Sights around Kuwait


Here are some different things you can see around Kuwait.

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Kuwaiti Puma


At Ali Al Salem air base in Kuwait I happened to see a couple Kuwaiti Puma aircraft. Here are a couple photos.

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Shooting the Big Gun


This is what a 50 caliber Baret looks like and this is what it looks like when you are aiming at a bad guy through a scope. These photos were taken at Ali Al Salem air base in Kuwait.

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Ali Al Salem Tent City


While deployed to Ali Al Salem air base in Kuwait I was afforded the wonderful opportunity to go camping in the desert 39 miles away from the Iraqi boarder. The United States Air Force was ever so kind as to setup tents with air conditioning. It was so hot in the desert that if you wanted to feel any of the air conditioning you needed to tape water bottle together to point the air at you. One of the worst days I can remember was 130 degrees at 9 o’clock in the morning. Whenever there was a windstorm you could count on not getting any sleep that night. It was also nice shaking sand, dirt, and the occasion scorpion or camel spider out of your boots as well. Here are some photos of what tent city was like both inside the tents and on the outside. Sometimes between the tents people would build a common area between the tents so people could play cards or read a book.

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Reenlistment Ceremony


While at Ali Al Salem air base I reenlisted in the Air Force. Here are some photos of the reenlistment ceremony in front of “The Rock.”

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Air Force Predator Aircraft


During my time at Ali Al Salem air base in Kuwait it was common occurrence to see the Air Force Predator aircraft. This plane is pretty cool because it is an unmanned aircraft and has virtually a lawnmower engine to power it.


There was a lot of debate between different types of pilots about if the Predator pilots should actually be considered pilots because they sit on the ground and are in no imminent danger if something should fail on the aircraft. They have no threat to life or limb if they do something wrong with the aircraft. It is much like playing a video game.

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Hardened Aircraft Shelter at Ali Al Salem


Here are some photos of the hardened aircraft shelter’s (HAS) at Ali Al Salem air base in Kuwait. The story behind the HAS was that they were built by the French and they were designed with 10 foot reinforced concrete. Apparently the French who built them for the Kuwaiti’s sold them as being bomb proof. When Iraq invaded Kuwait they took over these facilities and then during Operation Desert Storm the United States came in and bombed the heck out of them. I heard the Kuwaiti’s sued the French for the HAS not being bomb proof like they were sold as.

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Demotivational Posters

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Welcome to Ali Al Salem Air Base, Kuwait


After 34 hours of flight travel I finally arrived at Ali Al Salem Air Base in Kuwait. This base was 39 miles from the Iraqi boarder. Here are a few photos of C-130 aircraft with a photo of the base out of the back of a C-130.  Just a few of the things I saw while I was there.

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Okinawa Dragon Boat Race


Went to watch the dragon boat races at Tomarin in Okinawa. This was a pretty neat event. There were teams with Okinawan people from different places and there were also teams from different military bases in Okinawa. It seemed as though they were building friendships through friendly competition while experiencing some of the Okinawan culture.

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Metallica Club Magazine SO WHAT! Volume 5 Issue 4


Click here or the image to download the full Metallica Club Magazine SO WHAT! Volume 5 Issue 4. Happy Reading.

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Soaring Shadows and Screaming Thunder: The Story of Fighter Jets

There’s something awe-inspiring about the sight of a fighter jet up close. The roar of engines, the sleek lines that seem sculpted for speed, the feeling of raw power wrapped in metal and advanced engineering — all of it combines to create a sense of wonder, intimidation, and admiration. For many, fighter jets are not only machines of war but symbols of human ambition and ingenuity, proof that mankind is willing to push technology to the very edge of what’s possible in order to dominate the skies. I remember two moments in particular that captured this spirit. The first was a photograph of an Air Force F-117 stealth fighter, taken during an aerial refueling. The perspective, looking out the back of a KC-135 tanker, shows the Nighthawk’s sharp, angular body — a machine designed not for beauty but for invisibility. Its black skin swallows the sunlight as it connects with the boom, a surreal ballet performed miles above the earth where any mistake could mean disaster. The second moment was far more grounded, but no less striking. At Kadena Air Base in Okinawa, Japan, I stood among families and festivalgoers at the annual “Friendship Festival.” There on the tarmac was a Navy F-18 Hornet, gleaming in the sun as children climbed onto their parents’ shoulders to get a better view. Static displays may not have the adrenaline of an in-flight performance, but they offer something just as valuable: the chance for ordinary people to stand a few feet away from the aircraft that define modern air combat, to marvel at their size, precision, and presence. These two images — one in the air, one on the ground — reflect the dual nature of fighter jets. They are machines of war, sharpened to lethal efficiency, but they are also ambassadors of technology, culture, and power. To understand fighter jets is to look at history, innovation, and humanity itself.

Fighter jets didn’t spring into existence fully formed. They are the descendants of the first fragile biplanes of World War I, where pilots strapped machine guns to wooden frames covered in canvas. Back then, the “knights of the sky” engaged in dogfights that were as much about daring as they were about strategy. Technology was primitive, but the concept was clear: controlling the skies meant controlling the battlefield. After World War II, with the introduction of the jet engine, everything changed. Aircraft that once maxed out at 300 mph could now surpass 600 mph, and within a decade, they were breaking the sound barrier. The world had entered the jet age, and the definition of what a fighter could do had to be rewritten. The Cold War supercharged fighter jet development. The United States and the Soviet Union poured billions into building aircraft that could out-fly, out-fight, and out-last one another. The F-86 Sabre and MiG-15 clashed over Korea, showcasing the first large-scale jet-to-jet dogfights. Later, the F-4 Phantom II and MiG-21 defined Vietnam’s aerial battles. Each encounter was a test not only of pilot skill but of the technological edge held by their nations.

