September 30, 1986. A date I can never forget. Anyone who has served in the military knows their date of entry into active duty. This was mine. The basis for all calculations involving everything from leave accrual to retirement. On this date I departed for Ft. Knox, Kentucky from the MEPS Center in Des Moines, Iowa. I caught an Ozark Airlines flight to Loiusville, KY and rode a Greyhound Bus to Ft. Knox.
Ft. Knox is cool. It was the home of the Armor Training Center (tanks) and the location where they shot the movie Stripes; one of my all time favorite movies. Our bus, full of a very eclectic group of new recruits, pulls up in front of the initial reception hall. Just like in the movie, Officer and a Gentleman, a bunch of drill sergeants jump on the bus, and spew and endless torrent of expletives. Thus duly motivated, we rapidly exit the bus with our stupid looking personal suitcases, and pour into the hall. All of us have the scared look on our faces, the one that says, "What did I get myself into?" People are afraid to stand up, ask a question, or even go to the bathroom. This was just the beginning.
The real fun wouldn't even start for a few weeks yet. We spent some time getting an initial issue of fatigues and the oh-so-cool, brown underwear with a choice of boxers or briefs, and the brown t-shirts. Most fun were the brown towels; they were more like a squeegee, with no absorptive quality whatsoever. We had our heads shaved, had the standard Auschwitz look-alike basic training photo taken, and lined up for a hundred immunizations. Some fat-boys were singled out, and sent to a private hell to get them in shape before basic even started. They had restricted diets and endless physical training (PT). I felt sorry for those guys.
SSG's Ernie Leonard and Jose Ogas would be our drill sergeants on the day we were marched to zero day of basic training. It was all I imagined it would be. Endless screaming and push-ups galore. There were several notable moments that day when some privates were asked questions and they gave the stupidest answers I had ever heard. They were dropped for exquisite push-up and mountain-climber attention.
Our drill sergeants were fair and tough. We were slowly transformed from self-centered individual punks, into a cohesive team of soldiers. Soon we were marching drill and ceremony, qualifying with individual weapons, and learning about a myriad of martial topics from A to Z.
During the night of my first field training exercise, an event where after a 12 mile road march, we would first spend the night in out GP Tiny two-man pup tents, I was pulled aside by my drill sergeants. They advised me to gather all my stuff and loaded me into a deuce and a half truck for the ride back to our company area. I knew something was very wrong when they showed me sympathy and kindness. I started to worry. I was directed to store my stuff in the company CQ area and to go to the commanders office.
Captain Blaine, my company commander, was a good man. Originally from Iowa, he spent a few minutes chit chatting with me about my hometown before he broke the news to me that my father was in intensive care in Des Moines, Iowa, the victim of a heart attack. I was told the Red Cross would immediately make arrangements to fly me to Des Moines. I was allowed to go outside to the payphone and call my mother. It was a really tough phone call. Mom told me dad was alive but he had a massive heart attack in the kitchen. He was taken by ambulance to the Ft Dodge hospital and later airlifted to Des Moines on a helicopter.
Before I could depart, I had to be issued my Class A dress uniform for the trip home. It was surreal. Sitting there being measured for a uniform I was very proud of, the tailor knowing why I was leaving, my heart heavy as I have to go through this weird event. All I want to do is go home.
The Red Cross and the Army delivered on their promise to get me home immediately. Something I would never forget; how much the Army takes care of its own. I arrived at the hospital the next day and made the long walk to the intensive care unit, wearing my Class A's and a long black coat. Before I knew it, I was looking upon my father. It didn't even look like him. He looked like someone who had lost half his life in an instant.
At that moment, for the first time in my life, I grew up. In that instant I realized how short life is. From this point on I knew my dad had been incredibly lucky, (thank God), and that every minute he experienced since then would be a gift from God. My dad was 45 years old. I am now 46.
