Here's the top ten records of 2012 from my point of view. If you don't like music, then go away. It ranges from doom to hip-hop. It should be fast and I will throw a link on here to a band page or a youtube thing or something.
7 . High on Fire - De Vermis Mysteriis . It's raw. It's loud. It's rock and roll the way it should be played. I hope sobriety doesn't fuck up Matt Pike's edge.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uHgdJRNFa00
http://www.highonfire.net/
6 . Die Antwoord - Ten$ion . Look, if you don't enjoy people from south Africa rapping about being ghetto trash on top of fat techno beats, that's your own business. But THIS is the funnest record released in the last couple of years.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AIXUgtNC4Kc
http://www.dieantwoord.com/
5 . Caspian - Waking Season . really, really interesting post-rock that kind of sounds like someone was trying to make a soundtrack for paradise with a tinge of sadness. Layered so much that I still haven't busted through all of the levels. Amazing.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXG74jF6syA
http://caspianmusic.net/
4 . The Sword - Apocryphon . Riffs, riffs and more riffs. Songs about time travel, witches, ancient gods and all kinds of shit that metal should have. Also, this gets my award for best cover art of the year.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YZMX6h1WYEw
http://swordofdoom.com/
3 . El-P - Cancer for the Cure . This is the best hip-hop record that I have heard in around six years or so. The beats are fantastic and otherworldy, the rhyming is insultingly good and the production is second to none. Honestly, this could have been record of the year for me if these other two hadn't also dropped.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZptOs8Gu9k
https://www.facebook.com/THEREALELP
Co - #1 . Ahab - The Giant . There is a point in meditation where you are supposed to reach Zen. This record is that for me. Each time I put this on, I get lost in it's sadness and how absolutely god damned heavy it is. Down tuned guitars played through one zillion watts of power, all pouring through your speakers like tar for your brain. Warning - this record is not for sissies.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_POfe1ng8zE
http://www.ahab-doom.de/
Also #1 . If These Trees Could Talk - Red Forest . If there was a way for a bunch of guitars to get together and tell the most emotional story possible, this album would be that story. Layered, thick, ethereal goodness. Rolling louds and softs. This is the kind of album that I listen to and think "man, these guys really love to play music." and you can tell. Everyone should check this out, no matter what kind of tunes that you generally dig on.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-23TtDUcZBk
https://www.facebook.com/treescouldtalk
And there you go.
Now shut up and listen.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Memorial day and something about something else
There seems to be this romanticized notion among the general populace that people join the military out of some sort of passion to defend their country, or to be overly patriotic, or something along those lines. And while I am sure that this is the case somewhere in the Army, I never met that person. Literally. Nope, in spite of the stories you get told about the way things are, most people simply join the military because there are no other options for them, or the options are incredibly limited.
Some join to get the money for college that the GI Bill provides. In fact, this was the most common reason for people joining in my basic training class. Here we are, one of the richest countries on the planet, and the people that want to continue their education have to go in to the armed forces to get the money to do so. Don't get me wrong, the Army gave me a lot. I am eternally grateful, but there has to be better ways of doing this.
Other folks joined the Army because they were literally out of options. There were no jobs in their area. They had either failed out of school, ran out of money for school or simply could not hack it in the university setting. One of the guys in my platoon had two degrees. Another had 12 years of skilled work in the trades. Still another had been teaching until his school had closed it's doors, leaving him no other option but to join the military or to go hungry. This was the camp that I fell in to.
I joined the Army because of a girl. We were seeing one another and I had simply not cut the muster at college. I REALLY liked sleeping in, drinking beer and copulating with the aforementioned female. So school fell in to something like 15th place. I was working at Rax at the time, and I knew that there was no way that I could make a life for us working at fast food. I had to do something. So I went to the recruiter's office, blue hair and all, and told him what I wanted. I wanted a kick ass job that no one knew anything else about.
Two weeks after I had visited the recruiter, I drove in a brutal snow storm to tell my dad the news of my proposed enlistment. To this day I am not sure what he thought of my decision at first. He seemed...shocked? Maybe that's not the right word, but that emotion is close. This was in January and I was not due to leave until March. I had to make sure that I had all of my ducks in a row before I left. Plenty of time to change my mind, should I decide to do so.
I loved my time in the Army. I wish I could have stayed longer. I do. I loved my job, when I got to do it. Bit the combination of getting hurt, never getting to be home, not getting paid SHIT, and rarely getting to do my job was too much. I couldn't be on SMAJ's detail one more time. I couldn't pull gate guard anymore. I could not be on red cycle on more time. You sure don't see that shit in the pamphlets.
Before I go further, I want to explain that I am in no way shitting on people that join the Army out some sense of whatever. I know that lots of people joined the Army after 9/11 happened because they felt the need to defend the country. Cool. I get that. But let me say something that may or may not be unpopular; Patriotism is the dumbest fucking thing that I can think of. I am not devoted to this country. I do not garner some of pride because I was lucky enough to be from some place. What did I do to earn the idea of being patriotic? I had parents that were from Indiana and met up. GO TEAM! In fact, the idea of patriotism is so ridiculous when you leave this country and go see the world. Japan is amazing. Canada is unbelievable .I love those countries as much as I love my own. I mean, who decided on where the lines were drawn anyway? Fucking pariotism and tribalism are just ancient human constructs anyway, made in a time when resources were scarce and one tribe needed to have them to ensure the growth of their people. We're past that now. And if the world doesn't end before then, we'll have a global government in the next 200 years anyway. Obviously I won't be around to see it, but I hope it hits the fast track anyway.
Also, I want to point out that the most gung-ho, pro-war people I have ever heard are also the ones that couldn't pick out a rifle in a police lineup. Just wanted to make sure I said that. War is fucking stupid.
I have friends that are missing legs. I have friends that can't sleep because of their PTSD. I have friends that have lost EVERYTHING THEY OWN, and their marriages because of where their heads are now. And yet politicians will sit on television and tell the world that we must fight to end tyranny. yeah? Grab a gun asshole. How about instead of the BILLIONS of dollars we spent to bail out the banks and the auto industry, we give that money to the VA and make sure that the guys coming back from these manufactured "conflicts" are taken care of. Instead, we'll buy a new depleted uranium armored tank. Disgusting.
So on this memorial day, I will think about the dead soldiers that were killed. Most of which were drafted. I will hope that this so called liberal president will cease missions in Afghanistan sooner than later. I will hope that we truly end combat operations in Iraq. And most of all, I will drink in honor of those won't ever have the chance to do so ever again. Cheers lads.
Some join to get the money for college that the GI Bill provides. In fact, this was the most common reason for people joining in my basic training class. Here we are, one of the richest countries on the planet, and the people that want to continue their education have to go in to the armed forces to get the money to do so. Don't get me wrong, the Army gave me a lot. I am eternally grateful, but there has to be better ways of doing this.
Other folks joined the Army because they were literally out of options. There were no jobs in their area. They had either failed out of school, ran out of money for school or simply could not hack it in the university setting. One of the guys in my platoon had two degrees. Another had 12 years of skilled work in the trades. Still another had been teaching until his school had closed it's doors, leaving him no other option but to join the military or to go hungry. This was the camp that I fell in to.
I joined the Army because of a girl. We were seeing one another and I had simply not cut the muster at college. I REALLY liked sleeping in, drinking beer and copulating with the aforementioned female. So school fell in to something like 15th place. I was working at Rax at the time, and I knew that there was no way that I could make a life for us working at fast food. I had to do something. So I went to the recruiter's office, blue hair and all, and told him what I wanted. I wanted a kick ass job that no one knew anything else about.
