Without Discipline, Men Die

By an Anonymous USAF Brat

The NCO club at Clark AFB in the Philippines backed up into Lily Hill. Lily Hill was one of those areas we, as dependents, weren’t supposed to investigate. Supposedly, there was a Japanese bunker complex up there with some unexploded ordnance. EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) and the base commander decided it was unsafe, so you weren’t supposed to go up there. The fact that two of my buddies pulled a new-in-crate Japanese crew-served machine gun off that hill and brought it home is best left to another story …

It was 1974, and we had just come back for our second tour at Clark, the first having been from 1969 to 1973. Dad was with the 1961st Communications Group, and a lot of his work was keeping communications going from MACV in Saigon to NCA/White House. We’d spent a rather interesting year at Tinker AFB in Oklahoma. After we PCS’d back to Clark, I silently vowed never to set foot in Oklahoma again. One July day, Oklahoma City got hit with about 19 tornadoes, and we had to sprint from base housing to the base hospital to take cover in the basement. I swore I’d never go back.

So, the NCO club sat at the foot of Lily Hill with a parking lot that looked rather large to my 12-year-old eyes. It was a large structure with a bar, dining area and patio where you could get a decent meal. Once a week, they brought in Mongolian BBQ. Having learned all about Mongolian BBQ when he was TDY to Taiwan, Dad raved about it and dragged Mom and me to the club whenever they had it.

So, we were sitting on the patio eating. I scarfed mine down and was done way before Mom and Dad were even close to finished. I asked Dad for a quarter to go play pinball in the game room there in the club. He handed me a quarter and said, “Go play pinball in the game room. If you get done early, come back to the table. If not, we’ll pick you up in the game room on our way out.”

To most normal human beings, that’s a simple directive to a child. There’s nothing more to it than that. Nothing. But this is the Air Force. As any veteran will tell you, there’s a right way, a wrong way and an Air Force way, or whatever service branch applies. I was about to learn all about that …

I grabbed the quarter and beat feet to the game room. It was nice and cool, dimly lit, with a faint smell of cigarette and cigar smoke. I went over to my favorite pinball machine and went to town. Being something less than a Pinball Wizard, I lost all three games rather quickly. After checking other abandoned machines for unplayed games, I went out the door.

As you exited the game room, you faced the entrance to the patio area, but you were kind of offset, so you couldn’t actually see deep into it. To your right was the entrance to the main club, and to your right rear was the entrance to the parking lot, which had no door, just a covered patio-type area.

It was at that point that I would make a decision that would be life-altering. In fact, it would carry on for more than 20 years and affect the way I raised my children. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was about to get a lesson that would define my family and was rooted in an institution that had been around since the founding of the country.

The decision? I went around the corner to the right and stood looking out into the parking lot, watching the people and the cars.

Every child knows by sheer repetition the various tones, inflections and verbiage used by parents to communicate. There’s the “you did good, kid” version and the “you’re pushing it, buster” version. Then there’s the “you screwed the pooch, big time” version. That last one usually starts with your first and middle name …

All I heard from my left rear was “David Wayne!”

I turned quickly toward my dad’s voice. Now, my dad wasn’t the tallest guy at 5-foot-5, but he was fighting trim, as required by regs. He’d just gotten off work before we went to dinner, and he was in the new, at that time, Air Force blue uniform: light blue shirt with ribbons and devices, dark blue pants, black spit-shined low quarters and a garrison cap.

As I turned and saw him, I noted he was taking off that blue dress stretch belt with the silver barrel buckle. Shit was about to hit the fan.

Dad grabbed me by the shoulder, spun me around and started the all-too-well-known spanking with that belt in time with what he was telling me: “I (smack) told (smack) you (smack) to (smack) …”

I did the kid dance with my hand down over my backside, moving on tiptoes in a circle, trying to avoid the licks and saying, “But Dad, Dad, Dad …”

It was a hilarious scene viewed with 50 years of hindsight. Families were walking in. Other dads were either smirking or grim-faced. Moms were looking down and blushing, and I was getting either looks of sympathy or peals of laughter from other kids watching my fate.

It ended, and we walked to the car. I gingerly sat down, chalked it up to experience and moved on. A spanking wasn’t unusual, and my parents were like NFL referees: spanking at the point of infraction. None of this “Wait until we get home” garbage.

About 45 years later, Dad and I were piled into a Suburban with a few other men, heading back to the church after going out for a Men’s Fellowship night at a local burger joint. He’d long since retired from the USAF and from his civilian job with a national telecom outfit. Somehow, the topic of conversation turned to experiences growing up.

I related the story of what turned out to be my last spanking in the parking lot of the Clark NCO club. All the guys were laughing, and so was I. Dad and I had a good relationship, and God had restored our relationship in some areas where we hadn’t seen eye to eye.

He was a hard man when he was in and a bit standoffish. I later learned that he didn’t want to get too close to me so that, if something happened to him on a mission, I wouldn’t fall apart. I understand it now, but I didn’t understand it then.

So, as everyone was laughing, Dad leaned forward and said, “You know why I spanked you, right?”

I said, “Yes, because I was disobedient.”

My jaw hit the floor when he said, “No, not because you were disobedient.”

The Suburban suddenly went quiet.

“OK, why DID you spank me?”

Dad said something that I will go to my grave with: “Because you broke discipline. I had given you an order, and you failed to carry it out. You broke discipline. Without discipline, men die. Whether on the field of battle or in life, without discipline, men die. Period.”

The silence in that Suburban remained for a long time as everyone there thought about what he said.

It took me a long time to come to terms with the way I was raised. Old Air Force. Dad went in right after the Air Force separated from the Army and wore 1505s, khaki uniforms, for a long time.

For a while, I rebelled against it. I let go of the order, structure and discipline that had been drilled into me for the first 18 years of my life, and there was more chaos and more dumb decisions than you can shake a stick at.

I came back to it later in life, certainly not as hard-core. No, I’m not up at 04:30 for PT, nor am I standing at retreat for the lowering of the flag, but the principles are there.

Dad’s still with us. I can see his house from my front porch. Every morning at 07:30, the flag goes up the pole in his backyard, and I can see him moving through the backyard with a cup of coffee in his hand, checking the perimeter.

Old habits die hard, and his words have never left me …

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As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.