One of the most devastating moments in a young military mans life is to be serving on a long overseas assignment and get a letter from his dearly beloved that goes something like this: Dear Johnnie, Oh how I hate to write, But I must let you know tonight that I married your first cousin, Billy Joe Bob (Bubba) Jones last week. Bubba says tell you he is sorry but you know how stuff happens. As for me, Im happy and I hope you are happy for me.....signed....Yore friend, Lulu May. Maybe some of you on this forum have experienced this.
As you gain rank in the Air Force, you recieve more and more training on supervisory techniques. You have to attend formal classes on the subject. You are pounded with the idea that everyone has "personal social" needs that you, as their supervisor must be aware of and assist them with. Like being a "big brother". To look at each man and to visualize the words "I am important," written on each mans chest and treat them accordingly.
I struggled with this concept. I had been trained by some old time sargeants that dated back to WWII and, believe me, those guys never once worried about any of my personal social needs. It was just me doing my job or being invited behind the hangar for an old fashioned butt kicking.
So I struggled with the new democratic process of taking care of everyones personal social needs. But I tried, in spite of the fact that occassionally someone would yank my chain just right and I might explode in an erratic and spectacular manner that some young jerk would long remember.
I was supervisor of an Aircraft Electrical Shop at Naha AFB, Okinawa, responsible for the personal needs of over 60 electricians. I had quite a few younger troops and seemed to me they had more personal social needs than each one should be allowed. But I was struggling along, playing big brother, smiling in a fatherly manner, and pretending to like it.
When one of my guys got into trouble, it was usually down in Nominue.
Nominue was the original site of the "Tea House of the August Moon." They made a movie about that once starring Glen Ford. In later years, the tea house had been surrounded by one of the largest collections of bars, hotels, cafes, massage parlors, and other such establishments that catered to military personnel on Rest and Relaxation leave from all over the far east. How anyone could rest and relax in a hotel room with mirrors on the ceiling I dont know but everybody to their own thing I always say.
Law enforcement in Nominue was by what was known as a "village patrol." That was a four man team. One AF policeman, one shore patrol guy from the Navy, an Army or Marine MP, and an Okinawan Policeman. Anyone they picked up for being naughty, naughty, would be held at a central processing point and their base notified to come pick them up.
Our Squadron Commander had this quaint little custom that if someone in your shop got hung up in central processing that you, his immediate supervisor, would go pick him up and counsel him and take care of his personal social needs and make damned sure that it didn't happen again. If one of my little spoiled brats goofed up a second time, I would get called over to the Commanders office for my own counseling session. I had a pretty active bunch of young guys and their activities were keeping me awake nights running down to Nominue to big brother them along with their personal social needs.
As a result of all this,I was also making frequent trips for my own counseling sessions with the Squadron Commander. He and I had known one another on a previous assignment and were pretty good friends but the friendship was becoming strained. My shop had a good reputation for getting its work done and I would try to gain a few brownie points with the Colonel as I explained to him that my guys "worked hard and played hard." When I entered the Colonels office and he immediately told me he didnt wont to hear no more of that "working hard and playing hard," crap, I knew I had overworked that one.
I did have this one young guy that was a model young airman. A Chubby and cheerful kid named Swain who was dearly in love with his sweet-pa-tootie back stateside. Didn't drink, didnt go to Nominue, did his work satisfactorily, and saved his money for one long long long distance call to his girl friend once a month. I was so proud of him that I let him make that phone call from back in our in-shop repair section. We would shut down all the noisy equipment back there and leave him back there all by himself for about 30 minutes so he could whisper sweet nothings to his sweetheart. It kind of interferred wih work but what the heck, true love is true love and I was pleased that I was helping take care of Swains personal social needs.
Then disaster struck my little personal social kingdom. Swain got a Dear John. One of the other young guys whispered that in my ear. So I eased Swain off to one side and asked him, in most fatherly manner, if he had any problems I might be able to help with. He said he got a Dear John. I said, shucks, that aint nothing and told him about some I had recieved. That didnt seem to mollify him.
