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.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
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.
Army Guy : Day 0
A lot of people don't understand the part of the Army before you actually attend Basic Training. Yes, they ship you off to the same god forsaken, hole in the wall, bum fucked slice of hell, but you are not technically at basic Training for a few days. Before Basic Training, there is the Reception Battalion. Long story short, the Reception Battalion is where they process you like so much branded cattle. Your eyes are checked, your hair is cut, all of your contraband is taken away and thrown into this bin that I can only imagine is picked through at a later time by the Cadre at said reception Battalion (you're welcome for the 3/4 full carton of smokes by the way, assholes), and you fill out paperwork. Loads of paperwork. Then, when all T's are crossed and all i's dotted, they put you in a cattle car (literally) and send you off to your unit. This is my experience at the Reception Battalion.
I got off of the plane in Saint Louis at around 1:30 AM. Mind you, I had gotten on my plane in Indy at 10:35 AM. So after a FIVE hour layover in Chicago and another layover in Minneapolis, I finally arrived; Sleep deprived, wanting a cigarette and completely lost. I wandered, half-awake and frightened, out of the doors by baggage claim and lit up a partially smashed smoke. I remember how much loose tobacco there was in the pack. I can't be sure why that sticks with me so well, but I can still see all of that loose plant material falling out of my soft pack as I tapped out a square. Probably because it was the last time that I would smoke until we snuck one at our "free day away", some six weeks later. I lit the cigarette and looked up over the end of it and met eyes with a man in a drill sergeant hat. He was as black as a whore's heart and bigger than a mountain. His eyes looked cartoonish, because they were so very, very white and he was literally the darkest human being that I had ever seen. He knew I was due to be on his bus. He could smell it on me.
About seven of us got on the bus and were promptly told to "Shut the fuck up if we wanted to live". I wasn't sure if we were going to Fort Leonard Wood or an internment camp somewhere deep in the Missouri countryside. Shutting the fuck up was no problem for me, as I had been awake for going on at 24 hours at this point. I was so tired that I felt like I was just floating through this whole experience. Which is far more than I can say for the guy who was sitting next to me. He was an older guy, probably 35, the same age I am now, and he smelled like bad cologne and even worse breath. But he was crying. He was crying real, honest to God tears and he kept hitching when he tried to breath, like the oxygen was choking him. In retrospect, I should have probably tried to comfort the poor guy, but I pretended to be asleep and then really did pass out from exhaustion.
We got to Ft. Leonard Wood some time around 2:45 in the morning, I THINK. I'd be lying if I said that I could remember this for a certainty. I know that it was super late, very dark and sort of cold. Not the kind of bitey, Midwest cold that you get in early March, but that humid kind of cold that sort of sets into your bones slowly. It was a foggy cold, if that helps at all. As soon as the bus stopped, more enormous men boarded our bus and promptly began to scream bloody murder. These were not Drill Sergeants, oh no. These were Tech Sergeants, whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean. I never met another one of these creatures outside of reception, and I'd like to think that the entire thing has been wiped off of the face of the plant. So I ran off of the bus in the half-awake, half-dream state and was promptly hustled into this building that sort of looked like a prison, and sort of like an elementary school. It had lots of very thick glass on the outside, and the lights hit it in such a way that it cast odd shadows all over the entry way.
Once inside, we were told to dump all of our baggage into this small bin and let the Tech Sergeants go through it. Not only did I have an almost completely full carton of Camel Lights with me, I had brought porno magazines with me. And snack food. And some "for my eyes only" pictures of my girlfriend. Somewhere, right now, there is a 50 year old, ex-tech sergeant with Polaroids of my then 18 year old girlfriend, spread eagle on her bed and giving him a sly, come-hither look. ENJOY THEM YOU ROTTEN BASTARD! Ok, sorry, where was I? Ah yes. After most of my personal "contraband" was confiscated by the terrorists....er...cadre, we were taken into a poorly lit room full of school desks and bad tiling. On each desk, there was a postcard that were supposed to sign that stated something like "Dear, _________ , I have made it safely to Ft. Leonard Wood to begin my training. I will write you soon. Best, ___________" . I filled in my sister's name, signed my name on the bottom and wrote what I thought to be something terribly insightful and witty on the bottom, in the space below the signature line. Years later, when my sister showed me this postcard, I realized that I must have been asleep on my feet. Punch drunk. Something. The space below my name was indeed filled. it said"AS-------------------------------------",with the trailing line literally running off of the page.
We sat in that room for a couple of more hours, filling out paper work and trying not to get murdered by a cadre member for closing our eyes for more than 3 seconds. The kid in front of me fell out of his desk and didn't wake up when he hit the floor. I can almost still hear the sound of his head thumping off of the ground. It reminded me of checking a tomato for ripeness. I also remember being horribly jealous that he was laying down. I bet the tile was cool and sweet to the touch, even if it was only for a couple of seconds, until the Sergeant came along and dragged him up by his tee shirt collar. He turned and smiled to me when he sat back down. I'm not sure if he was still asleep, but he certainly seemed oblivious to the eye fucking that the cadre was giving him at that point and time. That was the other "Miller". This wouldn't be the first time that we would share experiences like this.
After we were done filling out every single piece of paperwork on the face of the earth (I am pretty sure I bought a Sergeant's mother a house that night. who knows?), we were lined up, sort of, outside of the reception building and taken to the barracks where we would be living for the next 2 days and change. I can't be certain, but I would wager that these barracks were built sometime around the turn of 12th century. They were drafty, they were cold, and there only two rooms in the entire building. The one main bay was where all of us slept together in bunk beds, much as you might imagine the stereotypical, "Full Metal Jacket", military style barracks. The bathroom sat at the far end of the building and there was no hot water. The Sergeants told us that we could go to sleep if we wanted to, but we had to be up in an hour and 45 minutes. To this day I don't know who said it, but someone on the far end of the barracks muttered "Oh, fuck this", which, as you can probably imagine, elicited a mighty strong reaction from the tech. After the lecture he delivered to us, which included words like "goat fuckers", "dog shit faces" and "cunts", we had about an hour and 25 minutes to sleep. I tried to sleep, but there was no way to get relaxed. I had been awake so long at this point that I felt like I was tweaking out on speed. My eyes hurt and I was hungry and I didn't like this place, and when would I talk to my family again, and is that dude jerking off to the pictures of my girlfriend RIGHT NOW!? So I paced. I paced until they came to get us for morning formation.
We all met out in the gigantic courtyard where all of the barracks buildings opened. Everyone there was in different stages of reception. Some had just gotten there, us, and some of them were almost ready to head out to their respective training units. I was exhausted and so was everyone standing around me. The formation looked like a group of those inflatable men they put in front of car dealerships when their having a "BIG, WACKY, SALE!". Arms and heads swayed in every direction and some folks struggled to keep their balance. And in the middle of checking out my own formation, I noticed another formation across the way of other people who had also just arrived; the women. Yes, the women. Most of them looked as bad or worse than we did. Faces, used to make up and moisturizers, neglected because all of that had been taken away. Hair, used to being conditioned and brushed meticulously, lay matted against their heads or in sloppy ponytails. But it was at that moment that I knew we'd be OK. They couldn't kill us if the girls were there.
And that was day 0.
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