part0005

Fort Wolters had been an active basic training base in World War II and remained so through the Korean War but then had been placed in caretaker status, like so many other installations after Korea. Besides World War II wooden buildings, there were three-story concrete block barracks as well. These had two-man rooms and a community bathroom on each floor. Fort Wolters had only been reopened since 1966, when the demand for pilots had exceeded the capabilities of the traditional Army Aviation Center at Fort Rucker, Alabama.

We were met at the main gate to Fort Wolters by another warrant officer cadet, or WOC, as all cadets were called.

After giving directions to the driver, he addressed us. “Hi, I’m Brian Brady, and I’m a cadet just like you guys. When we get to the barracks, gather up your stuff and fall into two ranks on the street next to the bus. I will then conduct a roll call and assign you a barracks.” He then turned his attention back to the bus driver.

The designated barracks were World War II wooden buildings like we’d had in basic training. Other buses were already there, offloading cadets. We removed our duffel bags from the bus and lined up as Brian had asked. We looked more like a mob than a military formation. As he called our names, we answered and moved to the designated building. There sat another cadet.

“Hi, Dan Cory,” I said as I extended my hand.

Taking my hand, he said, “Hi, Bob Atwell. Dan, you’re assigned to the fourth bunk on the right side. Footlocker is in front of your bunk and the wall locker is behind along the wall. Your blankets and sheets are on the bed, so you might start making it up. Once everyone gets in, I’ll be giving a quick briefing here on the first floor.”

“Okay,” I said, moving down to my assigned bunk and making the bed. Once everyone was in the building, Bob called those assigned upstairs and asked them to come downstairs for a briefing.

“Welcome to Preflight. You’ll get to meet our TAC officer tomorrow morning, and it will not be pleasant. Just try and laugh it off. Enough said about that. You need to remove all rank from your uniforms tonight and replace it with WOC brass. The post exchange will be open for a couple more hours, so when you leave here, get over there and get at least three sets of brass. The PX is down two blocks. Can’t miss it. After that, head over to the mess hall, which is one block behind this building. At eighteen hundred tonight, there will be a briefing back here on how to set up your wall locker and footlocker, as well as what you can expect in the morning. Okay, now you’re free until eighteen hundred.”

Heading back to my bunk to retrieve my cap, I noticed Bob standing next to his bed. His area looked pretty squared away.

“You going to the PX?” he asked.

“Yeah. Just looking at how you have your stuff set up. Looks pretty much like we did in basic,” I said.

“Really does, but note the attention to details. All the shirts are facing left, but note the spacing between each hanger—two inches. And my low-quarter shoes are exactly one inch from the end of the shelf and one inch from the left side, with my extra boots’ toes one inch from the front of the shelf and one inch from the right side.”

“Bob, I think I’m beginning to see the picture here,” I said.

“You have no idea. A little tip for you—buy a small ruler at the PX and keep it hidden from the TAC officers. Also get a black magic marker to cover any black threads on your uniforms. Basic training taught us discipline. Preflight is going to teach us attention to detail. When you come back, give me a holler and I’ll go to chow with you,” Bob offered.

As I was leaving the building, Johnson was coming down the stairs.

“Dan, you goin’ to the PX?”

“Yeah, you?”

“I’ll walk over witch’u if you don’t walk too fast.” Johnson’s Southern accent was coming through loud and clear.

“What’s the matter?” I noticed his limping walk. “What’d you do?”

“Dee low-quarter shoes. I ain’t never worn dees before, and dey’re killing my feet.”

“What, you’ve never worn low-quarters before!”

“Nah. Growing up, we was too poor for anything but sneakers, and in basic we wore boots, but not dese. Dey hurt.”

Johnson was right—we never had worn our issued low-quarters in basic training, only boots. Low-quarter shoes were made in the federal prison system, and not of the most supple leather.

“When you get back from chow, go up to the shower wearing your shoes. Soak those shoes good in hot water and keep them on until you go to bed tonight. That will break them in quick. You may get your ass ripped tomorrow for wet shoes, but I suspect we’re going to get our asses ripped for everything tomorrow, so the TACs may not even notice the shoes are damp.”

When we returned from the PX, Johnson and I walked over to the mess hall with Bob. In basic training, “Eat fast and haul ass” had been the motto. Here was different. We entered the mess hall without having to do pushups or overhead bars. No one was screaming as we moved along the cafeteria line with a tray and real dishes. Tables were arranged to seat four people. We knew when we entered how much time we had for the meal. It was always long enough to eat, drink a second cup of coffee and have a smoke if you were so inclined. I was a bit gun-shy, expecting the TAC officers to burst in and start screaming at any minute. When they didn’t, I started to relax.