He was happy to see me and seemed very proud of me. I was kind of in shock. I told him I would stay as long as needed but he urged me to get back to my training. That's what people of his, and mom's, generation do. They tell you to buck up, get back to business and not worry about them. So, after a few days I left and went back to basic. My parents were able to make the trip to my graduation from basic.
After basic I boarded a bus for the drive to Ft Rucker, Alabama, the home of the Army Aviation Center and School. They place where I would attend Warrant Officer flight training and learn to fly helicopters. I had no idea what was awaiting me here. It was probably better I didn't know.
My first 6 weeks there would comprise of the Warrant Officer Entry Course. A rigorous weed-out process centered around an incredibly meticulous course in attention to detail and physical conditioning. Our personal living area was expected to be ordered and arranged according to the most anal standards anyone can ever imagine. Almost daily, it was all tossed on the floor and we would have to redo it, while writing military letters to the commander explaining why we will no longer violate the regulations, and do a better job in our personal living areas. Demerits were handed out like candy. I received my fair share, and more. PT started at 4 am or earlier, meals were eaten in complete silence. We attended classes all day and we're tested several times a week. No one was more shocked than I, when I completed this phase and was ready to move onto actual flight training. Graduating from the entry course gave me a confidence I sorely needed to move on to flight training. My parents came down for the entry course completion ceremony.
My flight training began in February, 1987. (Next month will be my 25th anniversary since becoming a pilot) We were issued a stack of training manuals at least three feet tall. We received our sage green flight suits, helmets, flight gloves and maps......tons of maps. We still had lots of PT, had to maintain a spotless personal area and attended classes half the day. I remember one day in this phase where the TAC Officers made us move the entire contents of our rooms outside and set them up.
My first ride in the helicopter, a TH-55 piston powered, two-seater, was with my instructor for initial flight training, a civilian, Mr. Earl Willis. Mr Willis was a former Alabama State Trooper who served under the infamous Alabama segregationist governor, George C Wallace. Mr. Willis happily regales me with tales of how he helped hose down civil rights marchers, and haul black men and women off to jail. Great! Just what I need. A racist asshole to make sure I don't offend, while I try to learn how to fly a helicopter. That guy made me really uncomfortable. He would always say, after he yelled at me about something, "Mr. Teppa, I'm tryin to hep ya." Lucky for me, my Hispanic stick buddy got most of the negative attentions of Earl Willis due to his skin color, I assume.
I didn't think I was gonna get it. I was put up for a check ride and during a simulated engine failure, I forgot to lower the collective, thus letting the rotor RPM decay almost out of the green arc. I was given a big fat pink slip, one of many. That was a low moment....one when you're riding the bus home from the stage field and you think you are not gonna make it as a pilot. I was immediately given a progress (prog) ride to see if I was at the level I should be for 12 hours of flight time. I did fine on that ride, making sure I lowered the collective this time. That pilot was a cool pro, and really gave me a boost to my confidence.
Time to solo. Wait, what? I have like 14 hours or something and you're gonna send me out to fly traffic patterns by myself? Holy shit. I am going to die. On the ramp at Hooper Stage-field, my instructor gets out, grabs a hand held radio, and goes and sits in the bleachers to watch 6 parallel lanes of solo students mix it up for four traffic patterns. I really was worried I might die. I had a death grip on the controls, using body-english and shouted commands, as much as actual control inputs, to safely make it around the traffic pattern 4 times.
By the end of flight school, 9 months later, we were all wearing Ray Ban Aviators, had big watches and listened to Pink Floyd's Learning to Fly on our Sony Walkmans. We were qualified in the TH-55 and the UH-1. We were instrument qualified. We were night vision goggle qualified. We had learned to navigate using only a compass, watch and a 1:50,000 tactical map. We graduated flight school with right at 200 hours and I felt extremely comfortable and confident in the UH-1. My parents attended the graduation ceremony where we received our Warrant Officer bars and silver wings. My dad pinned my wings on my chest and my brother, an enlisted man, gave me my first salute.
