Why did I join the US Air Force, instead of waiting for the draft?  Unlike many in the US who chose to run and hide in foreign countries or in colleges across America to avoid the draft, I actually left high school early in 1965 to join up.  The others, well, you remember the news stories about them, the many who ran to Canada and Mexico and to  farther away countries to hide from their responsibilities to their country, men and women who were only seen as deserters by we true patriots in America and by the US Government.  The feeling back then was that their families wished them luck and a longer life wherever they went to hide.  Well, that wasn't me.  I was too proud for that.  You see, I was a born and raised military brat, a young, still high-school-stupid military minded boy who  wanted nothing more or less than an opportunity to defend his country from all those that chose to attempt to change it or control it by force of arms or political manipulation. 

     Why did I join the military instead of waiting for the draft to place me in the service?  I did it in an attempt to have some kind of control over my life, some control over my survival here on earth, at a time when the notion of control was nothing more than a wish and a dream, thanks to the draft and the war in Vietnam.  I joined the Air Force because of the extensive weapons training I'd had every week of my young life, several times a week while I grew up, being instructed by my own father, an NRA recognized match shooter and Pistol and rifle range officer and shooting instructor at Fort Lewis Washington, not to mention everywhere else we had lived during my childhood.  I knew that if I had waited for the draft, that I too would end up dead on some battle field or rice paddy in Vietnam.  I didn't want to be like all the other boys who died in a very short time for that waiting, their being killed fighting as an untrained FNG grunt, while suffering through, 'on the job training', in the mud, a literal do or die education.  
     Sure, just like every other boys I knew and grew up with, I wanted to have a choice about my future, about how long I would or could live.  So, after discussing my options with those who mattered to me back then, I made what I thought was a well thought out decision, one that I thought might save my life in the long run, and still allow me to fulfill my obligations to my country.  I chose, finally, to become an aircraft mechanic in the United States Air Force, to get what I felt was a more secure, a less life threatening Military job than that of a rifleman living what was left of my young life on some front line in Vietnam.  Most of all, President Kennedy had recently been assasinated and Like everyone else who joined the military back then, I wanted what I thought was pay back for that killing, not to mention the fact that I wanted to support my country's miilitary needs, and to fight communism and all that it stood for.  
     I also wanted to do what was expected of me by my family and by my fellow Americans, to be the man I was raised to be by a military father.  I joined too because I wanted to earn an honorable discharge to hang on my wall to prove my bravery to my  family and my children one day.  But mostly, I wanted to prove to my father that I was just as much an American and just as much a man as he was, and maybe even more.  The United States Government promised many benefits to everyone that enlisted or were drafted, full medical, college schooling, guaranteed housing loans, and a lots more back then. 

     Well, I fought that war and survived those who wanted me dead both within the US Air Force, my own superiors, and the enemy as well.  But to what end? 

     In my book I outline some of the terroristic treatment I received at the hands of my commanding officers at Sewart Air Force Base in Tennessee, the place the story of Codename LItefoot began, and my commanding officers at Mactan Air Base in the Philippine islands and at Tan Son Nhut Air Base in Vietnam and beyond.  However, because of my book publishers page length restraints I left much of that terrorism out.  Here I will tell you the some of the rest of the story. 

     After arriving at Sewart Air Force Base, Tennessee, adjacent to Smyrna, just north of Nashville, and after meeting Mr Flynn, or CWO Flynn, my new commanding officer, my lifes directions changed dramatically from a career in the military to an enlistment for training on survival tactics.  Thanks to my new commanding officer, Mr. Flynn,  I was not allowed to be an Air Force, Aircraft Mechanic as trained at the Air Force Technical school at Amarillo Air Force Base, Texas.  I instead, without knowing why, became  a white slave to Flynn.  My day started at o4oo, long before anyone in my barracks was awake.  This allowed me enough time to get dressed and get out of there before I had trouble with those who hounded me at Flynn's order.  It also allowed me to get to the chow hall early, before anyone who might attack me there arrived. That said, my daily jobs while Flynn commanded me, after I cleaned his entire hanger for two months, with a tooth brush that is, were to strip and polish his office floors once a week, wax and polish his office floors every morning before he got there with a large circulating floor polisher, wash and dry, then iron, and hang his uniforms for him, spit shine his boots and lay out his daily fatigues and other uniforms for him to wear each day, right there in his office.  That way he could arrive to work still drunk and wearing what he'd worn the night before, like a slob.  Lastly, I had to raise his office window blinds, and then wash his windows that overlooked the floor of the hanger below.   

