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When the Faculty Board said "you're out!" I was left with the dilemma of what to do next. There were numerous specialties available to young, non-flying lieutenants - Security, Missile Launch, Intelligence, Maintenance, Supply, etc. None of them sounded like what I wanted to do so I asked my flight captain what he thought. He said that no matter what I put down, the Air Force was going to make a missile weenie out of me. So, I volunteered to be a Sky Cop, a Supply Officer or an Intel type. I was almost immediately assigned to the Minuteman System as a launch officer. One good thing did happen in all this. Months earlier we had filled out our Air Force Form 392 (named the "Dream Sheet") and I had of course put down Shaw Air Force Base as my first choice. For my second choice I had circled "Pacific Northwest" and I forget what my third choice was. Anyway, instead of being sent to Minot North Dakota, or Grand Forks South Dakota I was assigned as close to the Pacific Northwest as possible. I was one of the lucky ones who drew Malmstrom AFB in Great Falls Montana. I didn't know it at the time, but I had also lucked out by being assigned to the WS-133B weapon system.

But first, I had to be trained. I left Sacramento for Chanute AFB in beautiful Rantoul Illinois with a rather large hangover from the "hail and farewell" the evening before. I seem to remember drinking a LOT of "Cold Duck" and being kicked out of the swimming pool around One a.m. Anyway Chanute provided an Air Training Command school for missile-iers and in four short weeks I learned that the pointy end of the missile comes out of the hole first and that when the missile gets where its going there is a rather large BOOM at the end of flight. Chanute was where I met JP Colson. (It is also where I met an F-100 pilot and four Marine Maintenance Officers and barely escaped arrest when we decided to burn the Officers Club one evening.)

Upon returning to Sacramento, Pat and I packed up our household goods, sent them on to Great Falls and we jumped in our 1966 Plymouth Valiant and headed to a three month school at Vandenberg AFB in Lompoc California. Thank goodness the Strategic Air Command had its own school for teaching us how to fly missiles!

Navigator Training

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I graduated from OTS on 29-Sep-69. Before that though, on the 13th of the month my father died. I had called him "Daddy" all my life but his name was Henry Napoleon McKinney. He didn't care much for the Napoleon thing but he lived with it. He sometimes related the story of his First Sergeant asking him what the "N" was for. My Dad had replied, "Samson" and the Shirt wasn't amused.

Daddy had been in a Coma for over a year when he passed away. It was on a Saturday and my roommates and I were at the Club having supper when the FTO came to tell me. They put me on a plane that night and gave me three days leave. It was all a blur to me. By that time I had been in sleep deprivation for almost three months and was pretty stupid and docile. We buried my Dad and I came back to San Antonio in time for more of the same.

On graduation day my roommate, Alfred "Panda" Peacock and I left Texas and drove home. I arrived in time to go to bed and stay there for a while. Pat was seven months pregnant with Travis and was really glad to see me. I took 20 days leave and then drove to Sacramento California, home of Mather Air Force Base. Mather was really located in an outlying town by the name of Rancho Cordova. Pat stayed behind while I got my feet onthe ground and found us a place to stay.

I started Undergraduate Navigator Training right away and was flying in no time at all. The next seven months were interesting to say the least but flying turned out to not be my cup of tea at all. After completing 75% of the training I was "FAC Boarded" and told to turn in my flying gear. It appeared that though my motives were pure, my eyesight was not sufficient to allow me to sit in the back seat of an F-4 Phantom and drop napalm on the little yellow people. Bummer - I had really wanted to do that!

While we were still at Mather, a wonderful thing happened to us. Our son, Michael Travis McKinney was born on Christmas Day, 1969.

Con Thien

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The climax of OTS in those days was a three day field exercise known as "Con Thien." Con Thien was actually a little known Marine base located near the DMZ in Quang Tri Province in South Viet Nam. It was known as the "Meat Grinder" and the DMZ in that area was called the "Dead Marine Zone." I'm sure there was a reason for our exercise to be called Con Thien, but I don't know what it was. I really don't think that any of the things we did there were classified - since none of us had clearances and I did not have a "briefing in" or "briefing out" at any time; but rumor was that we were not supposed to discuss it with anyone outside our group. Apparently the reason was that we would ruin the surprise for any trainees in the future.

