'You're going to regret that!': My greatest decision and most terrifying day

My greatest decision and most terrifying day happened 35 years ago.

On Sept. 3, 1986, I flew to San Antonio, Texas, and Air Force basic training. I cut the permanent wave curls from my hair a couple days before and wore my finest Busch Beer T-shirt for the occasion.

My God, I still remember the plane ride -- dark and stormy, with lightning all around us.

Back then I had no clue about college or how to pay for it. High school counselors never took interest, except Mr. Romzi.

“What college are you going to, Gary?”

“I’m not going to college. I joined the Air Force!”

“Aw, why would you do that? That’s dumb! You’re making a big mistake. You’re going to regret that!”

My brother and sister were Air Force and told me they’d yell a lot for six weeks. It was all head games.

“Just play the game,” my brother said.

That’s what I told my new friends at the Pittsburgh Military Entrance Processing Station that long day that started at 6 a.m.

It was sticky-hot when we arrived at Lackland Air Force Base about 9 p.m. You could smell and feel the heat, sweat and tension as we finally rolled up and met our Training Instructors – TIs for short.

Then it was a tsunami of psychological Armageddon.

We were swarmed. They were in our face and everywhere, screaming, threatening, swearing, throwing a metal garbage can. Running off the bus, I went from the cocky know-it-all to a scared, 17-year-old boy, instantly forgetting everything my brother and sister told me.

For the next few hours, we Rainbows – called that because of our colorful, civilian clothes – were verbally shredded by people with three or four stripes – gods to us.

“PUT YOUR EYES STRAIGHT AHEAD!”

“DON’T YOU EYEBALL ME! I WILL GOUGE YOUR EYEBALLS OUT!”

“DO YOU CALL THAT STANDING AT ATTENTION?!? PUT YOUR DAMN HANDS ON THE SEAMS OF YOUR TROUSERS, FAT BOY!”

“A BEER T-SHIRT?!? YOU STILL LOOK LIKE YOU’RE SUCKING MILK FROM YOUR MOTHER’S?… ” Well, you get the rest.?

(Those last two were delivered at me!)

One kid shook so much, he couldn’t open the gold-metal key lock they gave him. It clattered to the floor. They screamed at him to pick it up before kicking it down the bay and made him chase it, only to have him terrorized by a TI at that end.

“YOU GOTTA BE SMARTER THAN THE LOCK, DUMMY!”

Then finally lights out. Two cried that night. Not me. It was my first of 45 nights begging God to get me through.

We got maybe five hours sleep, then more screaming to get downstairs in 10 minutes to get heads shaved and uniforms.

The uniform didn’t fit me quite right. My TI would yell: “KOO-NICK! YOU LOOK LIKE A DAMN DUFFEL BAG!”

I had no confidence; was quick to panic. That’s the reality of those first couple weeks.

One person just gave up and quit. This kid, who seemed to have his stuff together more than me, refused to get up one morning. He was gone by the time we got back from whatever we did that day. Didn’t find out the full story until the last few days of basic. One other got recycled back a couple weeks for rolling his eyeballs one time too many.

I was convinced they wanted to kick me out. That happened at the two-week point.

“WHERE YOU FROM?!? PITTSBURGH??? DO YOU LIKE IT??? YOU’RE GOING BACK THERE!!! YOU’RE GOING HOME!!! I’M DONE WITH YOU!!!”

That broke me and was my worst moment in basic training.

Later that day, my TI called me into his office. The moment of truth.

“You’re not going home!” he said. “I’m no harder on you than anybody else here, so get your shit in one sock, listen and follow directions. Now get out of my office!”

Less panic. More focus. He pushed hard then eased off slightly – I think -- to let me build some confidence. ?

Quitting never was an option. If I was sent home, I’d leave fingernails and a bloody trail on the floor. I’d become homeless at the Greyhound bus station before looking at friends or family again. Turns out, they don’t want to kick recruits out (most of us, anyway). They want to make you better. Hard to get that through my 17-year-old brain.