     When I got done with those morning jobs, my next job was to count the items, (Parts), sent to his hanger for the repair of aircraft that were there for repair.  These parts were already accounted for by lot count and item count when they arrived and were signed for.  It was my job to break those bags down and count every piece, sometimes thousands of each one, and then sign for them.  After that, still being singled out by Flynn, I had to sweep the parking lot and entry to his hanger, make coffee and take it to him in his office and then clean the bathroom, the toilets and the urinals.  That was just the beginning of my day and those jobs lasted until about ten AM.  Once done with all that it was my job to clean up Flynn's dogs droppings and urine puddles inside the hanger where he walked him every morning, and then pick up his dogs droppings outside the walls of that hanger with my bare hands, no gloves or tools allowed.  Once that was done, after I washed the dogs droppings off my hands, I was sent to the group commanders office, the head shed, so to speak, where the first sergeant sent me to do other tasks, like painting other peoples barracks, cleaning their bathrooms toilets and urinals, washing their windows, sweeping other peoples parking areas behind their barracks, and to do what other men just did not want to do or have the time to do themselves.  This was my punishment for telling Mr. Flynn that his uniform was dirty and that I had been sent to the wrong place to work on an aircraft I was not trained to work on my first day at his hanger.  I had after all been trained on Bombers not the C-130 Hercules.  Seemed like a no-brain'r to me. 

      Of course after all that work it was lunch time; but for me eating lunch was a risk..  Every time I tried it I was attacked by Flynn's henchmen, men he'd sent after me, men who knocked the food on my tray out of my hands and onto the floor for me to clean up and or eat.  On most days, after those trials, I checked my mail before I had to go back to the Commanders office for my afternoons orders.  On many occasions while checking my mail I would be physically attacked by two or three men, from behind mostly.  It didn't take me long to learn how to survive, and how to fight, to survive.  The rest of my day and evening during the week was spent on learning everything about working as a mechanic on the C-130 Hercules cargo aircraft, not bombers as promised.  Then, at the end of the day, it was another dare you too eat here dining experience at the chow halls, because all too often those dinners were pushed to the floor as well.  Having gone through all that every day, I pretty much hid at the base bowling alley for the rest of the  early evening.  Unless, of course, I had other duties to perform after dinner, at a time when most men went home or to their barracks to relax, to take a well desereved shower and maybe watch some relaxing black and white television.  But not for me, no television for me, not without reprisals and maybe a mental bashing or beating or two before bed.  At least I was a awake for all those attacks.  Sometimes I had to walk all the way to the other end of the base to the hospital for treatment  to hide from it all to get some rest.  Nighttime, for me, was also a nightmare, to say the least.  I never knew if or when I would actually be attacked by those I lived with.  Sometimes I would hear others being attacked while they slept, a blanket being thrown over them so they couldn't escape their attackers, while many others hit the recipients with bars of soap or rocks rolled up into towels while they fought to get free.  After going through it myself I feared those attacks more than anything else.  Talk about feeling like a rat in a trap!  For me, It all began the same way, I would be lying in my bunk studying or trying to get some rest when suddenly from across the hall  or just outside my rooms  free standing wall along the hall I would hear someone yell out; "I want to kick Boyd's ass."  Then another man would say things like; "C'mon man, not tonight!  Aren't you tired of that shit by now?" Then the other man would say; "fuck no, I'm not!  C'mon  man, I want to fuck that little prick up so bad, I just want to kick his ass and fuck up his face just a little bit," and so on.  This terrorism went on for hours and hours every night.  That, or a glass or pale of water would be thrown over the walls that divided us into small groups, which soaked me and my bed for the night.  On those nights I usually slept on the floor.  I had to wait nervously in my area, afraid to leave for fear of being attacked in the parking lot by the barracks gang, something that had already happened on more than one occasion to others.  This went on all night or until they got tired of mentally torturing me, or I had to wait until they left the building or went to sleep themselves before I got any rest.  Most nights I just lay shaking in my bunk, shivering with the adrenalin that ran through my veins, fearful that at any moment I would be attacked, and always by more than one man at a time, and more often than not by three. Unbenounced to me, as I would learn later on in life, I was being changed both mentally and physically, hardened to everyone around me by those who knew what they were doing, my commanding officers and their subordinate NCO's and e-grade slaves. 

