A Man Named Dave

had done my best. There was a sense of satisfaction knowing I hadn’t faltered. I had taken a few hard knocks and I never quit. By the time the receptionist ushered me into a captain’s office, I was back to my old self. Standing ramrod straight, I popped out a crisp salute. “Sergeant Pelzer reporting, sir!”
    A towering black gentleman rose from behind his gray metal desk. He maintained a thin smile as his eyes ran up my pressed uniform. “Take a seat. So,” the captain paused, “we have a situation?”
    “Sir?”
    “You still want to be a crew member?”
    I wasn’t sure what he was asking. “Well, I do … I mean, I did, but that’s no longer –”
    “The bottom line is,” he interjected, “the way your submission was processed, the air force made a mistake. I have a problem with that,” the captain stated with pride. “So, I have a proposition for you. The air force is willing to grant an extension on your enlistment. You can use it to resubmit your paperwork. If you get accepted as a crew member, you reenlist. If you don’t, you can out-process, then get out. Understand, just by getting an extension in no way means getting a slot as a crew dawg. But,” he said with a sly grin, “you’ll be able to track your paperwork along the way. You’ll be jumping through a lot of hoops, and in the end there are no guarantees, but this is a square offer.”
    I had just pulled an ace out of thin air. “I’ll take the deal!”
    Dashing to my supervisors, I informed them of my luck. Without hesitation, they varied my work schedule so I could indeed oversee the necessary paperwork, which had to start from scratch. The next several weeks flew by as I literally ran around the entire base collecting the right forms, dropping them off at the appropriate office or, if I was lucky, hovering over them as I collected either signatures, initials, or boxes properly checked off. Then I had to collect additional forms that required further verification, again in the proper sequence, until, finally, I returned to the captain’s office with a perfectly completed package.
    “Got a whiff from Sergeant Blue,” the officer began, “the guy who handles your specialty request. Says he may have some slots open pretty soon.” This time he broke into a wide smile. “I’ll Q.C. – quality control – the paperwork, give it my blessing, and send it up the pike. You maintain tabs, and within a week you should be getting a call from Sergeant Blue.”
    “Thanks … Cap,” I saluted.
    He returned the gesture. “Like I said, air force made a mistake. I had a problem with that.”
    Weeks dragged by with no word. I desperately wanted to call the sergeant, but feared that pestering him would blow my opportunity. I kept myself busy any way I could, fighting to keep my mind off the package. After another week I caved in and phoned. “Been expecting your call,” Sergeant Blue nonchalantly began. “We had a problem …” I exhaled, waiting for the sky to come crashing down. “You’re not going to believe this, but it seems the paperwork ended up in the hands of ground refueling again.” As he paused, I wondered, What did I have to do? After all I had been through, I was not going to roll over and quit. “Anyways, like I said, we had a problem,” Sergeant Blue went on.
    “Say again?” I asked, catching his emphasis on the word had.
    “Let me just say this: they’ve been educated on the errors of their ways. I got the paperwork in time. Now,” he added, “we have another problem.” My stomach turned. Clearing his throat, Sergeant Blue stammered, “It – it seems I won’t be able to grant you your base request.”
    I quickly saw my opening. “I’ll take anything you have. Anything! Even Minot!” I thundered, knowing that Minot Air Force Base was located in the far region of North Dakota and was infamous for its extreme arctic-like winters.
    “No can do,” he informed me.
    In my head I calculated. I would never have a chance of resubmitting another package. I had run out of time. There were no other options. Suddenly, I thought of a different tactic. “What do you have?”
    “Well, the best I could do is …” – I could sense Sergeant Blue’s restrained excitement, and the hairs on my arms began to rise – “… this base out in California, west of the Sierra Nevadas.”
    “Beale!” I shouted.
    “Home of the Sled. Congratulations. Once you’ve earned your crew wings, you’ll be an in-flight boom operator for the SR-71 – known to crew dawgs as the Sled. I was just waiting for your