I do know that I spent over 24 hours with a laundry bag over my head - tied around my neck - and I was subjected to what seemed like hours of interrogation, mild beatings and periods of standing in a hole where I was periodically doused with buckets of cold water. Apparently this was a "mini-SERE" to let us know what was coming and to bind us more closely together by letting us enjoy pain and misery together.

On the morning of the fourth day, when we began to "see" sunlight through our laundry bags, we were quietly herded together and found ourselves standing together in a barbed wire compound. People moved among us untying our laundry bags and whispering "keep it over your head until we tell you to remove it." Suddenly, someone gave the order to remove the bags, we were called to attention, given the order to "Present Arms" and the flag of the United States of America was raised to a recording of the Star Spangled Banner. I do not ever remember feeling chills or having tears come to my eyes during a flag raising before that; but I remember that I did then - and I have had the same reaction during every flag ceremony in the forty years since.

We were then marched away from the Con Thien camp and returned to where our tents had been located. The tents and cots were gone and there were only concrete block stepping stones left in the area. They told us to wait for trucks to move us back to the barracks and we settled down. I stretched out on the ground with my head on a concrete block and went to sleep - only to be awakened several hours later by rain falling in my face. The trucks never came and we finally formed up into flights and squadrons and started the ten mile march home in the pouring rain. We all still felt the awesome change that had taken place within us and we were ready to be commissioned and let loose upon the world. The Air Force had graduated another 800 steely-eyed killers, many of whom would take their last breath in Viet Nam before their 25th birthday.

Hanoi Jane Sucks.

Fire Drill!

Cover of Space Cadet

You’ve heard of a Chinese Fire Drill? The fire drills at OTS were even more fun. The only time we were allowed out of bed between Midnight and 0500 was for a fire drill (and probably for an actual fire as well, though we never heard.) The fire drills we had occurred at about 0130 and were started by someone in the upper class yelling “FIRE DRILL, FIRE DRILL, FIRE DRILL” as loud as possible. We were then required to begin screaming, “FIRE DRILL, FIRE DRILL, FIRE DRILL” at the top of our lungs and continue doing so for as long as the drill lasted. The first thing we did upon getting out of our bunks was assemble outside our room doors – still yelling “FIRE DRILL, FIRE DRILL, FIRE DRILL” as loudly as humanly possible. Once we were accounted for, we then ran (yes, still screaming) through the front door of the building and formed up outside in the parking lot. Then for about an hour we were berated for our inability to scream loud enough to wake up everyone in the building. Usually, at least 50 trainees would have burned to death from our inability to project our voices.

Our night thus being wrecked, we were required to return to our beds for the other hour and a half of our three hours sleep for that night. Unfortunately, sometimes there was another fire drill.
As long as I’m on the “group reaction” subject we also were required to interrupt our polishing, shining, cleaning, studying and etc. to play “Ball in the Hall.” This action consisted of some upperclassman tossing a rubber ball into the hall and us rushing outside our door screaming “Ball in the Hall” for as long as they wanted us to. Usually during this “play” someone was required to recite exactly how many minutes before the upper class graduated. You always had to be on your toes and keep the number calculated so that you wouldn’t get gigs for screwing up.
Air Force OTS – what a wonderful place. I haven’t talked about pushups (at least 100 per night) nor being on “wooly watch” or any of the other wonderful tortures designed to keep you awake and away from your studies. Maybe later.

Walking the Blocks

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The first six weeks of OTS was pretty stressful. Almost anything you did was punishable by being awarded "gigs". You could have 10 gigs per week during the first half of the school and more than that were paid for by marching 25 minutes each on Saturday morning. Keep in mind this was San Antonio in July and August and by the time the punishment started it was already over 100 degrees. (Remember the Purple/Red/Yellow Flag deal? It was always yellow when punishment started!) You not only got hot, but you ruined a uniform and the shine on your boots. Added to that, the Flight Training Officers usually appeared on the drill pad and handed out MORE gigs. The first time that I "walked" I was awarded a gig for needing a haircut by Lt. Algrin (keep this Dodo in mind, there's more of him coming.) That same morning I met the "Silver Fox."

