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.
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