 |
| From Stripes, 1981 |
Ft. Knox is cool. It was the home of the Armor Training Center (tanks) and the location where they shot the movie Stripes; one of my all time favorite movies. Our bus, full of a very eclectic group of new recruits, pulls up in front of the initial reception hall. Just like in the movie, Officer and a Gentleman, a bunch of drill sergeants jump on the bus, and spew and endless torrent of expletives. Thus duly motivated, we rapidly exit the bus with our stupid looking personal suitcases, and pour into the hall. All of us have the scared look on our faces, the one that says, "What did I get myself into?" People are afraid to stand up, ask a question, or even go to the bathroom. This was just the beginning.
The real fun wouldn't even start for a few weeks yet. We spent some time getting an initial issue of fatigues and the oh-so-cool, brown underwear with a choice of boxers or briefs, and the brown t-shirts. Most fun were the brown towels; they were more like a squeegee, with no absorptive quality whatsoever. We had our heads shaved, had the standard Auschwitz look-alike basic training photo taken, and lined up for a hundred immunizations. Some fat-boys were singled out, and sent to a private hell to get them in shape before basic even started. They had restricted diets and endless physical training (PT). I felt sorry for those guys.
 |
| The 4 Count Push Up! Ready! Begin! (trdefence.com) |
SSG's Ernie Leonard and Jose Ogas would be our drill sergeants on the day we were marched to zero day of basic training. It was all I imagined it would be. Endless screaming and push-ups galore. There were several notable moments that day when some privates were asked questions and they gave the stupidest answers I had ever heard. They were dropped for exquisite push-up and mountain-climber attention.
Our drill sergeants were fair and tough. We were slowly transformed from self-centered individual punks, into a cohesive team of soldiers. Soon we were marching drill and ceremony, qualifying with individual weapons, and learning about a myriad of martial topics from A to Z.
During the night of my first field training exercise, an event where after a 12 mile road march, we would first spend the night in out GP Tiny two-man pup tents, I was pulled aside by my drill sergeants. They advised me to gather all my stuff and loaded me into a deuce and a half truck for the ride back to our company area. I knew something was very wrong when they showed me sympathy and kindness. I started to worry. I was directed to store my stuff in the company CQ area and to go to the commanders office.
 |
| Red Cross Poster from Wikipedia |
Captain Blaine, my company commander, was a good man. Originally from Iowa, he spent a few minutes chit chatting with me about my hometown before he broke the news to me that my father was in intensive care in Des Moines, Iowa, the victim of a heart attack. I was told the Red Cross would immediately make arrangements to fly me to Des Moines. I was allowed to go outside to the payphone and call my mother. It was a really tough phone call. Mom told me dad was alive but he had a massive heart attack in the kitchen. He was taken by ambulance to the Ft Dodge hospital and later airlifted to Des Moines on a helicopter.
Before I could depart, I had to be issued my Class A dress uniform for the trip home. It was surreal. Sitting there being measured for a uniform I was very proud of, the tailor knowing why I was leaving, my heart heavy as I have to go through this weird event. All I want to do is go home.
The Red Cross and the Army delivered on their promise to get me home immediately. Something I would never forget; how much the Army takes care of its own. I arrived at the hospital the next day and made the long walk to the intensive care unit, wearing my Class A's and a long black coat. Before I knew it, I was looking upon my father. It didn't even look like him. He looked like someone who had lost half his life in an instant.
At that moment, for the first time in my life, I grew up. In that instant I realized how short life is. From this point on I knew my dad had been incredibly lucky, (thank God), and that every minute he experienced since then would be a gift from God. My dad was 45 years old. I am now 46.
