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.

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.