Section 2B - The Command Voice
The Command Voice
by Lawrence Raymer, UNC-Chapel Hill, BSIR,
USAF ROTC Det. 590, 1973
Section 2B—The Command Voice
USAF Manual AFMAN 36-2203. 2.3 Voice Characterics. The way a command is given affects the way the movement is executed. A correctly delivered command is loud and distinct enough for everyone in the element to hear. It is given in a tone, cadence and snap that demand a willing, correct and immediate response. A voice with the right qualities of loudness, projection, distinctness, inflection, and snap enables a commander to obtain effective results as shown below.
At a very young age I learned to love to read and feel the wonder in libraries. In elementary school I saw it as a challenge to read every book in the school library. Later in AFROTC I learned what was written below a statue of an eagle at the Air Force Academy, "A man's flight through life is powered by the strength of his knowledge." I had the great fortune to be born the grandson of John R. Raymer who was a commissioner on the Board of the town Davidson, N. C. from 1932 to 1952. He helped insure that the town had a fine public library. He died in 1964 and in the summer of 1969 the year I was to enroll at UNC Chapel Hill, I was sitting on the floor behind the shelves at the back of the Davidson Public Library searching through the shelves to find a reference book.
"Are you sure that reference book is in this section," I spoke out in a louder than normal library voice, but loud enough to be head at the desk. There was silence. Had I disrupted the complete library with my loud voice? My normal voice is loud, my seeking-to-be-heard across the room voice is even louder. I waited, still nothing but silence. Quietly, I kept looking for the book.
An older man, a library patron, whom I had never met appeared from around the end of the bookshelf. He stood in front of me looking like he had seen if not heard a ghost. His skin was white, his eyes wide open and his voice was uncertain as he said, "If I did not know better I would swear that John R. Raymer was alive and in the back of this library."
"Well, he died in '64, I am his grandson," I said.
"You have his voice," he said.
"I do and sometimes it gets me into trouble," I said.
I enrolled at UNC Chapel Hill, matriculated and went through "Drop-Add" with class selection punch cards trying to get more a compact and convenient schedule—meaning no 07:30 AM classes—at Woolen Gym. These uniform and standardized cards with a perfectly punched set of tiny rectangular holes were not just an analogue means of data entry they were my "ticket to ride" to a "wide open" future full of opportunities. I was not able to drop my 07:30 AM calculus class in Pettigrew Hall for another at a more civilized hour suitable to the late night lifestyle of a college freshman.
The afternoon sun was moving lower on the horizon and flooded the gym with warm rays that I would later learn Faulkner called Light in August. Drop-Add would close in about 30 minutes and I walked over under the windows in the shade and sat down on the gym seats looking at my full five academic course schedule that included, chemistry lab, and since I had played the trombone since the fifth grade, the Marching Tar Heel Band. I sat there. With the thousand yard stare I gazed across the gym. My older brother had been drafted and sent to Vietnam in 1966. Our family filled our 1958 Chevrolet Impala and I was allowed to drive to visit him at basic training at Ft. Bragg. Row after row of WWII two story barracks stood at silent attention just like the platoons of men in front of them. The Army brought a uniform order and discipline and gave a single purpose to men from all walks of life and from every state in the union. My brother accepted his fate of being drafted into the Army, did his duty, returned from Vietnam and was honorably discharged. Having been born and raised on a dairy farm I grew up living and knowing a life of freedom that is not unlike "life on the Mississippi." As a farmer if you understand the power of nature and use it to your advantage you can make a good life for yourself . The rest of the time you are free. No, I was not Tom Sawyer and I knew military order was necessary. I did like the sense of order of it all and could see myself being a part of it, only that unlike my brother, I wanted to choose.
The clock on the wall was ticking down the minutes to the close of "Drop-Add." In December a state Selective Service draft committee member would withdraw cards with the numbered days of the year on them from a tumbling basket and this would set the order that men would be drafted for the following year. No, our fate was not "cast to the wind." it was tumbled in a basket, then, only to be ordered to war. On the bleacher seat row in front of me I placed the class punch cards in order of days hoping that this presentation would help bring some sense of order to my confused and troubled mind. I sat there looking at the neat row of cards seeking some state of resolution to the human condition.
My father had taught me it was always better to active rather than reactive, I thought. I already had 17 hours of classes. Could I make the grade here? Could I keep a GPA high enough to graduate. For the few unlucky men with low draft numbers "funking out" meant an unplanned one way trip to Vietnam.
I chose.
In a calm, nonchalant, laid-back but confident manner of every UNC Chapel Hill freshman I got up and walked across the gym floor to the table where two active duty USAF enlisted men and one officer sat. "I want to join the Corps," I said.
