Air Force Officer's Training School (OTS), Lackland, Texas, August 1973 to December 1973

With my mom moving out of the house on Cypress soon after I drove away to Texas, OTS would be my official home for the next several months.

My first afternoon on the road, I stopped to spend a relaxing evening at the Holiday Inn near Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix.  When I returned to my brand new Camero in the parking lot to bring a few essentials into my motel room, I realized to my horror that I had left the keys to the car in the lock of the trunk.  Someone could easily have taken anything remaining in the car or the car itself.

I decided that evening to swim in the motel pool.  A lithely muscular young man was skillfully diving into the pool.  We soon struck up a conversation and later met for dinner in the motel restaurant.  He was in the Marine Corps Reserves but was staying at the motel because he worked on a local highway project not far from the Holiday Inn.  I explained where I was headed and that I had been at Marine OCS the previous year.  I enjoyed a pleasant meal and his company.  He never mentioned a girlfriend or wife.  As we stopped by his room on the way to my room, however, he did not invite me in.

He got up earlier than I and was gone by the time I showed up at the restaurant for breakfast.  I paid my bill at the front desk and drove off for El Paso where I would meet up with the other three guys, one of whom would end up in my flight at OTS, George Tucker.  Kit Conway and Bruce Connors were the other two.  He would also be leaving our first flight for the Flight Screening Program (FSP) after the first six weeks.  We needed to arrive on August 15th, no earlier than 0730 hours.

George and I ended up in the squadron that featured blue hats and sweat clothes.  The other three squadrons wore Yellow, Green or Red.  One of the other guys on the long drive from El Paso to San Antonio, Kit, was assigned to the Yellow Squadron and the other guy, Bruce, was slotted for the Green Squadron.  Bruce Culp was also at Air Force OTS the same time as I, but he was in a different flight and squadron, I think the Green Squadron.

I would quickly learn that Air Force OTS and Marine OCS were as different as two officer programs could be.  Instead of a big squad bay, we were house in two-man rooms on the top floor of a three-story dorm those first three weeks.  Each flight was integrated with a sprinkling of women--our flight had two.  Their two-woman rooms were on the first floor of that three-story dorm.  We marched together, ate together and attended classes together.  Each flight had a 1st Lieutenant or Captain as a Flight Commander.  We had no enlisted men running the program.  Mostly the Cadets ran the program.  We even had a Cadet Chaplin (who was a handsome and hot blond).  We did not carry rifles, and we did not wear backpacks or ammo belts and pouches or carry canteens.  We dressed in starched tan uniforms.  Or we wore the color sweat suits. 

Unfortunately, for the first three weeks, when we were in the cafeteria and sat at one of the 4-person tables, we had to ground our trays on the right corner of the side of the table where we sat.  We could not look up from our food, and we could not speak to one another.  We could only get up and leave when all four OTs at the table were done eating.  We freshmen were called "Woolies," the dusty substance found in clumps under beds on the tiled floors of the dorms.  

Besides George Tucker, Brian Bauries and David Hunn were also in our flight and would also depart for FSP after the first six weeks.  When we left the flight, we would be replaced by a few Cadets who had successfully finished the 3-week Flight Screening Program.  

Our Flight Commander, Lt. Miller, who had been an Air Force enlisted man who had gone through OTS a few years before.  Prior to the six-week mark, we were asked to give a short evaluation of each of our fellow flight members.  Provide one positive word and one negative word to define how you saw that person.  Lt. Miller invited each of us into his office to tell us how the others saw us.  For me, he was surprised.  No two Cadets in the flight used the same positive word to describe me.  Each was different, and he had never seen that before.  Unfortunately, he acknowledged that one person in the flight (and I am convinced to this day that it was hard-headed David Hunn) defined me negatively in both columns.  He did not come up with a positive word to define me.  One of the phrases the unknown Cadet used to describe me was "Apple Polisher or Boot licker".  Neither the Captain nor I could determine which of the two comments he made about me was supposed to have been the positive one.  

To give you an indication of what David Hunn could be like, he was to march us to chow one morning.  He asked me to go into the women's entryway and tell them that our flight was lined up outside and for them to join us.  I went inside and announced the names of the two women in our flight.  No more than two minutes elapsed, they showed up, and we walked outside.  The flight was gone.  David Hunn had immediately marched the flight off for chow and left the three of us behind.  Either he was monstrously impatient and gave us no time to join the flight, or he was being actively aggressive against either me or the two women or all three of us.  I formed us up and marched the three of us to chow.  I really wanted to chew his head off for being so inconsiderate. 

