I would not D.O.R.

The following was originally posted by my dear friend Bryan Stewart on his blog, Flyin’ Bryan. Since Bryan has not posted on his blog since 2005, and only posted a grand total of four or five times to begin with, I have secured permission from him to re-post all of his “good stuff” here, where perhaps the audience will be a bit greater than before. This will be the first of three articles from Bryan’s blog. If you like what you read, leave a comment - he’ll read it when he checks this page.


I drove home from meetings in North Carolina today, and as I did I thought about quitting. No, not quitting; just about those who have quit or ever gave up. It reminded me of a time several years ago when I wanted to quit. The towel was in my hand ready to be thrown. I was in Israel working on a communal farm near Jerusalem. The circumstances are not important now, in fact I hardly remember what they were to be quite honest. What I do remember is a letter my Dad wrote me via e-mail that changed me. After reading his letter I put the towel away and squared my shoulders into my adversity. I am grateful for that letter and his wisdom and I want to produce part of it here for those who have quit, or who are close. This is for you . . .


“HERE IS MY TALE:

It is sometime in the year 1971 and a 21
year old wet behind the ears young man reads a
letter from the draft board that said something like
this:

"Dear Mr. John W Stewart, Jr, Greetings. Your selective
service draft number of 34 qualifies you for
induction in the Armed Services of these United States
and upon completion of your undergraduate studies, you will
be drafted into whichever branch of the services has need
at that time. If you have any questions, please feel free
to contact our office.....etc."

A junior in college with thoughts of going to Vet school
but faced with the specter of war as Viet Nam was still
in full battle with many U.S. casualties requiring fresh
troops. The second letter arrived informing me that I was
to be in New Orleans later in the year for a pre-draft
physical; I passed it. Sometime during the fall semester
at Mississippi State, the US Navy set up a display about
Naval Air and I stopped to chat with the two Lt's who manned
the booth. One thing led to another and I began the battery
of tests to determine my aptitude as a pilot.

It is February, 1972 and I raise my hand in a courthouse
room in Jackson, Mississippi and swear to uphold a
commitment to the United States Navy and enter that same
year after graduation into OCS at Pensacola, Florida.
I remember the odd feeling in the pit of my gut for with
all the glamour there was that same specter of war with the
resultant carnage.

Graduation came in May of that year and I spent the summer
helping lay brick for part of the summer and training
horses the remaining time for a guy in Hattiesburg. The 36th
week of the year I walked through the gates of Mainside and
presented myself for active service at the OCS Indoctrination
building. I was fit and ready to take on the world. The world
exploded in the shape of one mean spirited Marine DI named SSgt
Delaney. I was in my room with 2 other recent college grads and
one Army Sergeant who wanted to fly. I could hear screaming and
cursing as Delaney made his way toward our end of the building.
Bodies were slammed against the wall, others were pushed back
through portals (door ways) and others were doing pushups
beyond their abilities. He went to the room across from
ours and I stared as I saw one young man do 100 pushups
out of pure fear. Delaney looked into our room, cursed
and made his way back down the passage way (hall). He then
proceeded to tell about 40 or so uncertain young men who
were thankfully out of his sight in about 10 rooms what
he would do with us for the next 3-4 months; it was not
pleasant. He said many of us would quit and go back to mama.
He said some might even die and all would wish they had.
He went on with more than I can remember.

I had many thoughts that night, even of quitting for they
said if we wanted to quit all we had to do was say three
little letters -- D O R. That stood for Drop On Request
and when you did, you were quietly and quickly ushered
out the door, given your belongings and your papers home.
I never could spell very well so I opted to not show my
ignorance and get the sequence wrong by saying something
like ORD or ROD! The Army Sergeant said that the training
would be hard but to hang in there for it would be worth it.
I thought he was nuts -- he was not after all. However, I
watched from my window one day as this same Army Sergeant
slowly limped down the street, away from the battalion
toward the office that held his papers -- Delaney had broken
him.

The physics test came back with a failing grade. I was held
back a week in Indoc and had to take the tests over again.
I joined class 37-72 after Indoc and SSgt Perry was our DI.
Our Indoc DI was a little short Marine who had a funny
sounding voice but was tougher than nails. He was tough
until the specter of Viet Nam flooded his mind one too many
times and that toughness ended in the front seat of a
fellow Marine’s borrowed station wagon as he took his own
life. These college grads were beginning to see a side of
life that had been hidden from their view.