Out of this competition came advances in radar, missiles, and stealth. The U.S. bet heavily on electronics and avionics, creating aircraft that were not just faster but smarter. The Soviets, meanwhile, emphasized ruggedness and maneuverability. This divergence created iconic aircraft on both sides — from the American F-14 Tomcat and F-15 Eagle to the Soviet Su-27 Flanker and MiG-29 Fulcrum. When the F-117 Nighthawk appeared in the 1980s, it looked like something out of science fiction. All flat panels and jagged edges, it wasn’t built to look sleek but to scatter radar waves. The idea was revolutionary: make the jet hard to see, and you control the fight before it even begins. The Nighthawk proved itself in combat during the Gulf War, slipping through defenses to strike targets with precision. Though retired now, it marked the beginning of a new era. Stealth became the standard, leading to aircraft like the F-22 Raptor and F-35 Lightning II — jets designed to dominate not only through speed and firepower but by vanishing into the electronic fog of modern warfare.

One of the often-overlooked aspects of fighter operations is aerial refueling. Without it, even the most advanced fighter is tethered to its home base. The photo of the F-117 connecting with a KC-135 is a reminder that every sortie depends on a network of support. Refueling is an art form — precise, dangerous, and essential. It’s easy to romanticize the lone fighter soaring through the skies, but the truth is no jet operates alone. Tankers, AWACS, and maintenance crews form the backbone of airpower. The jet may get the glory, but it’s the system around it that makes the mission possible. Despite all the technology, fighter jets are only as good as the pilots who fly them. These men and women endure grueling training, learning not only to master complex systems but to handle the physical punishment of high-G maneuvers. At nine times the force of gravity, even breathing becomes a challenge. Pilots often describe their first solo supersonic flight as life-changing. The world blurs, the cockpit shakes, and for a moment they are riding on the edge of human capability. It’s no wonder fighter pilots hold a special place in both military and popular culture.

Movies like Top Gun aren’t just entertainment — they’re reflections of the awe that society feels toward those who strap themselves into jets that can climb like rockets and turn tighter than the human body was ever meant to endure. Beyond the battlefield, fighter jets serve as powerful symbols. When a formation screams overhead during a national holiday or an airshow, it’s not just about entertainment. It’s a statement of pride, strength, and identity. Nations invest in these displays because they know the sight of a jet pulling a vertical climb or breaking the sound barrier leaves an impression no speech could match. The F-18 at Kadena’s Friendship Festival wasn’t just a machine on display. It was a reminder of the alliance between the U.S. and Japan, a symbol of trust, and an opportunity for ordinary people to connect with extraordinary technology. Children pointing at the jet with wide eyes aren’t thinking about geopolitics — they’re dreaming about possibility.

As technology marches forward, the fighter jet continues to evolve. The F-35 represents the current cutting edge: stealth, advanced sensors, and data fusion that turns the pilot into more of a conductor than a trigger-puller. Drones are entering the picture too, raising questions about whether the age of the human fighter pilot might one day end. Yet even as automation grows, the fighter jet remains a symbol that resonates. It represents daring, speed, and the eternal desire to dominate the skies. Whether piloted by humans or controlled remotely, fighter aircraft will continue to define the boundaries of military and technological power.

From the fragile wood-and-canvas biplanes of World War I to the stealthy, sensor-laden jets of today, the evolution of fighter aircraft tells the story of humanity’s quest to push boundaries. They embody both the destructive power of war and the inspirational power of innovation. For me, the memory of the F-117 refueling high above the earth and the F-18 gleaming at Kadena’s Friendship Festival encapsulates this duality. One image speaks of secrecy, power, and precision; the other of openness, community, and wonder. Together, they remind us that fighter jets are more than machines — they are experiences, symbols, and stories written across the sky.

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Metallica Club Magazine SO WHAT! Volume 5 Issue 2


I was cleaning out my garage and I found a box with some old Metallica Club Magazines in it. So I decided to scan them and add them to the website so that I don’t have to carry these magazines around with me forever. This is Volume 5 Issue 2. I think I actually held on this magazine because I went to the Metallica concert at the Budokan arena in Tokyo, Japan on May 8th. Because I was a fan club member I got backstage and got to meet Jason Newsted.

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18th Communications Squadron Flag Football


18th Communications Squadron from Kadena Air Base playing flag football against Marines on Camp Hansen in Okinawa, Japan.

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Jason Newsted (Former Metallica Bassist) the Unknown Story

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In 1998 I was in Okinawa, Japan when I received my Metallica fan club magazine which informed me of the bands upcoming tour. It was actually happening, Metallica was coming to Japan. I knew immediately I had to get tickets. So I checked with the Metallica club to see if I could get tickets through them for their Tokyo show. Unfortunately they weren’t sending tickets to fan club members overseas. So I did the next best thing, I went to a ticket office in Okinawa and purchased tickets. Next I had to get time off work and buy plane tickets to go to Tokyo from Okinawa. Once I got that squared away, then I just had to wait for the time to arrive.’, ‘The time finally came, I left for Tokyo on May 5th, 1998. Upon arriving at Narita airport I had to make my way to Ginza where I was staying. I went to the hotel and checked in. Dropped my bags off and took a shower. I decided to relax the first day because on the 6th is when I was going to the concert at the Tokyo dome in Budokan. I had purchased an extra ticket because I had a Japanese friend who wanted to go to the concert with me. So I went out to meet him and give him his ticket. When I met him in Shinjuku he had some troubling news. Because he was in a band called Janus and they were part of the X-Japan family. The lead singer from the band X-Japan had died and he had to attend his funeral, so he wasn’t able to make it to the concert. So I had this extra ticket and I didn’t know anybody else to give it to.