I first shared a room with a really nice guy.  When it was his turn to march us to class for the day, he gave the correct call to march us into the classroom after we halted outside the building.  However, a Captain from another flight kept barking at him that his verbal command was wrong.  My roommate paid no attention to the other Flight Commander.  But I realized that it was not because my roommate knew that he was right and knew that Flight Commander was wrong.  It was because my roommate did not realize that the other Flight Commander was barking at him.  Our Flight Commander, who had observed the confrontation, such as it was, later explained why he had recommended my roommate to become Cadet Wing Commander (we were assigned different Cadet positions once we transitioned to our final three weeks in the program).  He truly believed that my roommate was standing up to the other Flight Commander because he knew he was right and the other Flight Commander was wrong.

My roommate was chosen to be Cadet Wing Commander, but it was based upon a mistaken impression of a confrontation that was entirely one sided.  

The two of us had a significant problem with an upperclassman named Martinez.  Some evenings he would come into our room and tells us that we were not doing enough, not performing as well as we ought to.  He would finally leave, and we would look at one another and wonder what we were doing wrong.  We were not slacking off.  The mystery was finally solved when another Cadet in our squadron told us how this same Upperclassman had come into his room and wildly complimented him.  Martinez advised that this Cadet ought to see our Cadet Flight Commander, Cadet Captain Rendon, and tell him how well he was doing.  When he told Cadet Captain Rendon what Martinez had suggested he do, the Cadet Captain Rendon turned to his roommate, Lt. Verret, and exclaimed, "Martinez is drunk again."  Each time he had come to our room to berate us, he was drunk and probably was not entirely aware of what he was doing or saying.  We had a good laugh and were relieved.  

At some point during those first six weeks, we were told that for $25.00, an upperclassman who had a private pilot's license would take each of us up for a short flight in a rented Cessna.  Since I had never been in a light plane before, and we would be flying T-41s during the FSP program, it might be a good opportunity for me to become more familiar with a similar aircraft.  Mistake.

The day was hot and humid, likely typical for the San Antonio vicinity in late August.  Several of us from our Flight drove over to Hondo Field in a few of our cars.  Here are Brian Bauries and one of the women in our Flight leaning on my Camero.
                                                                               

Below is the other woman in our flight, another guy in our flight, and David Hunn on the left.  A vintage WWII B-25 is in the background (similar to the type of aircraft used in the Doolittle Raid over Tokyo).  
                                                                               

Here are several of us waiting to take the Cessna flight under a canopy.  They served hamburgers and cold sodas while we waited.  Another mistake.
                                                                           

The guy I am leaning up against was quite handsome.  Unfortunately, he was not in the FSP, so I would lose track of him after we left the flight.  Here he is in profile.
                                                                                

Here is another angle of the B-25, with me leaning up against it:
                                                                            

Here are Brian Bauries, me sitting on the ground, and a third Cadet from the flight:
                                                                             

Here are three of us, clowning around.  I am on the right.  In a couple of these photos you can see that I am not wearing shoes but black socks and rubber flip flops.  I developed a severe and infected blister on the big toe of my left foot.  I could not wear shoes for a couple of weeks until the blister healed.  It was tough marching in flip flops and, invariably, David Hunn for one would step on the back of my footwear and rip one of them off.  I would have to walk around with one flip flop missing until I could buy another pair at the Base Exchange.  
                                                                                   

Here I am just before I was about to climb into the Cessna.  Unfortunately, with the food, the heat and humidity, and rudimentary flying around, I almost immediately got deathly sick.  I filled up an airsick bag and was severely depressed for the rest of the day.  I was never hopeful that I would become a good pilot.  Now I realized that I might have to deal with airsickness during FSP.  (I did, however, look pretty hot in Ray Bans from the BX.)
                                                                           

Here is the handsome guy in our flight back in his dorm room, lying on his cot.  He's wearing our Squadron's blue T-shirt and shorts.  
                                                                               

The one unsettling thing I discovered in that dorm on the 3rd floor is that I noticed a dead scorpion in the neon light fixture in the hallway outside our room.  Not only had it gotten up to the 3rd floor, but it had gotten into the ceiling of the third floor.  Ugh.  Once, when we had a fire drill and were standing around in the parking lot, one of the guys saw a large spider and tried to lightly step on it.  Suddenly, a wave of sorts expanded from its body, as if someone had dropped a pebble into a pond.  We soon realized that these were its baby spiders that were hitching a ride on the mother's back.  Did I mention that I do not like spiders?  But even the guy who stepped on the spider jumped back.
                                                                           
OTSOM

Another huge difference between OCS and OTS is that OTS featured a wonderful Officer's Training School Open Mess (OTSOM), with restaurant, bar, and a large dance floor in back.  The restaurant served incredibly tasty and tender steaks, baked potatoes, salads, whatever.  The bartender was incredibly talented, or so I was told.  I did not drink, but more about that later.  The Cadets paid into the OTSOM, so it was efficiently run and financially solvent.  The prices were fantastic.  I am sure we were not allowed to be members during our first three weeks, but after that we could join, pay our dues, and enjoy the facilities on the weekends.  On Friday and Saturday nights, the club featured talented local cover bands.  At least once during the night someone would request "We Gotta Get Out of This Place".  One of the local Latino rock bands slightly altered the title and lyrics to Grand Funk Railroad's hit, proudly singing, "We're Just a Mexican Band".  