Two weeks after I had visited the recruiter, I drove in a brutal snow storm to tell my dad the news of my proposed enlistment. To this day I am not sure what he thought of my decision at first. He seemed...shocked? Maybe that's not the right word, but that emotion is close. This was in January and I was not due to leave until March. I had to make sure that I had all of my ducks in a row before I left. Plenty of time to change my mind, should I decide to do so.
I loved my time in the Army. I wish I could have stayed longer. I do. I loved my job, when I got to do it. Bit the combination of getting hurt, never getting to be home, not getting paid SHIT, and rarely getting to do my job was too much. I couldn't be on SMAJ's detail one more time. I couldn't pull gate guard anymore. I could not be on red cycle on more time. You sure don't see that shit in the pamphlets.
Before I go further, I want to explain that I am in no way shitting on people that join the Army out some sense of whatever. I know that lots of people joined the Army after 9/11 happened because they felt the need to defend the country. Cool. I get that. But let me say something that may or may not be unpopular; Patriotism is the dumbest fucking thing that I can think of. I am not devoted to this country. I do not garner some of pride because I was lucky enough to be from some place. What did I do to earn the idea of being patriotic? I had parents that were from Indiana and met up. GO TEAM! In fact, the idea of patriotism is so ridiculous when you leave this country and go see the world. Japan is amazing. Canada is unbelievable .I love those countries as much as I love my own. I mean, who decided on where the lines were drawn anyway? Fucking pariotism and tribalism are just ancient human constructs anyway, made in a time when resources were scarce and one tribe needed to have them to ensure the growth of their people. We're past that now. And if the world doesn't end before then, we'll have a global government in the next 200 years anyway. Obviously I won't be around to see it, but I hope it hits the fast track anyway.
Also, I want to point out that the most gung-ho, pro-war people I have ever heard are also the ones that couldn't pick out a rifle in a police lineup. Just wanted to make sure I said that. War is fucking stupid.
I have friends that are missing legs. I have friends that can't sleep because of their PTSD. I have friends that have lost EVERYTHING THEY OWN, and their marriages because of where their heads are now. And yet politicians will sit on television and tell the world that we must fight to end tyranny. yeah? Grab a gun asshole. How about instead of the BILLIONS of dollars we spent to bail out the banks and the auto industry, we give that money to the VA and make sure that the guys coming back from these manufactured "conflicts" are taken care of. Instead, we'll buy a new depleted uranium armored tank. Disgusting.
So on this memorial day, I will think about the dead soldiers that were killed. Most of which were drafted. I will hope that this so called liberal president will cease missions in Afghanistan sooner than later. I will hope that we truly end combat operations in Iraq. And most of all, I will drink in honor of those won't ever have the chance to do so ever again. Cheers lads.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Punishment Due
In the summer of 1999, I was tasked with babysitting...err....helping to run the "grenade assault course" for the incoming ROTC class that was to be trained on Fort Lewis, Washington. This job entailed picking up trash from the course, raking out the sandpits, getting score cards for the cadre, and essentially just making sure that some stupid college kid didn't blow off his stupid hand with a blasting cap. You might be surprised at how absolutely mind-numbingly stupid some of these people were.
Either way, across the street from the assault course was the grenade "live fire" range. Where, as the name implies, the cadets would learn how to throw a live grenade in a safe environment. Essentially, you got handed two grenades, walked out carefully to a concrete bunker where a cadre member waited on you, threw your grenades, and then got back behind the bullet proof glass. It really is a lot safer than it sounds. The guys running this range were high speed, and if you could throw a baseball more than ten feet, you would be fine.
On occasion a grenade would be thrown over the wall in to the live fire range with a pin still in the head. Or some over zealous twenty year old would just throw the grenade without removing either of the safety devices. When this went down, we were supposed to call EOD. No questions. No fucking around with live explosives. Those dudes would come out, put enough C4 around the grenade body to destroy an entire city block, blow it to hell and then leave. That was their job. And more importantly, we were in no position to handle these situations.
So enter SGT. Bob (names changed to protect the mildly retarded here.). The joke among the troops was that SGT Bob was born a water head. Yeah, I know it's not nice, but what are you going to do? Either way, Bob go to our detail late in the cycle. We had all been there since day zero and knew the ins and outs of everyday life on the grenade range. We were buddies with the cadre and we took safety seriously. Well, when we weren't eating frogs for cartons of cigarettes or playing playstation, we were in fact taking safety very seriously. So Bob shows up and immediately wants to change shit. Bob knows what's what about grenade ranges, despite never having helped run one before. So we are ignoring him. Anything he says to do, we just say "Roger that SGT", and then continue on with what we are doing.
One day we are packing out, and someone tells us that a live grenade has not gone off. Right away, we spring in to action. I am going to get on the horn with EOD, we are going to stay there until they arrive, they will blow shit up and everyone gets to go home. Well, SGT Bob decides that we are going to look for this live grenade that may or may not have a safety device in it. A live grenade that could have bounced in any direction, gone in any hole or landed in any number of different locations. He wanted us out looking for this thing with no body armor on. No training. This was a gigantic no go. So me being the dumb E-4 that I was, I stepped up, got in the position of parade rest with my hands neatly behind me and said:
"Excuse me SGT, but our orders are to call EOD. We can't go out there."
He replies with "No one asked you anything Miller. I am not staying out here all night for a grenade with the pin still in it."
This is where I fucked up. This is where common sense escaped me and I started to become unprofessional. I said, still in the position of parade rest mind you, "SGT. I am not going out there. And you can't make me."
Even thinking about it now makes me sick to my stomach. The rage in his eyes for busting his balls in front of other soldiers was unreal. I thought that he was going to strike me. Shit, he probably should have.
"Miller, you will get in this truck and we will go over to that range, and we will find hat grenade. And then you will tell the CO why you refused a lawful order." He screamed. He was teetering on blowing up.
At this point, I literally had nothing to lose. I was already toast. I was already a dead man in the eyes of this NCO. So I said, and I shit you not, "SGT. Not only won't I get in that truck, neither will any of these other fucking soldiers. You are out of line."
The world got weird in front of my eyes. I felt nauseous. I felt like I was going to black out. If this NCO wanted to off me, he could have. Luckily for me, it was about this time that one of the cadre from the range came over and told Bob that he was calling EOD and that we could roll out.
The ride back to our barracks was weird. There were like six of us in the back of a covered Humvee. No one spoke, but everyone else was making throat cutting motions and pointing at me. They were miming hanging themselves and trying not to laugh. I don't remember where my head was then, but I do remember smoking a cigarette in the back of that truck. Fuck it right ? I was dog meat anyway.
As soon as we arrived in our quad area, Bob got out and screamed out my name. I reported to him, stood at the position of parade rest and received the quietest, angriest, saliva filled, ass chewing that anyone has ever gotten for anything ever. He used names on me that I think were in another language. After what might have been two lifetimes, he left me alone and told me to go home and to prepare for the worst. I did just that. Well, I prepared for the worst and I got completely hammered and smoked a lot.
The next day, after a tension filled day on the range, I was called in to our commander's office. I was going to be receiving an Article 15. Think of it as the Army's equivalent as a referral in high school. Except that the punishment can be as light as just the write up, or a reduction in rank and pay. I was nervous. I had fucked up pretty good with this NCO and I knew that the penalty for insubordination was generally pretty harsh. Especially when you did so in front of a bunch of other soldiers. My stomach was in knots.
