Hazing Part II

I was immediately dropped (into the pushup position) and a slight concern over what was going to happen began to fall. Over the next minute or so nothing happened. Then Fury started to whisper.

I always thought that was worse than yelling. A whisper in the ear of a cadet struck mulitudes more fear than a scream.

He implied to me how stupid that was for me to think I had a right to do that, and that he was going to make sure that I understood my error. Over the next 20 minutes or so I executed a series of pushups, hung by my hands from a pipe until I couldn't hold on anymore, and various other exercises designed to bring me to exhaustion. Mind you, this was immediately after our weekly PT run. Even with all of this, I was happy when I was released back to my room with strict orders not to breathe a word of this to anyone. I was still alive...

It wasn't until I got to my room that I started hearing the calls. JSD members from all over my batallion (barracks) were shouting across the galleries, gathering their number. Phone calls were being made to JSD members in other batallions. It wasn't long until my door was kicked open and I wearily stood at attention again.

Not all the JSD members had the same intentions as Fury. Some were sadistic and known to be. One grabbed a transom stick, a 3/4" wooden dowel used to open high windows. He weilded it like a baseball bat and ordered me to hang by the pipes again.

I don't recall ever being hit. I do recall doing more physical exertion than I had ever done in my life. And crying. Once fear overtook me, emotions started coming out.

It wasn't the PT I feared. With every other thing that had happened at The Citadel, I knew there was a limit. No matter how hard they pushed and threatened, I always believed that there was a point that couldn't be crossed. The fact that that line no longer existed was what frightened me the most, and generated stark terror.
Once it was over, Fury wrote a symbol on my soaked white PT shirt. The Crossed Swords, with the year of the JSD on wither side and the members position. Two others did the same. I'm not sure how many were actually in my room.

"That's three," whispered Fury. "You have eleven more to go." With that, they walked out. It was the only time in four years that I ever considered quitting the school altogether.

These sessions continued on and off for the next month or so, when either someone got busted or they lost interest. Along the way I picked up a companion, who was in the same situation I was. Fury made things easier for his crowd by kicking my roommate out and moving the other guy in. Throughout the trials we endured over the next few weeks, we became best friends.

We were inseparable for my whole knob year. In the end competition between us for promotion splintered the bonds we had created. We both later went on to become two of the higher-ranking cadets of the school. I chose a pilot slot over trying out for JSD my junior year, as (understandably so) grades suffered severly the semester you tried out for the Drill. He became my class's JSD commander.

My roommate's JSD had some individuals on it that the treatment we received as freshmen affected adversely instead of building us, as I strongly feel the treatment I received did. In my senior year several of them were expelled for hazing juniors attempting to make the cut. It was the last JSD that existed in The Citadel.

So--my point. The hazing that I was administered at my all-male military alma mater did not adversely affect me. It did not make me into a wife-beater or violent anti-women monster. It prepared me. Mind you, I was not set on fire, beaten with weapons, or made to drink overwhelming amounts of alcohol (the latter I did on my own). It made me stronger. It gave me determination to perservere. It gave me something that I strongly feel that I had to be proud of--above and beyond the immeasureable pride that one feels from graduating from that school as it is. I also don't think it is for everyone. There are definitely other ways to build character and pride. This is what worked on me.

I don't know what happened to Fury. He was commissioned as an officer in the US Army after graduation and I never heard from him again except in a book written about the JSD long after I graduated.

If he is like he once was, he is probably leading a batallion into combat somehwere in Iraq right now.

Hazing Part I

I was hazed when I was a cadet at The Citadel.

Hazing had occurred there, and my guess is that it still does, for the roughly 160 years that it's been around in Charleston, SC. You saw about it in the news all the time, heard about cadets getting the crap beat out of them and subsequently the offending cadets being expelled or had charges brought against them. But here's the surprising caveat:

I didn't mind. In fact I felt that The Citadel wouldn't have made me into the person I am now without it.

There's a caveat to the caveat: Hazing in and of itself is not the evil. It's the type of hazing, the purposes behind it, and the individuals performing it that give it it's dark side. Hazing done simply because someone is a sadistic ass, or done to get some kind of weird "high" is wrong. Hazing doen simply to hurt someone, or because "well, that's what happened to me" is also wrong. So is hazing done that is physical beating and what the guys that watch GITMO would call "torture." All bad.

But the problem with admnistrations scared to death of lawsuits is that they go to another extreme, one in which a military insititution is softened as a result. The hazing that I received, and administered, was physical extertion--pushing cadets well past whatever limit they had set for themselves, and reducing their personal comfort zones to rubble to prepare them for circumstances that they would have to face in the future.

Like a tent in Afghanistan. Or Iraq...

There was a group that has since been disbanded called the "Junior Sword Drill." Not many people I've told this to outside the ivory walls of my alma mater understand the mystique, but I'll try to explain it again here.

