One week after his seventeenth birthday, Sam stepped off a bus at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas.

  A humid wind slapped him in the face the moment he stepped down. He joined a silent line of wide-eyed recruits—all of them still in civilian clothes and looking like they’d taken a wrong turn on the way to adulthood.

  First up: the weigh-in.

  Any recruit under the minimum standard was put on double rations. Overweight? Straight to a restricted diet. Sam made the cut, but a nervous-looking kid in front of him got slapped on “Double-Chow.” The instructors made sure everyone knew about it.

  Next, they were taken to their dormitories—rows of metal-framed beds and wall lockers that gleamed under strip lights. There was a bag check. Any contraband was confiscated on the spot. If drugs were found, it meant immediate dismissal, no questions asked.

  Then came the barbers.

  The clippers buzzed with brutal efficiency. Hair came off in great heaps. No small talk, no styling. Just shearing. When it was over, they looked at one another, stunned.

  “Christ,” someone muttered. “We look like convicts.”

  Sam couldn’t disagree.

  The next morning began with a urine test—drugs again. No one failed, or if they did, they were quietly disappeared.

  Then they were marched to the quartermaster’s depot to be issued uniforms and equipment. Boots, fatigues, caps, toiletries, and socks in government grey. Nothing was optional.

  Back at the dorms, the Military Training Instructors took over. These were the men who’d break them down and build them back up.

  “Line up! Three ranks! One behind the other twice!” barked the lead instructor, a wiry man with a voice like sandpaper and caffeine.

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  “Sunday is a non-duty day,” he said. “Until then, you belong to me.”

  And just like that, the eight weeks began.

  There were vaccines and medicals. Then physical training—endless running, gym work, and obstacle courses that seemed specifically designed to break spirits.

  Meals were three times a day, referred to as “chow.” They had ten minutes to eat, whether in the Chow Hall or, in the field, from a Meal Ready-to-Eat (MRE) pouch that tasted like something dreamt up by a committee with no tastebuds.

  Sam ate everything. His appetite kept pace with the training.

  Because he had already enlisted as a mechanic, he didn’t need to meet with a job counselor. His path was set.

  There was weapons training—mostly the M16 rifle. The big test was a 24-round live fire. Seventeen hits were needed to pass. Sam hit 22. He received a Small Arms Expert Ribbon and a quick nod of approval from the instructor.

  They also trained for nuclear, biological, and chemical warfare.

  The suits were suffocating. Oversized, scratchy, and hot. Visibility through the respirator was poor, and it fogged up easily. The field test involved exposure to CS gas.

  It stung Sam’s eyes and burned his throat. He coughed and staggered out of the tent, eyes streaming.

  I hope I never have to do that for real, he thought.

  Time moved faster after that. The rhythm of military life settled in.

  He noticed a few of his bunkmates getting homesick. Some muttered about not wanting an overseas posting, eager to go home on their time off.

  Then why sign up at all? Sam thought, but kept it to himself.

  When the eight weeks were over, he was officially an Airman. And now, his real training could begin.

  His next course was the vehicle mechanics program. It took place right there on base.

  Everything was covered—from the tires up.

  He learned how to change, inspect, and repair tires. He studied batteries: how to maintain, test, and charge them. Fuel and ignition systems, both petrol and diesel. Steering, suspension, instrumentation, gauges, windows, bodywork.

  Sam enjoyed every second of it. His hands knew what to do before his brain finished the thought.

  When others struggled, he helped them. Quietly, without fuss. His instructors noticed.

  He passed with top marks.

  The day after graduation, he was summoned by the training officer.

  “You did very well,” the officer said, reviewing the file. “We think you’re capable of more.”

  Sam blinked. “Sir?”

  “You should consider working on aircraft engines. The pay’s better. And you've shown leadership potential. You helped a lot of others through this course.”

  Sam hesitated. “I thought that would be too hard for me, sir.”

  “Not at all. You've already shown the right mindset. And the right hands.”

  Sam nodded. “Thank you, sir. I’ll try.”

  “Good. You’ll be told what’s available in the next few days.”

  Three days later, he was promoted to Airman First Class.

  He was enrolled on a course for Allison turboprop engines; the same ones used in the Lockheed C-130 Hercules—a rugged workhorse of an aircraft.

  The course was longer, more demanding. Sam didn’t care. He focused. He asked questions. He learned.

  When it was over, he passed—again, near the top.

  The personnel officer shook his hand.

  “Have a little more confidence in yourself,” he said. “I knew you could do it.”

  Then came the posting.

  Overseas.

  7441st Squadron. RAF Mildenhall. England.

  Sam packed his kit, folded his new uniform, and started to imagine a future thousands of miles from home.

  He didn’t feel fear.

  He felt ready.