My CO, dip still in his lip and spitting in to a diet coke can, read off my Article 15. I was being accused of insubordination and disobeying a lawful order and something else. Essentially, Bob wanted my head on a pike and had said as much in this paper. He wanted my rank and my pay. Luckily for this white boy, my CO was a battle hardened Ranger that didn't like it when his troops were put in to danger unnecessarily. He hated this almost as much as he hated insubordination. He finished reading the paper, spit in to his diet coke can again, and smiled. He asked me "what in the name of fuck is wrong with you Miller. This shit? This shit doesn't stand. Now give me one reason why you shouldn't be an E-1 again and mopping these floors until your hands bleed."
So I told him about the situation and why I spoke up. His face showed no signs of anything. I would hate to play poker against that man. But he did turn his head towards Bob, who was standing to my left, his right. And with a tone of voice that could be mistaken as nothing other than contempt, he said "Bob, is this the real story? And don't fuck with me on this." Bob tried to lie a little, but our CO was having none of it. He saw through Bob's bullshit.
"Well, here's the deal stupid", the CO said as he addressed me again, "You are on extra duty for two weeks. You are cleaning BN HQ from top to bottom. No reduction in rank or pay. And after two weeks, this goes away", he finished as he waved the Article 15 in his giant hands. "Now go away so I can talk to Bob".
I don't know what he said to Bob, but Bob literally never spoke to me again for the rest of the summer. My days after that were spent going to the range, getting back, and then mopping, buffing and cleaning our BN HQ for a couple of hours. It wasn't bad work, all things considered.
Bob retired soon there after. He had like 22 years in the Army. I am sure he was a good guy. But at the end of the day, he fell victim to being an asshole. Remember kids, live grenades are nothing to fuck with.
Either way, across the street from the assault course was the grenade "live fire" range. Where, as the name implies, the cadets would learn how to throw a live grenade in a safe environment. Essentially, you got handed two grenades, walked out carefully to a concrete bunker where a cadre member waited on you, threw your grenades, and then got back behind the bullet proof glass. It really is a lot safer than it sounds. The guys running this range were high speed, and if you could throw a baseball more than ten feet, you would be fine.
On occasion a grenade would be thrown over the wall in to the live fire range with a pin still in the head. Or some over zealous twenty year old would just throw the grenade without removing either of the safety devices. When this went down, we were supposed to call EOD. No questions. No fucking around with live explosives. Those dudes would come out, put enough C4 around the grenade body to destroy an entire city block, blow it to hell and then leave. That was their job. And more importantly, we were in no position to handle these situations.
So enter SGT. Bob (names changed to protect the mildly retarded here.). The joke among the troops was that SGT Bob was born a water head. Yeah, I know it's not nice, but what are you going to do? Either way, Bob go to our detail late in the cycle. We had all been there since day zero and knew the ins and outs of everyday life on the grenade range. We were buddies with the cadre and we took safety seriously. Well, when we weren't eating frogs for cartons of cigarettes or playing playstation, we were in fact taking safety very seriously. So Bob shows up and immediately wants to change shit. Bob knows what's what about grenade ranges, despite never having helped run one before. So we are ignoring him. Anything he says to do, we just say "Roger that SGT", and then continue on with what we are doing.
One day we are packing out, and someone tells us that a live grenade has not gone off. Right away, we spring in to action. I am going to get on the horn with EOD, we are going to stay there until they arrive, they will blow shit up and everyone gets to go home. Well, SGT Bob decides that we are going to look for this live grenade that may or may not have a safety device in it. A live grenade that could have bounced in any direction, gone in any hole or landed in any number of different locations. He wanted us out looking for this thing with no body armor on. No training. This was a gigantic no go. So me being the dumb E-4 that I was, I stepped up, got in the position of parade rest with my hands neatly behind me and said:
"Excuse me SGT, but our orders are to call EOD. We can't go out there."
He replies with "No one asked you anything Miller. I am not staying out here all night for a grenade with the pin still in it."
This is where I fucked up. This is where common sense escaped me and I started to become unprofessional. I said, still in the position of parade rest mind you, "SGT. I am not going out there. And you can't make me."
Even thinking about it now makes me sick to my stomach. The rage in his eyes for busting his balls in front of other soldiers was unreal. I thought that he was going to strike me. Shit, he probably should have.
"Miller, you will get in this truck and we will go over to that range, and we will find hat grenade. And then you will tell the CO why you refused a lawful order." He screamed. He was teetering on blowing up.
At this point, I literally had nothing to lose. I was already toast. I was already a dead man in the eyes of this NCO. So I said, and I shit you not, "SGT. Not only won't I get in that truck, neither will any of these other fucking soldiers. You are out of line."
The world got weird in front of my eyes. I felt nauseous. I felt like I was going to black out. If this NCO wanted to off me, he could have. Luckily for me, it was about this time that one of the cadre from the range came over and told Bob that he was calling EOD and that we could roll out.
The ride back to our barracks was weird. There were like six of us in the back of a covered Humvee. No one spoke, but everyone else was making throat cutting motions and pointing at me. They were miming hanging themselves and trying not to laugh. I don't remember where my head was then, but I do remember smoking a cigarette in the back of that truck. Fuck it right ? I was dog meat anyway.
As soon as we arrived in our quad area, Bob got out and screamed out my name. I reported to him, stood at the position of parade rest and received the quietest, angriest, saliva filled, ass chewing that anyone has ever gotten for anything ever. He used names on me that I think were in another language. After what might have been two lifetimes, he left me alone and told me to go home and to prepare for the worst. I did just that. Well, I prepared for the worst and I got completely hammered and smoked a lot.
The next day, after a tension filled day on the range, I was called in to our commander's office. I was going to be receiving an Article 15. Think of it as the Army's equivalent as a referral in high school. Except that the punishment can be as light as just the write up, or a reduction in rank and pay. I was nervous. I had fucked up pretty good with this NCO and I knew that the penalty for insubordination was generally pretty harsh. Especially when you did so in front of a bunch of other soldiers. My stomach was in knots.
My CO, dip still in his lip and spitting in to a diet coke can, read off my Article 15. I was being accused of insubordination and disobeying a lawful order and something else. Essentially, Bob wanted my head on a pike and had said as much in this paper. He wanted my rank and my pay. Luckily for this white boy, my CO was a battle hardened Ranger that didn't like it when his troops were put in to danger unnecessarily. He hated this almost as much as he hated insubordination. He finished reading the paper, spit in to his diet coke can again, and smiled. He asked me "what in the name of fuck is wrong with you Miller. This shit? This shit doesn't stand. Now give me one reason why you shouldn't be an E-1 again and mopping these floors until your hands bleed."
So I told him about the situation and why I spoke up. His face showed no signs of anything. I would hate to play poker against that man. But he did turn his head towards Bob, who was standing to my left, his right. And with a tone of voice that could be mistaken as nothing other than contempt, he said "Bob, is this the real story? And don't fuck with me on this." Bob tried to lie a little, but our CO was having none of it. He saw through Bob's bullshit.
"Well, here's the deal stupid", the CO said as he addressed me again, "You are on extra duty for two weeks. You are cleaning BN HQ from top to bottom. No reduction in rank or pay. And after two weeks, this goes away", he finished as he waved the Article 15 in his giant hands. "Now go away so I can talk to Bob".
I don't know what he said to Bob, but Bob literally never spoke to me again for the rest of the summer. My days after that were spent going to the range, getting back, and then mopping, buffing and cleaning our BN HQ for a couple of hours. It wasn't bad work, all things considered.
Bob retired soon there after. He had like 22 years in the Army. I am sure he was a good guy. But at the end of the day, he fell victim to being an asshole. Remember kids, live grenades are nothing to fuck with.
Some random thoughts
I pulled the gun on life
and she put her finger in the barrel and grinned.
Whispering, "Go ahead sweetie", through rotting teeth.
and she put her finger in the barrel and grinned.
