Studios were built all over the world. War zones got the latest equipment and the most talent. Being in Armed Forces Radio and Television was a great way to fight a war.
In most remote areas, the AFRTS signal was all that was available, and the audience was always grateful for the tv shows that were 2 – 3 weeks old (kinescoped or – later – taped), and the radio shows, some of which were transcribed by talent back in the States.
Working with AFTRS was “something completely different.” Most of us were serving our country, not out of desire but out of obligation. And, yes, there was a lot of bitterness too, because while we were tapped to “serve our country,” many of our peers were back in the states moving up to great radio positions in major large and markets, often filling jobs vacated by those who were overseas. But we didn’t have that option.
Before they established a lottery, the draft was grabbing just about every warm body, including some who were given the option of military service or jail. And the military was never the bastion of efficiency when it came to assigning its people to career fields.
So it came as no surprise that I, with three years’ experience in commercial radio, was made a ground radio operator and told I didn’t qualify for AFRTS. I did what any angry, young man would do. I called my Congressman.
The next day I was summoned out of basic training and told to report to this young lieutenant in Personnel. “Young man,” he said, “I don’t know who you know, but he must sit at the right hand of God. You’ve just been reassigned to broadcasting.”
Thus began my adventure, going to tech school to learn how to cue up records, run a board, and record messages on carts – things I’d been doing while I was working my way through college. Met some good folks there, as well as a few who had no business in broadcasting. Then it was off to Southeast Asia.
I remember processing in, then taking the bus to our hootch, which was elevated off the ground about 18 inches for the cobras couldn’t slither in. The outside walls were screens and the roof was tin. The latrine several steps from the building, was cinderblock and the headless showers had one temperature.
Then it was off to the place of work, the AFRTS studio, a drab building with a bunker in the back. Still, I was glad to be there instead of in some jungle calling in air strikes. I was given a quick tour of the place, officially welcomed by the lifer in charge, and he showed me the weapons cabinet in the record library where we were supposed to grab firearms to defend ourselves.
This seemed odd. We were in the center of the huge military complex. Any ground attack would have a difficult time reaching us. He agreed, but he told me we were required to have the weapons.
When I pressed him on the subject, he rolled his eyes a bit and explained, “Any time the enemy attacks, the first target will be communications. If you’re on the air, that’s you.”
I’m one of the lucky ones – no scars (physical or emotional). Bitterness wanes over time. Life goes on, thank goodness.
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