Like cattle judges at a county fair they looked me up and down to try to determine if I had the proper "animal husbandry" to be the "right stuff" for the USAF. They were looking for the "markings" of the warrior class and found only a middle class farm boy from the south. The officer in the middle, a captain, whom I later learned was the Commandant of Cadets, cleared his voice and asked, "do you have or had any other family members in the military?"
I noticed his flat-top buzz cut hair cut, his proper Boston accent and knew this guy wanted straight answers. "My brother just got back from serving in the Army infantry in Vietnam," I replied. It was not the answer he wanted to hear and he looked away at the two others seated at the table .
"Classes meet at eleven on Tuesday with drill on Thursday," he said, in a manner that seemed to hope for a conflict and rid them of another improperly motivated "draft dodging" potential cadet.
Since I had not been able to get my math class changed those times were open on my schedule.
"I have those times open," I said.
The three men looked me over once again, looked at each other and the Captain handed me card to register for the class.
Later on warm afternoon in October, I sat in a class room on the third floor of Sanders Hall in uniform after Thursday drill with all the windows open listening and taking notes on a lecture in Western Civilization class. This was it. This was the "true university experience" I liked it. Sitting in an old academic lecture hall whose very steps had been carved into concave sandstone slabs from the feet of those seeking knowledge and whose walls were covered with ivy, there I was being taught the wisdom of the ages. Yes, this was the "ivy league." Note taking could be an athletic experience I found, active with large bold letters and with a high lighter in my pocket.
The graduate student instructor truly loved history and felt it was his duty now to teach us the lessons of it. He stood in front of us and in his best professorial manner stated, "Socrates said, 'the unexamined life is not worth living.' " He continued, "one of the three phrases carved into the temple at Delphi is 'know thyself.' " He paused allowing us to ponder such sublime yet simple statements.
Using large bold letters I wrote them down in my note book. How could anyone go from day-to-day and not examine their life? You are forced to examine your choices all the time. Here I was sitting in this class wearing a USAF uniform. How is it possible for anyone to not know themselves? Inside yourself who else could you know? These Greek pagans worshiped too many Gods and were confused I thought.
Over the next three years I studied the Drill and Ceremonies manual AFMAN 36-22, and we marched with the Navy on Fetzer Field. The manual was our first real lesson in order and disciple that is the military. Everything is regulated and determined in regulations to establish control and command. We in the Air Force would sometimes bring our non-regulation personal sunglasses and wear them briefly before the first order to "fall-in" was given in an attempt to not be blinded by the Navy wearing their "whites."
The anti-Vietnam war sentiment was high on campus with handouts, posters and small protest meetings all the time. Sometimes during our drill we could her the song lyrics from the Vietnam Song by County Joe and the Fish played from the balcony of Teague dorm.
"And it's one, two three,
What are we fighting for?
Don't ask me, I don't give a damn,
Next stop is Vietnam."
On the first of December of that year the state Selective Service Committees met and drew the draft numbers. I was a three. Over the next eighteen months of the eight men who lived in my freshman suite in Ehringhaus, two would flunk out, both would drafted and both would be killed in Vietnam.
Over the next two years I found what I thought was my place in college and the Corps. Most of the time I was content to follow not wanting to get too farm out on the limb of cadet command. The Commandant of Cadets was determined to make men out of us, to teach us the hard lessons of life in the Air Force and as such Thursday drill was never cancelled for any reason be it rain or sleet or snow. We had the proper uniforms, the rain coats, the plastic covers for the round hats and therefore weather not to our liking was no excuse In fact it was an opportunity to teach us we were the "all weather Air Force."
On one such a Thursday in a cold driving rain we were assembled in flights on the field awaiting orders. The COC would sometimes change squadron commanders. As the intensity and sound of the rain increased he ordered me to be squadron commander. I marched to the front and center in proper military manner with squared corners, stood in front of him, saluted, he returned the salute and ordered, "Take command of the squadron and finish the drill Cadet Captain Raymer." I saluted again, did an about face to face the squadron. I had been a flight leader before but never squadron commander. What was this about? It must be a test I thought. Using my best and strongest command voice I gave orders to the squadron. Even the rain was against me and what was a trickle became a noisy downpour. My voice was heard loud and clear over the rain. The entire squadron, all four flights responded in a precise and immediate manner, to each one of my commands like a well-oiled military machine. We finished our drill and I issued the final order, "dismissed." Everyone ran from the field to get out of the rain. Slowly, I walked back to Ehringhaus thinking about what had just happened. I hope I passed, I thought.
