The Fightin' 81st

The Fightin’ 81st



by Randoid


I was a nineteen-year old airman stationed at Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, Mississippi. Keesler was a training base for new recruits, and I was attending a technical school to become a microwave radio technician. There were thousands of new airmen on the base and most were like me, attending a technical school of one sort or another. The base was cut in two by an airstrip. The main base was located east of the airstrip and represented about 80% of the base acreage. The main base housed all the technical schools. The remaining part of the base was a triangular-shaped area to the west which was known as the Triangle. The Triangle was devoted to student housing and consisted of 12 or more large complexes or squadrons. Each squadron complex contained administrative offices, a chow hall, and a barracks for approximately 700-1,000 students. I was assigned to the 3381st Student Squadron, which just happened to be the squadron closest to the airstrip.


My job, as a student, was to attend my designated technical school 6 hours a day from 6 AM to noon, 5 days a week. However, with the Vietnam War in full bloom the wartime demand for qualified technicians was high. In order to fill that technical manpower gap, the powers-that-be wanted to speed up the graduation process so that we could make our contribution to the war effort as soon as possible. To that end, they came up two solutions. First, the students will attend classes in three shifts. A shift, will attend class from 6 AM to noon, B shift from noon to 6 PM, and C shift from 6 PM to midnight. Second, all students will now attend class 6 days a week. I was assigned to C shift. So now my job, as student, was to attend my designated technical school 6 hours a day from 6 PM to midnight, 6 days a week.


Most of the students in the 3381st were on the A shift and the B shift so the chow hall in my squadron was designated as an A and B shift chow hall. C shift students couldn’t eat there. I had to attend a C shift chow hall in another squadron about 500-600 yards down the road.
Every school day, which also happened to be most days, began at 5 PM as C shift students lined up for an inspection by our Squadron Commander and our Red Rope. The Red Rope, who was a student just like the rest of us, was sort of like a “prison trustee” in that he was responsible for our overall welfare when the Squadron Commander and First Sergeant were not around. In keeping with military tradition, he also had complete authority over us. Our Red Rope was named Richardson and he was a pretty good guy.


With the inspection completed, it was time to march to school. The 3381st had the “honor” of leading all the other Triangle squadrons across the flight line, past the reviewing stand, and on to our main base schools. Along the way, our squadron would sing marching songs and, in doing so, try to drown out the other squadrons who were trying to do the same thing.


After six hours of learning about electronics, it was midnight and school was finished for the day. Although it was midnight, it had also been at least eight hours since our last meal and most of us were too hungry to be tired. Now it was time to march back across the flight line, past our barracks, and onto a C shift chow hall.


A long time ago back in the afternoon, we were the first squadron to march across the flight line in going to school. But now, at midnight, the order is reversed and we are the last squadron to march back across the flight line. This resulted in the 3381st being the last squadron to be fed, which was bad enough, but wait! It gets worse! Occasionally, the chow hall would run out of food, or to be more exact, the designated meal. For example, every other squadron would dine on roast beef and mashed potatoes but that would be long gone by the time the 3381st showed up at a quarter to one in the morning. The cooks, being basically unimaginative and pissed off to be working that late, would boil potatoes and canned hot dogs for us. To make matters worse we usually had to wait for that.


Well, what started off as an occasional chow hall problem soon became a frequent chow hall problem. We were eating boiled canned hot dogs 2 to 3 days a week. I remember that the hot dogs were a grayish color! Gray! Complaints to the chow hall supervisor and our Squadron Commander fell on deaf ears.


Each day around 10 AM all C shift students would gather for PT or physical training led by our Red Rope. One day, after another canned hot dog dinner, the PT session became a forum for complaints about the food. The complaints grew louder and louder and finally Richardson, in exasperation, asked, “What the hell can I do? We’ve talked to our commander and the chow hall supervisor and it doesn’t seem to matter.” The crowd fell silent for a moment but that was just long enough for one unidentified voice to say, “Let’s go down there this afternoon and wreck that fucking chow hall.”


The C shift students let out a huge cheer of approval as they looked to their Red Rope for guidance. Richardson, the right man for the right time shouted, “Let’s do it!” Now, drunk with power, he whipped the mob into a frenzy. “Assemble at 3 PM for the afternoon meal,” he screamed, “and we’ll go down there and wreck that fucking chow hall!”


3 PM rolled around and we marched down to the chow hall. We entered the building in single file to collect our trays, plates, and silverware on our way to the steam tables. It’s tough for a couple of hundred guys to keep a secret for 5 hours and you could see it in the cook’s faces. They knew something was up and eyed us warily as we shuffled through the serving line. I was with my good friends Greg Bonzer and Chuck Corne, and there were about 20 guys in front of us in the line. Much to our surprise the guys moved through the serving line without incident. There was plenty of tension in the air but so far no one had started anything. Corne picked up a plate, stared at it for a second or two, and then hurled it to the tile floor where it shattered into smithereens. Thanks to Corne the game was now on. Bonzer and I smashed our plates too!



Then we got new plates and headed through the serving line. The cooks, dumbfounded at this display, didn’t know what to do so they did the only thing they knew how to do – they gave us our food. Guys continued to pass through the serving line as the stunned cooks served up more and more food. Meanwhile, the sound of breaking plates could be heard in the background. Soon a full-fledged food fight was on, except everyone was throwing their food at walls, under tables, on top of tables, all over the chairs, etc. In only a few minutes the chow hall was in shambles. Our mission completed, we marched back to our squadron to get ready for school.


With another open rank inspection completed we took our usual position leading the other squadrons across the flight line. We began to march but were soon surrounded by several trucks full of Air Police. They diverted us from the flight line to a nearby grassy area. Our squadron commander was there to greet us and he wasn’t happy. There were several other officers there as well, presumably on hand to get in on the ass-chewing that were about to receive. Our immediate punishment was that there would be no school for us this night. What, this is punishment!? We had to return to our barracks where we were under house arrest! Wow, I thought! I’m under arrest!


The next day we found what else they had in store for us. Richardson, of course, lost his rope. He was about to graduate so I don’t think he gave a damn. As for the rest of us, we were under house arrest for the next 10 days. We could leave the barracks only to attend school and to go to the chow hall, but only under the watchful eye of the police. Once at the chow hall we had to revert to basic training rules where we stood at attention, even through the serving line, and were forbidden to talk. News of our uprising soon spread and as were marched to and from the chow hall under guard, students from neighboring squadrons waved and cheered us from their windows.


With our arrest period was over, we lost our police guard and were now free to speak and move about in the Triangle. We soon discovered that our food rebellion turned us into instant celebrities. Someone in the group came up with this song which we sang lustily on our way to school, and more importantly, to the chow hall.


“Everywhere we go-oh,
People want to know-oh,
Who-o we are,
So-o we tell them,
We are the 81st,
The chow hall bustin’ 81st,
We go to school to read our books,
And all we do is fight with cooks.”



Randoid is a Robbinsense staff writier and a Carpinteria Taler