The Air Force Years: Part Five

The break-up with Cindy was a stop and go sort of thing that resembled a slow amputation with a dull knife. We were all about sex and co-dependence and the idea of her being with someone else made me insane. After several rounds of attraction and repulsion, the accumulated tension of our negative polarities finally blasted us apart.

Cindy threw herself into AA and I dropped out of my old circle and went off on my own. Although I attended a few meetings, the Twelve Step route never felt relevant to me. As my priorities shifted, the "partying" lifestyle just stopped being interesting.

Which isn't to say that any of this came easily. A nasty depression led me to a mental health counselor who drew me a map of grief, loss, and emptiness. This is what happens, he explained, when a hole is ripped from the center of one's own heart. The good news, he said, is that it usually fills back in.

I had trouble eating and sleeping and became volatile at work, and started running to keep my raging emotions in check. I switched from Kools to Marlboros and cut back to a pack a day.

Meanwhile, Captain Stankovich had identified his problem Airmen and was working a strategy. When the arrests began, it started with room searches and drug dogs. One raid turned up photographic evidence that two members of our group were gay. They were swiftly discharged. One was devastated, and openly sobbed at Logan airport as we saw him off.

As my former friends were arrested or threatened with arrest, detectives from the Office of Special Investigations did everything they could to make us rat each other out. Cops would arrive at my work without warning to take me in for questioning.

They were always big on ritual. I'd be taken in the backseat of their military vehicle to their cramped offices and be seated in a straight-backed chair. One would offer me coffee and light my cigarettes while the other would lie and threaten. It was like a bad TV drama.

While the interrogations were stupid and transparent, they offered enormous incentive to stay my course. I was clean as a whistle and had made a decision months before to keep to myself. Consequently, I had little to hide and nothing to say. My goal was to stay straight and sober, finish the four years without arrest, get my discharge, and go to college.

My boss' boss at Travel Pay, a thin Tech Sargent with a John Waters mustache named Mort Zuckerman, did what he could to make things work. I was teamed with John Gallagher, the other office whiz-kid, to come in nights and work through piles of overdue travel vouchers.

We'd arrive at around midnight and leave for breakfast at seven AM. I barely even had to wear a uniform. Sometimes we'd come to work directly from a show in Boston or Cambridge. The idea was that we'd trade stacks toward the end of the night and audit each others calculations, but instead, we'd each just initial them without looking.

This was an enormous time saver. We cleared the backlog and were the heroes of Travel Pay.

I took a job at the base library. Hardly anyone ever came in. My boss was a quiet civilian who could always think of a good book for me to read. V.S. Naipaul, Saul Bellow, John Updike. His tastes were mainstream but solid. I'd walk around straightening the shelves, help the occasional patron, and sit reading at the desk. I accelerated my community college course load to three classes a semester.

My survival strategy was to avoid the old crowd and fill my time with work and school. I was cruising toward the end of my enlistment. In military parlance, I "got short."

In early-March of 1983, I was assigned a random detail. Instead of going to my office job, I wore fatigues to an airplane hangar to clean up after an indoor street fair. I was a Senior Airman, which meant that I wore three stripes. I seldom wore fatigues, and the rank on my uniform was one stripe out of date.

The First Sargent from Squadron Headquarters noticed, and two days later I was informed that I was busted down to Airman First Class with an Article 15 under the UCMJ for an offense that would normally draw, at most, a letter of reprimand.

When I sought counsel, a sympathetic military lawyer said this only made sense if they were moving toward a discharge. The Article 15 would make two on my record, and offer the legal grounds to kick me out at the commander's discretion. His advice was to start making plans.

He was right. The notification of disciplinary discharge proceedings came six weeks later.

The process that was pending meant that I couldn't take leave, and that the vacation time that exceeded what could be sold back could no longer be used toward an early release date. Several weeks of pay were forfeited.