Flight Screening Program (FSP)

Here are several of us at the FSP wearing our flight suits.  
                                                                              

My arm is on the shoulder of George Tucker.  On one knee next to me was Patrick "Frenchy" Sanjenis, who told us that his family once knew Fidel Castro and, as a youngster, he had met him personally, before the revolution turned out so badly.  Pat was also George's cousin.

We had moved out of the 3rd floor dorm rooms and into a separate barracks for this program after the first six weeks were over.  Each weekday morning, we would board a bus for Hondo Field, outside of San Antonio, where I had already gotten airsick.  To reach the hangar and the T-41 flight line, our bus drove through the ramshackle remains of what had obviously been one of many significant flight training bases in WWII.  Barracks, chow halls, a hospital, classrooms, and even a faded movie theater lined the paved roads on the way to the FSP hangar.  I would often sadly think of the thousands of American Army Air Corps personnel who either manned the many base facilities or passed through the base for training on their way to war in Europe or the Pacific.  In 1972, most of the survivors of the war were still alive.  But now, most of those who came to know Hondo Field intimately all of those years ago are gone now, joining their compatriots who had died fighting the war all over the world in 1941-5.

Here is a photo of the T-41 flight line at Hondo Field in the fall of 1973 that I believe Brian Bauries took and gave a copy to me.
                                                                                   

The Flight Screening Program was headed by an Air Force officer, but the training pilots were all civilian contractors.  I was assigned a Norwegian civilian instructor who had had a Norwegian buddy killed a few weeks earlier when two T-41's collided near the field on the approach to landing.  The two instructors and the two pilot candidates were killed.  (I read that the Flight Screening Program began at Hondo only in August, the month I arrived at OTS.)

The land beyond the field was sectioned off so that each T-41 trainee would be able to practice clearing turns or stalls or whatever other in-flight maneuver was required without fear of colliding with another aircraft. 

I never had a problem taking off.  I never had a problem smoothly flying to the airspace section where we would practice maneuvering in the air.  Once the maneuvering began, however, I would get airsick.  On our second flight, the Norwegian figured he would shake it out of me by attempting crazy maneuvers.  I got sick anyway.  (The instructor had asked as we sat on the taxiway before taxiing to take off, "Do we have an airsick bag?"  I glanced around the cabin and could not find any.  He looked panicked, opened the door, avoided the spinning prop, and knocked on the door of the T-41 immediately ahead of us.  He was given an airsick bag and ran back to our aircraft, jubilant.  I should have known that he was going to significantly attempt to get me over my airsickness with tough love.)

My problems with the program were serious, but I tried to make light of them in the photo below:
                                                                              

I became a visitor to the Flight Surgeon almost daily.  He would give me something to counteract the airsickness, but nothing worked.  Each time I got sick, I would fall further behind in the short, 3-week program.  (The program was deliberately short to weed out those like me who could not quickly grasp the various flying techniques required.)  I was good at stalls, but I was not able to practice landings because I was usually too sick before the return to base.  In fact, one time when I was able to control the aircraft on our way back to the base with the runway off to our right, a falcon flared directly in front of us.  I was mesmerized.  But the Norwegian instantly grabbed the controls from me and dove to avoid the bird.  Had it collided with our windshield and shattered it, we both might have been seriously injured or killed before we could safely land.  

I have no complaints regarding the staff.  Figuring that I was not working out well with the Norwegian and his tough love scheme after a week, they paired me with a kinder, older civilian pilot who tried to work with me less critically.  The Flight Surgeon once even gave me something that he seriously warned, "Don't tell anyone that I gave you this."  I actually think he handed me a placebo, figuring my issues were all in my head.  Since I have had acid reflux symptoms for years, it might have been in my stomach rather than in my head.  

Here is one of my buddies in the program:
                                                                                 

Here are three of us, including David Hunn being goofy, on the flight line:
                                                                                

After an FSP candidate succeeded and successfully soloed, he got hosed down:
                                                                                

Here is Brian Bauries and another buddy (might be George Tucker) posing with a T-41:
                                                                               

Brian had paid for flight training well before the program.  He explained that he would really pick the instructor pilot's brain even when they were taxiing back to the hangar because he was paying so much per hour to learn to fly.  Very few of the candidates failed.  Those of us who were questionable were given a final evaluation flight with an Air Force major.  I had no problems reaching the area that day and going through a few easy maneuvers.  But when I put the T-41 into a stall, I could not get it to come out of that stall.  I had never had problems with stalls before.  I gripped the controls tightly, trying to pull us out.  I could see the ground rapidly coming up at us but I was stubborn.  The evaluator realized that I was not going to succeed.  He took over the controls and pulled us out.  We would have been killed if he had not acted.  I knew it was all over for me after that.

