THE cinema at Dyess Air Force Base, in central west Texas, is a splendid facility. It is entirely free for airmen and their families. Outside, there is a smart café selling snacks, sodas and, in the evenings, when children are not present, alcohol. Yet for more than two years, this centre for social life on the base sat empty, because it did not have the equipment to project films. Just a few months after the air force paid a hefty sum to refurbish the building, the Army and Air Force Exchange Service, the government-owned firm which ran the cinema, switched from analogue to digital distribution of films. When it did so, it decided it could not afford to buy a new digital projector for Dyess.

That is just one tale of the maddening bureaucracy recounted by Colonel Michael Bob Starr, the commander of the base. Another he tells is of how the Pentagon scrapped funding for his base’s library. When he went to close the library, however, he was informed that only the secretary of defence could make that decision. There was still no funding, but that didn’t matter: the regulations said that the library had to stay open.

Such absurdities are hardly new to the military. Similar tales in the 1950s helped to inspire Joseph Heller’s “Catch 22”, a novel about the futility of war and the silliness of military regulations, in which faulty IBM machines promote majors and no one can ever go home. The scale, however, can still astound. Colonel Starr reckons that he is personally responsible for enforcing some 200,000 rules, mostly dreamed up in Washington. Pentagon management techniques, he jokes, “tend to reflect the very best lessons from the 1950s”.

Yet slowly, at his base, something is changing. Under pressure to get more out of its resources, the air force is beginning to foster some independent thinking. Colonel Starr’s frankness is evidence in itself: few military types would complain about their superiors so openly to a reporter. Yet Colonel Starr is unusual. He likes to quote management books. And, he reckons, to put into action the call from General Mark Welsh, the air force’s chief of staff, to make the service more flexible and innovative means being a little more open about the stupid things that the air force does.

Since 2013, spending cuts as a result of the government budget sequestration have reduced the air force’s budget. Big projects such as the F-35 fighter jet, or the expansion of drone warfare, swallow up much of what is left. At Dyess, which is home to a fleet of B-1 bombers and C-130 transport planes, staffing has fallen sharply, especially in areas such as aircraft maintenance. Staff sense that more cuts are coming—many, for example, are deeply worried by a proposal to take away housing allowances from the junior partner in military couples.

Colonel Starr has done much to mitigate the effects of austerity. He has started an innovation club, where junior officers and enlisted men can put forward ideas their superiors have rejected, such as storing the base’s contracts digitally, instead of printing them out. He has worked with Abilene, the hot, dusty Texan city that hosts Dyess. The cinema was started up again after locals raised money to buy a new projector; the library was kept open by an agreement with the city to share facilities. Bravely, he has chosen to simply disobey some regulations which he says tie up staff pointlessly—such as one that insists that security guards should receive the same training twice.

Such victories keep the base functioning. The trouble, though, is that efficiency quickly runs into politics. The air force estimates that it has roughly 25% more infrastructure than it needs. But closing bases, or scrapping underused aircraft, is unpopular in the districts they are based in. There have been no BRAC hearings, which determine where to cut, for a decade. Congress has to vote to spend money on BRAC hearings, and congressmen can usually find reasons to avoid doing so. What cuts have been proposed, such as discontinuing use of the A-10 attack jet, known as the “Warthog”, are fiercely resisted in Congress.

“Everybody will agree to reductions, as long as it is not here,” says Brian Yates, a former air-force officer who now works for the Abilene Chamber of Commerce. At Abilene, locals adore the air force. The land Dyess is built on was in fact donated by the city; with its 5,000 staff (including civilian personnel) the base is by far the biggest local employer, putting some $433m into the local economy each year. Airmen tell stories about how, when they go out for dinner, strangers insist on paying their bills. In an attempt to protect against cuts, the city and the state of Texas have spent money on upgrading the road and fibre-optic connections to the base.

In May, the Texas legislature voted to create a $30m fund to be spent over two years to protect bases in the state (less than the $150m supporters wanted). Other bases have more solid protection, gripes Mr Yates. The main rival to Dyess in bombing capacity is Ellsworth, a base in South Dakota. As the only base in the state, it has two senators looking out for it in Washington. Dyess by contrast has to compete with a dozen or so other military installations for political attention. Each year, the Abilene Chamber of Commerce leads a delegation up to Washington to wine and dine important people. With each dinner, each dollop of state money to protect bases and each postponed BRAC hearing, turning the air force into the flexible service its chiefs want will get harder.