In the wee hours of Sept. 6, 1978, I was a raw recruit still in civvies, standing in formation underneath the elevated barracks of the 3707th Training Squadron at Lackland Air Force Base, Texas. I was on the far left side of the formation, about the eighth or ninth man back. There were several training instructors who were running around us, screaming out instructions, directions and what seemed to be general harassment. All of a sudden, one of them came around from the front, looked down the side of the formation and screamed, "Get your hand out of your pocket, hero!"

Not having my hand in my pocket, I thought, "Oh boy, someone is going to get reamed out."

He immediately began marching down the column and again shouted, "Get your hand out of your damn pocket!"

We were all tired and weary, as we had traveled all day and had arrived many hours before. He continued to march smartly, getting closer to me and was obviously mad. As he started to scream for a third time and getting closer to me, I nervously twitched my left hand. By now, he was only two men away from me and at that moment, he stopped dead in his tracks, looked at me and said, "Oh, my mistake."

He instantly turned around, went back to the front and of course, started screaming about something else. At that moment I realized I was wearing tan colored pants and my hand was the same color. It was me he had been yelling at. He could have very easily covered up this mistake, but instead acknowledged in front of all of us he'd made a mistake. This was the first of many instances of professionalism and integrity the training instructors demonstrated; they were there to teach and lead us, not abuse their authority. Oh, there were other "moments" during that time, but this one I'll always remember. They were true leaders.