Battalion II, class 37-72 and I am one of about 30 other
young men. Some want to fly F-4s, some have bad eye sight
and will settle into the back seats of F-4s or the right
seat of an A-6. All being trained to obey, all being
transformed from college grads to Naval Officers. What are
those initials again? DOR? Yes, and some voiced them to
our Lt. only to find themselves packing their things and
obtaining their papers from that office. Did I feel like
it, yes. Did I, no. I could not quit something
I had started, this was too important to me. I wanted to
fly . . . I wanted to fight if need be . . . I wanted to
patrol the oceans for submarines and gain valuable hours
in the air. I would not DOR.

The philosophy of the DI is this. Treat the men that
will one day lead men in a way that is opposite of
how they should lead. So, if one man in the class broke
a rule then the entire class was punished. If one man
failed inspection, the whole class failed the inspection.
Some want to fly F-4s, some have bad eye sight and will
settle into the back seats of F-4s or the right seat of
an A-6. All being trained to obey, all being transformed
from college grads to Naval Officers. What are those
initials again? DOR? Yes, and some voiced them to our Lt.
only to find themselves packing their things and obtaining
their papers from that office. Did I feel like it, yes.
Did I, no. I could not quit something I had started, this
was too important to me. I wanted to fly . . . I wanted to
fight if need be . . . I wanted to patrol the oceans for
submarines and gain valuable hours in the air. I would not
DOR.

Sea course, obstacle course, latrine duty, guard duty,
study, training, marching, running, screaming, competition,
cursed at by the DI, made to feel that you have no value,
made to wonder if this was reality, doubting your self, not
knowing how to call upon God, not knowing if you would make
it, challenged way past what you had ever done, trying to
remember all of the rules, trying not to break any rule . . .
the list could continue. The fear of failing an exam, the
fear of failing your eye exam, the fear of failing your hearing
exam, the fear of failing your psychology exam, the fear of
not saluting the right way, the fear of your locker and rack
not being in order, the fear of letting down your classmates,
the fear of quitting and the fear of what the next day held.
Some want to fly F-4s, some have bad eye sight and will settle
into the back seats of F-4s or the right seat of an A-6.
All being trained to obey, all being transformed from college
grads to Naval Officers. What are those initials again? DOR?
Yes, and some voiced them to our Lt. only to find themselves
packing their things and obtaining their papers from that
office. Did I feel like it, yes. Did I, no. I could not quit
something I had started, this was too important to me. I wanted
to fly . . . I wanted to fight if need be . . . I wanted to
patrol the oceans for submarines and gain valuable hours in
the air. I would not DOR.

Slowly, we took shape as a class. Slowly we took shape
as individuals. Slowly we made the transformation from
college graduates to officers. Slowly the change came
upon us and we one day realized we would make it and
DOR would not spill from our lips. We had grown through
the struggles . . . the cocoon containing the caterpillar
split open to yield the butterfly . . . but the struggle
was not over - as the butterfly has to struggle to force
the fluids through the veins in its wings, so we had to
struggle a bit more.

The time came when the young men who were to fly where
shipped to Saufley field and the ones who were to navigate
and guide weapons were moved to another barracks on Mainside.
A new set of struggles as the pressure to fail was waived
over our heads for those initials were still valid and could
still be uttered. There were no gold bars on our collars at
this point and DOR would yield us our civilian clothes and
our papers and a trip back home. Some want to fly F-4s,
some have bad eye sight and will settle into the back seats
of F-4s or the right seat of an A-6. All being trained to
obey, all being transformed from college grads to Naval Officers.
What are those initials again? DOR? Yes, and some voiced them
to our Lt. only to find themselves packing their things and
obtaining their papers from that office. Did I feel like it,
yes. Did I, no. I could not quit something I had started,
this was too important to me. I wanted to fly . . . I wanted
to fight if need be . . . I wanted to patrol the oceans
for submarines and gain valuable hours in the air. I would not
DOR.

Those letters seemed to float around the base more for one
by one, young men voiced them and were seen no more.
"Pensacola Pressure Cooker" was what one person described
this place as being -- I agreed. Memorization led to testing,
flights had to be by the book or the book was thrown at you.
The margin of error was slight and many young men stepped
into that margin only to find themselves gathering their
things and receiving their papers for home.

A Navy Captain stood as I turned to face him and receive
my graduation papers and had a single gold bar pinned to
my collar. SSgt Perry stood outside, was the first to
salute me, I returned the salute, shook his hand and
passed a silver dollar to him and thanked him. He turned as
only a Marine can turn and walked away to pick up another class
of college grads who wanted to fly.

Now, what are those letters . . . that is right, you have
forgotten them as well.”