I wasn't the only one to fail.  Another guy passed the evaluation flight.  The evaluator exited the plane to allow the candidate to take his well-earned solo flight.  But as soon as he increased power to take off, the T-41 sharply veered to the lift into the weeds, with the tires churning up the low foliage.  The evaluator got on the mic in the control center and yelled at him to land as quickly as possible.  He washed out, as well.  

Here is Brian Bauries in the control center for Hondo Field:
                                                                          

Here he is in one of our FSP classrooms:
                                                                               

He used to tell me that when he was a teenager, he would get a few "Contest of Speed" tickets, racing cars on city streets and getting caught.  His family lived in Houston.  At some point during my time at OTS, in November after FSP, I had bought two tickets for the L.A. Rams playing the then woeful Houston Oilers in the Astrodome.  This would be the second of two 1-13 seasons for Houston.  However, the Rams were incredible that year, their first under Coach Chuck Knox.  They would eventually post a 12-2 record, even beating the Dallas Cowboys in the regular season.  John Hadl was their quarterback, with former Eagle Harold Jackson at wide receiver.  They were blowing teams out most weeks.  
                                
When we asked the young woman attendant where our seats were located, she told us that she typically rooted for the visiting team because the Oilers were so consistently bad.  Here is a picture I took once inside the iconic stadium (long since torn down).
                                                                            

We had stayed at Brian's parents' home on Saturday night.  That evening we saw Paper Moon in the local 3-theater complex.  (I smiled when I saw the scenes in White Cloud, KS.)  Here is the Cadet I think might be named Lawson, Brian and I on his parents' patio:
                                                                             

After the game, Lawson and I overheard some old woman in the parking lot exclaim when she saw us in uniform, "There go two 90-day wonders."  I was insulted but ignored her comment.  We then picked up Brian at his parents' home and headed back to San Antonio.  

I had to meet an FSP review board after my failure on my evaluation flight.  I told the board that I badly wanted an Air Force career even if I could not be a pilot.  The board made the recommendation that I be considered for another assignment out of OTS; but they, and I, knew that there were no other options for me.  If I could not pass the Flight Screening Program, I would be eliminated from the Air Force after we returned to the regular officer program.

Return to OTS

Very shortly after Brian, David, George and I joined the new Blue Flight (their FSP candidates left just before we arrived), I was contacted to see an officer.  I had no idea what this meeting was about.  He had me sit down well opposite him at his desk while he began to ask me a series of increasingly personal questions.  I soon figured out that he was attempting to do a study, possibly for the Air Force or for an advanced degree for himself, regarding what type of person or personality washed out of the Flight Screening Program.  I could see that the most personal question was coming, but I could not stop him from asking.  "Have you ever had sex with a man?"  "No," I truthfully replied, trying to be as matter of fact as possible.  "You seemed surprised by the question?"  "I just thought you were going to ask a question like that but was surprised when you did."  He smiled and wrote something down in his notebook.  Mercifully, the interview was soon over.

I had been warned, weeks before FSP, during a mandatory interview with an Air Force Chaplain not to trust anyone but a Chaplain regarding very personal information.  (As with this psychologist, I suspect the Chaplain may have thought I could be gay.)  Chaplains were bound to keep such personal information private.  Nobody else could be trusted, he advised. 

All I could do after washing out of FSP was wait to be eliminated from OTS.  Wait, and hope for a miracle.  One evening at the OTSOM, I encountered another FSP washout.  His discharge paperwork had arrived earlier that day and the following morning he would be gone from OTS.  I know I again felt crushed that no miracle was in the offing.  Problem was, I had no idea what I was going to do were I to be discharged.  Mom had moved to San Pedro.  I didn't have any other job, nor any other prospects for another job.  I had my new Camaro to pay for and no means to pay for it once the Air Force checks stopped coming.

I had roomed with Brian Bauries at FSP, but in my depression at washing out, I was not in the best of spirits.  Sometimes, I just complained for the sake of complaining.  He quickly grew tired of that.  So much so that even when I was simply making a casual observation about some aspect of OTS, he shut me off because he perceived my remark to be yet another complaint.  My new roommate after FSP was a bit of a jerk.  I was pulling my weight in the new Flight, but some disagreement arose one night between us in our room.  I finally told our Cadet Flight Commander that I was not going to do anything more because my roommate was being a jerk.  The dispute got resolved and I immediately went back to work, keeping our room and Flight hallway clean for inspections.

After chatting with the other disappointed FSP washout, I should not have been surprised when I was leaning against the backstop where our Flight was playing one-pitch softball the next day, and our Flight Commander, a cocky young 1st Lieutenant only two years older than I, walked up to me and said, knowing I would be crushed, "I just got your discharge paperwork."  My whole body sank. 