The Junior Sword Drill, or JSD, was a drill organization comprised of 14 cadets (and one alternate) that performed a 14 minute precision drill performance and then held the honor of arcing swords over the heads of the seniors when they received their class Rings. Being given the Ring, and walking under the sword arch, was a moment that every cadet longed for from the day they arrived at school as a knob (freshman) or earlier. Being on that organization was a distinct honor. Cadets were only eligible to even try out for the group if they were in the top 30 or so highest-ranking juniors. Those 30 were taken nightly for two weeks into a locked gym and driven to exhaustion in the rite of passage to earn the honor of being a member. One by one trainees would either quit or be eliminated, until only 15 remained. Through the screen on my darkened room (freshmen were not allowed to even look at the trainees) I saw my first seargeant (who would later become commander of the JSD) dragged into his room unconscious.

My first seargeant was a wiry, short, Army-contracted cadet that I'll call Fury. Everything about this guy marked the position of excellence in being a cadet. From the shaved head to the reflective shoes and starched uniform, he could have easily have been on the cover of the yearbook. He made our lives a miserable form of existence due to the fact that his energy level was unmatched by anyone else that I've ever met. Throughout the course of my freshman year, though, he went from being a source of hatred from us to a source of motivation. The tenacity in which he led that company made us horrified at the possibility of failing his expectations. Throughout it all, however, we developed a sense that unlike other upperclassmen, whose purpose in dealing out pain to us was to serve some sort of ego boost, Fury's purpose was to make us better cadets--to better prepare us for what was to come.

The point that JSD became more mystical was when you would ask about it. No one, save the members of the team, knew the details of what was occurring behind the locked doors of that gym. And none of them would speak. It was a giant mystery that propogated an even more mystical existence.

As I said, Fury made the JSD and became its commander. As luck would have it, my commander (a senior), a 6' 6" 220 pound monster, was the commander of his JSD the previous year. So my company was kind of a hot zone for JSD types.

Whenever the JSD would run in formation, they unsheathed their swords slightly and slammed them back into their scabbards simultaneously. The shhhik-shhhik sound that it made eerily echoed off the barracks walls when they would depart to or arrive from training. They also had a chant that they would call out--"We Love...Sword Drill....We Love...Sword Drill." The trainees, I later found out, were not permitted to say the chant until the training was over--they said it backwards--"Drill Sword, Love We"--until then. I know, it sounds ridiculous. But at school, especially through the eyes of a knob, these guys were gods.

So there I was...we were on a PT run with all the freshmen being led by both Fury and my commander. The previous week, Fury thought it would be cool to have us yell the chant as we went through the barracks as a group with him leading. We got so fired up that we could've run forever. I found out later that he got in trouble for that. The following week we were on another run and my buds had started to sputter from exhaustion. So I took it upon myself to motivate my classmates and started a chant.

"We Love," I shouted. My classmates echoed it.

"Sword Drill," I shouted again. Noone answered.

My commander turned with a look from hades itself on his face and pummeled through my classmates like a bowling ball with them as pins on his way to me. At a full run, he pulled my then 185 pound body up to his face, dangling me by my shirt. He didn't stop running.

After receiving the verbal abuse (and subsequent drop onto the pavement at said full run) from my CO I thought my worries were over. It wasn't until we got back to the barracks that I realized that that was nothing. Fury stood glaring at me from the sidelines with his frighteningly cold stare as we took our last lap around the block. As we slowed to a walk I saw him motion from the corner of my eye. Without saying a word, I fell out and followed him into a room...

TO BE CONTINUED...

Bareback Top Gun

I don't know how many people have seen this, but I've seen it around 75 times and I'm still rolling....

Letter from Tall 'Afar

I found this through a link from Neptunus Lex today. It is a letter sent to the families of the 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment from the Mayor of Tall 'Afar, Iraq. When the pol's speak of how this may not be worth it and that we need to pull out now, they need to read this letter:

To the Courageous Men and Women of the 3d Armored Cavalry Regiment, who have changed the city of Tall’ Afar from a ghost town, in which terrorists spread death and destruction, to a secure city flourishing with life.

To the lion-hearts who liberated our city from the grasp of terrorists who were beheading men, women and children in the streets for many months.

To those who spread smiles on the faces of our children, and gave us restored hope, through their personal sacrifice and brave fighting, and gave new life to the city after hopelessness darkened our days, and stole our confidence in our ability to reestablish our city...

Read the whole thing--you need to.

Why I Picked Air Force

I was originally going to be in the Navy.

After seeing "Top Gun" all I wanted to do was fly the now-retiring F-14 Tomcat and zip around like Tom Cruise and Val Kilmer. When I showed up at The Citadel I enrolled in Navy ROTC and was well on my way. The requirements for a pilot slot out of Navy ROTC were a lot higher than they were in Air Force, but even though I had a 1.48 GPA after my first semester I still had my hopes up...