He was happy to see me and seemed very proud of me. I was kind of in shock. I told him I would stay as long as needed but he urged me to get back to my training. That's what people of his, and mom's, generation do. They tell you to buck up, get back to business and not worry about them. So, after a few days I left and went back to basic. My parents were able to make the trip to my graduation from basic.
 |
| Old Rucker Gate (Armyflightschool.org) |
After basic I boarded a bus for the drive to Ft Rucker, Alabama, the home of the Army Aviation Center and School. They place where I would attend Warrant Officer flight training and learn to fly helicopters. I had no idea what was awaiting me here. It was probably better I didn't know.
My first 6 weeks there would comprise of the Warrant Officer Entry Course. A rigorous weed-out process centered around an incredibly meticulous course in attention to detail and physical conditioning. Our personal living area was expected to be ordered and arranged according to the most anal standards anyone can ever imagine. Almost daily, it was all tossed on the floor and we would have to redo it, while writing military letters to the commander explaining why we will no longer violate the regulations, and do a better job in our personal living areas. Demerits were handed out like candy. I received my fair share, and more. PT started at 4 am or earlier, meals were eaten in complete silence. We attended classes all day and we're tested several times a week. No one was more shocked than I, when I completed this phase and was ready to move onto actual flight training. Graduating from the entry course gave me a confidence I sorely needed to move on to flight training. My parents came down for the entry course completion ceremony.
 |
| TH-55 Osage (airportdata.com image) |
My flight training began in February, 1987. (Next month will be my 25th anniversary since becoming a pilot) We were issued a stack of training manuals at least three feet tall. We received our sage green flight suits, helmets, flight gloves and maps......tons of maps. We still had lots of PT, had to maintain a spotless personal area and attended classes half the day. I remember one day in this phase where the TAC Officers made us move the entire contents of our rooms outside and set them up.
My first ride in the helicopter, a TH-55 piston powered, two-seater, was with my instructor for initial flight training, a civilian, Mr. Earl Willis. Mr Willis was a former Alabama State Trooper who served under the infamous Alabama segregationist governor, George C Wallace. Mr. Willis happily regales me with tales of how he helped hose down civil rights marchers, and haul black men and women off to jail. Great! Just what I need. A racist asshole to make sure I don't offend, while I try to learn how to fly a helicopter. That guy made me really uncomfortable. He would always say, after he yelled at me about something, "Mr. Teppa, I'm tryin to hep ya." Lucky for me, my Hispanic stick buddy got most of the negative attentions of Earl Willis due to his skin color, I assume.
I didn't think I was gonna get it. I was put up for a check ride and during a simulated engine failure, I forgot to lower the collective, thus letting the rotor RPM decay almost out of the green arc. I was given a big fat pink slip, one of many. That was a low moment....one when you're riding the bus home from the stage field and you think you are not gonna make it as a pilot. I was immediately given a progress (prog) ride to see if I was at the level I should be for 12 hours of flight time. I did fine on that ride, making sure I lowered the collective this time. That pilot was a cool pro, and really gave me a boost to my confidence.
Time to solo. Wait, what? I have like 14 hours or something and you're gonna send me out to fly traffic patterns by myself? Holy shit. I am going to die. On the ramp at Hooper Stage-field, my instructor gets out, grabs a hand held radio, and goes and sits in the bleachers to watch 6 parallel lanes of solo students mix it up for four traffic patterns. I really was worried I might die. I had a death grip on the controls, using body-english and shouted commands, as much as actual control inputs, to safely make it around the traffic pattern 4 times.
 |
| Army Aviator Wings, Senior Aviator, and Master Aviator (DoD Image) |
By the end of flight school, 9 months later, we were all wearing Ray Ban Aviators, had big watches and listened to Pink Floyd's Learning to Fly on our Sony Walkmans. We were qualified in the TH-55 and the UH-1. We were instrument qualified. We were night vision goggle qualified. We had learned to navigate using only a compass, watch and a 1:50,000 tactical map. We graduated flight school with right at 200 hours and I felt extremely comfortable and confident in the UH-1. My parents attended the graduation ceremony where we received our Warrant Officer bars and silver wings. My dad pinned my wings on my chest and my brother, an enlisted man, gave me my first salute.
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