However, something was afoot throughout the Cadet Wing later that day.  We were catching hints of something big.  The Strategic Air Command missile group was short of officers.  They would be holding a meeting in the main conference room of the OTSOM that very afternoon, to try and talk as many prior-service men into changing their assignments out of OTS to missiles.  At that time, with the Titan missiles being phased out, Minuteman III ICBM's were located in bases in Montana (Malmstrom AFB), North Dakota (Minot AFB and Grand Forks AFB), Wyoming (F.E. Warren AFB), Missouri (Whiteman AFB), and South Dakota (Ellsworth AFB).  Whiteman was near Kansas City.  But the rest were not really in garden spots across the Northern Tier.  The worst was Minot.  Few of the prior-service men were anxious to volunteer for any missile assignment.

At lunch that day in the Mess Hall, I was talking to a couple of my fellow flight members, bemoaning my fate.  One of them might have been David Hunn.  They encouraged me to go up to that meeting and volunteer.  I finally agreed, deciding that I really had nothing to lose and headed over there.  When I arrived, the meeting had broken up, with the SAC reps not getting nearly the numbers of volunteers they had hoped for.  I recognized Fred Tate, who had also washed out of FSP.  We stood in front of the SAC Major who was part of the presentation.  He seemed quite doubtful that they could take us volunteers because we were not prior service.

I left not very hopeful.  That afternoon, in class with the rest of the Flight, our Squadron Commander, a major, fortuitously entered the classroom.  One of the guys mentioned my attempt to volunteer for missiles earlier that day.  Suddenly, the entire flight was singing my praises to our Squadron Commander.  I felt incredibly humbled.  Our Flight Commander and Squadron Commander seemed overwhelmed with the accolades.  The Squadron Commander finally looked at our Flight Commander and advised, "Hold up Sanchez's paperwork.  I'll see what I can do."

A hopeless situation instantly expressed a slight ray of hope.  However, I would have to wait.  And wait.

Here is a photograph of my flight during the final six weeks of OTS:
                                                                                 

I have indicated the names of everyone in this photo elsewhere in my blog a few years ago except the fellow second from the right in the top row (he was the jerk roommate I had a disagreement with after FSP).  The following are the names I still remember without looking back at that initial post:

Top Row from left to right:  Brian Bauries, Bill Campbell, unknown, George Tucker, unknown, unknown

Middle Row:  Patrick "Frenchy" Sanjenis, Linda Burgess, unknown, Nancy, Mel Kaya (my roommate for the last few weeks)

Bottom Row:  David Hunn, me, Flight Commander, Lyle Dunable (his son contacted me after I first posted this photo on my blog, to let me know that his dad had died a few years before I had identified him in the photo), Gary Wolz.
.  
You can see regarding the position of me on the front row that I have been squeezed forward by David and our Flight Commander--too many broad shoulders.  Linda Burgess became a buddy during the final six weeks.  The flight went on a field trip to the Lone Star Brewery.  The founder was an avid hunter, and the ceilings of the lobby and entrance were covered in the antlers of the many deer he had killed in his lifetime.  Linda and I were both extremely appalled at the sheer numbers hanging above us.

Sports

We did have to run periodically.  But I don't recall those runs ever being longer than three miles.  The staff held an athletic competition among the four Squadrons during the final weeks, and I and another in our flight got picked for the run.  I had come down with some kind of 24-hour bug that sapped my strength and endurance that morning before I was selected.  I did my best, but I was chugging along the route so slowly.  I could see that the two winners from the same squadron linked arm in arm to cross the finish line together.  No surprise that I was actually bringing up the very rear after everyone passed me at in the beginning of the race.  Only one guy was ahead of me at the end after the others had crossed the finish line.  I was determined not to finish last.  Just before the finish line, I used about every ounce of energy left in me and barely beat him.  (At the time and all of these years later, I wonder if I should have crossed arm-in-arm with the other guy even though he was not in my squadron.  But I was too fatigued to think that through.)

We played one-pitch softball.  The offensive team at bat also supplied the pitcher who had to try to pitch the ball easily enough for his teammate at the plate to hit it for the only pitch he would get.  I actually got one nice hit that I remember.  It crossed the third base bag right down the middle and rolled into the outfield; but our Flight Commander, umpiring, ruled that it was a foul ball, and I was out.  (A teammate quietly told me that in major league baseball, my hit was a hit and not foul, but one did not argue with the ump at OTS.)

We also played something called "Flickerball".    The dirt field was no bigger than a basketball court.  A wooden backboard stood at either end of the small field.  In the middle of the backboard was a large hole with a net behind it to catch the ball.  We used a football but could not utilize a forward pass to advance the ball.  Players could only throw it backward unless you were aiming at the wooden backboard with the hole in it.  If you hit the backboard, I believe that was worth one point.  If you sailed the ball through the hole, it was worth two points.  But don't quote me on that because most of us hated Flickerball.  I think we all would have much preferred flag football to Flickerball; but in Flickerball, while everyone often made a foul by tossing the football forward at the wrong time, we rarely got hurt.  