That night I get rousted out of bed and told to hit the old Nominue trail once again. When I arrived at the processing center, I was shocked to see my young buddie, Swain, draped in a chair all droopy eyed and drooling down his shirt front.
I asked the Air Policeman what happened. He said Swain had been drinking in a bar, got into some unpleasantries with some guys who called him "fat boy" and Swain proceeded to whip the whole bunch and was methodically beating up on everyone else in the bar when the viliage patrol arrived and gang tackled him. "Geezzz, not Swain," I said but the AP said yeah, and I better watch out for him while getting him back to base.
I signed all the paperwork. I shook Swain awake. He looked all wild eyed and said loudly, "They called me fat boy." I told him to just take it easy, I was taking him back to base. He grumbled and mumbled his way into the back seat of a taxicab (tab on me) and we started for base.
We didn't get very far before Swain came alive saying them SOB's called him fat boy and he was going back and whip their azz's. I couldnt calm him down and was wrestling with him as he tried to open the taxi's door and jump out. He slammed his left arm back and hit me in the throat and it felt like he had crussed my adams apple. The nervous taxi driver came to a stop just as Swain jumped out.
I struggled out behind him and I was hurting, also mad. Swain headed out in a sloppy wobbly run and I took off after him. His personal social needs was the fartherest thing from my mind. I was thinking retaliation. I made a text book tackle on him, shoulder hitting him on the butt and wrapping my arms tight about his legs and we go crashing down in a buch of loose gravel. Swain got a skinned up cheek and hands on the gravel but I got the worst of it and I lost lots of skin off both elbows, forearms and knuckles. My disposition clicked another notch past unacceptable/
We were in front of a construction site and as I stood up, I picked up a two foot long splintered piece of 1X4. It was full four inches at one end but the splintered end was just right for a handle. Swain was trying to get up and his butt was the highest part of him at the time and was irresistable. I whacked him a good one. He jerked upright and staggered backwards saying over and over, "wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute." He almost looked sober.
"Start walking," I told him and off we go and after awhile he pointed out another taxi cab to me. I told him to just shut up and walk. After awhile he asked when we were going to get another taxi cab. I told him we were not, that we were walking all the way to the base. "All the way?" he complained. I told him to shut up and walk. He would slow down every now and then but get back up to speed when I poked him vigorously with the stick.
We came to the long bridge over Naha harbor and he said he needed a rest and I told him to walk. We got about halfway across the bridge when he stopped and stared down at the water. "I ought to just jump," he said. "Go ahead," I told him as I walked right by him. I walked a little farther and he yelled, "Im gonna jump." "Go ahead," I yelled back at him, "I'll write your mommy a letter explainging how you got drunk and drowned yourself in Naha Harbor."
Then I heard him holler, "Hey wait for me." And he kept begging for me to slow down as we made the long walk up the hill onto the base and to the barracks and I promised to rip off his stripes and a certain part of his anatomy if he didnt show up bright eyed and bushy tailed at roll call that morning.
He wasnt bright eyed and bushy tailed but he made roll call. His obvious hangover and skinned cheek drew attention and as he told his story the rest of the day, he kept improving on it. The 1x4 I used on him had grown to a 2x4 and it seems like the skinned spots on my knuckles matched the skinned spots on his cheek. And at one point, it seems that I almost knocked him off the bridge into Naha Harbor. He also was telling that I had put the paperwork in to remove both his stripes, which was false. I started to correct his story but got to thinking that as long as it didnt spread too wide and cost me a stripe for violating his personal social needs, it might do some good. At the end of that day, my young troops were sneaking slaunch eyed looks at me and walking around like they were afraid of stepping on egg shells.
After that, I reverted back to the techniques I had learned from the old WWII era sargeants. The next guy I picked up at the processing center say me come thru the door, held up his hands and said, "its OK Sarge, Im coming peaceful."