To compensate, I'd come to work in a perfectly pressed uniform and preternaturally shiny shoes and do nothing but smoke and crack jokes and listen to the radio. I figured if they weren't going to give me my vacation, I'd just take it at my desk.

I was administratively held for two weeks past what would have been my release date so that they could kick me out.

As the paperwork neared finalization, Captain Stankovich came by to see Zuckerman. On his way out, I stopped him at the door and said I didn't understand why he was doing this. At that point, the fact that he was a Captain and I was an Airman didn't impress me anymore. To me, he was just a college educated asshole who drove a hot car and liked power.

He became red-faced and heatedly complained to Zuckerman, who just looked at me and shook his head. The politics of going out on a limb for me, he said later, had no pay-off. I understood.

Stankovich's Recommendation for Discharge document is worth quoting at length:

iii) I assumed command of the Hq Sq Section on 31 Oct 81 and therefore can't comment on the circumstances regarding A1C Harris' Jan 81 Article 15 for causing a breach of the peace or his May 81 Letter of Reprimand (UIF) for destruction of government property. However, my involvement with him has shown an increase in the severity of measures I have had to use in responding to his UCMJ violations. I counseled him regarding his unprofessional behavior at the Base Service Station in Mar 82, issued him a Letter of Reprimand (UIF) for a failure to go as directed by his TDY orders (he knew how to read such orders by virtue of his being a travel computation specialist) and nonselected him for reenlistment in Sept 82 for substandard conduct and constant AFR 35-10 [ed. note: these are the grooming regulations] noncompliance. Clearly, he proved unreceptive to these measures. Similarly, his his duty performance and ratings have shown a downward trend with a 8, 8, 7, and 6. All but one, comment on his failure to improve upon his military bearing, and/or self-discipline, even after counseling.

This individual is technically competent and intelligent, pursing a degree from Northeastern University. Consequently having control over his behavior, A1C Harris still has on numerous occasions, involved himself in a number of incidents that have brought discredit to his duty section and the Air Force. I call attention to his second Article 15 where he even admitted in his own appeal that he went a head in wearing an improper uniform even after the First Sergent previously told him that he was out of uniform. I strongly recommend his administrative discharge immediately. A1C Harris has been aware of his normal July 30 DOS [Date of Separation] but this has not stopped his UCMJ violations and frequent lack of courtesy and respect towards his customers that have reflected poorly on the entire ESD/ACF Travel Pay Section. My recommendation for a General Discharge based upon review of his inconsistent duty performance, resistance to rehabilitative efforts, and numerous discreditable UCMJ violations. A recommendation for a better character of discharge would be an insult to those AF members who complete their enlistments without any serious incidents whatsoever, and thus earn the right to an Honorable Discharge.

4. I have counseled A1C Harris as required by AFR 110-1.

5. I do not recommend probation and rehabilitation for A1C Harris according to the provisions of AFR 39-10, Chapter 7. His retention on active duty in a probationary status is inconsistent with the maintenance of good order and discipline. I believe the comments written by a field grade officer on A1C Harris' last APR sum up the nature of A1C Harris' tour of duty in the Air Force explicitly, "Amn Harris has continually proved very competent in the Travel Branch but also has continual difficulty conforming to military standards. He has been counseled on his deficiencies, but it is apparent that Amn Harris has no desire to improve." Any continued involvement with A1C Harris would be counterproductive and actually could be viewed by his fellow workers as a reward for an enlistment full of failures to maintain the proscribed standards of military deportment and professionalism.

ANTHONY D. STANKOVICH, Capt, USAF
Commander, Hq Sq Section

On May 13, 1983, I received my general discharge under honorable conditions and was ordered to leave the place I'd spent the past four years by noon. The real prize, however, was a letter signed by Base Commander Colonel Jerry L. Records describing my "lack of regard for lawful regulations and statutes of the United States," and informing me that my continued presence "poses an undesirable influence upon the discipline and morale of the personnel assigned" to Hansom Field.