Whispering, "Go ahead sweetie", through rotting teeth.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Private Garza . A zero at zeroing her weapon
Probably the best part about being in the Army, aside from my actually doing my job, was being able to shoot a variety of guns. Of course I got to fire your standard issue M16A2, but I also got fire other stuff like the M-60 Machine gun, the M203 grenade launcher and the AT4 anti-tank system. Say what you will, but guns are still amazing things to me. It also didn't hurt that I was very, very good with a rifle in my hand. I qualified with my weapon (that is to say, I took it out to a range and tried to shoot a set amount of targets at various distances within a certain amount of time) countless times. Every time a unit in my Battalion went to the range, I tried to tag along. In fact, I almost missed the birth of my first son because I was out on a range in the middle of nowhere. That's a story for later though.
When you are in Basic Training though, weapons are just as tedious as everything else. You only move as fast as your slowest person, just like every other activity in which you participate. The process goes something like this:
1. Get your weapon from the arms room. The arms room is a secure area of a building where the rifles are kept under lock and key. You present some shmuck with your weapons card and he gives you the rifle that possesses the corresponding weapon ID number, I don't remember my weapon number from basic, but my permanent party rifle was 641246. I loved that rifle.
2. Get in the truck and go to the range.
3. Sit in the bleachers while ten or so of your classmates zero their weapons. Now, this is where the ponderous bullshit starts. Think about it. There are something like 100+ soldiers in each regiment, and only ten or so people can be shooting at once. Each person can only shoot three rounds, then walks down to their target to see what their grouping looks like. Once they see where the adjustments need to be made, they go back to their rifles and make said adjustments. This goes on and on and on and on until each person has their M16 shooting a nice, tight shot group inside of the middle of a target from 25 meters away. Theoretically, this should NOT be a hard job, right? Most people zeroed their weapons in 5 tries or less. So that's about 15 shots for most folks. However, we had lots of troops in our regiment that couldn't pick a rifle out of a police lineup, never mind pick one up and shoot it. Enter Private Garza. Private Garza was about zero foot tall. She was also a very..."broad"...lady. So not only did she have a nearly impossible time seeing over the foxhole from which she was shooting, she also found her rifle to be impossibly heavy when loaded. Garza would shoot her three rounds, walk to the target, find ZERO holes in said target, walk back, fiddle with her windage knob for some reason, and then shoot again. This had to have gone on for an hour or so. She shot for almost an hour and found not ONE hole in her target. From 25 meters, she should have accidentally hit it a few times. So Garza shoots again, walks to her target and just kind of stands there. You can tell that she is mystified as to her predicament. Suddenly, as if the skies had opened up, Drill Sergeant Creek gets on the megaphone and screams out "GARRRRRRRRRRZA! WHAT'S THE FUCKING PROBLEM?". All of us in the bleachers laughed. We put our heads down and pretended to be studying or something, but there was no denying our joy. Garza answered back in her Puerto Rican accident "Drill Saryent, I am thinking I got the blanks in my gun." To my left, someone howled with laughter and stopped trying to pretend that they weren't amused. Of course this set off a chain reaction of uncontrollable belly laughs. Creek was too pissed to care though. *click* "GOD DAMNIT GARZA, GET UP HERE" *click*. So Garza came to the top of the hill that she was shooting from and slid back into her entirely too deep shooting position. At this point, DS Creek was no more than a foot from her. He was literally standing over the top of her as she shot, but he refused to not use the megaphone. She shot two rounds and Creek screamed out *click* "HOLY SHIT GARZA! WHERE ON EARTH ARE YOU SHOOTING?!" *CLICK*. So Garza turned around, rifle still in hand, pointing it at Creek's chest and began to say "The bottom le..". But Creek was in war mode. Someone had pointed a weapon at him. He sprang to his feet, kicked the rifle out of her hands and stomped Private Garza on top of the head like he was trying to kill a gigantic spider. Garza went down in the foxhole like a wet sack of squid. Without missing a beat, Creek turns to the bleachers, where we are all sitting with wide open jaws and says super calmly, with no megaphone "see privates. This is why I always tell you to keep your weapons up and down range. Everyone clear now?". We were crystal clear.
4. After zeroing, you go out to a range where targets pop up all over the place. As short as 50 meters and as long as 300 meters. The first time that I qualified with my weapon, I got a perfect score. But because Drill Sergeant Greene didn't believe that a new soldier could be that proficient with his weapon, he docked me a point. "Expert" is nothing to sneeze at, but I wanted that damn "Eagle Eye" title!
5. You leave the range and get "rodded off". All that means is that the Drills make sure that your chamber is clear and that you aren't trying to carry any ammo off of the range. To check for ammo, the drills would slap your pockets. All of them. And if you had been fucking around that day, or pissing off a drill, they would "check you for ammo" as hard as they could. You know, they didn't want any stray brass getting in to the barracks. I always feared the days when Creek and Hightower took us the range. Creek took some sort of weird thrill from knocking the holy hell out of you, no matter who you were. I liked to tell people that I thought that Creek was a massive sub in his personal life. It occurred to me that anyone who is in charge that much for their job HAS to love it when some girl straps on a studded phallus on and does work on him. But that's just a theory of course.
I want to buy an M16, but the wife won't let me have one at the house. Probably for the best.
When you are in Basic Training though, weapons are just as tedious as everything else. You only move as fast as your slowest person, just like every other activity in which you participate. The process goes something like this:
1. Get your weapon from the arms room. The arms room is a secure area of a building where the rifles are kept under lock and key. You present some shmuck with your weapons card and he gives you the rifle that possesses the corresponding weapon ID number, I don't remember my weapon number from basic, but my permanent party rifle was 641246. I loved that rifle.
2. Get in the truck and go to the range.
3. Sit in the bleachers while ten or so of your classmates zero their weapons. Now, this is where the ponderous bullshit starts. Think about it. There are something like 100+ soldiers in each regiment, and only ten or so people can be shooting at once. Each person can only shoot three rounds, then walks down to their target to see what their grouping looks like. Once they see where the adjustments need to be made, they go back to their rifles and make said adjustments. This goes on and on and on and on until each person has their M16 shooting a nice, tight shot group inside of the middle of a target from 25 meters away. Theoretically, this should NOT be a hard job, right? Most people zeroed their weapons in 5 tries or less. So that's about 15 shots for most folks. However, we had lots of troops in our regiment that couldn't pick a rifle out of a police lineup, never mind pick one up and shoot it. Enter Private Garza. Private Garza was about zero foot tall. She was also a very..."broad"...lady. So not only did she have a nearly impossible time seeing over the foxhole from which she was shooting, she also found her rifle to be impossibly heavy when loaded. Garza would shoot her three rounds, walk to the target, find ZERO holes in said target, walk back, fiddle with her windage knob for some reason, and then shoot again. This had to have gone on for an hour or so. She shot for almost an hour and found not ONE hole in her target. From 25 meters, she should have accidentally hit it a few times. So Garza shoots again, walks to her target and just kind of stands there. You can tell that she is mystified as to her predicament. Suddenly, as if the skies had opened up, Drill Sergeant Creek gets on the megaphone and screams out "GARRRRRRRRRRZA! WHAT'S THE FUCKING PROBLEM?". All of us in the bleachers laughed. We put our heads down and pretended to be studying or something, but there was no denying our joy. Garza answered back in her Puerto Rican accident "Drill Saryent, I am thinking I got the blanks in my gun." To my left, someone howled with laughter and stopped trying to pretend that they weren't amused. Of course this set off a chain reaction of uncontrollable belly laughs. Creek was too pissed to care though. *click* "GOD DAMNIT GARZA, GET UP HERE" *click*. So Garza came to the top of the hill that she was shooting from and slid back into her entirely too deep shooting position. At this point, DS Creek was no more than a foot from her. He was literally standing over the top of her as she shot, but he refused to not use the megaphone. She shot two rounds and Creek screamed out *click* "HOLY SHIT GARZA! WHERE ON EARTH ARE YOU SHOOTING?!" *CLICK*. So Garza turned around, rifle still in hand, pointing it at Creek's chest and began to say "The bottom le..". But Creek was in war mode. Someone had pointed a weapon at him. He sprang to his feet, kicked the rifle out of her hands and stomped Private Garza on top of the head like he was trying to kill a gigantic spider. Garza went down in the foxhole like a wet sack of squid. Without missing a beat, Creek turns to the bleachers, where we are all sitting with wide open jaws and says super calmly, with no megaphone "see privates. This is why I always tell you to keep your weapons up and down range. Everyone clear now?". We were crystal clear.
