







Here are some different things you can see around Kuwait.
Kuwaiti Puma
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
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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Welcome to Ali Al Salem Air Base, Kuwait
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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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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Sapporo Building
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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Echoes Through the Lines: Circuit Testing and the Hidden Backbone of Kadena Air Base
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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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
📥 Click here to download the full text (PDF)
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 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
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
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.
















