The following day I wore my Metallica fan club t-shirt and was pumped and ready for the concert. During the train ride I decided it would be best for me to try to sell my extra ticket outside the stadium. I stood around for a little while and nobody wanted to buy my extra ticket. Since I didn’t want to wait any longer I decided that it was a lost cause trying to sell it. So I decided to just go into the concert. As I was walking around the stadium to find the entrance there was a bouncer standing outside. He saw my t-shirt and asked me if I was a Metallica fan club member. I told him I was, then he told me that if I came back the following day I would be able to get backstage to meet the band. I thought this was some pretty cool news so it made me more pumped to go in and see the concert. Once I was in the stadium I was anxious for the concert to start. It was unbelievable, I was half way around the world from where I had seen my first Metallica concert in Ionia, Michigan, and I was about to see Metallica live again. Fifteen minutes into the concert I had already lost my voice from yelling as loud as I could. The concert went on and it was a kick ass show. After the show I took the train back to Ginza voiceless and wore out from attending an awesome performance.

The following day I went back to Budokan to see about getting backstage to meet the band. I walked around talking to some staff who pointed me in the right direction to get in line. Since I was so early I decided to buy some pamphlets to get autographed by the band. Then I found the line and I was the 2nd person in line waiting to get backstage. I started talking to Japanese guy in line in front of me and he was from near Osaka. He then asked me since I came from so far away that if I wanted to be first in line. I said, “Hell yeah” and he let me go in front of him. While waiting to go backstage Niclas Swanlund (writer for the Metallica fan club magazine) came out and told us what was going on. He told us that because the band was conducting interviews with local radio stations and TV stations, only Jason Newsted would be coming out to meet us. I must admit, I was a little disappointed because I was looking forward to meeting James Hetfield, the lead singer. Niclas Swanlund went on to tell us that Jason doesn’t like flashes from cameras. So if we had a camera we needed to cover the flash. Since all I had was a $10 disposable camera this was no big deal I would just cover the flash with my finger.

They escorted the line backstage where we waited for Jason to come out. When Jason finally came out I was surprised to see that me standing 6 foot 1 inch was taller than short little Jason who was only 5 feet 10 inches tall. As he walked out I snapped a picture with my finger over the flash as he walked up to me. When he got to me I gave him my pamphlets for him to sign and I told him that I was from Michigan too. He said, “Oh yeah, where about?” I told him I was from Saranac and before I said anything else, he said, “Oh yeah, that’s up near my aunt in Ionia”. After he signed my pamphlets he started working his way down the line to the other fan club members. He made it to the 4th person and he paused for a second. He said, “Where am I?” I blurted out, “You’re in fucking Japan man.” He then glanced down and said, “I know that dude”. He then proceeded down the rest of the line when a guy came out and took Jason outside to show him a Harley Davidson motorcycle that had Metallica painted on the gas tank. Once he came back in, he was walking on his way to the concert. I was so excited that I just met Jason Newsted from Metallica I wanted to say, “Rock on” before his show. As he was walking by, I blurted out, “Jason!” and before I got to say “rock on”. He just shook his head and I heard him mumble to the person he was walking with, “These fans” then I couldn’t hear what else he said. It was as if he was getting an attitude because I wanted to let him know I appreciated their music.

I ended up venturing back to Okinawa where I told my coworkers about my experience of going to the Metallica concert and getting backstage to meet Jason Newsted. I didn’t forget to leave out the part about him being a little guy with a big attitude towards his fans. I brought in my pictures after having them developed and the picture of Jason did not turn out since I wasn’t able to use a flash, but my picture of Niclas Swanlund and me did turn out. After that one experience I never looked at the band quite the same so in 2001 when I heard news that Jason was leaving the band I was not heart broken. Once I heard Metallica’s 3rd bassist was going to be Rob Trujillo, previously from Ozzy, I knew the band was going to rock again.

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Sapporo Building


While in Tokyo, Japan I went to Asakusa and on the way back I stopped and snapped this photo of the Sapporo building. Sapporo is a big beverage company in Japan and they are best known for their beer.

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Habu Sake (Snake Rice Wine)


I went to the botanical gardens in Okinawa with some friends to see a Christmas light event that was going on. While there I was walking through a gift store and saw this Habu sake. In Okinawa, “Habu” means snake and sake is Japanese rice wine. So you literally buy a bottle of wine that has a snake inside of it.

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Signals of Excellence: The Story of Kadena’s Award-Winning 18th Communications Squadron

When I think back to my time stationed at Kadena Air Base in Okinawa, Japan, there are countless memories that come flooding in—long nights, high-pressure missions, and a camaraderie that was unlike anything else. But there’s one moment that stands out, not just because of the recognition it brought us, but because of what it represented about the dedication and precision of the team I was proud to be a part of. That moment was when the 18th Communications Squadron facility received the prestigious Defense Information Systems Agency award for best technical control facility in the Pacific. On paper, it might sound like a technical accolade—something bureaucratic or buried in the fine print of military communications—but in reality, it was the culmination of relentless effort, innovation, and a sense of responsibility to keep the lifelines of the military open and secure in one of the most critical regions of the world.

To understand the weight of this recognition, you first have to appreciate what a technical control facility actually is. In simple terms, a TCF is the nerve center of communications on a base. Every circuit, every connection, every channel that tied Kadena to the rest of the Pacific and beyond ran through our facility. We weren’t the ones flying the fighter jets or commanding ships across the ocean, but in many ways we were the ones ensuring those missions could even happen. A pilot can’t receive orders without secure channels. A commander can’t plan operations without reliable links. Troops can’t receive intelligence without signals being routed flawlessly. That was our world: a world of circuits, signals, redundancy, and an unspoken understanding that failure wasn’t an option.

DISA, the Defense Information Systems Agency, is the overseer of all things communication across the U.S. military. They don’t hand out awards lightly. Their job is to ensure that networks remain resilient, secure, and adaptable across every theater of operations, and when they take notice of a facility, it means that somewhere amid the hum of machines and the quiet diligence of technicians, excellence was achieved. For us at Kadena, that award didn’t just mean we were technically proficient—it meant that in the eyes of the agency that ensured the flow of information across the entire defense establishment, we had set a standard for the Pacific region.

