One small step...

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This March marked the 30^th anniversary of the day I was honorably discharged from the U.S. Air Force. Anyone who’s served in the armed forces will tell you there are two days they’ll never forget – the day they joined the military and the day they left the military.

And for most veterans there are at least a few other moments in between that stand out. For me, one of the moments that’s forever burned into my memory took place during basic training.

It was a blazing hot July afternoon at Lackland Air Force Base outside San Antonio, Texas. You could see the heat waves shimmering above the black asphalt drill pad on which we were marching. We were just a few days short of graduation so instead of combat boots, we were wearing our black low-quarters (military dress shoes) with our olive-drab fatigues.

The only saving grace was a stiff 20 mph wind, that helped keep us cool. But on the flip side it made it very difficult to hear our training instructor’s (TI) commands. The heat, wind and general fatigue made it tough to concentrate.

To add one more level of difficulty, Flights 026 and 027 from Air Force Basic Military Training Squadron (BMTS) 3704 were in the midst of their first two-hour session of learning how to march in squadron formation. Simply put, the two flights were combined. Instead of four columns across and a total of 50 airmen, we now had eight columns across and 100 airmen.

I was the leader of the fourth squad in Flight 027. Instead of being in my customary position at the far-right edge of the formation I was now in the middle. Something new and unsettling. And to top it off, the TI leading the drill was from the other flight, so I wasn’t accustomed to his voice and commands.

Be that as it may, we were doing OK. It was a little rough, but we were making progress. Then it happened. The TI called out “Squadron, halt!”

In sync, 100 airmen came to a stop – all except one hot and sweaty kid from Iowa – smack dab in the middle of the front row. As everyone else stopped, my left leg continued forward, sticking out like a sore olive-drab thumb. It was one small step. Just enough to stand out. “Maybe they won’t notice,” I prayed as I ever-so-carefully attempted to slide my foot back without being detected. Nice idea. It failed. Little did I know that that step, that moment would stick with me forever.

Assisting the Flight 026 TI was Flight 027 TI, Sgt. Lane. Now let me tell you about Sgt. Lane. He joined our flight just three days earlier and had a reputation for being the toughest TI at Lackland. Whether that was true or not didn't matter. The fact was he had us totally psyched out. We were 50 guys from all walks of life from all over the country. We had nothing in common save one thing – an absolute fear of Sgt. Lane. We were on edge.

The good sergeant was stationed about 40 yards in front of us and off to the right. I could just barely see him out of the corner of my eye. But I didn’t need to see him. I heard his voice loud and clear above the wind. A question and a challenge all rolled neatly into one. My answer would be my salvation or my undoing. The choice was mine.

He bellowed, “Airman, did you move?!”

I’ve searched my mind for more than 30 years and I still don’t understand why I did what I did next. For one brief second I channeled my inner 12 year old and responded with a ludicrous, “No, sir!” A flat-out lie. And the wrong choice.

As the words lept from my mouth I imagined reaching desperately with both hands to grab 'em and shove 'em back down my throat. But it was too late. The fuse had been lit.

Air Force Military Training Instructors have a tradition of wearing metal taps on their shoes. The taps serve two purposes. 1) To reduce wear and tear on boot and shoe heels; and 2) Trainees learn to fear the sound of the taps coming their direction. Simple, straightforward, effective mental warfare.

Sgt. Lane stood a little over 6 ft. tall. He had dark hair and a close-cropped mustache to match. A smile never crossed his face. Ever.

Upon hearing my ridiculous response, he narrowed his gaze and took off toward me like a human missile. The normal rhythmic click, click, click of his shoes striking the hot tarmac was replaced with a machine-gun like sound. He was moving too fast for me to hear the individual clicks. He was in attack mode. The shark had spotted its prey and was on a direct-intercept course at full-speed.

He didn’t slow down until he was two paces away. He came to an abrupt stop, squared his shoulders and inched forward. The brim of his blue, TI “Smokey Bear” hat slid under the brim of my hat until it was stopped by my forehead. We stood quite literally toe-to-toe and eye to eye. I could see the sweat trickle down his nose. A vein was pounding above his eyebrow. I smelled the acrid stench of coffee and cigarettes on his breath. My heart was pounding.

After what seemed an eternity, the sergeant growled just loud enough for me to hear: “Airman, I’ll give you one more chance. Did you move?”

“Yes, sir.” I responded, looking into his dark shark-like eyes.

“Good,” he almost spat. “Airman, don’t ever f#$%ing lie to me again!” 

With that, he took one step back, executed a perfect about face and marched off into the sun.

I was a wreck the rest of the day. But I learned an important lesson. Unlike Neil Armstrong, my “one small step” didn’t define the hopes, dreams and imagination of a generation. No, indeed.

But it did have a lasting impact. My “one small step” taught me a great deal about character. I learned that it’s easy to talk about doing the right thing. But it’s very different to stand up and do the right thing when you’re tired, or hungry, or hot, or completely and totally stressed out. Character means making the conscious choice to do the right thing every time, no matter who’s watching, or who's not.

That small step didn’t change the world, but it certainly changed me.  

Thank you, Sgt. Lane, wherever you are.

Sgt. Lane and Flight 027. I'm the one in the cool glasses on his left.