4. After zeroing, you go out to a range where targets pop up all over the place. As short as 50 meters and as long as 300 meters. The first time that I qualified with my weapon, I got a perfect score. But because Drill Sergeant Greene didn't believe that a new soldier could be that proficient with his weapon, he docked me a point. "Expert" is nothing to sneeze at, but I wanted that damn "Eagle Eye" title!
5. You leave the range and get "rodded off". All that means is that the Drills make sure that your chamber is clear and that you aren't trying to carry any ammo off of the range. To check for ammo, the drills would slap your pockets. All of them. And if you had been fucking around that day, or pissing off a drill, they would "check you for ammo" as hard as they could. You know, they didn't want any stray brass getting in to the barracks. I always feared the days when Creek and Hightower took us the range. Creek took some sort of weird thrill from knocking the holy hell out of you, no matter who you were. I liked to tell people that I thought that Creek was a massive sub in his personal life. It occurred to me that anyone who is in charge that much for their job HAS to love it when some girl straps on a studded phallus on and does work on him. But that's just a theory of course.
I want to buy an M16, but the wife won't let me have one at the house. Probably for the best.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
PVT Jackson. Grade A dumb ass/tough guy.
People got in trouble a lot at Basic Training. I mean, it came with territory. A bunch of teenagers, fresh out of their mom's house were bound to do some dumb shit. And though I never personally got in trouble on an individual basis, I was certainly privy to many a group smokings. I was also fortunate enough to see what can only be described as the "world's most brutal article 15".
For those of you not familiar with the term; an Article 15 is something of a "referral to the principles office" for people in the Army. It's a write up, and the repercussions can range anywhere from a stern talking to, all the way up to the losing of rank. Side story; I once got an Article 15 for telling a SSGT to go fuck his mother. In fairness, he was trying to get one of my troops to go "recover a thrown grenade that had not detonated." I don't think it was the insubordination that got me the Article 15, so much as the tone. That is a true story. I don't regret it either. SSGT Kenny, if you are out there, you remain one of the dumbest people that has ever set foot on this planet. I apologize for nothing. I had to do three weeks of "extra duty", mostly cleaning floors and what not, as part of my corrective behavior. I didn't feel bad about it for one minute.
Back to the story at hand. We were told to gather in the "war room" on the first floor of our barracks. We knew that someone was getting an Article 15, but we didn't know what for. However, when you're a PVT with less than four weeks in the Army, an Article 15 sounds like a death sentence. Most of the time you just got screamed at for fucking up. We couldn't imagine getting paperwork delivered to us for getting in trouble. We packed into the war room, sitting Indian style and quietly guessing with one another about what could have possibly happened. Some folks said that the guy got into a fight. Others said that he had talked back to a Drill. Still others had heard that this guy was wanting to go home and had tried to leave the barracks to make a phone call without authorization; An unforgivable sin for those of us just starting out. Whatever the reason was, we didn't get it figured out before our Drills came into the room and shut us all up with a simple glance. We knew that this shit was serious. The looks that we we got from those men still strike me today.
Four or five minutes later, our company commander walked in to the room and we all bolted to the position of attention. He walked to the front of the room, sat in the middle of a long, plastic table and told us all to be seated. He said simply, "Private Jackson, post.", summoning the young man that was due to receive his Article 15.
What happened next still doesn't seem real. Had I not seen this happen myself, I would not believe it had gone down. So I don't blame you if you think that I am exaggerating here, but I swear to you the reader that this is all %100 real.
Private Jackson swaggers into the room, hitching his walk like a movie pimp. His eyes locked square on the CO, licking his lips and wiping his mouth with his hand. Jackson stops about five steps from the table where the commander is seated, salutes with his LEFT FUCKING HAND and says "yeah man, whatchoo want?" and smiles like he had just heard the punchline to the world's most clever joke.
When I tell you that no one in that room was breathing, I am again telling you the truth as I know it to be. We were all horrified, scared for his life, scared for OUR lives, and quite frankly...a little impressed. I mean, the balls on this kid! No sooner than I start to think about what this guy had actually said, do Drills start to appear from every angle in the room. I am still convinced that my Senior Platoon SGT appeared from the ceiling, and that Runnells came up from the floor like a rat faced trapdoor spider. The screaming was exquisite. The volume and intensity at which the chorus of brown hats screamed was something to behold. Thick veins in thick necks bulged to near popping.
The only clear command was "GET THE FUCK OUTSIDE JACKSON. LET'S SEE WHO SMILES NOW!". I don't know if Jackson had suddenly realized the error of his ways, but he had turned an odd shade of grey. His lips were blueish and he looked to be on the verge of tears. He truly looked like he was going to shit his pants as he ran out of the war room as fast as he could with Drill Sergeants shadowing his every move.
No one else moved an inch. I barely had the courage to move my eyes to look around. The rest of C-4-10 Infantry was of a single mindset; "No one move a fucking muscle. The predators are still nearby". And no one did until the commander stood up slowly, called us to attention, and dismissed us to our respective bunk areas in a very cool, even voice. He even told us to have a good night.
So there we were, an entire Regiment of Trainees with our faces pressed against the glass of our barracks, looking out on the quad that sat to the east. The quad where Jackson was learning a mighty lesson in humility, discipline and the limits of his own body.
Jackson stood facing to the North, so we got a profile view of his smoking. He was literally surrounded by every single Drill in our regiment. They had him on all sides. I could hear Runnels begging Jackson to take a shot at him. He wanted to "end his miserable life right now. Just give me a reason scumbag".
Push-ups were the easy part. Jackson would have taken push-ups all day. But for most of the time, SSGT Greene made Jackson stand with his arms extended in front of him while holding on to a 5 gallon trash can full of water. Sure, this isn't much. But think about it. Jackson had to keep his arms perfectly straight, while holding 40 pounds, as 9-12 grown men threatened to destroy his manhood, his career and his overall human beingness. When his arms faded out, Jackson was made to lay on his back and do flutter kicks. If his legs did not stay straight, he was made to stand up and take hold of the 40 pounds of water again. Rinse, lather, wash, repeat.
This hell on earth went on for at least an hour with ZERO REPRIEVE for Jackson. The yelling never slowed down, nor did the pace of the exercises. If he needed a drink, he was allowed to have one when he was on his back doing flutter kicks. Of course he wasn't allowed to hold on to the canteen, so a Drill was nice enough to pour it in his mouth while he attempted to do strenuous activities and breathe without choking to death.
Finally, one of the Sergeants told Jackson to stand up, and all of the Drills stopped screaming. It was incredibly quiet, especially when compared with all of the yelling that had just been going on. Just BARELY audible over the sound of our own breathing, we could hear Jackson sobbing. He was crying like a baby in the most literal sense of the word. He was a broken man and had simply reverted to base emotion. His chest heaved and his breath caught in his throat. Tears streamed down his face and snot ran out of his nose in copious amounts. But he didn't care. He let it fall without attempting to clean himself up. No one had told him to make the tears away, so he wasn't going to try and think for himself now.
