It was late January 1970 at Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas. We Airmen were standing in line outside of our sergeant’s office, waiting to practice reporting to an officer indoors. We had to knock on the door, wait to hear “enter,” then proceed to open the door, step in, close it behind us, do an about-face, stride to the desk where Sgt. “Pa-dee-ya” was sitting (God help you if you pronounced it Pa-DILL-a), snap off a crisp salute, and say “Sir, Airman ______reports as ordered.”
If he liked it, he returned the salute, and we would about face and exit, closing the door behind.
If he didn’t like it, we would know, in no uncertain terms, and have the chance to repeat the process.
The line continued flowing until it was Airman Mayer’s turn. He was a Kansas farm boy and as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. He knocked and heard “Enter.”
He entered and within 15 seconds we heard, “Mayer, you look like you’re hunting for Indians! Get out of my sight!”
A moment later, the door opened, and Mayer exited, slamming the door behind him, shattering the glass.
He looked at those of us in line with a look of horror on his face.
We lost it and were howling with laughter – that is, until Sgt. Padilla came out of his office and told us all to get our toothbrushes.
We spent the new few nights policing our latrine. I think we had the cleanest grout on base!