After another year of school, I was approaching a point in ROTC when I had to make a final decision as to what I was going to do for a career. My grades were still in the toilet, I had been pretty much told by the officers in the Navy Department that being a pilot was a pipe dream, and I was about ready to give up. In the middle of the night while studying for my final exams for my first semester of my Sophomore year, I went outside onto the gallery and asked for guidance from my guardian angel.

My sister, Jenny, was born with her umbilical cord wrapped around her neck, and wasn't breathing when she came out. Mind you, this was the early 70's and the doctors tried to get things right but couldn't in time. As a result she was severely brain-damaged at birth, and never developed mentally past roughly six months old. I don't remember much, but I've been told that we were very close until she became too much for my parents to take care of and we had to place her in a home. She stayed there until she passed away in 1987.

After her death I actually came to feel closer to her than I did when she was alive. I talked to her all the time, and occasionally received "signals" back from her that were so bizarre that I could only attribute them to be messages from heaven. The night that I had reached my wit's end as to what path I should take in life, I was given an answer from Jenny.

As I stood on the gallery looking at the stars above the cold white walls that I called home, I said a quiet prayer to Jenny alluding to my confusion and asking for direction. "I don't know what to do, Jenny," I said to the night air. "I need some help."

Out of nowhere, breaking through the midnight calm, a four-ship of Air Force F-16's enroute to Charleston Air Force Base slowly roared overhead on final approach. As their engines droned off into the distance, my decision was made.

It was Air Force or a life as a civilian.

The next day, in between exams, I went to my counselor and changed my enrollment for the next semester from Navy to Air Force and never looked back.

It was one of the best decisions I've ever made.

Camel Tracks

Camel Tracks for Valentine's Day:

Holly Aho has some great telemarketer combat techniques.
Priest opines on Valentine's Day and how it should be.
Ric Moran on how the OIC is calling the cartoons the Muslim World's 9/11.
Suspended Minds on the wonder of having two little boys on Valentine's Day.

Girls Raised by a Village

Many of you probably can gather that I am slightly protective of my children. I read this article from CNN via Gates of Vienna about a teen group that has had to form as a result of abusive relationships. A teen group. Here is my reaction from the comments I wrote...

I'm not endorsing violence here...

But if I heard of my daughter being treated like that the guy would seriously have to fear for his life--at the very least bodily harm. And she's 6 now.

I am constantly floored by what I see teenagers wearing these days, or how they behave and are generally "on the loose." I'm 33--not an old fart by my standards. And I also think the whole rebel thing is fine--do whatever--but I am falbberghast at how little day-to-day interaction these parents have with their kids at such a young age.

I never had a question in my head where my mother was 24 hours a day. And she had a pretty damn good idea where I was.

Spend some friggin time with your kids, people. Fathers show your kids--both boys and girls--how to treat other people--both boys and girls. And when that is done....

Teach them how to defend themselves, and when it is appropriate (contrary to popular belief, it is occasionally appropriate) how to beat the living crap out whoever it is that is threatening them.

I'm not a counseller (obviously), but my guess is that these freaks seek out women that will allow themselves, for whatever reasons, to be treated this way. Hank had it right--one swift kick to the big boys and he'll think twice about it. And girls having the confidence, and ability, to do that will probably keep these guys at a distance.

Top Ten Update

I've been home for a month.

I figured now would be a good time to update "My Top Ten" things that I wanted to do once I got home. So far it feels like I have managed to slide back into my old routine, which I definitely wanted to change. Let's see...

1. Make Breakfast. PARTIAL SUCCESS. I've done it a couple of times, but the early morning computer habit that I've been trying to break doesn't seem to want to quit. I do make some mean scrambled eggs though.

2. Reduce the Load. SUCCESS. We've taken about 4 truckloads of stuff to Goodwill. More to follow.

3. Build a Wild Playset. SUCCESS.

4. Walk With the Kids. Haven't done it yet. We took them to the park one day to ride their bikes, but no excuse on this one. Still working on it.

5. Help Around the House More. PARTIAL SUCCESS. I am helping out, but I could be doing a lot more.

6. Keep Blogging. SUCCESS. Well, kinda. I guess if you call continuing to write a success, then yeah. But the interest has certainly vanished. With the exception of a handful of loyal readers and the occasional link love from Mudville and Military Outpost, no one links to me anymore. Oh well.

7. Start Flying. FAILURE.

8. Buy a DVR. FAILURE.

9. Go Somewhere, Anywhere, Once a Month. SUCCESS

10. Manage My Time. FAILURE. This is a biggie...I've been horrible at it my whole life.

So--so far so bad. Granted, these were pretty lofty goals. I think the biggest problem I had coming back was that I had a pretty regular schedule and everything was laid out for me over there. Being home, I am once again left to my own devices which never really worked in the first place. Still not giving up.

