sitting on the fire escape. To my right was the side door to the second floor, and my dorm room was just inside that door.
Up the hill behind me was the main classroom building. In front was an F-102 Delta Dagger display. As you can see from my shoulder boards, I was only a cadet lieutenant. Since I could be out processed at any time, I was not able to apply for an upper class position when we returned from FSP and joined our new flight. Those with whom we had begun OTS were now three weeks ahead of us.
Our flight commander was a 1st lieutenant, and we later realized at a party he gave at his apartment that he was only a couple of years older than most of us in the flight.
This is as good a place as any to relate how I managed to remain at OTS when every other indication was that I would be gone in no time. In fact, I had met a guy who got processed out the day before I was to be eliminated, so he was gone the day that my new flight was playing one-pitch softball.
I was standing by the backstop when my flight commander approached and told me that my out processing paperwork had arrived. He would begin the process the next day. I hung my head in disappointment, yielding to the inevitable that I had awaited for a couple of weeks already.
However, later that day, rumors began to circulate around the OTS complex. We eventually learned that a group of recruiters from the missile field would be visiting the site and holding an orientation in the OTSOM that afternoon. All prior service Air Force trainees were required to attend. They would be asked to change their assignments to missiles because the whole field was seriously short of people in the coming months. However, none of the prior service men--women were still barred from missile operations--wanted any part of missiles in such places as Minot, North Dakota, or Montana, or South Dakota.
I was having dinner with some other members of the flight in the late afternoon as the orientation was in progress. I told them about what I had heard and mentioned that I would be thrilled to be offered the opportunity to be in missiles. The other three guys at the table strongly encouraged me to go to the OTSOM and present my case to whomever would listen. I should make a plea to be considered for a missile assignment. What did I have to lose, they correctly asked?
Thus fortified, I marched up there by myself, not at all sure this would do any good. Once there, I realized that I was not alone. Two other guys whom I knew who had washed out of FSP were there for the same reason. The major in charge of missile recruitment did not sound too encouraging, but we made our case, he listened, and then we left.
The next morning, in the classroom, others in the flight brought up my situation to our flight commander. He seemed surprised because I don't think he was aware that there was a recruitment drive going on. However, he did not seem to know what to do since he already had my out processing paperwork.
This is where it got remarkably interesting. At that very moment, into the classroom walked our Squadron Commander, a major, who only very rarely came to our classroom. Another of my fellow flight members then brought up my situation with him. He told the Squadron Commander that I was going to be out processed but that I had wanted to stay in the Air Force and serve, even if it meant missiles and North Dakota. Almost miraculously, every other member of the flight also spoke on my behalf. It became a full chorus of support. All of them were strongly declaring to him that I was a good guy and ought to be considered for retention.
I was almost teary eyed at this total support from every one of my peers. And most of these men and women I had only known for a couple of weeks since this was not my original flight.
The Squadron Commander looked surprised at all of this unanimous show on my behalf. He then looked at me, and I certainly must have looked totally humbled by all of this. Next he looked to our Flight Commander and fatefully told him, "Hold up Sanchez's paperwork. I will see what I can do."
Our Flight Commander nodded. My spirits instantly rose, and all of the others around the table might just as well have stood and cheered, they were beaming so.
I now had hope, something that I had none of just a few moments before the Squadron Commander's timely entrance to the classroom. To this day, if not for the support of my peers, I know I would not have had a chance to stay. But now the interminable wait began.
The Officer Schools
A deep, indelible blue
on the light concrete between
marches to the sun of another day;
a cadence reminding me of a different service,
a different uniform: starched
but fading green, and rifles of Marines--
arms ordered slung to my indifference
one morning back when I trained again.
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