     This went on for almost a year before I finally wrote my Congressman a 12 page listing of events.   In that letter I named names, dates, times, places and more.  In reply my Congressman wrote a letter to my commanding officer that instructed him to stop the bad treatment, or else.  Sadly, however, the bad treatment never actually stopped, in fact, it actually got worse after my commanding officers found out about the letter.  I mean, I had then caused trouble for my  immediate commanding officer and for my squadron Commander as well.  According to them, I had placed a blemish on their records for all to see and they hated me for it.  There seemed to be no justice and nowhere to hide from the torment and the torture after that.  No matter where I went, no matter what I did, no matter where I tried to sleep, I just couldn't get away from it after that.  My commanding officers saw to it that I was harassed at every moment of the day.  What was so bad about that was that I  was stuck with no place to go to get away from any of it.  After my commanding officers found out about the letter, I was immediately threatened by Flynn and then by my Squadron Commanding officer, both of them telling me that if ran away or if I didn't do everything I was ordered to do I could and probably would be thrown into jail, dishonorably discharged, and more.  I was threatened with the fact that I could and very likely would be shown as being AWOL, and then given article fifteen's and even put into Federal prison, if I didn't do exactly what I was ordered to do.  Well, I guess they thought that I had been put into my place.  Or had I been?  At that point I had learned to stand my ground and fight back, so to speak by defying them.   

     Yeah, they had me right where they wanted me, those criminals who called themselves officers, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about any of it, especially since the Squadron Commander was in on it all.  Not just one squadron commander but, after that day, I fell prey to every man that ever had control of me while I stayed in the US Air Force, every mothers son of them.  This simply means that if you join the US Military you'd better do everything you are told to do no matter what it is, even if it is torturous and demeaning, or else...

     Yes, I broke the so-called faith between men, as it were, when I wrote my Congressman about all the bad treatment I was undergoing, but those dishonorable officers deserved that and a lot more.  I was, after all, placed into a position of self preservation, in defenses of my own life, by criminals who wore a higher rank than I.  They were the one's that broke the faith and the trust of the men they commanded first.  I also broke the so called faith when I wrote my novel, Codename Litefoot.  Oh well... Shit happens...  I don't see that I had a choice about that either because I sure as hell wasn't going to let the men that terrorized and tortured me all those years  while I served my country get away with it.  Therefore, I used my novel as a vehicle, as it were, to tell my story, the true story about some of the sadistic officers that rule their own little empires within the US Military and destroy other mens lives in the process.  Well, it was time to tell the truth and to try to protect those who might be effected today if they joined the US Military by my not saying anything.  People in America need to know about the Flynn's in the US Military.  They also need to know what they can do about it.  That is what this website is all about.  EDUCATING THE MASSES in the US, my brother and sister Americans.  To that end I wrote the book, not primarily for the men and women who serve or have served their country but for the masses, the many who for one reason or another do not know about military life and or the rules of combat.  Therefore, the book was written, for security reasons, out of syntax in some cases, in such a way so as to allow the average reader, those without a complete military education, an understanding of what actually happened, why it happened, who caused those happenings to occur and what the ramifications of those happenings were to me, the author.   