Any return to the base within the next year would be regarded as a crime punishable by up to six months in prison.

It was a warm sunny day, and I was packed and ready to leave before I had the paperwork. My 1971 Audi easily contained all that I owned. As I turned the key The Clash came on the radio. Their big hit that spring was Should I Stay Or Should I Go?

Should I stay or should I go now?
If I go there will be trouble
And if I stay it will be double
So you gotta let me know
Should I stay or should I go?

I drove off through the East Gate and didn't look back for a very long time.

See also:
The Beginnings
Young, Gifted, and Miserable
Everybody Must Get Stoned
Life Begins at Seventeen
The Year of Living Dangerously
The Air Force Years: Part One
The Air Force Years: Part Two
The Air Force Years: Part Three
The Air Force Years: Part Four
The Air Force Years: Part Five
Working Poor In Waltham: Part One
Working Poor In Waltham: Part Two
Birth of a Student Radical
Harvest of Shame
The Owl of Minerva Flies at Midnight
The Road to Street
The Street Years: Part One
The Street Years: Part Two

The Air Force Years: Part Three

In November of 1979, I arrived at my assignment at Hanscom Air Force Base in Bedford, Massachusetts. I had just spent three months at Sheppard AFB in Wichita Falls, Texas, a place that gets my vote for town most likely to have your ass kicked in a bar for no reason at all.

Sheppard, while restrictive, was a big improvement over Lackland. We were two to a dorm room and the drinking age was 18. The Base liquor store, or "packie," as I learned to call it, was happy to sell us whatever we wanted. I could get pot too.

We'd fall into formation while it was still dark outside and march to our classes as the freezing Texas wind whipped across the open plains. I would work in Travel Pay, which meant mastering three thick volumes of regulations that were subject to regular changes and updates. Technical school was a mind-numbing bore in a repressive locale, but at least there was drinking.

I passed the vocational tests without studying. Daily life on a military base was sterile and dull, and I retreated into a different kind of numbness. There were a few minor brushes with authority, and an incident file began to accumulate.

My arrival at Hanscom, I hoped, would start a new chapter in my military career where I would finally just get to be a person again. Instead, I initially found few friends, roomed with a dopey kid who ate Fig Newtons by the box, and thought I was going to die from boredom. I shuttled back and forth between my dorm, the dining hall, and work without incident or enthusiasm.

Hanscom AFB is a small research and development center located in the triangle between Bedford, Concord, and Lexington. Geared largely toward the civilian scientists who worked at nearby facilities like MIT, Draper Labs, and Raytheon, there was little emphasis on military customs and courtesies. You were expected to salute officers and wear a crisp uniform, but formations were rare and marching was almost nonexistent. The dormitories were like those on any college campus, and the mess hall was first rate.

In all actuality, I had little to complain about.

I worked in a a small office of around eight people, and calculated payments to those, both military and civilian, who had traveled under order of the Air Force. I would receive DD-1351 travel vouchers over the counter, and process the simpler ones on the spot. I punched at a calculator all day and chain smoked Kools at my desk.

By the time 1980 rolled around, I was starting to find people like me. Bored, alienated, potheads who had work that was technically challenging but otherwise dull. We came together to drink and get high more or less nightly. We all worked office jobs and wore our formal "blues" to work. Several were computer operators. I would visit them on their night shifts as they worked alone, occasionally changing tape reels on the huge mainframes that filled the room. We'd duck into stairwells to get high.

We were a pot-smoking counterculture of the bright and bored. When Pink Floyd's The Wall came out in April, 1980, Comfortably Numb became our anthem. Much of our world revolved around music. The punk revolution was underway, and I gravitated toward the artsy pop of Roxy Music and Bauhaus and the rougher sounds of Iggy Pop, the Ramones, and The Velvet Underground. I got out to see Flipper and Mission of Burma whenever they played. Boston radio was then in a golden age. I found the leftward spectrum of the dial and abandoned the alt-rock of Boston's WBCN for the amazing underground radio on Boston College's WZBC and the folk scene at Emerson's WERS.