Kadena itself is no ordinary base. Situated on Okinawa, it’s the crown jewel of U.S. air power in the Pacific. From its runways, fighters could scramble in moments, cargo planes could ferry supplies across oceans, and surveillance aircraft could patrol vast swaths of contested waters. But Kadena’s real strength was its ability to connect—connect the United States to Asia, connect commanders to their forces, connect the Pacific to Washington. Our communications infrastructure was the invisible scaffolding that held up all the visible displays of power. And at the heart of that infrastructure was our technical control facility.

The day we learned about the award, I remember the mix of pride and disbelief that filled the room. We weren’t in this for recognition. Most of the time, our work was thankless. If everything ran smoothly, nobody thought of us. If something went wrong, the finger-pointing would begin immediately. That’s the paradox of communications: success is invisible, failure is glaring. So when DISA singled us out for being the best in the Pacific, it was a validation that every unnoticed hour of troubleshooting, every sleepless night of testing circuits, every redundant backup system we put in place mattered. It meant we weren’t just keeping things running—we were setting a standard that others looked up to.

But awards don’t happen in isolation. They happen because of people. The 18th Communications Squadron wasn’t just a building full of racks, blinking lights, and cables. It was a collection of dedicated men and women who came from different backgrounds but shared a singular purpose. Some were seasoned veterans who had been through every kind of upgrade and system overhaul imaginable. Others were fresh arrivals, learning the ropes but bringing in new energy and ideas. We worked shoulder to shoulder, troubleshooting problems that sometimes seemed impossible, improvising when equipment failed, and sharing laughs in between crises that reminded us we were human, too. There was a kind of electricity in the room that wasn’t just from the circuits—it was from the people who believed in the mission.

The technical side of what we did was complex but fascinating. Our TCF handled countless circuits—voice, data, secure lines, satellite links—all of which had to be monitored, tested, and maintained. Redundancy was our religion. If one line failed, another had to take over instantly. That meant constant checks, constant drills, and constant fine-tuning of systems that couldn’t afford downtime. Technology in the military is always evolving, and at Kadena we were often on the cutting edge, implementing upgrades that brought new challenges as well as new capabilities. From analog systems of the past to the digital integration that was reshaping communications worldwide, we had to adapt quickly and flawlessly. That ability to transition smoothly, to bridge the gap between old and new while maintaining mission readiness, was one of the reasons DISA recognized us.

Still, the most compelling part of our story wasn’t the machines—it was the humans who interacted with them. Many of our colleagues were Okinawan locals, employed to work alongside us, blending their technical expertise with a cultural bridge that made our team stronger. There’s something remarkable about watching someone who grew up on that island working hand in hand with an American airman, both focused not on politics or cultural differences but on making sure a circuit tested clean or a system came back online. Those moments were a testament to the power of shared purpose.

The award itself was symbolic, but it also carried practical weight. Recognition from DISA meant more than a plaque—it meant resources, trust, and visibility. It meant that when new systems were being tested in the Pacific, Kadena was on the shortlist for implementation. It meant that our processes and practices would be studied, adapted, and replicated elsewhere. In a way, the award made us ambassadors of excellence. Other units would reach out, asking how we handled certain problems, and we’d share what worked. Our success became a ripple that extended far beyond Okinawa.

But beyond all the institutional impact, what stays with me is the personal pride. Walking into that facility after the award, everything felt a little different. The hum of the machines seemed like applause. The blinking lights on the racks seemed to nod in acknowledgment. And when we saw each other in the halls, there was a new lightness to our step. It wasn’t arrogance—it was pride. Pride that the long, often invisible work we did had been seen, understood, and celebrated.

Looking back now, I realize that moment was also a lesson. It taught me that excellence doesn’t require recognition, but when recognition comes, it’s worth pausing to savor. It taught me that even in the most technical, seemingly impersonal environments, human connection and dedication are the true differentiators. Machines can process signals, but it takes people to care enough to ensure those signals never fail. And it reminded me that history isn’t always written in grand battles or sweeping political changes—sometimes it’s written in a small facility on a distant island, where a group of dedicated individuals decided that nothing short of the best would do.

That award from DISA wasn’t just for the 18th Communications Squadron—it was for everyone who believes that invisible work matters. For everyone who knows that the strength of an operation depends not just on the planes in the air or the ships at sea, but on the circuits carrying information quietly and relentlessly across the world. For everyone who has ever labored in the background, unseen but indispensable. And for me personally, it was a reminder that no matter where life takes me, the lessons of that award—the dedication, the teamwork, the pursuit of excellence—will always stay with me.

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Echoes Through the Lines: Circuit Testing and the Hidden Backbone of Kadena Air Base


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DD Form 1697 page 2


Download PDF: 19961203 – DDForm1697

While stationed at Kadena Air Base in Okinawa, Japan, one of the tasks I sometimes had to perform was circuit testing and acceptance tests. At first glance, that might sound like a dry, technical duty buried in the shadows of military operations — just another behind-the-scenes requirement that never makes the news. But the reality was far richer. Each test I conducted wasn’t just about circuits and voltages; it was about trust, responsibility, and ensuring that the massive communications backbone of one of the most strategically important bases in the Pacific functioned without flaw. What looked like a clipboard, a test set, and a jumble of cables was actually the silent lifeline of international security. And on one occasion, I remember vividly holding the results of a test I had run, the lines and figures staring back at me, representing much more than numbers — they represented readiness, accountability, and the connection between nations.

When people think of the U.S. military presence in Okinawa, they often imagine fighter jets streaking through the skies, ships docking at harbors, or Marines marching in formation. Rarely do they think about the invisible arteries of communication — the circuits that make everything possible. Every order, every radar report, every encrypted conversation between commanders traveled through those circuits. Without them, the most advanced aircraft would have been grounded, the sharpest intelligence dulled, the most well-trained soldiers cut off from leadership. The truth is that no mission succeeds without communications, and no communications succeed without people like us doing the unglamorous but essential work of circuit testing.

