My twin brother and I both went to Amarillo, Texas, Aug. 24, 1967, for basic training in the Air Force. About two weeks into our training, one rainy and cold night, our barracks and all of the airmen were awakened by someone yelling “Fire!” and “Get out!” In that airman’s bunkroom, the rain had made its way to the outlet where sparks were flying out everywhere in that room. No, he didn’t go to shut off the circuit breaker! But what he did do was call in the “Fire Emergency” to the base operator and gave her our flight number (307) instead of the address of the fire. As a result, the Air Police, K-9 and fire trucks were all dispatched to 307 which happened to be the ammo dumps. The fire trucks crashed through the fencing, a fireman was bitten by the K-9, and the “brass” were all out there too. The last thing I saw at the barracks in the front yard was this cold, wet airman from New Jersey surrounded by four of the top brass trying to determine what went wrong. Oh, did I mention the airman was from NEW JERSEY?! And, as you can imagine, all of us in the flight would never let him forget that night.