The Silver Fox was a Captain from 1st Squadron (members of which were called "Medina Marines" - we in the 2nd Squadron were known as "Grapes" - obviously to be stomped upon. ) Anyway this Captain was so bad that he would drive down the street in his MG Roadster with the top down and look for infractions. He gigged my room mates and I for being naked in our rooms with the blinds open. According to him he saw us from the street. He gigged me constantly for "needs a shave" even when I was bloody from the razor. I actually hated the man. One thing about him, he always led the run and always finished first. I ran into him after I made Captain. He was still a Captain and I told him what I thought of him. He smiled and said, "You were lucky! I'm pinning on Major's leaves next week!"

Well, anyway "walking the blocks" had nothing to do with any of this. It had to do with where lower classmen (called "chicken scratch") were allowed to walk in the hall. The hall was 8 tile squares wide and we had to walk on the rightmost tile anytime we were in the hall - thus walking the blocks.

The Upper Flight

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When we arrived in San Antonio and were moved to Medina AFS to our barracks the upper flight was there to meet us. Most of them were six to ten inches taller than us and seemed to be more mature than us by years. We were in awe of all of them and learned to know fear whenever they were present. One of them was assigned to our three man room as our advisor. He was an OT Second Lieutenant - a one-striper. That is the lowest rank possible in the upper flight but to us he was a demi-god. It never occurred to us until later that the "upper flight" had been there just six weeks more than we had!

Our class was called 69-03. There were normally four classes per year but in 1969 the federal government decided to change its fiscal year end from 30 June to 1 August. We arrived in July and were to be the last class under the old FY system. I remember on July 4th as were were walking into our new barracks an upper classman asked our advisor if we were "03's" When he answered "Yes" the other guy stated "If I were an 03, I'd SIE!" Another down the hall echoed, "If I were an 03 I'd kill myself!!"

We knew nothing and had no idea what was happening. None of us had been in ROTC and I only had the war stories my Dad and Brother had told from the 40's and 50's. I did know that you should never volunteer for anything and when they started handing out the detail assignments the first five that volunteered were assigned to latrine duty. Their job was to make the latrine clean enough for the virgin Mary to eat off the floor. Boy was I happy. I continued not volunteering until there was only one detail left and was assigned to the laundry room. I was also "counseled" about not volunteering. It seems that though I was rewarded I had still screwed up!

The Real Deal

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OTS was the "real deal." We were being prepared for war and for a future in the big picture of the Air Force. The idea was to tear our little egos into shreds, wash them away in perspiration (remember officers don't sweat - they perspire!) and rebuild them from scratch as steely-eyed killers. Newly arrived future officers were given the haircut, issued the uniform, run ragged from dawn to dusk (actually from 0530 until 2359) and expected to excel in academics, marching, sports, physical exercise, wear of the uniform,personal hygeine and to never make any mistakes at all. Everyone that went into the military, regardless of branch of service or expected rank pretty much had the same treatment; but our trainers were not allowed to yell at or swear at us. We were to be "young gentlemen." If you think for one moment that you cannot be mentally abused by someone who doesn't swear or yell, you have some thinking to do. OTS was mental abuse starting with the first day and never ending. I still get the "horrors" when I think I'm being late for something or if I'm not sure what I'm wearing is the correct "uniform."

Apparently, the best way to get a youngster to stay and play at OTS was to not only make it easy for him to quit, but to invite him to do so as many times as possible per day. Quitting was referred to as "SIEing" or Self Initiated Elimination. The way to SIE was to find an officer and tell him that you wanted to quit. He would provide you with a form letter that all you had to do was sign and the Air Force would "dissapear you." People who left OTS had their bags packed by someone else when the other trainees were not around. They left the area without ever being seen again. Supposedly, they were put on the next plane home and their names given to the draft board for super-quick selection. In truth, most of the SIE folks were moved to the other side of the base where they were placed on casual status and never allowed to get near Officer Trainees again. Later they were allowed to go to Air Force Basic Training and become enlisted personnel. They even had a name for them - they were called OT General's!