OTS also had a confidence course of sorts with all kinds of difficult stations.  But unlike Marine OCS and the mud, while there was water, the course was paved like a ride at Disneyland.  It looked easy but was not.

We did march but only on a drill pad.  And we were graded on our command of the Flight.  I should have done very well, having dispensed with making so many wrong directional commands.  But on the day of evaluation, I did not do nearly as well.  I choked a bit.  The Flight Commander of another flight, when learning that I had been at Marine OCS the year before, still seemed impressed with me.  Or maybe he was just surprised.

OTSOM redux

When members of my flight learned that I did not drink, and likely did not because I had not found any alcoholic beverage that I liked, they were determined to find something.  All were tried:  Tom Collins, Tequila Sunrise, Tequila Sunset.  They finally came up with Sloe Gin Fizz.  I liked it.  One evening at the OTSOM, I believe I drank at least six.  I was a happy drunk.  Until we got back to the dorms and we were informed that room inspections were going to change.  They would be more restrictive and difficult to pass.  My cheerfulness instantly passed.  

One time though, I learned that Bruce Culp was not the only OCS platoon mate who was at OTS.  I discovered that Candidate Palms was a lower classman, the one who left OCS when John Ormbrek did.  We had a drink together in the OTSOM and chatted briefly one evening at the club.

Here is a photo of OT Lawson (?) who accompanied Brian and me to Houston, outside the entrance to the OTSOM.  (He was not in our flight after FSP, and I don't recall that he was at FSP with us.  Perhaps he was in our initial flight before FSP.)
                                                                                    

Here is one of "Frenchy" Sanjenis in his blue sweat suit, making this odd bird call with his hand:
                                                                              

Here I am in front of the club:
                                                                                 

Upper Class Positions

Sometime during weeks 7 through 9, the staff needed to select those trainees who were needed to occupy upper class positions in the Cadet Wing for the final three weeks.  Bill Campbell was chosen to be the "Cookie Monster" in charge of the Mess Hall.  He would have to ensure that the candidates newly arrived to OTS would obey the rules of silence in the Mess Hall.  A few of the others were given much lesser positions.  Mel Kaya and I were merely 2nd Lieutenants in the Cadet Wing.  I had written to the Flight Commander that "I wish I were in the position to apply for an upper-class position."  But since my stay at OTS was still uncertain, I was a 2nd Lieutenant, no high rank but no real responsibilities either.

Hazing

Upperclassmen and women might correctly harass lowerclassmen and women for scuffed shoes or untidy uniforms or marching by oneself when you were supposed to march with others as a lowerclassman.  (We heard about one lower class woman who always just marched herself, by herself, whenever she wanted, to go wherever she needed to go whenever she needed to go.  Not sure if she was ever caught.)

Here I am speaking of actual hazing, but not the harmful kind.  When one was about to move from being the fourth classman to a third classman, those who were to become upperclassmen went crazy.  They yelled at them.  Acted nuts.  Made them do ridiculous things that final night.  Lawson and I were on phone watch that night.  (You answered important calls and either got the called trainee to the phone or relayed a message.)

The screams and craziness began suddenly.  He and I barricaded ourselves in the phone room and put a chair up against the door, having heard how bizarre things could get.  We hid out while the others got harassed.  When it was our upper-class flight's turn to do the harassing as we were on the verge of becoming upperclassmen, several of the guys and I chose not to haze the underclassmen.  It was all silly, we believed.  When we were about to graduate, our lowerclassmen were quite respectful of us for leaving them alone while other flights went berserk on other floors of the dorm.

Raffle

The Wing held a raffle for a flight aboard a C-130.  I actually won.  Members of the flight laughed, likely jealous that I had won but knowing that I had had severe airsickness issues at FSP.  But since the Arab Oil Embargo was beginning to be felt, even for the Air Force, the flight was cancelled.  

Getting the Word

At some point during weeks 7 through 9, I heard from one of our prior service OT's that a Major or Lt. Col. on the Wing staff, remarking about those of us applying for missile assignments out of OTS, that "The Air Force takes care of its own."  My flight mate took it as a positive sign that the situation was looking increasingly better for me to remain in the program and graduate.  Still, though, I was not so sure.

During the week before our final week at OTS, I got a note to report to a certain Sargeant in the administration building.  I approached the building, only to realize that his desk was in a basement office.  I climbed down the steps and entered the office where several desks were located.  I asked for the Sargeant who had summoned me.  I was told that he was not there.  However, the enlisted man who told me this also explained when I provided him with my name, "Oh, yeah.  Sanchez.  Sargeant such and such, said that...your application..."  He was speaking these words as slowly as anyone could possibly utter them.  I kept leaning forward as each word or short phrase was uttered, hopeful, "...for missiles...has been...has been...approved."  I nearly fell over with excitement as he got the last word out.  I thanked him for the information and took off.