Circuit testing itself was a meticulous process. Acceptance testing was even more intense. It wasn’t just about plugging in equipment and checking if a light blinked green. We had to verify every parameter: signal quality, latency, attenuation, and noise levels. These weren’t abstract measurements — if the readings weren’t within tolerance, it could mean garbled communications in the middle of a crisis or an outright failure when lives were on the line. The Defense Information Systems Agency (DISA) had exacting standards, and they expected every facility to meet them. At Kadena, those standards weren’t just a checklist. They were a source of pride. Passing a circuit acceptance test was proof that our systems were world-class and that the Pacific’s most critical hub of operations had the resilience it needed.

I remember one particular day when a test set beeped back results that didn’t align with expectations. The figures were off — just enough to cause concern. I traced the line, retested, verified with another tech. Eventually, after hours of work, we tracked the anomaly to a faulty connector deep in the distribution frame. Fixing it was tedious, but when the retest results came back within perfect tolerance, the sense of satisfaction was immense. That single connector might not seem like much, but in the chain of global defense, it was the difference between secure communications and a potential vulnerability. That day taught me that diligence in even the smallest details mattered, because in communications, the smallest failure could ripple outward with enormous consequences.

Okinawa itself added to the gravity of the work. Kadena Air Base wasn’t just another installation — it was the linchpin of U.S. air power in the Pacific. The island’s location, close to Taiwan, the Korean Peninsula, and the South China Sea, meant it was always on the front line of geopolitical tension. During my time there, the Cold War had ended, but the echoes of its strategic posture remained. North Korea’s unpredictability, China’s growing assertiveness, and the ever-present need to reassure Japan all made Kadena indispensable. Every circuit we tested wasn’t just about the base; it was about the stability of the region. Knowing that put weight on our shoulders, but it also gave meaning to the long nights, the repetitive checks, and the endless paperwork.

There was also a human side to the testing process. It wasn’t just me and a machine. We worked as a team, sharing responsibilities, double-checking each other’s results, and learning from mistakes. In the cramped test rooms filled with humming equipment, we developed camaraderie. We joked, we argued over methods, and we competed silently to see whose results would come back the cleanest. At the end of the day, though, we knew we were all on the same side. The base depended on us, and we depended on each other. The pride in passing a difficult acceptance test wasn’t just individual — it was collective. We celebrated those moments because we knew how much effort went into them.

The paperwork from a circuit test might seem dull to an outsider, just columns of figures and acronyms. But I kept a few of those results as reminders. They were proof of the work, proof of the responsibility carried, and proof of how even hidden roles contributed to something much larger. They reminded me that not all heroes wear flight suits or stand on a parade ground. Some heroes sit in test rooms, headphones on, scribbling down results while the world outside spins on, oblivious to the fact that their work is what keeps the entire system alive.

Looking back, those acceptance tests were lessons in more than just communications. They were lessons in persistence, attention to detail, and the importance of unseen labor. They taught me that history isn’t only shaped by the grand events we see on the news, but also by the quiet victories of people making sure the circuits don’t fail. In that way, the beeping of a test set was as much a sound of security as the roar of a jet engine overhead.

So yes, while stationed at Kadena Air Base in Okinawa, I had to perform circuit tests and acceptance tests. And the results I held in my hands all those years ago weren’t just numbers — they were the story of reliability, of unseen labor, and of the assurance that, when the world demanded it, the lines of communication would be there.

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First Night in Okinawa


In 1996 I was new to the United States Air Force and just arrived in Okinawa a little after 11 PM, when I walked off the plane and met my sponsor for the first time. On the way driving back to base he was driving like a madman. He was cutting through traffic just to get stuck at the next stop light. This kept me on the edge of my seat for the duration of the drive, but I would learn not much longer after that, that is how people drive there.’, ‘After we got to base he took me to get some food from the dining facility and then to the dorms. After getting some food he took me to the dorms and showed me my room. It was literally a 10 foot by 10 foot by 10 foot room which I referred to as a closet. I mean shit, prison cells are bigger than this and I’m supposed to be serving my country. Anyway, I started unpacking my clothes when I heard somebody beating on my door. I had no idea who that could have been since the one and only person I knew there was my sponsor. I opened the door and there were 4 guys standing there. This short, but muscular guy, (whom I learned later his name was Joe) asked me, “Are you the new guy?” I said, “Yes.” He asked me, “Are you drunk?” I said, “No, I just got here and I’m not old enough to drink.” Then another one (whom I learned later everybody called, “Doughboy”) threw his car keys at me and said, “Good you can drive.” The other two’s names were Jarrod and Nate. After I informed him I didn’t have a Japanese driver’s license he said, “That’s ok, You’ll probably drive better than they do here anyway.” As we were walking out to the car Doughboy asked me if I knew how to drive a standard transmission car. I told him I did, but I don’t think it mattered. I would have been getting a crash course anyway. Then I walked around to the Nissan Skyline (Paul Newman edition) and before I could get in, the group told me the steering wheel was on the other side of the car. So I walked around the car and got in to drive.

As we were driving down the road there were 4 drunken guys in the car stuffing more beer in their pockets and continuously drinking as we were driving down the road. The drunken guys were attempting to give me directions of where we were going and telling me how to drive the car from the back seat. Once we managed to get to the Kadena air base USO, after stalling the car twice and making a couple wrong turns, we started walking out the gate. Once we got out the gate they were telling me about a curfew that is between 12 AM – 6 AM. They told me you’re not supposed to be in the gate 2 area between those times. Then they told me as long as you stay out until 6 AM that you can’t get caught. I decided this wasn’t such a good idea and I was getting tired from the long plan ride. I decided to walk back while they all went out and partied. I figured I wasn’t old enough to drink anyway, so I figured I couldn’t even get into the bar with them.

