By Kenneth L. Hardin

A year or so ago, I exposed a coward who lied about serving in the military. He visited my Veterans Social Center on several occasions spinning tales of combat he never saw, leading troops he never did, reveling in ranks he never earned. For years, he basked in the love he received from the community while attending events on behalf of his employer. After my involvement went viral, I received calls from people locally and as far away as Raleigh asking me if I would look into other cowards who either lied about their service or embellished accounts of their time in uniform. I looked into some but others I opted not to travel down their sordid path of lies. I came to that reasoning because the more I immersed myself in the negative side of someone creating a false reality and fabricating memories, mine were real and I chose to hold them close and enjoy them.

A phrase I learned 40 years ago as a nervous new Armed Forces entrant still runs through my mind today. Whenever I’m faced with an arduous task or having to deal with someone coming at me sideways trying to elicit a heightened emotional response, I hear my drill instructor yelling, “Airman Hardin, get your military bearing!” It took me a while to understand this curious and unfamiliar term because in that sleepy little town I left for the bright lights of Texas, I had never heard that expression. It only took someone getting in your face with snippets of saliva bouncing off your nose and the loud echoes of their words cascading down around your ears as they continually bumped your forehead with their stiff, round, brimmed hat for you to understand the meaning, “Son, you better get some get-right in you real quick now.”

Four decades later, as a full-grown man, I can laugh at that memory and other similar good times. One of the pleasures of being at the Veterans Center is getting to enjoy so many other people’s memories from different military branches and generations. Hearing their memories prompts my mind to pump out scenes from that pivotal period in my life. They’re pushed out through my eyes like an actual movie is playing right in front of me. The initial fear I experienced in basic training, the friendships I developed, my travels and the pain of losing good brothers and sisters manifests as watery thoughts rolling down the front of my face. But, as I do with lying cowards, I chose to focus on the good recollections.

As a 19-year-old kid having never traveled far from where I was conceived and reared to young adulthood, leaving for the military was scary but exciting. My recruiter sold it as a fun getaway, so as I landed at the San Antonio airport, I said to myself,” let the fun shenanigans begin.” I assembled with other newbies like me and awaited our caretakers arrival. Shortly, 2-3 well dressed military men came and cordially and kindly welcomed  us. They escorted us down the long airport corridor to an awaiting Trailways bus. As I looked out of the bus window, I smiled in the comfort of my new journey.

We arrived at Lackland Air Force Base and were hustled on to a less extravagant school bus. The initially friendly gentlemen escorts turned into their new less appealing personas and began barking orders. We were hustled onto the smaller human transport vehicle and told to put our head down between our legs. For what seemed like hours, we were driven around in circles. I later discovered this was done to disorient us in case anyone felt froggy and had the inclination to jump and hop away. I quickly realized my new name was Dorothy and I wasn’t in Salisbury-Kansas anymore. We were hustled down to a huge concrete area and only told to stand there. As I looked across the vastness, I could see hundreds of others just as dazed, confused and lost. After an hour, a mass of clicking heels in uniform tapping in unison on the concrete appeared and began a ritual of the most extreme yelling and taunting. I nearly lost consciousness in all the chaos.

We were separated into our groups and walked to a high-rise dorm structure. Once inside, the yelling increased. Instructions were hurled in loud threatening tones, “You have five minutes to s***, shower, shave and find a bed!” I ran through the mass of bodies slamming into each other as the drill instructors counted down the seconds. When I finally jumped into bed as the countdown concluded, I saw bloody, hastily shaved faces plastered with recognizable fear like mine in so many others.

I pulled the blanket over my head as tears streamed down my face. This was the beginning of six years of memories.

Kenneth L. (Kenny) Hardin  is a member of the National Association of Black Journalists.