I learned to march. And follow orders. And do what I was told when I was told without panic. One step at a time. I learned how to fold, starch and measure a T-shirt into a 6-inch square and pass inspections. As a former TI told me, “If you can’t learn to fold a T-shirt, we aren’t trusting you to fix a multi-million-dollar airplane.”

We helped each other. We learned customs and courtesies. Ran as a flight. Did an obstacle course. We learned how to salute, and a right-face from a left-face. One guy kept getting confused and had to carry a rock in his left hand.

“WHEN I SAY, ‘LEFT FACE,’ YOU TURN IN THE DIRECTION OF THE ROCK, DUMMY!”

By the time we wore our blues that last week, I knew I’d make it. But still scared? Oh yeah. Some say it was easy. Maybe time creates a rosier picture in their minds.

We all bought the basic training book capturing our time at Lackland. My TI wrote in mine: “You made it. My advice is go see a tailor immediately.”

Once basic is over, it’s on you. Nobody screams. You set the alarm clock. You get up. You get to work on time. You succeed or fail. It’s like a job, but much more, with esprit de corps, camaraderie, and bonding like nothing else. If you know, you know. Some tough days, some long days, and many great days.

I saw a tailor. I saw the world.

By the time some in my high school class graduated college, I had been overseas and on my third duty station with sergeant stripes, then in the desert shortly thereafter.?

Korea, the United Arab Emirates, Japan, Germany, France, the Netherlands, Italy, Austria, Macedonia and Kosovo. And Bosnia, close to where my grandparents emigrated in 1916. It’s where I said a prayer for kids as young as 13 who were shot and dumped in a mass grave. I walked the same streets and hotel room where Elvis lived in Friedberg, Germany. I interviewed Elvis’ paperboy, plus Reba McEntire, Eddie Money, Chuck Noll, Randall Cunningham, Bubby Brister, Hootie and all the Blowfish, Vince McMahon and The Rock. I stood on the spot where Mother Theresa was born, and the sidewalk where Archduke Ferdinand was assassinated. Stood directly across the street from Pope John Paul II when he visited a Sarajevo church. Toured the Anne Frank house, did Halloween at THE Frankenstein’s Castle, watched in horror as my mother created an international incident at the Notre Dame Cathedral and took my kids to Disneyland Paris and Tokyo Disneyland.

I ate bull balls in Bosnia and cow brains in Macedonia.

I can ask where the toilet is in at least three different languages, and sometimes in the right language in the right country.

There were others who did more and far worse.

The closest I came to combat was six months of Desert Shield and Desert Storm and two SCUD attacks – one real and one false alarm. I did wade into a few mobs. One was some angry Serbs who didn’t like Americans messing around their village. Another was Italian communist protesters outside Aviano. Me and my buddy, Greg Piatt -- now a Catholic priest -- got chased out of a Bosnian village by a terrorist named Abu Hamza. If he caught us, would he have shot us on the side of the road? Probably not. Maybe. I don’t know. He is doing life in prison for murder and inciting terrorism and I have an active imagination.

Also almost got sucked into an F-16 engine and had the Society of Creative Anachronism start an international hate mail campaign against me, too. There are no military medals for those two things.

Retired after 20 years as a master sergeant, and earned an associate’s in public affairs, a bachelor’s in journalism, and a master’s in media communications.

I’m still doing Public Affairs – the same job I asked the Air Force to give me. Now I do it for the Veterans Affairs national media desk.

Our 3704th Basic Military Training Squadron motto was, “Here we begin. We prepare the man.”

My TIs were Staff Sgt. Blair Gambill and Sgt. Steve Allen. Like kindergarten teachers, you never forget your TIs. I credit them for many life successes. I wouldn’t have this job if not for what they started 35 years ago today.

Mr. Romzi was dead wrong. I don’t regret a thing.