Without even thinking the situation through, I decided to walk back to the base. I got back on base before the curfew started and started walking down the street in the direction I came from. I made it a block when I noticed a cop car. I decided to ask them for directions because they may know a faster way back. I then had to explain the situation to the security police before they told me to hop in the car and they would give me a ride. The problem was I didn’t know what dorm I was staying in. So they drove me around for a while until we found the dorm. Now don’t forget I haven’t met my boss yet, I haven’t found out where I work yet, and the only person I know is my sponsor and I had no idea how to get a hold of him. After I made it back to the dorms I went back to my room and fell asleep.

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Wings Over the Pacific: The Living Story of Kadena Air Base

From above, the photograph captures the essence of Kadena Air Base with startling clarity. The long stretch of runway cutting across the Okinawan landscape, the rows of aircraft lined up as though waiting for their cue to leap into the sky, and the sprawling infrastructure that supports one of the most significant air installations in the world tell a story far deeper than any single image could capture. This is Kadena, the “Keystone of the Pacific,” a place where history, strategy, and human life intersect in ways both dramatic and subtle. To see it from the air is to glimpse not just a military outpost, but a microcosm of decades of alliance, tension, innovation, and resilience.

Kadena’s roots stretch back to World War II, when the United States seized Okinawa in the bloody battle of 1945. In the aftermath of that brutal campaign, the U.S. military recognized Okinawa’s unmatched strategic location, situated within striking distance of China, Korea, Taiwan, and Southeast Asia. Construction began quickly, and what started as hastily built runways for wartime operations soon grew into a permanent fixture of American presence in the Pacific. For Okinawans, this marked the beginning of a new era—one in which their island home would forever be tied to the geopolitics of global superpowers. For the United States, Kadena represented a foothold that could not be surrendered, a launch point for projecting power across half the globe.

Over the decades, Kadena Air Base evolved from those rough beginnings into the sprawling installation seen in the aerial photograph today. The flight line itself is an emblem of scale. Housing fighters, bombers, reconnaissance planes, refueling tankers, and support aircraft, the runway is not just a strip of concrete but the heartbeat of Pacific air operations. During the Cold War, Kadena’s importance was magnified as tensions between the United States and the Soviet Union spread across Asia. Missions flown from Kadena tracked Soviet bombers, monitored missile tests, and ensured that any aggression could be met with overwhelming force. The base became both a shield and a sword, protecting U.S. allies while simultaneously reminding adversaries that American airpower was only hours away.

Yet Kadena is more than a chess piece on a strategic board. It is also a community. For thousands of U.S. service members and their families, Kadena has been home—sometimes for a few years, sometimes for entire careers. Life on base has its routines: school buses weaving through neighborhoods, commissaries stocked with American goods, recreational centers buzzing with activity. At the same time, just outside the gates lies Okinawa, with its own culture, traditions, and perspectives on the base’s presence. The relationship between Okinawans and Kadena has always been complex, marked by both cooperation and tension. Festivals like the annual Friendship Festival open the flight line to the public, allowing locals and visitors alike to see the aircraft up close, taste American food, and interact with U.S. airmen. These events serve as cultural bridges, softening the stark reality that Kadena is ultimately a fortress of war planted in the heart of Okinawa.

The flight line itself is a spectacle of organized chaos. Each aircraft parked there represents countless hours of maintenance, training, and coordination. F-15 Eagles, long the guardians of the skies over Japan, have thundered down these runways for decades. KC-135 tankers extend the reach of fighters and bombers alike, ensuring that missions can stretch far beyond the horizon. Surveillance aircraft quietly record the movements of ships, missiles, and adversaries across the Pacific. At any given time, an exercise, a deployment, or an urgent mission might spring into action, and the flight line transforms into a hive of motion—engines roaring, crews hustling, aircraft lifting into the sky one after another. To see it from above is to see the choreography of power, a ballet performed not with dancers but with machines of war.

Kadena’s significance has not diminished in the post-Cold War era. If anything, the rise of China, the enduring threat from North Korea, and the persistent instability across Asia have made the base more relevant than ever. Each aircraft that takes off from its runways is both a reassurance to allies and a warning to potential aggressors. The geopolitical landscape may shift, but the utility of Kadena remains constant. Its proximity to hotspots ensures that crises can be met within hours rather than days. For this reason, the base has often been called America’s “unsinkable aircraft carrier.” The photograph of the flight line is not just a snapshot of physical structures—it is a snapshot of deterrence, readiness, and resolve.

Still, it is impossible to discuss Kadena without acknowledging the human cost and complexity of its existence. For Okinawans, the base is a daily reminder of a war that ended decades ago but left scars that remain unhealed. Noise from aircraft disrupts daily life. Accidents, though rare, leave lasting impressions. Protests have called for reductions or removals of the U.S. presence. And yet, alongside this resistance, there is also cooperation. Okinawans work on base, trade flourishes between local businesses and the military community, and many Okinawan families have interwoven their lives with Americans stationed there. The aerial photograph captures steel and concrete, but it cannot capture the delicate threads of human interaction that define the base’s true story.

What makes Kadena unique is its ability to embody contradictions. It is at once a symbol of war and of peace, of dominance and of partnership, of American might and Okinawan endurance. When jets thunder down the runway, they remind the world that the Pacific is not an uncontested space. When children climb into cockpits during open days, they remind us that even engines of war can spark wonder and dreams. The photograph of the flight line freezes these contradictions into a single frame, but in reality they play out daily, in the lives of airmen, families, and Okinawans alike.

As technology continues to advance, Kadena is preparing for the future. The aging F-15s are being phased out, replaced by aircraft better suited to modern threats. Drones and unmanned systems are beginning to supplement manned fighters, adding new dimensions to air operations. Cyber warfare and space-based capabilities are increasingly tied to the missions launched from this very flight line. In the coming decades, the photograph you have today may look quaint, a reminder of a transitional moment between eras. Yet the essence of Kadena—its location, its purpose, its symbolism—will remain unchanged. The Pacific will always need a keystone, and Kadena will always fill that role.