It wasn't long after that that my commander was congratulating me on the noticable improvement in my troops off duty habits. He asked how I had accomplished that and with a straight face, I lied, "Just attending to their personal social needs, Sir."
As you gain rank in the Air Force, you recieve more and more training on supervisory techniques. You have to attend formal classes on the subject. You are pounded with the idea that everyone has "personal social" needs that you, as their supervisor must be aware of and assist them with. Like being a "big brother". To look at each man and to visualize the words "I am important," written on each mans chest and treat them accordingly.
I struggled with this concept. I had been trained by some old time sargeants that dated back to WWII and, believe me, those guys never once worried about any of my personal social needs. It was just me doing my job or being invited behind the hangar for an old fashioned butt kicking.
So I struggled with the new democratic process of taking care of everyones personal social needs. But I tried, in spite of the fact that occassionally someone would yank my chain just right and I might explode in an erratic and spectacular manner that some young jerk would long remember.
I was supervisor of an Aircraft Electrical Shop at Naha AFB, Okinawa, responsible for the personal needs of over 60 electricians. I had quite a few younger troops and seemed to me they had more personal social needs than each one should be allowed. But I was struggling along, playing big brother, smiling in a fatherly manner, and pretending to like it.
When one of my guys got into trouble, it was usually down in Nominue.
Nominue was the original site of the "Tea House of the August Moon." They made a movie about that once starring Glen Ford. In later years, the tea house had been surrounded by one of the largest collections of bars, hotels, cafes, massage parlors, and other such establishments that catered to military personnel on Rest and Relaxation leave from all over the far east. How anyone could rest and relax in a hotel room with mirrors on the ceiling I dont know but everybody to their own thing I always say.
Law enforcement in Nominue was by what was known as a "village patrol." That was a four man team. One AF policeman, one shore patrol guy from the Navy, an Army or Marine MP, and an Okinawan Policeman. Anyone they picked up for being naughty, naughty, would be held at a central processing point and their base notified to come pick them up.
Our Squadron Commander had this quaint little custom that if someone in your shop got hung up in central processing that you, his immediate supervisor, would go pick him up and counsel him and take care of his personal social needs and make damned sure that it didn't happen again. If one of my little spoiled brats goofed up a second time, I would get called over to the Commanders office for my own counseling session. I had a pretty active bunch of young guys and their activities were keeping me awake nights running down to Nominue to big brother them along with their personal social needs.
As a result of all this,I was also making frequent trips for my own counseling sessions with the Squadron Commander. He and I had known one another on a previous assignment and were pretty good friends but the friendship was becoming strained. My shop had a good reputation for getting its work done and I would try to gain a few brownie points with the Colonel as I explained to him that my guys "worked hard and played hard." When I entered the Colonels office and he immediately told me he didnt wont to hear no more of that "working hard and playing hard," crap, I knew I had overworked that one.
I did have this one young guy that was a model young airman. A Chubby and cheerful kid named Swain who was dearly in love with his sweet-pa-tootie back stateside. Didn't drink, didnt go to Nominue, did his work satisfactorily, and saved his money for one long long long distance call to his girl friend once a month. I was so proud of him that I let him make that phone call from back in our in-shop repair section. We would shut down all the noisy equipment back there and leave him back there all by himself for about 30 minutes so he could whisper sweet nothings to his sweetheart. It kind of interferred wih work but what the heck, true love is true love and I was pleased that I was helping take care of Swains personal social needs.
Then disaster struck my little personal social kingdom. Swain got a Dear John. One of the other young guys whispered that in my ear. So I eased Swain off to one side and asked him, in most fatherly manner, if he had any problems I might be able to help with. He said he got a Dear John. I said, shucks, that aint nothing and told him about some I had recieved. That didnt seem to mollify him.
That night I get rousted out of bed and told to hit the old Nominue trail once again. When I arrived at the processing center, I was shocked to see my young buddie, Swain, draped in a chair all droopy eyed and drooling down his shirt front.
