We had all taken tests, to see what
our abilities were. We went to the Green Monster
(Base Personnel) to have out scores interpreted by
a military occupational specialty (MOS) expert,
who would match our skills and preferences with
the needs of the service and assign us to a tech school
for further training. You could become an air policeman
or a linguist. Chinese or Russian. A jet engine mechanic.
Computers. We were sitting outside, waiting to go in.
A guy in a pair of shades with his fatigue cap on crooked
came up and said, “Anybody who wants to be in the band
fall out and follow me for an audition.” I fell out and went
with him to the band barracks, where a drummer auditioned me.
I had played drums in the band in high school. Snare drum,
bass drum, cymbals. Triangle. I played by ear. I failed the audition.
I couldn’t sight-read very well and I didn’t know the drum rudiments.
I saw that he had a figmo ribbon in his lapel. The ribbon off a VO bottle.
Fuck it, got my orders. He was short. I said, “Please, you have to pass me.
I will practice between now and the time I report to my band. They’re going to make
a supply clerk out of me.” He said he was sorry but he couldn’t. I said, “Think of it
as a prank on the Air Force. Your revenge. You’ll be gone and I’ll be in the system.”
He passed me. When my classmates got orders to go to language school or AP school
I was assigned to a band at a navigator training base in
I was a shred-out. 76130L, percussionist. A three-level drummer.