The Vietnam War was in full swing while Dad was in college. He received a college deferment, but upon graduation, the war was still slogging on and his draft number was pretty low. He was willing to serve, but he didn’t want to be drafted, so he signed up for the United States Air Force as an aircraft maintenance officer. He spent the last two years of college as a member of the Air Force ROTC, so the transition was smooth, and he attended boot camp without incident. The trouble didn’t start until his first duty station where he ended up in a bit of hot water.
Dad was walking along the sidewalk on the air force base, aware of his surroundings, but unaware of the particulars of military protocol. He passed a senior officer who was walking toward him on the street. As the junior officer, Dad should have initiated the salute, but as he tells it, there was a good distance between the two of them and he felt a salute wasn’t necessary. He was wrong. Dad received a good old-fashioned dressing down at the hands of this experienced and curmudgeonly high-ranking officer. Some military members are more strict about the rules than others, and Dad had just encountered the equivalent of the sternest school librarian, although louder and more intimidating. Dad stood at attention respectfully and learned that it was better to err on the side of caution in the future.
A few months later Dad was outside in the pouring rain as an Air Force general stepped out of a fancy vehicle right in front of him. He and his fellows recognized the car as it approached, so they were prepared, standing at attention and saluting. The general glanced their way as he walked by, then turned around and looked directly at Dad, who thought, “What have I done wrong now?” He was saluting crisply with his right hand as the sky dumped a chilly rain on their heads. However, his left hand was firmly and warmly ensconced in his pants pocket. Not good. This time it was a full-fledged general who gave Dad the haranguing, right in front of his peers. Saluting seems so simple, but that was two strikes for the young officer.
Dad managed to improve his saluting technique and performed flawlessly for many months, until that bright and sunny day at Langley Air Force Base. Dad was out on the tarmac, not feeling well, quite ill actually, but prepared to do his inspection as the plane landed. Once again he was privileged to encounter a general, this time disembarking a plane. There was no rain, but Dad was still under the weather, as it were. He knew his duty, however, and stood at attention, side by side with his crewmates, saluting, this time with his left hand in plain sight at his side. The general walked off the plane and down the steps. Dad could feel his stomach roiling inside him. Not good. He was going to puke. His resolve stiffened and so did his salute. The general walked slowly toward him, but his body was prepping for betrayal. There was nothing to be done. The general and his retinue were only a few feet away when Dad vomited. However, that was not his 3rd strike. He did not suffer another embarrassing breach of military protocol. He would NOT let that happen again. Instead, exercising extreme fortitude, Dad kept his mouth firmly closed. The contents of his stomach made their way to the surface, but not a dribble escaped. While his mouth filled with the detritus of his morning meal, his hand remained, sharp and austere, with fingers gently touching his forehead in the most perfect of salutes. The general finally walked by, but Dad was still in a quandary. He could turn and ungracefully deposit the churned liquid right there on the concrete in front of everyone, or he could pursue another option. With tears in his eyes he chose plan B.