A Man Named Dave

I bellowed, “Negative, sir! I’m not homesick, not for a moment, sir!” I glanced down at the sergeant, who wasn’t fazed by my off-the-cuff response. My lips trembled as I tried to make up for lost ground. “Won’t happen again, sir! Ever!” I promised in a quavering voice.
    “Make certain it doesn’t, airman. Damn sure! Understand this,” the master sergeant said as he shot up from his chair and stood inches in front of my nose, “the United States Air Force has no room whatsoever for whiny little momma’s boys. Our sole objective, our sole purpose, is to protect the freedom of this nation’s democracy. Is that clear? If you can’t handle the magnitude of that responsibility, then get out! If you continue on your present course, I will have no alternative but to have you undergo psychiatric evaluation for possible medical discharge. Do I make myself clear … Airman Pelzer? ”
    I swallowed hard. “Crystal clear, sir!” But even as the words came out of my mouth, I could feel my “master plan” evaporating. In my mind, I could see my dream – my log cabin, with Father and me sitting on the porch or fishing together on the Russian River – fading away. After being dismissed by my drill instructor, I gave a crisp salute and marched out of his office. Immediately I fled to the latrine and threw up. On my hands and knees I cursed myself for allowing Mother to continue controlling me. I became filled with shame.
    After wiping away the vomit, I became furious – not at Mother but with myself. Everything I had accomplished –from studying books on big adventure in the darkness of Mother’s garage to working endless hours as a teenager at fast-food restaurants – was to somehow better myself and to prepare myself to live a better life, a real life. If I was kicked out of the air force, it was my fault, not anyone else’s. Therefore, as the sergeant had stressed in his underlying message: I had to do something to change my present course.
    That morning I schemed to come up with a way to somehow save me from another episode and a possible lifetime of disgrace. To be booted out of the armed forces for having immature, childish dreams was not an option. Since I’d been having the nightmares in the early hours of the morning and my bunk buddy, Randy, was a slight sleeper, I bribed him to wake me at the first sign of trouble. But after a couple of nights, I felt I was stretching Randy’s Southern generosity to its limit. So I decided to volunteer for the guard-duty shift that began at two a.m. until reveille at six a.m. My idea was an immediate success, but days later my lack of sleep made it impossible for me to concentrate on my academics. Whenever I’d study my manuals in class, the words became blurred and ran together. I’d slump forward at my desk only to be awakened by a furious drill sergeant. During parade practice I’d misstep nearly every move and was soon abandoned to practice precision movements alone in the blistering Texas sun, so not to further embarrass my squadron. I was ridiculed by my air force instructors for my lack of concentration and never ending clumsiness.
    But I refused to cave in. I didn’t mind being condemned; if anything, my weakness in certain areas kept my mind off my inner struggles. As long as I kept myself out of the shrink’s office, I would have gladly practiced my marching routine barefoot on the searing tarmac.
    Because of my awkwardness and the spreading rumors of my nightmares, I found myself isolated from my squadron, which had begun to break into cliques. The only friends I had were the ones assigned with me for latrine duty. During the latter part of training, our class was awarded afternoon weekend passes. I refused mine and stayed behind to catch up on my studies, practice my marching movements in the long, empty hallways, starch-iron my uniforms to a razor’s edge, and polish my boots with a wet cotton ball until they had a mirror finish. Hours later, groups of my squadron returned, bragging about their adventure of sneaking beers and showing off their dress-blue uniforms to the local girls. I simply counted the days until I could begin my training as a fireman. More important I mentally counted the money I had saved by remaining at the barracks. The more dollars I began to hoard, the more my pride grew with the fact that I was finally getting a foothold on buying my home on the Russian River.
    During the last week of basic training, as I reported to the career counselor’s office