I became more relaxed when Bob said, “Hey, no need to shovel food in. Remember the table manners your parents taught you. The TACs will be around after tomorrow, and if you’re eating like an animal, they’ll put your tray on the floor and have you get down and eat with no utensils. Eat like your mom was sitting here, which means no foul language.” I suddenly remembered my table manners and started acting appropriately.

Cadet Brady chaired the 1800 briefing. “Welcome to Preflight. I’m a holdover from a previous class, so me and the other cadets were directed to meet you and get you settled in. After tomorrow morning, we’re just like you and in this with you. First formation will be at zero five thirty, and it will be frightening. Our TAC officers are warrant officers who finished their tours flying in Vietnam. Now they’re babysitting us instead of being instructor pilots, and they’re not happy about it. You can expect to get your ass smoked in the morning. Nothing you do will make them happy, so be prepared for it. This is my second time going through this, and I’ll try to laugh my way through tomorrow morning, ’cause it’s the only thing to do,” he explained.

Bob picked up the briefing. “Preflight is four weeks long. You will be in classrooms all day, every day, learning how to behave as an officer. There will be classes on etiquette and manners. You will receive classes on the Uniform Code of Military Justice, UCMJ, and just how fast you can be kicked out of this program.” The rest of the briefing went into detail on how to prepare our footlockers and wall lockers for inspections. Inspections were conducted every day, whenever the TAC officer felt like doing it, whether we were in the barracks or in class.

It was agreed that everyone would start waking up at 0430 hours. That would give us an hour to clean up and have our areas prepared for inspection after we spent the previous night setting everything up as instructed. At 0530 hours, all forty cadets were stacked one behind the other and ready to burst onto the company street. When the whistle blew, cadets poured out of the barracks as if they were on fire. And we did it again, and again, and again, interspersed with pushups as we just could not vacate the barracks fast enough.

While we were outside getting smoked doing pushups, some of the TAC officers were in the barracks tossing everything out of our wall lockers and footlockers. If they noticed Johnson’s shoes, they said nothing about them being wet. Of course, the barracks weren’t clean enough for the TAC officers, so mops, brooms, pails and garbage cans were flying around squad bays as well. Obviously, no one made their bed that morning, because mattresses were upside down and bedding pulled apart.

After two weeks, the barracks were in a clean enough condition to satisfy the TAC officers. The level of cleanliness was achieved when a cadet wore a pair of white gloves while conducting a pre-inspection before the TAC’s inspection. Satisfied that attention to detail was being paid to the large items like the barracks, the TAC officers turned their attention to small things, such as the cleanliness of the inside of our brass belt buckles or the inside of our razors or our toothbrushes. “This is filthy, Cadet. It is only good for cleaning the latrine. Now get in there and clean those toilets. Take your damn toothbrush.”

More than one of us was accused of growing penicillin in our belt buckles. A loose thread on a shirt would obtain an ass chewing for the offender. Faded black thread required a black magic marker touch-up in order to pass inspection. Attention to detail was the name of the game. We would learn on the flight line why it was so important.

We received more shots, as well as our flight gear. Our flight gear consisted of two one-piece flight suits, a pair of leather gloves and a flight helmet with carrying bag. The flight suits would not be going to Vietnam with us. A lot of bravado was displayed in the barracks as cadets modeled before the camera in their flight gear for pictures to be sent home. For many, that would be the extent of their aviation experience. Counseling by our TAC officer also began with each of us being called into his office. When it was my turn, I knocked on the door.

“Get in here, Cadet!” shouted the TAC officer, Chief Warrant Officer 2 Barbie. Chief Warrant Officer Barbie was a tall, skinny man with an unhandsome pockmarked face. However, he did have a knockout wife that frequently came to the barracks to pick him up in a new Corvette Stingray. We couldn’t help but notice her.

Approaching his desk, I came to attention and rendered the proper salute. “Sir, Cadet Cory reporting as ordered.” He returned my salute and told me to stand at ease, which really meant stand at parade rest. He was looking at my chart and had not looked at me.

“Cadet Cory, you’re older than most cadets we see here. You have almost three years of college.”

“Yes, sir,” My father had taught me that statements of fact got a “yes, sir” or “no, sir” response and nothing more.

“Didn’t you like college? Or were you just too stupid to finish? Are you a quitter, Cadet Cory?” he asked, leaning forward across his desk, staring at me with his beady black eyes.

“No, sir!”

“Are you going to waste the Army’s money, and my time, quitting before you even start?”

“No, sir!” This line of questioning was becoming annoying.