I marched as rapidly as I could to the OTSOM where the flight was meeting with our Flight Commander.  We were allowed to invite the Flight Commander under those circumstances to the club.  Otherwise, the club was just for us OT's.  No officers could enter without a specific invitation.  I told everyone at the table that I would be graduating with them the following week and bought everyone in the flight a drink for being so supportive of me for those several weeks while we all waited to hear.  

My favorite photo

Our flight was located on the second floor of this new dorm.  The dorm room I shared with Mel Kaya was just inside the exit door.  I am sitting on the fire escape just outside the exit door.  The F-102 display fighter is up the hill, in front of the classroom building.
                                                                                  

Blue Squadron Picnic

I cannot imagine Marine OCS having a big picnic toward the end of the program.  I took lots of pictures that cloudy day.  Apparently, wives and kids were invited.  The fellow below was our Cadet Flight Commander when we joined the new Blue Flight out of FSP.
                                                                                   

Here I am with Paul Repak.  The night before graduation, his Air Force Major brother arrived.  He was bigger, totally muscular and incredibly handsome.  I may have swooned as he walked past me in a hallway of the OTSOM.
                                                                                 

This was Bill "Cookie Monster" Campbell at a table with Brian Bauries.  Linda Burgess stands behind him.
                                                                                   

Here I am fooling around with a couple of my Flight mates:
                                                                              

Here are five of us in a chorus line.  I am on the far right, with Lyle Dunable (with beer cup in mouth) next to me.  David Hunn is to the left of Lyle.  Lyle was such a nice guy, and everyone liked him.  I was so sorry to hear that he had passed.
                                                                          

Here is a photo of several of the Blue Squadron members (I am there, hatless, with Linda next to me):
                                                                               

Nancy, Mel Kaya, Linda Burgess, Brian Campbell, and Lyle Dunable at a picnic table"
                                                                               

                                                                                

OTSOM Mess Dress night

The evening before graduation, we gathered in our OTS Mess Dress uniforms.  I believe that that's OT Lawson, definitely me, and Paul Repak (?) in front of the Club.
                                                                               

Here I am solo in front of the club (December 1973).
                                                                               

I have not yet mentioned that my Mom attended my graduation.  She flew in on Continental Airlines from LAX the night before these Open Mess photos were taken.  I knew she was coming but waiting in the dorm to hear if she needed a ride--I was not sure I would be able to leave the base and pick her up at the airport.  Mom was nothing if not resourceful.  She did not find any other easier way to get to the base, so she hitched a ride with an Air Force busload of enlisted recruits and got as far as Lackland Mainside.  I could then leave the dorm to pick her up there.  When I got to the Main Admin. building, I could not find her.  Eventually, I realized that she was on the other side.  I got her, drove back to the OTS grounds, and gave her the keys to my car so she could find a motel to stay in for a couple of nights.  (Dad could not make it.)

Here she and I are inside the Open Mess.
                                                                          

Here are Mom, Bill Campbell's wife (he had said she reminded him of Barbra Streisand), Linda Burgess, and someone else's mom in the Open Mess.
                                                                                 

Graduation

For some reason we were first in a large room at the OTSOM.  Here is Linda Burgess with her mom:
                                                                            

Here I am with Mom:
                                                                              

Here we are in front of the classroom building with the F-102 display, just before we went to the classroom:
                                                                           

                                                                              

We eventually moved to our Flight's classroom for the commissioning ceremony.  Wives and parents were there.  The gold bars were installed first and then we put back on our OTS shoulder boards for the parade and final ceremony.  They would be removed to reveal the 2nd Lieutenant's gold bars at the end of graduation.  We were actually commissioned in the classroom.  The rest would simply be ceremony for those in the stands.  Here I think we were just getting ready.  (The pink B-17 hanging from the ceiling was built by Linda, regarding the WWII Bomber named The Strawberry Bitch, though nobody really thought the actual plane was painted pink.  OT's built model planes for extra points if needed, sometimes to work off demerits.  I think they were taken down and given away as charity to poor kids in San Antonio after graduation.)

                                                                             

Here I am with Nancy in front of me.  I am not sure if this is before or after we were sworn in as 2nd Lt's.                                                                                                                                                              

Here is mom actually pinning on my gold 2nd Lt. bars.  This was the most exciting day of my life.  It was doubly sweet to have Mom there.
                                                                         

The following was definitely taken after we were sworn in.  Here I am congratulating George Tucker, one of those three who had driven with me from El Paso to San Antonio back in early August.  That drive had seemed like a long time ago.
                                                                              

The following are several photos that Mom took of the parade and the reciting of the Oath of Office as we are gathered in a Squadron (the final photo).
                                                                               

                                                                                 

                                                                                 

Mom took this picture of the dignitary area of the review stand:
                                                                            

She missed photographing the tossing of the hats.  Here we are trying to retrieve our hats before we left OTS:
                                                                               