The drills didn't say a word. They left Jackson standing there and just walked away like they were embarrassed to be seen near him. And Jackson just cried more. Someone behind me said "Man, should we go see if he's OK?". To which my roommate Jones said "Nigga, you go get that man right there, we all gonna die." Fucking Jonesy was a wise, wise man. So we all just went to bed, except for the folks that had first fire guard watch.
I don't know when Jackson came back in to the barracks, but I didn't see him again for the rest of basic. He was in first platoon and I was in third. I reckon that he either got sent home or become the model soldier. There could have been no in between.
For those of you not familiar with the term; an Article 15 is something of a "referral to the principles office" for people in the Army. It's a write up, and the repercussions can range anywhere from a stern talking to, all the way up to the losing of rank. Side story; I once got an Article 15 for telling a SSGT to go fuck his mother. In fairness, he was trying to get one of my troops to go "recover a thrown grenade that had not detonated." I don't think it was the insubordination that got me the Article 15, so much as the tone. That is a true story. I don't regret it either. SSGT Kenny, if you are out there, you remain one of the dumbest people that has ever set foot on this planet. I apologize for nothing. I had to do three weeks of "extra duty", mostly cleaning floors and what not, as part of my corrective behavior. I didn't feel bad about it for one minute.
Back to the story at hand. We were told to gather in the "war room" on the first floor of our barracks. We knew that someone was getting an Article 15, but we didn't know what for. However, when you're a PVT with less than four weeks in the Army, an Article 15 sounds like a death sentence. Most of the time you just got screamed at for fucking up. We couldn't imagine getting paperwork delivered to us for getting in trouble. We packed into the war room, sitting Indian style and quietly guessing with one another about what could have possibly happened. Some folks said that the guy got into a fight. Others said that he had talked back to a Drill. Still others had heard that this guy was wanting to go home and had tried to leave the barracks to make a phone call without authorization; An unforgivable sin for those of us just starting out. Whatever the reason was, we didn't get it figured out before our Drills came into the room and shut us all up with a simple glance. We knew that this shit was serious. The looks that we we got from those men still strike me today.
Four or five minutes later, our company commander walked in to the room and we all bolted to the position of attention. He walked to the front of the room, sat in the middle of a long, plastic table and told us all to be seated. He said simply, "Private Jackson, post.", summoning the young man that was due to receive his Article 15.
What happened next still doesn't seem real. Had I not seen this happen myself, I would not believe it had gone down. So I don't blame you if you think that I am exaggerating here, but I swear to you the reader that this is all %100 real.
Private Jackson swaggers into the room, hitching his walk like a movie pimp. His eyes locked square on the CO, licking his lips and wiping his mouth with his hand. Jackson stops about five steps from the table where the commander is seated, salutes with his LEFT FUCKING HAND and says "yeah man, whatchoo want?" and smiles like he had just heard the punchline to the world's most clever joke.
When I tell you that no one in that room was breathing, I am again telling you the truth as I know it to be. We were all horrified, scared for his life, scared for OUR lives, and quite frankly...a little impressed. I mean, the balls on this kid! No sooner than I start to think about what this guy had actually said, do Drills start to appear from every angle in the room. I am still convinced that my Senior Platoon SGT appeared from the ceiling, and that Runnells came up from the floor like a rat faced trapdoor spider. The screaming was exquisite. The volume and intensity at which the chorus of brown hats screamed was something to behold. Thick veins in thick necks bulged to near popping.
The only clear command was "GET THE FUCK OUTSIDE JACKSON. LET'S SEE WHO SMILES NOW!". I don't know if Jackson had suddenly realized the error of his ways, but he had turned an odd shade of grey. His lips were blueish and he looked to be on the verge of tears. He truly looked like he was going to shit his pants as he ran out of the war room as fast as he could with Drill Sergeants shadowing his every move.
No one else moved an inch. I barely had the courage to move my eyes to look around. The rest of C-4-10 Infantry was of a single mindset; "No one move a fucking muscle. The predators are still nearby". And no one did until the commander stood up slowly, called us to attention, and dismissed us to our respective bunk areas in a very cool, even voice. He even told us to have a good night.
So there we were, an entire Regiment of Trainees with our faces pressed against the glass of our barracks, looking out on the quad that sat to the east. The quad where Jackson was learning a mighty lesson in humility, discipline and the limits of his own body.
Jackson stood facing to the North, so we got a profile view of his smoking. He was literally surrounded by every single Drill in our regiment. They had him on all sides. I could hear Runnels begging Jackson to take a shot at him. He wanted to "end his miserable life right now. Just give me a reason scumbag".
Push-ups were the easy part. Jackson would have taken push-ups all day. But for most of the time, SSGT Greene made Jackson stand with his arms extended in front of him while holding on to a 5 gallon trash can full of water. Sure, this isn't much. But think about it. Jackson had to keep his arms perfectly straight, while holding 40 pounds, as 9-12 grown men threatened to destroy his manhood, his career and his overall human beingness. When his arms faded out, Jackson was made to lay on his back and do flutter kicks. If his legs did not stay straight, he was made to stand up and take hold of the 40 pounds of water again. Rinse, lather, wash, repeat.
This hell on earth went on for at least an hour with ZERO REPRIEVE for Jackson. The yelling never slowed down, nor did the pace of the exercises. If he needed a drink, he was allowed to have one when he was on his back doing flutter kicks. Of course he wasn't allowed to hold on to the canteen, so a Drill was nice enough to pour it in his mouth while he attempted to do strenuous activities and breathe without choking to death.
Finally, one of the Sergeants told Jackson to stand up, and all of the Drills stopped screaming. It was incredibly quiet, especially when compared with all of the yelling that had just been going on. Just BARELY audible over the sound of our own breathing, we could hear Jackson sobbing. He was crying like a baby in the most literal sense of the word. He was a broken man and had simply reverted to base emotion. His chest heaved and his breath caught in his throat. Tears streamed down his face and snot ran out of his nose in copious amounts. But he didn't care. He let it fall without attempting to clean himself up. No one had told him to make the tears away, so he wasn't going to try and think for himself now.
The drills didn't say a word. They left Jackson standing there and just walked away like they were embarrassed to be seen near him. And Jackson just cried more. Someone behind me said "Man, should we go see if he's OK?". To which my roommate Jones said "Nigga, you go get that man right there, we all gonna die." Fucking Jonesy was a wise, wise man. So we all just went to bed, except for the folks that had first fire guard watch.
I don't know when Jackson came back in to the barracks, but I didn't see him again for the rest of basic. He was in first platoon and I was in third. I reckon that he either got sent home or become the model soldier. There could have been no in between.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Basic. Day 1: Let's meet the Drill Sergeants!
Reception Battalion came and went. Between not sleeping at all, eating very little and filling out paperwork, the time actually sailed by pretty quickly. So on the last day of reception, we were marched out into the ol' courtyard with everything that had been issued to us and everything that we had brought from home and had been allowed to keep. And in my case, some things that I wasn't supposed to be keeping but had managed to sneak along with me. More on that later. In front of us were these...trucks. I struggle for a name or describer because if I just used the real name of them, you'd think that I was kidding or exaggerating. They are called "cattle trucks". They are, in fact, used to haul cattle from the farm to the slaughterhouse. The allusion would not be wasted on me.
