In Basic Training, at Lackland AFB, when they marched us over to the Green Monster, to have our test scores evaluated, and consult us about our preferences, a man from the band walked up and said, "Anybody who wants to audition for the band, fall out and follow me."

I fell out. He marched me to the band barracks.

He gave me three orders.

"Attention.

"Forward, march.

"Route step, march."

The third order allowed me to walk at my own pace, as in wooded terrain, or a pot-holed street, varying my stride to suit the surface.

When we got to the barracks he asked me what instrument I played and I said, "Drums."

He said, "At ease," and went to get a drummer to audition me.

I failed the audition.

I didn't know the drum rudiments, and I couldn't sight-read very well.

The drummer who auditioned me had the ribbon off a Seagram's VO whiskey bottle in his lapel. This meant he was a short-timer, or short.

"You have to pass me, man," I said, "or they'll make an air policeman, a supply man, or roads and grounds out of me. Please. I promise I'll practice between now and the time I report in for duty. I'll improve."

He said he was sorry, he couldn't help me. I wasn't qualified.

"Think of it as a trick you played on the Air Force," I said. "By the time I get where I am going, and they find out, you'll be out. It will be your revenge on the Air Force."

He passed me.

When the results from the Green Monster came out, all the members of my flight except me had been sent to language school in Monterey, California, to learn Russian or Chinese, and then become intelligence operatives. Analysts. I got orders to report to a band at a Navigator Training Wing in Waco, Texas.

I had gotten my wish.