“I suppose you’re going to take that nice pay raise and buy yourself one of those new Corvettes, aren’t you?” he needled me.

We did get a pay raise coming to flight school as we were promoted from E-1 or E-2 privates to E-5 sergeants. Our pay went from ninety-eight dollars to two hundred and twenty-five dollars a month. Almost all the extra pay went to two things—haircuts and laundry bills. We were expected to have high and tight haircuts, which meant a haircut each weekend. We were also expected to break starch every day. Our fatigues were so heavily starched that it took some effort to get your foot down the pant leg and your arm down the sleeve. A few cadets attempted to wear the same uniform two days in a row. The penalty for such an action wasn’t worth the price.

“No, sir, I don’t even like Corvettes and couldn’t afford one anyway,” I responded, deviating from Dad’s advice by giving more information than necessary.

“You don’t like Corvettes! I suppose you’re a Mustang lover, aren’t you?” he fired off.

Now this was really starting to bother me. What kind of “counseling” was this anyway? “No, sir, I really am not crazy about cars, to be truthful. A car is only transportation to me, and I have never owned one.” This response seemed to calm him down.

He paused and looked down at my file. “This says your next of kin lives in Morocco. What’s with that?”

“Yes, sir. My father is a naval officer stationed there.”

“Why didn’t you join the Navy?” he asked.

“I thought about it. I had been a merchant sailor and thought about going back to sea, but when I quit college, I knew I wanted to do this,” I answered.

“Why?” he asked with a questioning expression as he leaned back in his chair.

“Sir, I believe that our fight in Vietnam is the right thing for this nation to be doing. If we do not stop the spread of communism, then it will surround our shores. I believe the people of Vietnam deserve and want the same liberties that our forefathers fought for with the help of the French in the American Revolution.”

Shaking his lowered head, he said, “Okay, keep yourself out of trouble and you’ll probably make it. Send in Brewster. You’re dismissed.”

I came to attention, rendered that proper salute and did an about-face out of the office. What the hell was this about? I never spoke to the man again. Three months later, he would be shot by the military police while attempting to rob the PX one evening. Chief Warrant Officer 2 Barbie lost the gun fight. It was suspected that he was involved in a couple of robberies in Fort Worth, one involving a shooting death. The Criminal Investigation Division questioned us about his possibly attempting to recruit someone to assist him in his criminal behavior. We always wondered what happened to his “hot” wife. There was some speculation that her expensive tastes may have contributed to his actions.

We received weekend passes but were required to wear our uniforms. The adjacent town was Mineral Wells, Texas. Oh my God , I thought when I arrived downtown. It had one stop light. Every guy was dressed like a cowboy, as were the girls—at least, we thought they were girls. It became obvious quickly that our kind, soldiers, were not really appreciated in their town. My future roommate Bill was only nineteen, so the two of us found a small tavern that didn’t ask for ID. We took a table by ourselves and quietly drank our beer. We decided to leave after one beer. Some of the cowboys were staring at us, and we thought it best to get out before some trouble started. The other option was to go into Fort Worth, but you had to have a car and neither of us did. There was a WOC club on base, but there were no women there. We could go to the NCO club as we were all E-5s, but the real NCOs really didn’t want us hanging around. Did you ever get the feeling you aren’t loved?

About this time, we lost the first member of our class.

“Someone get Hanna and have him report to me,” bellowed CW2 Barbie. Dave came downstairs and headed for the TAC’s office. A few minutes later, Dave came out and said nothing to anyone but went upstairs. A half hour later, he left the building in his khaki uniform with a shaving kit and a small bag. He was going home on emergency leave. He would be starting Preflight over again in a later class.

Seldom did physical training fall on the training calendar. The result was that we were all packing on the pounds we’d lost in basic training. While in preflight training, we were fitted for our officer’s uniforms. Warrant officer cadets were required to purchase one set of the Class A green uniform, which consisted of a coat and pants with a black stripe up the pant legs and around the jacket cuffs. Also, one set of the dress blues uniform, a dark blue coat and light blue pants with gold stripes instead of black, worn for formal occasions. The tailor would measure us and then add half an inch or an inch to each waist and chest measurement. He told us he anticipated we would be packing on a few pounds. He was right. Officers weren’t issued uniforms but had to buy them and were given a one-time payment of two hundred and fifty dollars for that purpose, regardless of how long they remained on active duty. Enlisted soldiers were issued their uniforms and got a monthly uniform allowance to maintain them. The one question we had was, if flight school was another seven months and the chance of dropping out was about fifty-fifty, why were we buying our uniforms now? Never got an answer to that one, but I suspected someone was making money under the table.