We spent hours at Dungeons and Dragons in worlds that a programmer named Mark made himself on his Mac plus, which at that time was an expensive hotrod of a personal computer. Mark, with his custom maps and probability charts, would always be the Dungeon Master. He was obsessed with sex. One night he sent his girlfriend in to sleep with me as a gesture of friendship. I was sex starved and deeply grateful to both.

One of the members of our group got lucky in Atlantic City and celebrated by buying a keg and a jar of mescaline. Me and another kid had a competition to see who could eat the most. At six hits, I was the champion. We moved a state of the art stereo system into an upstairs rec room and held an acid party right there in the dorm. I remember standing in the hallway and watching the colors melt as I traced my finger along a fall landscape.

The next day we all got called in for urinalysis. For reasons I'll never understand, mine came up negative.

By then, I'd decided that the Air Force was intolerable and was working toward a discharge. I began by simply asking Squadron Commander Major James Kephart if he'd let me out. He said no. The fall-back strategy was to fail my competency exams. This was unsatisfactory as well. My bosses were onto me, and while my antics annoyed them a bit, they were not about to let me go.

Then I heard about the Limited Privilege Communication Program. The idea behind LPCP was that an Airman with a drug problem could seek help without fear of negative consequences. One could go into treatment, and if this failed, receive an honorable discharge. This, I decided, was my way out. I ate a couple hits of acid, stayed up all night, and walked into the base substance abuse counselor's office to discuss my "problem."

I was a chronic drug abuser, I said. I didn't regard this, really, as a problem for me, but it may well be a problem for them. The best thing for all involved, I explained, was to just get me out of there. I thus began my series of weekly chats with the pleasant counselor, who was probably more than a little amused at my transparent act of chutzpa.

My new status as a known drug abuser meant a transfer out of customer service across the hall to data entry, where I worked with a number of nice civil service ladies and keyed computer cards into a terminal.

At this point in my life, I was staying stoned pretty much 24/7. I didn't really need to amp up my usual drug abuse much to take it over the top. I did my level best to come off as incurable.

Not surprisingly, my data entry was less than accurate. My boss was exasperated. "Airman Harris," he said, "You're making an awful lot of mistakes."

"I keep telling you," I shot back, "I'M ON DRUGS!!"

Time hazily passed. Eventually, an evaluation meeting was set with my Supervisor Paul Bouchard, who was really taking all of this very well, a Base Doctor, and Major Kephart.

I was asked to describe how my efforts at getting clean had progressed, and I relayed that they had not. In fact, I said, I really had no interest in stopping at all.

This was when Kephart spoke. "Airman Harris," he said. "Where's your hat and cane."

"Hat and cane sir?"

"To go along with your song and dance!"

I'm not sure that there's an acceptable answer to a question like that, and whatever it was, I didn't find it. The meeting concluded without resolution.

Later, I'd find that the Air Force does indeed have a sense of humor. I was determined to have successfully completed my program of rehabilitation and returned to my old job. It was as if the whole thing had never happened.

There would be no discharge for me.

At this point, I was nearly two years into the four, and reconciled myself to finishing out the full term. Within the next year, my life would change again.

See also:
The Beginnings
Young, Gifted, and Miserable
Everybody Must Get Stoned
Life Begins at Seventeen
The Year of Living Dangerously
The Air Force Years: Part One
The Air Force Years: Part Two
The Air Force Years: Part Three
The Air Force Years: Part Four
The Air Force Years: Part Five
Working Poor In Waltham: Part One
Working Poor In Waltham: Part Two
Birth of a Student Radical
Harvest of Shame
The Owl of Minerva Flies at Midnight
The Road to Street
The Street Years: Part One
The Street Years: Part Two