On May 10, 1963, I got into a plane at the Philadelphia International Airport to travel to San Antonio, Texas. There, I began basic training at Lackland Air Force Base. I knew it would be physically tough, and it was. For example, we were dragged out of bed daily at about 4:30 or 5 a.m., after which we would do calisthenics and then run a mile or two in 90-plus-degree weather.

What was worse than the weather was having our drill instructor, Sgt. Jones (not his real name), scream in your face calling you vile names, often including female body parts. I understood the point of this macho behavior (I think), was to unite a group of diverse, undisciplined young men of every race, religion, educational, economic, and geographic background around the only thing we all had in common: hatred of the drill instructor.

I suppose if we all went to war, we could mentally transfer this hatred to the “enemy.” It seemed silly to me then and still does now. But the truly loathsome part was the racist and antisemitic slurs by Jones, who came from Virginia. One morning, a Jewish recruit in the troop from New York, who was chubby and out of shape, collapsed while running in the sweltering heat. Jones screamed at him to get up, using the most vile antisemitic and sexist insults, and then began kicking him. The recruit was eventually taken to the infirmary. We were told his parents, with the help of a congressman, got him discharged from the Air Force. We never saw him again.

After four weeks of hell, Jones was replaced by Sgt. Matthews (his real name), who was the opposite of his predecessor. He was tough but fair and civilized. He treated everyone with respect, did not insult anyone, or use crass language. We all held him in high regard. He was what I expected from a professional military man. That he was a World War II veteran probably was a factor in his disdain for stupidity.

The other incident I will never forget from my time in the Air Force Reserve happened after we finished basic training and went on to our next duty assignments. I boarded a train traveling through Texas, Louisiana, and Mississippi to Montgomery, Alabama, where I was trained as a medic at Gunter Air Force Base. Again, everyone was decent and professional, leading me to believe Jones was an anomaly with his own psychological problems.

We were confined to the base until one day when we were told we could go into town, but had to wear our uniforms. “We want people in Montgomery, Alabama, to know that we are not here to cause problems or be political,” an officer said. “We are here to serve our country.”

Four of us had become friends and were excited to sample civilian life after three months of regiment in which every minute of every day was scripted by others. We put on our uniforms and went into town. After some sightseeing, we stopped at a nondescript luncheonette, sat in a booth, and perused the menu.

A waitress arrived at our table, and when we ordered, she said, “I’m sorry, but I can only serve three of you in here. The other guy will have to take his sandwich and eat it outside.” The “other guy” was a terrific, funny guy from New Orleans who also happened to be African American.

When we protested that we were clearly in the military, had no political agenda, and merely wanted to eat our sandwiches and leave, she said, “I know you guys are not from around here, but you are now in Alabama, and that’s the way things are done around here and always have been. I don’t think it’s right, but I just work here.”

We ordered sandwiches and took them to a nearby park, where we ate together on a bench. I should point out that one year later, in July 1964, the U.S. Congress passed the Civil Rights Act, a landmark piece of legislation that outlawed discrimination in all 50 states based on race, religion, gender or country of national origin in all places of public accommodation (restaurants, hotels, etc.), federally assisted programs, and employment.

I am very sorry to say that I learned two-and-a-half years later that the friendly, funny New Orleans native who was not allowed to eat a sandwich in a luncheonette in Montgomery, Alabama, was killed in Vietnam. That made no sense to me then and still doesn’t. He went halfway around the world to kill and be killed by people who never discriminated against him because of his race.

Len Lear can be reached at LenLear@chestnuthilllocal.com.