We walked into the cattle truck through slow opening double doors that operated hydraulically. The gate folded to the outside of the truck. And when the word "truck" is used here, please don't be misled. The cattle truck is nothing but a silver coffin. A way to transport your livestock to meet it's demise. It's essentially a two level trailer that is closed off from the outside world, with a bench on the top layer. Anyway. We packed into this truck and were told by the tech sergeant to put our personal bags on top of our duffel bags and wait to leave. I was fourth on to the truck, so I got to put my stuff on the bench and relax a little. I still had another duffel on my back, but that would end up being OK. The folks on the lower level of the cattle truck had to stand and hold everything. Though I can't be sure on how many people they crammed on to this vehicle, I can be absolutely positive that it wasn't safe at all. People were standing front to back. Rather, they were standing duffel bag to duffel bag. If we had an accident, the amount of stuff that the road crews would have had to clean up would have set all kinds of records.
We had been at capacity for roughly three minutes when a small, tan, rugged faced man sauntered onto the bottom step of the cattle truck. He looked around, grinned and donned his smokey the bear hat. If ever there was a man who had looked like a drill sergeant, it was this incredible specimen of a human. His chin, chiseled with an artists touch, from the hardest stone that could be found. His eyes, deep set in his skull and burning with the fire that only a combat veteran can produce. The kind of eyes that shows just a little too much white around the edges; nature's way of warning you that this creature is 100%, certifiably, batshit crazy. His hat sat against his forehead at a perfect 33 degree angle, providing enough shade on his face to black out those insane eyes. This man was born to be a Drill Sergeant.
The small man threw back his head and bellowed "GET YOUR HEAD IN YOUR BAGS RIGHT NOW PEOPLE!". Some folks snapped their necks to find this source of incredible volume. Others snickered a little, thinking that this was some sort of mind game or a gag that the cadre were playing. Some of us just stared at him, marveling at his intensity. Up to this point, no one had really yelled at us this loudly. Sure, there was some gruffness here and there, but nothing along these lines. This man commanded the very air that we were breathing and we knew it.
His face turned a deep color of red. Somewhere between "Brick" and "Orange Red" in the crayon box.
"I said put your fucking heads in your bags right now. Do I need to repeat myself again?", he screamed as loud as I had ever heard anyone scream. He didn't. We all obeyed the order and promptly put our faces down on to our duffels. You could hear everyone breathing, along with the hum of the tires on the road. I could feel the electricity coursing through the man standing next to me. he was shivering and nervously playing with the strap on his personal bag. After five or six minutes, the drill said to someone, "If you look up from that bag one more time, I'm going to think that you have a crush on me. And then I am going to come over there and make you my girlfriend.". There were no women in our flight. Someone standing across from me mumbled, "Jesus man, just keep your head down". I would still swear to you this day that I could feel the drill smiling.
We were told to empty all of our bags out on the ground and to NEVER allow any of our belongings to touch outside of our square. Four full bags of issued equipment, papers, personal belongings and whatever else we had, and it was supposed to stay in that area? Yeah, good luck. This is what the Army likes to call "being setup for failure". The drills didn't need a reason to scream at you, but having a glove land 1mm outside of your assigned area gave them one anyway.
The first drill that "introduced himself" to my was Staff Sergeant Creek. Sergeant Creek did not curse. And for whatever reason, I found this to be even more intimidating than the men who screamed out profanities on a pretty regular basis. "What's the da gum matter with you private you?", he said evenly and condescendingly. It was always "you" with Dsgt. Creek. He didn't care what your name was. And every time he called you "you", it just ate your soul a little. I was dumb enough to reply to this. I replied "Nothing is the matter Sergeant". Here's a pro tip for all of you kids thinking about joining the Army; NEVER, EVER answer a Drill's question. Just play stupid. It hurts less. Ssgt. Creek got close enough to me that his hat touched my chin and he told me "Well you, I will make sure that I see that something is the matter. And very soon." . It was the voice of a serial killer and I was to be a victim. Luckily for me, the guy standing next to me had a boot land outside of his square and Creek went to make sure that this young "you"'s life became a living hell.
I next met Staff Sergeant Runnels. He was a tiny, rat of a man with eyes like frozen lasers. He wore a ranger tab on both shoulders, meaning that he had been to combat with a Ranger Battalion. So he had to be crazier than a shithouse mouse. He was as pale as a human being can be without becoming see through. His teeth were crooked and stained from years of using chewing tobacco and fighting.
Ssgt. Runnels went to the front of the formation when all of the initial screaming had ceased. He pulled out a bullhorn, as if he needed one, and gave us instructions that we were to pick up the item he called out and drop it in to our bags. "Do not touch anything before I call it out. Do not leave your square. Do not get any funny ideas". I am not real sure what the last thing meant, but I was positive that "funny" was the last thing on my mind at the time.
"Wool socks. 6 pair. Hold it up." . We did. "Now drop it in your bag". We did.
"Brown underwear. 6 pairs. Hold it up.". We did. "Now drop it in your bag." We did.
And this went along swimmingly for twenty minutes or so, until we got to:
"First aid kit. One. Hold it up." . And it was then that I became absolutely baffled as to what I was looking for. Was it this thing that hooked on to my suspenders? Should it be in my rucksack? "Oh shit", I said quietly. I began to tear everything apart. I looked in, on and under everything that I had left in my square. I began to tear my bags apart and look through the things that I had already put away. It was no good. I couldn't find it.
"You. Stand the fuck up and show me your first aid kit." Runnels said without the aid of the bullhorn. It was a simple enough order, but I didn't have the materials to obey it properly. I let my head sink as I said "No idea where it is.". "OH NO! What have you just said?", I thought to myself. I didn't start or end that sentence with "Sergeant". I had said it flippantly. "Sorry, I can't find it Sear", I began to grovel. it was too late. Before I could finish my sentence, Runnels was on me like a cat on an injured insect.
The brim of his hat only hit me in the collar bone. I towered over Ssgt. Runnels, but I was sure that he could have taken out my lower intestines with his bare hands, made a rope out of it, repelled from a helicopter with my guts and then taken me out with a kick to the throat before I knew what happened. The stiff, starched, wool brim of his smokey hat banged into my collarbone repeatedly as he screamed at me at the top of his lungs.
"I've got more days in BDU's than you've got on this earth private. I will personally see that this man's Army either washes you out or makes a respectable human being out of your sorry punk ass.". I wanted to cry. And not because I was scared, but because I hated this attention. I just wanted to get by without making myself looking like an asshole. That mission had failed at the launchpad though.
After five more minutes of being berated and putting our stuff back into our bags, we were told to get ready to go inside of our barracks. Third floor. First room. We were to be The Third platoon of C-4-10 infantry. The ladies would be along shortly to fill out our platoon. For now, we were to make our bunks and stow our belongings into the wall lockers. "Go" screamed Runnels through the bullhorn. Young men ran as hard as they could around the corner of the barracks and towards the back door, where the trainees were to enter. Trainees didn't "deserve" the front door. Fair enough. As I got about ten steps from the back entrance, I saw the other Miller again, struggling to carry all of his things. He had a personal briefcase full of his papers precariously balanced on his issued bags. AS soon as I set eyes on Shawn, he missed the third stair on his way up to the landing for the door. He fell forward, spilling all of his papers, clothes and everything else that we had worked so hard to get back into our bags. He screamed out "OH FUCK ALL OF THIS" and just let his papers fly away. There was no way he was going to be the last guy into the bay.
The rest of the day involved putting away our things, claiming our bunks and watching the rest of the company come in off of their respective cattle trucks. They came in one an hour or so, and we watched them all from the windows on our floor. It was wonderful and hilarious. Each wave of soldiers brought forth new humor, savagery and silliness. We were finally at basic training.