I asked the Air Policeman what happened. He said Swain had been drinking in a bar, got into some unpleasantries with some guys who called him "fat boy" and Swain proceeded to whip the whole bunch and was methodically beating up on everyone else in the bar when the viliage patrol arrived and gang tackled him. "Geezzz, not Swain," I said but the AP said yeah, and I better watch out for him while getting him back to base.
I signed all the paperwork. I shook Swain awake. He looked all wild eyed and said loudly, "They called me fat boy." I told him to just take it easy, I was taking him back to base. He grumbled and mumbled his way into the back seat of a taxicab (tab on me) and we started for base.
We didn't get very far before Swain came alive saying them SOB's called him fat boy and he was going back and whip their azz's. I couldnt calm him down and was wrestling with him as he tried to open the taxi's door and jump out. He slammed his left arm back and hit me in the throat and it felt like he had crussed my adams apple. The nervous taxi driver came to a stop just as Swain jumped out.
I struggled out behind him and I was hurting, also mad. Swain headed out in a sloppy wobbly run and I took off after him. His personal social needs was the fartherest thing from my mind. I was thinking retaliation. I made a text book tackle on him, shoulder hitting him on the butt and wrapping my arms tight about his legs and we go crashing down in a buch of loose gravel. Swain got a skinned up cheek and hands on the gravel but I got the worst of it and I lost lots of skin off both elbows, forearms and knuckles. My disposition clicked another notch past unacceptable/
We were in front of a construction site and as I stood up, I picked up a two foot long splintered piece of 1X4. It was full four inches at one end but the splintered end was just right for a handle. Swain was trying to get up and his butt was the highest part of him at the time and was irresistable. I whacked him a good one. He jerked upright and staggered backwards saying over and over, "wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute." He almost looked sober.
"Start walking," I told him and off we go and after awhile he pointed out another taxi cab to me. I told him to just shut up and walk. After awhile he asked when we were going to get another taxi cab. I told him we were not, that we were walking all the way to the base. "All the way?" he complained. I told him to shut up and walk. He would slow down every now and then but get back up to speed when I poked him vigorously with the stick.
We came to the long bridge over Naha harbor and he said he needed a rest and I told him to walk. We got about halfway across the bridge when he stopped and stared down at the water. "I ought to just jump," he said. "Go ahead," I told him as I walked right by him. I walked a little farther and he yelled, "Im gonna jump." "Go ahead," I yelled back at him, "I'll write your mommy a letter explainging how you got drunk and drowned yourself in Naha Harbor."
Then I heard him holler, "Hey wait for me." And he kept begging for me to slow down as we made the long walk up the hill onto the base and to the barracks and I promised to rip off his stripes and a certain part of his anatomy if he didnt show up bright eyed and bushy tailed at roll call that morning.
He wasnt bright eyed and bushy tailed but he made roll call. His obvious hangover and skinned cheek drew attention and as he told his story the rest of the day, he kept improving on it. The 1x4 I used on him had grown to a 2x4 and it seems like the skinned spots on my knuckles matched the skinned spots on his cheek. And at one point, it seems that I almost knocked him off the bridge into Naha Harbor. He also was telling that I had put the paperwork in to remove both his stripes, which was false. I started to correct his story but got to thinking that as long as it didnt spread too wide and cost me a stripe for violating his personal social needs, it might do some good. At the end of that day, my young troops were sneaking slaunch eyed looks at me and walking around like they were afraid of stepping on egg shells.
After that, I reverted back to the techniques I had learned from the old WWII era sargeants. The next guy I picked up at the processing center say me come thru the door, held up his hands and said, "its OK Sarge, Im coming peaceful."
It wasn't long after that that my commander was congratulating me on the noticable improvement in my troops off duty habits. He asked how I had accomplished that and with a straight face, I lied, "Just attending to their personal social needs, Sir."