That summer I was sent to eight weeks of AFROTC summer camp at Dover AFB, Delaware. We cleaned our WWII barricks bathroom with tooth brushes, shined our shoes, made our beds to perfection and stood for a white glove inspection every Saturday. We jogged in flight formation before breakfast, went to class and had more class, Physical Training (PT) and drill in the afternoon.
Our flight instructor, a Captain, who was a ROTC Commandant of Cadets and had spent over six years in the Strategic Air Command as a Missile Launch Officer. He was a quiet, small, short, demure man whose hand had once been on the nuclear trigger. One evening after mess I was ordered to report to the his office. This is never good, I thought. So in my best military manner I reported. I knocked, was told to enter, stood at attention, saluted, and was ordered to stand "at ease."
"Cadet Raymer you know that the drill competition for the best flight is coming up and who ever wins gets the great honor of being the Honor Flight, a trophy for the flight instructor and a Saturday night and Sunday pass for the flight," he said.
"Yes sir," I answered thinking what could this possibly have to do with me?
"I have selected you to be our flight commander and drill instructor," he said.
"Yes sir, I hesitated....but sir are you sure you want me, sir? I have never thought of myself as being the drill instructor type. I mean there are others in the flight with more military bearing and that are better suited and they want to be drill instructors as they enjoy giving orders to everyone all the time," I said.
"Cadet Raymer are you questioning my judgement," he asked very annoyed.
"No sir," I said.
"I have watched you. You give them when you have to give them, when you are following orders and when it is clearly the command thing to do. You will take care of your men in the field, the others can be dangerous and may get their men killed with some reckless order," he said. "Besides you do not have to become a one of those drill instructors that stand in their men's faces and yell. That may work in the short term, but it may get you "fragged" in battle. You want to be their leader and inspire them to do their best, that will keep them and you alive," he said. His voice lifted with a strong tone of emotion and experience he added, "besides you do not have to have to be a real drill instructor you simply have to act like one, you can, they will believe it and follow your orders," he said.
"You have the command voice, I am giving you a chance to use it. Now go prepare and take command of the flight tomorrow, I intend for you to win me this competition, understand! That is all," he said.
I came to attention, saluted, did and about face and left his office. Wow, I thought I hope I can do this and not let the Captain down, I thought. Everyone in the barracks wanted to know what the meeting was about. I said, "it was a minor personal matter" and changed the subject.
The next day as we formed up on the parade field I took my position as flight leader and drill instructor. With my best military bearing and command voice I gave the orders to the flight. I stood in front them as a Roman Centurion commanding my Legion. My voice carried over the entire parade ground, over the jet noise of the C-141's and C-5's and everyone in the flight wondered who was this new the new drill instructor? He looked like me but something had changed. The flight followed my orders exactly with a snap and precision unseen on this parade field so far this summer as if we had become a competition drill team over night.
The day of the drill competition the flight executed my orders exactly as we had practiced, following each command in step like the Roman Legion they had become. We won the drill competition, we were the "Honor Flight and I watched with great pride as the Captain received the trophy from the camp commander. In the barracks later we celebrated and the members of the flight told me they knew we would win the moment I took command and "whipped" them into shape.
I graduated went on to be a 1744 Weapons Control Officer for over four years. On a mountain top radar site in South Korea it was my command voice that ran thousands of tactical and air to air missions, guided the Army Dust Off air evacuation helicopters in the middle of the night in the fog to the correct hill top to fly some sick GI to the Eight Army Hospital in Seoul. During a close in, aggressor, dogfight training mission one morning a F-5 flew into a F-4 from below and they both exploded into the Yellow Sea west of Kunsan. I ran the search and rescue mission and did not leave my control console except for one bathroom break until the mission was called off at sunset.
My last assignment was a Tactical Control Squadron located in the basement of the FAA Regional Control Center in Houston. We had been given the mission of tracking drug runners, and Soviet spy ships in the Gulf of Mexico along with normal Air Defense missions. At the end of a "mix master" high to low mission Air Defense mission, the lead pilot of a flight of four F-4's said he recognized my voice had been scrambled out of Kunsan to try to find the lost aircraft and thanked me for my efforts to rescue them.
So, from my experience in the USAF ROTC Detachment 590 I was ordered to "examine my life" and to learn to "know myself." Thus my life was made more meaningful and "worth living."
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Short Story : The Command Voice by Lawrence Raymer
Short StoryShort Story: The Command Voice by Lawrence Raymer , UNC-Chapel Hill, BSIR, USAF ROTC Det. 590, 1973