The human stories will evolve as well. New generations of airmen will arrive, wide-eyed and uncertain, and leave years later with memories etched into their bones. Okinawan children will continue to grow up hearing the roar of jets overhead, sometimes resenting it, sometimes embracing it, but always aware that their island holds a place at the crossroads of global history. Families will make friendships that outlast deployments. Marriages will cross cultures. And every spring, when the Friendship Festival returns, the flight line will once again open to laughter, music, and shared humanity, if only for a weekend.

In the end, the photograph of Kadena’s flight line is not just a record of what is there. It is a symbol of what has been and what will be. It tells of a world war that reshaped the Pacific, of a Cold War that demanded vigilance, of a modern era where the balance of power still hangs by the sound of jet engines. It tells of communities shaped by proximity, of cultures forced together, of alliances that endure despite hardship. And it tells of the enduring human fascination with flight, power, and the endless horizon. To stand on Kadena’s runways, to live in its neighborhoods, or to gaze upon it from above is to witness the constant interplay of history and future. The photograph may freeze the flight line in time, but the story of Kadena never stops unfolding.

Kadena Air Base is not simply a place. It is an idea made manifest in concrete and steel, in jet fuel and radar beams, in uniforms and traditions. It is the embodiment of a century of conflict and cooperation, a living monument to both the dangers and the possibilities of human ambition. To look at that aerial photograph is to see more than runways—it is to see a story of war and peace, of alliances and divides, of people striving to make sense of a world where the skies are never truly empty. And perhaps that is the ultimate truth of Kadena: it is at once a fortress and a community, a source of division and unity, a reminder of the past and a beacon for the future. The photograph captures the flight line, but only imagination and empathy can capture its soul.

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Air Force 5 Level B Set Tech Control Career Development Course Volume 2


Air Force CDC Volume 2 Communications Systems Cover


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The 3C251 Career Development Course (CDC) Volume 2: Communications Systems was one of the cornerstone texts for Airmen training in the field of communications during their time in the United States Air Force. Every career field had its technical manuals, but for those of us who worked in the world of circuits, switches, and global networks, this volume was the roadmap. It provided a foundation that transformed raw recruits into skilled technicians, bridging the gap between theory in the classroom and the demands of real-world operations.

What made this course unique was its balance of detail and accessibility. On one hand, it introduced Airmen to highly technical concepts—everything from transmission paths and multiplexing to signal flow and system security. On the other, it broke these concepts down into lessons that could be absorbed even by someone encountering them for the first time. The structure of the CDC ensured that as you progressed through the chapters, you weren’t just memorizing acronyms and diagrams—you were building a mental model of how Air Force communication systems fit into the larger mission.

For many, the study of CDC Volume 2 wasn’t just about passing tests. It was about proving ourselves capable of mastering the technology that connected bases across the Pacific, the United States, and the globe. The Air Force couldn’t function without reliable communication systems, and that meant every line we studied, every diagram we memorized, had a direct impact on the mission. There was pride in being the invisible backbone of operations—the ones who ensured the right message got through at the right time, whether it was a routine report or a command at a critical moment.

I remember carrying this volume with me everywhere, its cover becoming scuffed from use, its pages filled with notes and highlights. It wasn’t unusual to see Airmen huddled in dorm lounges late at night, quizzing each other on multiplexing schemes, DSN protocols, or troubleshooting steps. There was a shared camaraderie in tackling the dense material together, knowing that our success in the field depended on mastering these lessons. For many of us, it was the first true test of our technical aptitude after basic training.

Beyond the academics, the CDC symbolized something larger. It was a reminder that while jets, tanks, and satellites captured headlines, none of them could function effectively without the quiet strength of communications. We weren’t always the most visible career field, but we were essential. This volume, dry and technical though it may have seemed at first glance, held within it the knowledge that kept the Air Force connected, efficient, and effective. In that sense, it wasn’t just a study guide—it was a piece of Air Force history, one that trained generation after generation of Airmen who carried forward the responsibility of maintaining the lines of communication.

Looking back, I realize that CDC Volume 2 didn’t just teach systems and circuits—it shaped the way I approached problem-solving. It taught me to break down complex challenges into manageable parts, to respect the importance of precision, and to never underestimate the value of reliability. These lessons stretched far beyond the classroom and the base. They became habits of mind that carried into deployments, civilian careers, and even everyday life.

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Air Force 5 Level Tech Control Career Development Course Change Supplement


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Air Force 5 Level Tech Control Career Development Course Volume 4


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Air Force 3C251 Tech Control Career Development Courses Volume 4. Computer Fundamentals and Digital Devices.

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Air Force 5 Level Tech Control Career Development Course Volume 3


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Air Force 3C251A Tech Control Career Development Courses Volume 3. Modulation and Multiplexing.

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Air Force 5 Level Tech Control Career Development Course Volume 2


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The 3C251 Career Development Course (CDC) Volume 2. Soldering and Electrical Connectors

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Air Force 5 Level Tech Control Career Development Course Volume 1


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The 3C251 Career Development Course (CDC) Volume 1. Founding Principles of Communications Electronics

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Air Force 3 Level Tech Control Career Development Course Volume 3


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Air Force 3C231 Career Development Courses (CDC) Volume 3. Technical Control Facilities.

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Air Force 3 Level Tech Control Career Development Course Volume 1


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After basic training in the Air Force each airman will be sent off to a technical training school where they will learn their job. For the Technical Control 3C231 job series the technical training was at Keesler Air Force base in Biloxi, Mississippi. Here is volume 1. Transmission Media from that course.

