Riding Diesel Fumes to Texas: A Journey into Forever

Two smells always take me back to May 5, 1976.  That's the date I left home and boarded a Greyhound bus to Buffalo, New York.  Fuel fumes and the fragrance of French toast sizzling on a griddle always remind me of that journey.  It was a journey that changed my life, taking me from everything I knew and into the dark unknown.  I relished it.

            A few months earlier I had signed papers to become a member of the United States Air Force.  I made the decision after waking from a dream during my college Thanksgiving break in 1975.  In the dream I wore an Air Force uniform.  The image was so real to me that when I awoke, I quite literally felt as if I had been there and that somehow I was out of place and time in my childhood bed.  The next day I went to the recruiting station near the Greece Towne Mall.  I knew without any doubt that this was the right thing to do.

            My parents were surprisingly supportive.  My stepfather was an Air Force veteran.  I remember seeing a black-and-white picture of him, a jaunty and handsome young sergeant in a tan uniform, cap askew, cigarette dangling from his mouth, leaning against a military jeep.  The photo was shot somewhere in France during the Korean War.  Dad was a communications technician assigned to NATO.  He often spoke of his adventures dodging a sniper's bullets while climbing communications towers in Korea. 

            One story took place in France.  He spoke of the dangers of being in a foreign place.  He could have lost his life.  Driving drunk in the fog, he and his buddy would jump out, lick their fingers, and grab the jeep's battery terminals to jolt them into a momentary state of awareness so they could continue their drive.  It was so foggy that the driver of the moment would stick his foot out to feel the curb as he drove.  Those stories were the ones that made Dad my hero.        

            Such stories weren't my reason for joining the Air Force, however.  At least, not consciously.  I never liked my hometown of Greece, New York.  I never really fit in.  Family life wasn't happy for me.  I plotted my escape for as long as I could remember.  I remember, on the day of high school graduation, my best friend Kathy and I were standing in the auditorium foyer.  Kathy said, "You really need to get out of this place.  It's not right for you."  I agreed with her.

            I thought living on campus at a nearby university would provide some measure of escape.  I knew I couldn't continue to live at home, but I wasn't able to support myself enough to move.  I was largely paying for my own expenses at school and received notification that those expenses would increase for the following semester.   Without the wherewithal to continue, I needed to withdraw at the end of that first semester.  I didn't know what I would do after that.  I was deeply depressed.

            In those days, the region's primary employer was Kodak, and Rochester was a company town.  Friends' fathers worked there, and the annual Kodak bonus was viewed as a right rather than a privilege.  It never occurred to anyone that it wouldn't always be there.  My grandfather was a Kodak trickworker, always sleeping by day and working by night.  My dad, however, worked for the phone company, a result of his training in the Air Force.  But all of my friends aspired to lifelong jobs at Kodak.  Many knew they'd go to college, but they also knew they'd come back home and settle, working for the company that had taken care of their families for generations.  I was horrified by the prospect, hence, my depression over the idea of leaving college and going straight into a job at Kodak.

            As I wracked my brain to come up with another alternative, perhaps in my sleep my subconscious had dredged up images of my dad in uniform.  It's said that the sleep state is an excellent place to work out problems by letting the unconscious mind communicate to us through dreams.  In retrospect, that seems plausible.  Regardless of why the dream presented itself to me at that particular time, I was ready to make a drastic change and was receptive to the idea of joining the military as a way to run away from home.  The Air Force had the best reputation, and the Vietnam era was drawing to a close.  Peace or war, I'd be safe in the Air Force.  So what the heck?  I joined.

            I took a battery of tests and scored so high that the captain of the AFEES station in Buffalo had to grade it by hand just to be sure there wasn't a problem with the computer.  I was offered a guaranteed job in intelligence.  Only the best of the best were invited into that world, and I would be one of the first women allowed into the field.  Snow job?  Perhaps.  But it sounded exciting to an eighteen year-old with no other prospects.  I certainly didn't want to be a secretary.  My "yes" to the offer meant that I'd have to delay my departure for a few months while awaiting an opening in the training school.  So May 5, 1976, would be my official entry date.

            When the time came, I packed my one small suitcase with toiletries, underwear, and whatever else we were allowed to have upon arrival at Basic Training at Lackland Air Force Base near San Antonio, Texas. 

            My recruiter gave me a "chit" for a Greyhound bus ticket to Buffalo.  That would be my point of entry into the world of military intelligence.  I said goodbye to my brother and sister at home, and my parents drove me to the bus station in Rochester.  We walked through the station to the loading area and stood outside the bus until boarding time.  Diesel fumes permeated the air, slightly burning my nostrils and throat.  Several busses were lined up, motors rumbling, waiting to take travelers to various parts of the country.  Perhaps one or two of the travelers in the area were going to California to be hippies.  Imagining their freedom, I wanted to join them.  There were only a few people standing near the bus for Buffalo.  I was nervous and excited.  Part of me wanted to turn around and run home while another part was eager to get going. 