Final Flight

In December I "celebrated" one year of not flying.

My last flight in the T-37 was in December of 2004. It was a significant flight in that Laughlin AFB was just finishing up retiring the Tweet in favor of the newer, sexier T-6 Texan II. Over the course of my tour I watched as a ramp full of hundreds of what would become my most beloved aircraft dwindled slowly down as the new kid on the block moved in. Most pilots were excited since there was so much more that you could do in the T-6, as well as it being safer and more comfortable. Like an old Vet who glares at the younger generation I refused to buy off on the new model. I didn't like the seating configuration (front to back versus side by side), I didn't think it was very durable, I was skeptical of the instructional use, and most of all I didn't like one engine versus two. To be honest it could have been the greatest trainer in the world--the fact remained that my baby had won my heart over and I was bound and determined to remain faithful to her.

They extended my tour a couple of months to finish the transition out. Week after week we flew T-37's out to Davis-Monthan AFB to park them in the "boneyard," a giant final resting place that the Air Force retires its aircraft to. Important components were pulled out, fuel was drained, they were sealed up and left to bake in the hot Arizona sun. In that last month, my last remaining T-37 brethren and I mounted up for the last show...

They did it right, at least. The media came out, the final crew chiefs that we had grown to know surrounded the four-ship of Tweets for that last engine run, and every IP and student that was available came out to the flight line to send us off. With four final takeoffs, the screaming whine that was responsible for reducing thousands of pilots' hearing capability was silenced from Del Rio's skies.

On the last leg into Davis-Monthan, I deferred to my younger wingman the honor of leading our two-ship formation into the boneyard. I had a hidden agenda: I wanted to be the last Laughlin AFB pilot to fly the T-37 by being the last to land.

We came up initial faster than normal, and I delayed my break several seconds in order to build up even more speed. At the last second I reefed into the break, pulling as many G's as the plane could handle for it's last bit a abuse before a long-deserved rest.

We taxiied into a special ramp area where they do the preparations for parking the planes permanently. After I stopped I hesitated before shutting the engines down for the last time and just listened to the engine whine and breathed the JP-8 in. Ironically, it wasn't just this plane's final shutdown; it was the last flight I was going to take as a pilot for the next three years, instead working a staff job not two miles away in the 12th Air Force Headquarters. My eyes watered as I pulled the throttles into CUT-OFF and listened as the tweet breathed her last.

I drive by the area that they parked the fleet every day. In a wonderful twist of fate, out of the thousands of planes in the boneyard they parked mine not 100 yards from the fenceline, several rows of my babies side by side just like they were on the ramp in Del Rio. The 16th hole of the base golf course runs alongside the display. I was out there last week with a good non-pilot friend of mine when he saw me quietly looking at the line of retired warriors with grass now grown up around the wheel wells underneath.

"Do you miss it?" He asked, apparently just making conversation. I thought of my response for a second.

"You have no idea."

Get a Grip (Updated)

UPDATED:

It isn't often that I allow things that I read or see on blogs or TV to change my opinions on things. Even with Trouble's comments regarding her views I remained steadfast. But considering what has gone on in the past few days, and after reading I Support Denmark by Den Mother, I have changed my mind since I posted this.

Though I still think it wasn't necessarily the smartest of moves, I support Denmark too.

BELOW ORIGINALLY POSTED 7 FEB 2006

Ok, enough.

I have two reactions to the "global crisis" that has swept europe over the anti-Islamic cartoons that were published as editorials last week. One is in response to the Islamic crowds throwing molotov cocktails, and one is in response to the MSM that published the cartoons in the first place...


To the MSM: Dumbass. Once again, you've taken the concept of freedom and used it unwisely. Yes, I strongly believe that the MSM has every right in the world to publish more or less what it wants. One of the costs of such freedom, however, is a healthy dose of judgement. Realize what effects your actions will bring about. That was just stupid. Kind of like our own MSM (Washington Post) publishing the editorial cartoon I wrote of here.

To the crowds: Get a grip. Your actions are demonstrating to the world a large level of hypocrisy and proving many of the critics of the Middle East correct. I understand your ire, as it was insensitive and ridiculous that any press organization in the world would have allowed publishing something like that. But it is not worth people dying over.

An interesting point--a prominent Iranian newspaper today announced a contest for the "best holocaust cartoon" that they could find, to see what our reaction would be. I may be out of some bucks here, but I'm willing to bet that they could publish it anywhere and the west wouldn't break into a theater-wide violent rampage over it. Thus the point of freedom.

Either way, wasn't it Iranian president Ahmadinejad that opined that the holocaust itself was a myth?