To me this was always a winning photograph.  Linda Burgess and I beaming now that we had fully graduated and were commissioned.  My broad grin reveals exactly how I felt.
                                                                                 

I am not sure about this one.  This is where the shoulder boards got removed and the gold bars underneath revealed (a fake pinning on of those bars):
                                                                               

I could not leave OTS without making a silly blunder that fully embarrassed me at the time and causes me to cringe to this day.  A Sargeant at OTS moonlighted as a waiter at the OTSOM on weekends to earn extra money.  He was always personable and friendly and good at his job.  We tipped him well.  It's a military tradition to present a dollar to the first person who salutes you when you are newly commissioned.  Many of us acknowledged that we would be proud to have him give us our first salute that morning.  (In An Officer and A Gentleman, they each give a silver dollar to their Platoon Sargeant when he salutes them.  We would just hand over paper bills.)  He was standing at the far end of the parade grounds.  I approached him.  He saluted me.  I saluted him in return.  I then reached into my pocket to hand over the dollar bill that I had carefully put there earlier in the morning.  I pulled it out and began to give it to him when he realized what was in my hand and backed away.  I quickly followed, that what I was about to hand him was a $20 bill and not a $1 bill.  He nervously laughed.  I felt really stupid.  I had to stick my hand back into my pocket and retrieve the $1 bill and gave that to him.  I have no idea how the $20 had gotten in there, too.  (I am sure that Sargeant told that story for years afterward.)
                                                                              

Mom and I drove to Lackland Mainside to have a brief tour of the base.  After they were married, Dad had been stationed there, briefly.  Mom still recounted stories of how several couples had spent time in the Officer's Club there, etching their names into a huge cork board on one wall of the club.  I hardly imagined that that cork board would still be there with their names on it from so many years before.  Of course, it wasn't there.  I know Mom was disappointed.  

We spent our last night at a La Quinta Inn, near the San Antonio Hemisphere where we had dinner.  That morning in December of 1973, I called USAA and enrolled in the military insurance company.  That will be 50 years ago this December, 2023.

We left San Antonio for California after the call to USAA and drove straight through.  However, by the time we reached Riverside that night, I was exhausted.  I dropped Mom off at the house of the woman whose husband had been in the Air Force with Dad and whose family lived in Riverside back in the 1950's.  They had divorced and she was then living with another man.  When we arrived, I realized that she here companion were already drunk.  I called Darryl Butler, still studying at the University, and he directed me to an empty dorm room where I could sleep that night.  The next morning, I collected Mom and we finally finished the drive to the duplex where she was living in San Pedro, CA.  

I intended to spend the holidays with her and fly to Minot, North Dakota, after the first of the year.  The career of my dreams was almost upon me.

San Pedro

The significant feature of Mom's duplex is that it had a long hallway to reach the lone bathroom in the back of the unit.  I used to joke that you had to start out early to reach the facilities in time because of the long walk.  

Within a day or two of our arrival, I drove my Camero to the Navy Base Exchange on the other side of the Vincent Thomas Bridge.  Mike always tried to avoid driving over it.  I bought Mom a new set of pots and pans because she likely hadn't seen a new set in years.

Dennis Zito's twin brother, David, was stationed at George AFB for back seater F-4 training, so I decided to pay him a visit.  I arrived in uniform, and he let me stay in his Visting Officer's Quarters (VOQ) room that night.  We had stopped by the Officer's Club where some of his backseat buddies were playing pool.  One of them asked me, since I had not brought a change of civilian clothes, "You're really proud of those gold bars, aren't you?"  "Yes," I readily told him but did not go into the lengthy details of how much effort and luck it had taken to get them.  Each of the guys in training for the F-4 was a 1st Lt. at that point, jaded indeed for being in the AF for just over two years. 

The following morning David Zito took the following picture of me outside the VOQ, standing beside my Camaro.  The blue car in the foreground was his Chevy.  I drove back to San Pedro later that morning.  I do know that at George AFB, I have my first memory.  I was very young, and I remember Dad or Mom dropping me off at the Day Care Center at the Base.  As you can see in the photo, old WWII era barracks were still in the background.  I suspect they have been torn down by now.
                                                                           

I don't remember much about Christmas that year, but here is a photo of Mom and me in front of her tree (the more I compare the two Xmas trees in the following two photos, the more I wonder if this one was from Christmas of '74 year and not '73).
                                                                             

The following photo was likely taken the day I left for Minot on January 3rd, 1974.  I was wearing the only warm jacket Air Force issue had given me out of OTS.  The Air Force would issue me a beautiful parka, but that was still several days away.
                                                                                  

I was leaving Southern California for good in 1974.  While I might visit dozens of times over the years, I would not move back for good until the late Spring of 2016.  I intended to make the Air Force my career until I retired.  Other events would alter those plans.  But for now, I was looking forward to all that the Air Force had to offer.