            The bus driver arrived and cheerfully opened the doors under the bus to reveal gaping caverns for our luggage.  He stowed the luggage, chatting amiably with his charges-to-be.  How could he be so glib?  Didn't he know that something drastic was happening in my life?  He turned and took our tickets.  Time to board.  I turned to my parents.

            I loathe goodbyes.  When the old is done, I simply turn to the new and move forward.  Still, we hugged.  I knew Dad was proud.  Mom was crying.  I felt guilty for leaving but didn't tell them.  Dad put his arm around her, running his hand slowly up and down her back to comfort her in his way.  I wanted his arm to be around me, comforting me.  But it was too late.  The decision was made.  I boarded the bus and settled into my seat, having chosen one that allowed me to wave to them through the window as the bus pulled away.  I watched them return the wave, Mom crying and Dad consoling.  I wanted to cry too but held back the tears.  I wouldn't cry in front of strangers, and I didn't want my parents to know I was scared.

            When the bus arrived in Buffalo, an Air Force sergeant was there to meet me.  He loaded my suitcase into the trunk of his dark, Air Force blue, government car and drove me to an aging hotel in downtown Buffalo.  He escorted me to my room, gave me chits for dinner and breakfast, and told me he'd be in the lobby in the morning to take me to the airport. 

            I was frightened to be alone in a strange city in a dingy hotel.  I'm sure the government doesn't house recruits at the Ritz, but this place was musty and old.  I didn't know quite what to make of it.  I was hungry, so I went to the hotel coffee shop in the lobby.  I ate the greasy food quickly and scurried back up to my room, where I hastily locked and pushed a chair against the door.  I washed up and watched "snowy" television from the bed.  I placed a wake-up call request with the hotel operator, praying they'd actually call me on time.  I was nervous and had trouble sleeping.  Even so, I slept well enough to be awakened by the operator's "Good morning, it's seven o'clock" message to me the next day.

            After breakfast, I met the Air Force guy in the lobby.  He drove me to the airport and sat with me until boarding time.  He wished me well and watched while I stood before the open door and handed my ticket to the gate agent.  The smell of Jet A fuel wafted in.  More fumes to wedge their way into my brain, forever to remind me of my journey.  I walked onto the tarmac and up the steps to the airplane that would whisk me away to San Antonio, Texas.  It was a long flight.

            San Antonio is warm and humid.  That was my first impression upon disembarking from the plane that evening.  Most of the events following my arrival at the airport are a blur.  I vaguely remember a sort of welcome center for the Air Force recruits right there at the airport.  Welcome center or holding cell, I wasn't sure which was true.  Throughout the evening more recruits arrived.  Together we waited until late into the night, when we were loaded on to a string of school busses painted that dark, Air Force blue that was already starting to become familiar to me.  That color would be part of my life for the next several years. 

            The full busses ferried us from the airport to Lackland Air Force Base, just outside the San Antonio area.  We entered the base under a sign proclaiming that we were entering through "The Gateway to the Air Force."   All Air Force recruits go through six weeks of basic training at Lackland.  Dad had also gone through that gate many, many years earlier.

            It was the first time I'd ever been on a military base.  It seemed that I was on another planet.  It was dark and eerily foggy, making the rows of identically boxy, featureless buildings appear ghostly and soulless as we rode through the base to the training area. 

            The busses stopped in a well-lighted, large, parking lot type of area.  I soon learned that it was the parade ground, its surface worn smooth by hundreds of thousands of young marching feet.  The parking lot/parade ground was adjacent to a fenced enclave of identically boxy, featureless buildings.  Those buildings would be home for the next six weeks.

            As I stepped off the bus, I was hit by another round of diesel fumes.  This time, though, they mingled with the smell of French toast coming from one of the nearby buildings.  The unlikely combination heightened my feelings of disorientation.  I was also deeply fatigued after two long days of travel atop an emotional roller coaster.

            It was pre-dawn, a time I associated with getting into the car for a road trip with my family when I was a kid.  There was always a sense of anticipation and excitement in those moments.  It was odd, feeling the old family memory swim up into my awareness at the same time I was drowning in the unfamiliar.  But it was comforting, and I was glad for it.

            The air was muggy, and it had that quiet feel settles over those moments just before the birds start their break-of-day sing-in. But singing birds weren't on the agenda at that moment.  Instead, I heard the authoritative voice of my new Training Instructor. 

            We were lined up, given instructions, and marched to the dining hall.  As I went through the chow hall line for my early morning breakfast, I chose the French toast.  I sat down to eat and knew there was no turning back.  My new life had begun.

All rights reserved.  Copyright 2008 by Karen E. Kelsay.