Brain Needed Space

It isn’t my goal to just string Airman Howell stories here, but things on the home front have been exceptionally busy. This story was originally posted in March, 2008. Hopefully I’ll have something fresh soon.

“GET ON THE BUS!”

And we did, all 50 or so of us who had a week left at basic training. We all calmly but quickly filled the bus, the door shut, the airbrakes hissed, and we took off for the stadium.

For some reason, we were being taken to see a World Leage of American Football (WLAF) (think cheap USFL) football game and pfft who were we to argue. Looking spiffy in our trim blue uniforms, six flights of trainees, some 300 people, were bussed to the San Antonio stadium to watch a not-quite professional football game and look good doing so.

We arrived, marched off the bus, into the stands, and filled up a section right on the 50-yard line. I was in the second group of trainees, around the fourth row back. In front of us… were girls.

Lots of girls. A flight of female Air Force trainees was in the front rows, then my flight behind them, then four more flights of guys behind us. Fifty trim, polished, knee-length skirt, uniform-wearing girls. We had been isolated from women for five weeks, this was cool!

No socializing was permitted; we were to remain calm and professional, for we were all representing the US Air Force. So sayeth our instructors, so let it be done!

Professional. I can pull that off, totally. I can do that… wow, golly they smelled nice.

The game began, the WLAF cheerleaders were on the other side of the stadium. We were enjoying the sun, the breeze, the football, and some time to not be stressed to the max.

OK, I need a flashback here. Hold on.

The first real day of basic training, we were all standing against our lockers, quivering at the arrival of our Military Training Instructor. And she burst into the dorm and blew our minds. Tall, muscular, black, and Loud! Holy cow, she could Project and strike fear into any man’s heart, making them sweat all the way into their black cotton socks. Her foul-mouthed invectives thundered around the dorm like a barrel of superballs fired from a shotgun. Personally, I tried to turn invisible or become a chameleon, but something she said warped my brain.

“Do any of your dumb blankety-blanks know how to type!?”

Utter silence.

“I SAID, DO ANY OF YOU BLEEPY BLEEPY BLANKETY-BLANKS KNOW HOW TO TYPE!!!”

And my world exploded and the chemicals in my body altered their molecular structure. I lost my humanity as I shrieked into the storm,

“SIR! I CAN TYPE SIR!”

I called her Sir? I didn’t. There’s no way I called her Sir. My brain returned to this dimension and quit the job.

“Dude,” my brain said, “You totally called her Sir. Goodbye. Call me back in six weeks.” /doorslam

And the goddess of war thundered, “GET YOUR BLEEP-BLEEP BLEEPING BLEEP IN HERE!!”

I warped to her office, expecting to be eviscerated.

“Thank goodness,” she said, “You really can type? Would you be a dear and use this list of names to type out a copy of this form for everybody? Thank you so much, it’s hard to find someone who can type.” And she smiled, left the office, and started verbally abusing everybody in the dorm, one at a time, while I sat at the Selectric and typed out inventory forms.

“WHY THE BLEEP WOULD YOU BRING CONDOMS TO BASIC TRAINING!!!”

Type, type, type.

“THOSE ARE THE DIRTIEST UNDERPANTS IN THE HISTORY OF THE PLANET!! ARE YOU A GORILLA?!! CAN YOU WIPE YOUR BLEEP AT ALL!!”

Type, type, type.

At some point, I was told that the goal of basic training is to graduate and have the instructor not know your face when they call your name to receive your diploma. That kind of happened to me, as I was never known as Airman Howell in basic training.

I was the House Mouse.

“MOUSE!! GET THE BLEEP IN HERE!”

“Ma’am?”

“Be a sweetie and please take these reports to the NCOIC downstairs?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you. And don’t let them give you any crap.”

“MOUSE!! WHERE THE BLEEP ARE YOU!!”

“Right here, ma’am.”

“Mouse, my husband is going to drive by and pickup my shopping list. Would you please take it to him in the parking lot?”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

Typing, organizing, filing, quick trips to the commissary to get supplies, and one time a birthday card for the instructor’s mother. I saw that she had needed the card, was at the commissary anyway, bought it and left it for her. She was thrilled.

So I was known as “Mouse” for six weeks, that’s critical. Now we can go back to the football game.

Four rows of girls, 50 sparkling examples of what physical fitness can do for a person, spread out before us as we watched the game. Halftime arrived and the cheerleaders changed sides and stood in front of our section. A TV crew came with them and started taking video of the cheerleaders and the girls in the front rows. The halftime show started and dance music filled the stadium. The cheerleaders jumped the railing and tried to encourage the female airman to join them. And when the video crew started taping them all, the female airmen couldn’t help themselves and burst into dance with the cheerleaders! What a show!

Then one of the cheerleaders tried to get the front rows of guys to dance too. No f-ing way, lady. We were all told to be professional and represent the Air Force like good little trainees, we’re not going to get in the middle of 50 gyrating female airmen and 12 semi-professional cheerleaders… Right?

Note: Five weeks of basic training is not enough time to prepare a man to resist the lure of dancing with 62 hot and toned women.

I jumped up, bounded down two rows of bleachers, and broke it down as best I could, anticipating the place was going to be a mob of 250 crazy guys frolicking among the girls! Must stake claim to some prime real estate!

But none of them moved, not a single guy got out of his seat. It was just me, a flight of 50 female trainees, and a cadre of WLAF cheerleaders. No lie.

One of the members of my flight yelled out, “Go Mouse!” It was repeated and turned into a chorus picked up by the rest of my flight, and eventually the entire gaggle of airman.

“GO MOUSE-Y! GO MOUSE-Y! GO GO, GO MOUSE-Y!”

And the stadium rocked as much as a WLAF game could rock. The music blared, the girls danced, and I was smack in the center, my hat jauntily askew and everything was right with the world.

Did I mention the film crew? I must have. At that time, though, I had certainly forgotten about them.

But the next day I was rudely reminded of that filming crew when I was summoned to the commander’s office. (I spent a lot of time at the commander’s office, now that I think about it.)

“Sir, Airman Howell reports as ordered,” and I offered my salute.

The man didn’t say a word. He held up a VCR tape, popped it into a player, turned on the TV, and I got to watch the local news channel and their on-the-scene reporter describe how a group of basic training airmen from Lackland Air Force Base had a great time at the WLAF game, but one airman seemed to have the best time of all.

And there I was, dancing like a goofball with all the female trainees and the cheerleaders, proudly representing the US Air Force with dignity, as we had all been reminded was our Duty.

Did I mention that I missed graduating from basic training with honors? Heck, my training instructor didn’t even recognize my name at graduation, either.

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