During my military career, I had a special duty assignment as a correctional custody officer. Correctional Custody was an Air Force program (other services have thier own) that was more or less a last stop for people who committed minor criminal offenses that would ultimately result in court-martial and subsequent time at Leavenworth Prison. Now, I didn’t necessarily volunteer for this duty; I was “voluntold.” It’s more or less a crash course in being a drill instructor, but a little more severe. The work schedule was a lot like the fire department where you’re on for three days and off for two, or something like that. Anyway, I’d spend 12 hours a day with these guys, most of them just dumb kids who did dumb things kids do, but with military consequences. One of those consequences was being yelled at, pushed (not physically) berated, exercised, marched and strictly supervised by guys like me.
It’s a shame that the Air Force got rid of this program because it really did save people’s careers and, ostensibly, their lives as well. You see, correctional custody had no bars; these were not prisoners, but candidates. Correctional custody was a tool that unit commanders had to offer as a way out to young troops who were pretty decent at their jobs and good men and women, but made some really bad choices. Not everyone had the opportunity to go into the program. This was ultimately the decision of the commander who received advice from the first sergeant as well as testimony from one’s supervisor, etc. I remember a first sergeant telling me once that “not everyone is salvageable.” The key to this program’s success rested upon the guilty individual. He or she had a choice: correctional custody or court-martial. If they failed to comply with the rigors of the program, they were immediately taken to the brig to await trail. Most people chose the program. Some, surprisingly, did not.
Just about every guy I led through the program was really appreciative when it was over. There was no ceremony or anything like that. A “graduate” would simply stand at attention outside the door of the cadre’s office, knock once and ask permission to enter. He would stand in front of the desk of the head instructor and ask for permission to leave the building. Typically, (not always), we’d all stand up, shake his hand and congratulate him on completing the course and on making the right decision for himself and possibly his family. Some men even cried a little and we’d get choked up too. To my knowledge, most of the guys who completed correctional custody went on to finish their tours of duty and received an honorable discharge. Some even reenlisted. It’s amazing how almost losing everything motivates one to change their life.
Some times I wonder about the dudes who chose court-martial instead. I heard about one guy, for example, who was so undisciplined and unwilling to accept any authority that the commander called the security police (SPs…MPs) to immediately escort that man out his office and straight to confinement. Like, how stupid can you be? I mean, sure, you may think you’re right or misjudged (typically, no…everybody was always caught red-handed), but you don’t throw the life raft back at the guy who’s trying to save you. And yet, people did. In my six months on correctional custody duty, we only had one guy fail the program. He walked into the cadre’s office without any sort of required ettiequte and simply said, “I don’t want to do this shit anymore.” My boss, who could yell loud enough to pop the buttons off your shirt, simply smiled and said, “Ok, troop. I’ll let your commander know.” Within minutes, the SPs were there to drive him away. He had three weeks to go. Three weeks. If I told you had to go through six weeks of hell to get your life back, would you do it? Apparently for some, any time outside their comfort zone is too much time.
I was often reminded of my experience as a correctional custody officer during my years as a therapist working at a nursing home. It never ceased to amaze me how so many people, young people, like even in their 40s, would just throw in the towel and quit. One such man, let’s call him “Joe,” was only 42 years old when he was sent to us for a convalescent stay that ended up being a forever home. Now, Joe had lots of mental problems, so we have to give him that. The reason he was there was a multitude of medical issues stemming from poor food choices, a non-existent physical life-style and a penchant for drugs. He was noncompliant with therapy despite many attempts and lots of conversations with me. He was hated by the nursing staff, mainly for his desire to live in filth and his against the rules habit of chewing tobacco and leaving the remains in cups all over his room. Eventually, Joe succumbed to his own lack of motivation and discipline. He never saw 50. As I write this, I am reminded of another group of resistant individuals who equally throw in the towel because life gets too tough, the rules too hard to follow. It is made up of people who have faith, people who would like to have faith and those who simply refuse.
So, I am a Christian, which means I am full of faults. I have lied, cheated, stolen, looked at things I shouldn’t have, said things I really shouldn’t have. I have placed myself (key phrase here) in prison so many times. Like some of the candidates in correctional custody or some of my patients in the nursing home, I blamed people, my situation, my grief, my history, etc. I turned the microscope on everyone but me. But God doesn’t need a microscope. And the Supreme Commander he is, God provides a life raft in the shape of a cross. An outstretched, impaled hand attached to a savior that we reluctantly reach for and some times, push away. We refuse the correction our souls receive in favor of imprisonment. And why? Because we’d rather enjoy the comfort of the moment rather than contemplate the consequences of eternity. We say it doesn’t exist, that once you close your eyes for the last time, that’s it…lights out.
What if you’re wrong? “Well, I guess I’ll deal with it then.” You know what that sounds like? It sounds like the guys who chose prison over correctional custody. I wonder if they ever regretted their decision, sitting in cell for 23 hours a day with one hour out. Huddled with a mass of other men who were just as bad if not worse. No friends, no family, no light. No peace. I wonder if some of those guys ever wished for a replay.
When I fail, as I often do, after I come to my senses and realize my transgression, and wait for a bit and then ask for forgiveness with a full heart. I wait because I don’t want it to be reactionary; I think God prefers genuine remorse and that takes contemplation. You see, I know what correctional custody is like and I know what it is to refuse it. I know about throwing the life raft away. Fortunately for us, Christ will always toss it back to us on this side of the water.
We just have to make the decision to reach for it.
Dave Magliano
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