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Building More Than Wood: The Gazebo at the 335th Training Squadron


Gazebo built outside the 335th Training Squadron at Keesler AFB

While attending Air Force Technical Training at Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, Mississippi, I found myself with unexpected downtime between courses. Rather than waste the hours, a few fellow airmen and I decided to channel our energy into something productive: we built a gazebo. It wasn’t part of our formal training, nor was it an assignment handed down from leadership. It was something we wanted to do, a project that combined teamwork, pride, and a desire to leave a mark on the place where we were learning to shape our Air Force careers.

The gazebo stood just outside the 335th Training Squadron, located in the section of base we all knew as the “Triangle.” For those unfamiliar, the Triangle was a hub of student life at Keesler, a crossroads where airmen gathered between classes, studied, relaxed, and forged friendships that often outlasted their time in the service. The 335th Training Squadron carried the mascot “Da Bulls,” and while the name always brought a smile to our faces, the identity of the squadron carried a sense of pride. Every training unit in the Air Force has its own culture, and the 335th’s culture was about grit, humor, and camaraderie. That gazebo quickly became part of that story.

I still remember the sweat, the laughter, and the occasional frustration as we pieced it together. It wasn’t just about cutting wood and hammering nails—it was about cooperation, trust, and working side by side with people who were, at that point, strangers bound together by uniforms and oaths. Over time, the structure became more than lumber and shingles. It became a symbol, a place where airmen could sit in the shade on blistering Mississippi afternoons, swap stories, and catch their breath between the relentless pace of training.

Not long ago, I stumbled across an old newspaper clipping about the gazebo. Seeing it in print stirred up a rush of memories. The clipping wasn’t just about the structure—it captured a moment in time, a snapshot of how a small group of us decided to give back to the squadron in our own way. I even remember crossing paths with Major Carol St. Denis, the commander of the 335th Training Squadron at the time. She struck me as approachable and engaged, someone who cared not only about the mission but also about the people carrying it out. Running into her occasionally reminded me that leadership isn’t about distance; it’s about presence.

Looking back, that gazebo seems like a small thing compared to the larger scope of military operations. But in its own way, it was significant. It was proof that even in the rigid structure of military training, there was space for creativity, initiative, and leaving behind something tangible for the next wave of airmen. For me, it became a reminder that the Air Force wasn’t just about technical manuals and drills. It was about people, about moments, and about building something lasting—even if that “something” was a simple gazebo outside a squadron building.

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From Basic to Biloxi: My First Days at Keesler Air Force Base


Map of Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, Mississippi

After graduating from Basic Military Training in San Antonio, Texas, I boarded a plane bound for New Orleans, Louisiana. From there, a bus carried me east along the Gulf Coast until we pulled into Biloxi, Mississippi—home of Keesler Air Force Base. The ride was long but filled with the kind of nervous anticipation that only comes with stepping into a completely new world. Clutching my issued duffel and the folded map of the base I’d been handed, I felt the weight of both excitement and nerves. Keesler would be my home for the next sixteen weeks, a place where I would trade the rigid lessons of basic training for the focused challenge of technical school. This was where the Air Force would turn recruits into professionals with real skills, and it was where I would begin to understand the role I had committed to play in serving my country.

The journey from civilian life to military life had already been dramatic at Lackland, but Keesler marked another turning point. Unlike basic training, where every day was a battle against fatigue, inspections, and the relentless push for discipline, technical training carried a different atmosphere. It wasn’t about survival anymore—it was about specialization. Here, we weren’t just Airmen in formation; we were future technicians, controllers, maintainers, and operators. Keesler was where the Air Force took its wide-eyed graduates and funneled them into their career fields, shaping us into the gears that kept the military machine running. For me, it was a chance to finally see the path I had chosen take form.

That map they gave me wasn’t just a folded piece of paper—it was a lifeline. Keesler sprawled out like its own city, with dormitories stacked row by row, classrooms buzzing with instructors, chow halls echoing with hundreds of conversations, PT fields alive with running cadences, and technical facilities where the hum of machines mixed with the scratch of chalkboards. For someone fresh off the bus, it was overwhelming. Every corner of that map represented a place I would come to know intimately: places where I would struggle with lessons, places where I would grow in confidence, and places where I would finally realize that the Air Force wasn’t just a uniform but a calling.

Life at Keesler settled into a rhythm that was both exhausting and exhilarating. Our mornings began with the sharp call of accountability formations, followed by long hours of lectures in classrooms filled with the glow of projectors and the drone of technical jargon. Afternoons were often hands-on, with lab sessions that required patience, precision, and teamwork. Inspections came without warning, and study sessions filled every free block of time. Evenings often blurred into nights, spent balancing between homework and the rare luxury of a few hours of downtime. Yet in the grind, we found friendship. My fellow Airmen became more than classmates—they became family. We shared laughter during long study nights, pushed each other through physical training, and swapped stories of home during rare quiet moments. Alone, Keesler could break you; together, it gave us strength.

The Gulf Coast setting added its own character to the experience. Humidity clung to the air, wrapping around us like a heavy blanket during outdoor drills, and sudden summer storms would sweep across the base, drenching us one moment and leaving clear skies the next. On weekends, if we earned the privilege, we could venture off base and taste a bit of southern life—seafood gumbo, jazz drifting from bars, and the sight of the Gulf of Mexico stretching into the horizon. These escapes reminded us that there was still a world beyond the gates, even if our time within them was tightly controlled.

Looking back, my arrival at Keesler marked the moment when the Air Force stopped being an abstract idea and became real. The base map I clutched that first day symbolized more than just directions—it was a guide into a new identity, one rooted in service, discipline, and purpose. By the time sixteen weeks had passed, I no longer looked at that map as a stranger. I could walk its halls and roads without thinking, every building tied to a memory of struggle, triumph, or growth. When I finally marched away from Keesler with my technical training complete, I realized I had transformed. I was no longer just a nervous newcomer clutching a piece of paper; I was an Airman with a skill set, a mission, and the confidence to meet whatever came next.

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