On Aug. 27, 1956, I enlisted in the Air Force with four others from my high school class. I was in Flight 941, 3723rd Squadron, at Lackland Air Force Base, Texas.

My training instructor was Airman First Class Neil L. Jackson, who had made his third stripe on Sept. 1, and was called off from a three-day pass to pick up our flight, half from the north, half from the south. He wasn't happy.

I couldn't sleep our first night because it was so hot—open windows and screen doors notwithstanding. I had never experienced such temperatures. We were housed in World War II barracks with the most rudimentary accommodations, including trough urinals. Breakfast was okay, but I remember many of us passing up most food for the "bug juice" served at lunch and dinner because we were so thirsty. We regularly passed by the "no marching" red pennant in front of the orderly room.

Fortunately, I was at Lackland only four weeks, after which I was shipped to Warren Air Force Base, Wyoming, for the rest of basic training and tech school, then on to Paris, France for three years. This was only 10 or 11 years after WWII, and I doubt the Air Force could have attracted their volunteer quota under the conditions I trained and served under. But I did get to see Europe as the current crop of airmen can now a days.