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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)