      Because of the continuous torturous treatment I endured while I served my country I have  survived forty + years, after I got out of the service, suffering with what today is known as PTSD, (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder).  I suffer much the same way that anyone who had been captured and torturred by the enemy and placed into POW camps, suffers. 

     In all the time that has passed, over 40 years now, since I got out of the United States Air Force, in late 1968, my government and its associated Veterans Hospitals and Veterans Administration, have protected the images of all Military officers to protect the few and have also refused to recognize my suffrages with PTSD, although they have treated me for it all these years.  Because I acquied PTSD while I served in the Military, my suffrages with PTSD is termed a service-connected disability.  Service connected means; That what happened to me occured while I served my country.  A disorder can be; A Mental and or Physical disorder caused by something that happened to a person while they served their country, while serving in the US Military.  (SERVICE CONNECTED) 

     Today I still suffer with PTSD and its associated migraine headaches, panic attacks, rage and anger management issues, nightmares, flashbacks, unemployability, skin disorders, and related nervous conditions.  It was only after failing to receive compensation for my service connected ailments, that I wrote the story, my story, 'Codename Litefoot'.  I figured that since the US Government didn't want to pay me for my suffrages and my unemployability issues that I would write the book, tell the world the truth, and gain an income, whatever that might be, from that instead. Well, that writing took only 6 1/2 years of my life while atending PTSD clinics at VA hospitals.  As a matter of fact, the book, in part, is dedicated to my counselor at the American Lake Veterans Hospital in Lakewood Washington for his help in getting me to write things down, Mr. Brad Smith.    

     Certainly not all of our Military hero's suffer with PTSD based on how they were treated or mistreated and or betrayed by their superiors, (COMMANDING OFFICERS and NCO's) while they served their country.  However, many do still suffer with PTSD, caused by something that happened to them while they served, and, it is my belief that many if not most of them are denied compensation for their sufferings by our government to show less of an impact on our economy for their support and to save face. 

'To hide what is actually going on with most of our Veterans and to show less of an impact on the American tax dollar.' 

     I say most because, in their efforts to hide what our government is doing to or not doing for our Veterans, some fortunate people, some men and women who have served our country, the ones the US Government wants to show in the media that they are giving at least some support to the ones who are well placed in society or who have the right relatives, the connected ones, do receive some disability for having PTSD.  But it appears that those few must be properly politically connected to get it, or know someone who is.  It all seems to be a part of some kind of game people play in Washington DC, the game where our government shows you one thing and does quite another behind locked doors, that kind of thing. 

     To me, as an American citizen, A Veteran, a man who gave himself and his future up to the fight and lay his life on the line for the freedoms all Americans  enjoy every day, this is not acceptable.  Therefore, this website is being presented in the hopes of gaining support for those who do not receive compensation for their service connected disabilities both physical and or mental, acquired while they served their country, no matter how they served, no matter where they served, or how long they served.  I say this because our government did not place those stipulations on what they told Americans when we were asked to serve.  These things, after all, were what all American men and women were promised when they were drafted or when they enlisted and signed up to fight for their country.  PROMISES THAT WERE MADE!  NOT KEPT!

     All of them, our Veterans, deserve their countries assistance and support in the areas of income loss due to Unemployability, Medical coverage, Dental coverage, Housing, Schooling, On-The-Job-Training, and more for their having fought for their country.  After all, A promise is a promise, and since the US Government promised to have all this support available to its Veterans when we joined the service back in the 60's it should shoulder the responsibility and pay American men and women who have served their country for their suffrages, myself included, combat related or not, for any injury or illness acquired while they served. THIS INCLUDES PTSD...