We walked into the cattle truck through slow opening double doors that operated hydraulically. The gate folded to the outside of the truck. And when the word "truck" is used here, please don't be misled. The cattle truck is nothing but a silver coffin. A way to transport your livestock to meet it's demise. It's essentially a two level trailer that is closed off from the outside world, with a bench on the top layer. Anyway. We packed into this truck and were told by the tech sergeant to put our personal bags on top of our duffel bags and wait to leave. I was fourth on to the truck, so I got to put my stuff on the bench and relax a little. I still had another duffel on my back, but that would end up being OK. The folks on the lower level of the cattle truck had to stand and hold everything. Though I can't be sure on how many people they crammed on to this vehicle, I can be absolutely positive that it wasn't safe at all. People were standing front to back. Rather, they were standing duffel bag to duffel bag. If we had an accident, the amount of stuff that the road crews would have had to clean up would have set all kinds of records.
We had been at capacity for roughly three minutes when a small, tan, rugged faced man sauntered onto the bottom step of the cattle truck. He looked around, grinned and donned his smokey the bear hat. If ever there was a man who had looked like a drill sergeant, it was this incredible specimen of a human. His chin, chiseled with an artists touch, from the hardest stone that could be found. His eyes, deep set in his skull and burning with the fire that only a combat veteran can produce. The kind of eyes that shows just a little too much white around the edges; nature's way of warning you that this creature is 100%, certifiably, batshit crazy. His hat sat against his forehead at a perfect 33 degree angle, providing enough shade on his face to black out those insane eyes. This man was born to be a Drill Sergeant.
The small man threw back his head and bellowed "GET YOUR HEAD IN YOUR BAGS RIGHT NOW PEOPLE!". Some folks snapped their necks to find this source of incredible volume. Others snickered a little, thinking that this was some sort of mind game or a gag that the cadre were playing. Some of us just stared at him, marveling at his intensity. Up to this point, no one had really yelled at us this loudly. Sure, there was some gruffness here and there, but nothing along these lines. This man commanded the very air that we were breathing and we knew it.
His face turned a deep color of red. Somewhere between "Brick" and "Orange Red" in the crayon box.
"I said put your fucking heads in your bags right now. Do I need to repeat myself again?", he screamed as loud as I had ever heard anyone scream. He didn't. We all obeyed the order and promptly put our faces down on to our duffels. You could hear everyone breathing, along with the hum of the tires on the road. I could feel the electricity coursing through the man standing next to me. he was shivering and nervously playing with the strap on his personal bag. After five or six minutes, the drill said to someone, "If you look up from that bag one more time, I'm going to think that you have a crush on me. And then I am going to come over there and make you my girlfriend.". There were no women in our flight. Someone standing across from me mumbled, "Jesus man, just keep your head down". I would still swear to you this day that I could feel the drill smiling.
We were told to empty all of our bags out on the ground and to NEVER allow any of our belongings to touch outside of our square. Four full bags of issued equipment, papers, personal belongings and whatever else we had, and it was supposed to stay in that area? Yeah, good luck. This is what the Army likes to call "being setup for failure". The drills didn't need a reason to scream at you, but having a glove land 1mm outside of your assigned area gave them one anyway.
The first drill that "introduced himself" to my was Staff Sergeant Creek. Sergeant Creek did not curse. And for whatever reason, I found this to be even more intimidating than the men who screamed out profanities on a pretty regular basis. "What's the da gum matter with you private you?", he said evenly and condescendingly. It was always "you" with Dsgt. Creek. He didn't care what your name was. And every time he called you "you", it just ate your soul a little. I was dumb enough to reply to this. I replied "Nothing is the matter Sergeant". Here's a pro tip for all of you kids thinking about joining the Army; NEVER, EVER answer a Drill's question. Just play stupid. It hurts less. Ssgt. Creek got close enough to me that his hat touched my chin and he told me "Well you, I will make sure that I see that something is the matter. And very soon." . It was the voice of a serial killer and I was to be a victim. Luckily for me, the guy standing next to me had a boot land outside of his square and Creek went to make sure that this young "you"'s life became a living hell.
I next met Staff Sergeant Runnels. He was a tiny, rat of a man with eyes like frozen lasers. He wore a ranger tab on both shoulders, meaning that he had been to combat with a Ranger Battalion. So he had to be crazier than a shithouse mouse. He was as pale as a human being can be without becoming see through. His teeth were crooked and stained from years of using chewing tobacco and fighting.
Ssgt. Runnels went to the front of the formation when all of the initial screaming had ceased. He pulled out a bullhorn, as if he needed one, and gave us instructions that we were to pick up the item he called out and drop it in to our bags. "Do not touch anything before I call it out. Do not leave your square. Do not get any funny ideas". I am not real sure what the last thing meant, but I was positive that "funny" was the last thing on my mind at the time.
"Wool socks. 6 pair. Hold it up." . We did. "Now drop it in your bag". We did.
"Brown underwear. 6 pairs. Hold it up.". We did. "Now drop it in your bag." We did.
And this went along swimmingly for twenty minutes or so, until we got to:
"First aid kit. One. Hold it up." . And it was then that I became absolutely baffled as to what I was looking for. Was it this thing that hooked on to my suspenders? Should it be in my rucksack? "Oh shit", I said quietly. I began to tear everything apart. I looked in, on and under everything that I had left in my square. I began to tear my bags apart and look through the things that I had already put away. It was no good. I couldn't find it.
"You. Stand the fuck up and show me your first aid kit." Runnels said without the aid of the bullhorn. It was a simple enough order, but I didn't have the materials to obey it properly. I let my head sink as I said "No idea where it is.". "OH NO! What have you just said?", I thought to myself. I didn't start or end that sentence with "Sergeant". I had said it flippantly. "Sorry, I can't find it Sear", I began to grovel. it was too late. Before I could finish my sentence, Runnels was on me like a cat on an injured insect.
The brim of his hat only hit me in the collar bone. I towered over Ssgt. Runnels, but I was sure that he could have taken out my lower intestines with his bare hands, made a rope out of it, repelled from a helicopter with my guts and then taken me out with a kick to the throat before I knew what happened. The stiff, starched, wool brim of his smokey hat banged into my collarbone repeatedly as he screamed at me at the top of his lungs.
"I've got more days in BDU's than you've got on this earth private. I will personally see that this man's Army either washes you out or makes a respectable human being out of your sorry punk ass.". I wanted to cry. And not because I was scared, but because I hated this attention. I just wanted to get by without making myself looking like an asshole. That mission had failed at the launchpad though.
After five more minutes of being berated and putting our stuff back into our bags, we were told to get ready to go inside of our barracks. Third floor. First room. We were to be The Third platoon of C-4-10 infantry. The ladies would be along shortly to fill out our platoon. For now, we were to make our bunks and stow our belongings into the wall lockers. "Go" screamed Runnels through the bullhorn. Young men ran as hard as they could around the corner of the barracks and towards the back door, where the trainees were to enter. Trainees didn't "deserve" the front door. Fair enough. As I got about ten steps from the back entrance, I saw the other Miller again, struggling to carry all of his things. He had a personal briefcase full of his papers precariously balanced on his issued bags. AS soon as I set eyes on Shawn, he missed the third stair on his way up to the landing for the door. He fell forward, spilling all of his papers, clothes and everything else that we had worked so hard to get back into our bags. He screamed out "OH FUCK ALL OF THIS" and just let his papers fly away. There was no way he was going to be the last guy into the bay.
The rest of the day involved putting away our things, claiming our bunks and watching the rest of the company come in off of their respective cattle trucks. They came in one an hour or so, and we watched them all from the windows on our floor. It was wonderful and hilarious. Each wave of soldiers brought forth new humor, savagery and silliness. We were finally at basic training.
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