     Additional causations: I went through every PTSD program the US Veterans Admnistration Hospitals have, all across America, and am listed at those hospitals as suffering with PTSD.  But I still can't seem to get any benefits for having PTSD or for having to deal with the service caused problems in my life.  WHY NOT? 
     As I said, at my PTSD counselors suggestion at the American Lake Veterans Hospital in Lakewood, Washington, I began to write things down about what all happened to me while I served my country.  In the beginning, I wrote things down on bits of paper and then as time passed on full sheets of paper, always hiding them from onlookers and the curious.  Finally after an extended period after I finished my treatment at the PTSD clinic I began placing all those writings into order on a borrowed computer.   Over the course of six and a half years, all of  those writings, ended up being compiled into what today is my novel; Codename Litefoot.  This book was initially 1172 pages in length but today has been shortened to 742 pages.  On the clinical side, according to my counselor, the purpose of those writings was to assist me in my efforts at letting things go, so to speak, to allow me to better deal with my PTSD sufferings, my flashbacks, night sweats, migraine headaches, panic attacks, and the rest.  Based on the fact that, since, according to my counselor, everything I had done while I served my country was now declassified, I was free to do so, write it all down. 

     Well, I can tell you the writing went slowly at first.  As I said, it took me six and a half years while sitting, sweating, and crying through memories and flashbacks in front of a  typewriter and then a Dos and then Windows OS computer, day and night, to get it all done. During that time I went back to school and took classes on computers to assist myself in getting a job, but it ended up that I couldn't go to work because of my suffrages with PTSD.  I had been mentally tortured so much that I found that I couldn't work for anyone else.  I even tried self employment but failed at that as well because I still had to deal with what I felt were ass holes, people I couldn't trust and people who abused me in one way or another. 

     After I learned how to use the computer, I must say that the writing of the novel was easier, to a degree.  As I wrote it over and over again, editing it time and again until it was right, the nightmares of the beatings I'd withstood lessoned, the flashbacks of being betrayed by those I should have been able to trust in the military lessoned,  and all of the things that molded my life into a distrustful nightmare lessoned to a degree.  But still, I was stuck with who I had become and with what my life would be from those moments of torture and betrayal on, a life of distrust and alienation formed and controlled by PTSD, an illness that I have found can, unfortunately, never be conquered completely, only dealt with and understood. 

     Why?  Why can't PTSD be conquered?  Well, in my now educated opinion, when a person is taught something through torture or learns anything through harassment or they see or hear, feel or smell, anything in their lives that reminds them of those tortures, they remember it, or most of it anyway.  Immediately!  Without wanting to.  And if that thing they remember, was a traumatic thing, they'll never forget it; not any of it.  That is just how the human mind works.  Because of this fact, when those who suffer with PTSD see, hear, smell, touch, taste or think about those things, all the bad things they have been forced to live through flood the mind once again, uncontrolably.  That door, the door they really have no control over, the one those bad things are carefully hidden behind, opens very easily.  No, once perceived, by any human mind, criminal things that have been perpetrated against a person, cannot be forgotten or forgiven for that matter. Look at it like this.  What is 2 plus 2?  4, right?  Yes, it is.  It is because we were taught as children to believe that 2 plus 2 equals 4.  You were taught it, so you believe it.  Now, lets say you see a killing right in front of your house by a neighbor.  You know the neighbor and have spoken to him or her for years.  Because of your encounters with this person you believe that the person is a non-drinker,  is a non-smoking and law abiding individual..  Now you feel betrayed because you thought the person was different.  The lesson here is simple; If you see it for yourself it is not easy to believe that it didn't happen just as you saw it; so you believe in what you think. A person who suffers with PTSD suffers with the memory of something that he saw or lived through and cannot forget, something he cannot change in his mind because he saw it and believes every bit of what he saw or lived through.   Belief is a very strong motivator in anyones mind, including yours.  Like arithmetic, what he or she was taught in school, he or she believes what he or she has learned that caused his or her memory.  Seeing is believing and believing in something cannot be changed, not in the human mind.  This is what makes suffering with PTSD so damaging to the person who suffers with it. 

What have I done about having PTSD? Everything humanly possible.