Chapter 2: Into the great wide open

"September 16, 1992, I am boarding a plane for the first time in my life, going away from all I know and those I love. Out into the great wide open." I had great anxiety about my first ever flight. Being a music fan, I had heard and read about the famous musicians that had succumbed due to an aircraft tragedy. I sat in my seat, close to the middle of the plane and looked around me. I knew no one. I looked out the port hole like window at the runway and airport and thought, "This is it. No turning around now." Then I hoped the plane would stay aloft until I got to my first destination, Charlotte, North Carolina. As the plane moved away from the gateway, I felt a sinking feeling, a mix of the pre-flight jitters and the loneliness I had started to feel while sitting alone at the terminal earlier. I was already missing everyone at home, and at the same time, scared shitless at the thought of leaving the ground. I always hated high places. Once at a local fair, a friend of mine named Shawna had coaxed me to get on this ride that was nothing more than a thirty foot tall loop with a roller coaster on it that went around and around, upside down and fast. I gripped the railing of that ride so much, I'm sure my hand prints are still etched in the metal. Now I would be going up into the atmosphere with just a thin metal skin protecting me...Not a pleasant feeling.
The plane taxied down the runway and gained speed. It seemed like the world was whizzing by outside the window, then I felt the gut-wrenching feeling of take off. I looked out the window again and rapidly the ground was falling away. I felt cold and nauseous and in the midst of that feeling thought about the coyote in the Looney Tunes cartoons, how he would zip high into the air, then come crashing down into the southwestern canyon below. Again, not a great feeling. The Delta plane climbed higher and higher, and my anxiety slowly eased as the turbulence subsided. I could see Louisville far below me and could see for miles all around. The plane then took a hard left turn and felt like it was going to turn completely over. I gripped my seat and felt the blood leave my head as I saw the wing tip dip lower. Eventually the plane evened out and we headed east toward North Carolina. We followed I-64 for most of the trip, and I saw Lexington below me about 20 minutes into the flight. We weren't at a grossly high altitude, so I could still make out some features below the clouds. My anxiety had eased as I was fascinated with seeing the world I was used to from another view point. A few minutes later, I made out I-64 once again and could see up ahead a familiar sight to me. I saw out my window the water tower in Owingsville that sits out behind the middle school. I perked up and tried to look for familiar sights below. I could make out approximately where the courthouse was located, but at the altitude, it was hard to to. It made me feel even more homesick to see that I was over top my hometown, what I wouldn't have given for a parachute at that time. Later, when I called from the airport in Charlotte, mom told me that she had calculated when I left Louisville and around the time I looked down and saw Owingsville, she was in the yard looking up at a jet flying high above her yard, possibly seeing my plane overhead at the same moment I was looking down.
The flight into Charlotte wasn't too bad, we hit some slight bumps here and there, but overall, not bad. We landed at the Charlotte airport and I had to make my way to the next flight that would take me on to Columbia, South Carolina. By this time, I had met others who were going to Fort Jackson too, and we were making quick friendships. I got on the connector flight and situated myself into the seat next to the window. I had survived the first flight, so I felt at ease. It was almost dark when we boarded, the flight onto Columbia was to take a little over an hour all together. It was as little foggy in Charlotte as we took off. This time, the turbulence was a bit more severe than it was in Louisville, so again, I got the uneasy feeling. Once airborne, the flight was smoother. There was a girl sitting next to me who was petrified of flying, this was her first flight, so I talked to her until we got to cruising altitude. I dosed off at some point and was awakened by a jolt, then another. We were coming into Columbia and had hit some turbulence in a storm system. It was dark out and raining hard, limiting visibility out the window, so when I woke up, I looked out after that jolt, and saw the rain, fog and the orange landing light under the wing. Immediately I thought the plane was in trouble, so I belted out, "Oh shit!! The wing's on fire!!!" The girl next to me freaked out and screamed. Then I realized I had made a mistake and saw the glow was really the landing light, then told her what it really was. She slapped my arm so hard it stung the rest of the fight. Everyone else around us was laughing, quite amused at my heart attack I had caused.
We finally landed at Columbia airport and were separated from other passengers by a sergeant waiting by the gate. We were told to line up and stand in formation, much like the way were were told at MEPS. After a roster of names was read an each of us acknowledging we were present, we secured our bags and followed the sergeant to waiting buses. The bus ride to Fort Jackson seemed to take forever. It was getting late, so I dosed off again in the bus. After all, it had been a long and stressful day, but it was only to get worse I soon found out.
We arrived at the central gathering station a little after midnight. We were groggy from all the traveling, some sloppily dressed, other males had long shaggy hair, luckily I had my long hair cut off the day before I left home. We were met by another sergeant who was all up in our faces, yelling for us 'get off his damn bus' and hurrying us along. We were lined up yet again and told to stand at attention, eyes forward, not moving. Another sergeant came out and paced around us, randomly picking people out of the formation and making them do push ups. We were told that this was our new home now, our mommies and daddies couldn't help us now. We had to empty our bags and the sergeants shuffled through our belongings, taking lighters, certain types of jewelry and other items out and tossing them to the side. We were then instructed to empty our pockets and apparently didn't do it fast enough, as we all had to drop to the ground and do push ups. I thought to myself, "What the Hell have I done? Am I insane for doing this?" One of the sergeants told a guy in the formation with long hair to stand out in front of everyone. The sergeant took great pride in issuing insults to the guy and making him keep doing push ups. Thank God for Carol, who had cut my hair just a day and a half earlier.
After the verbal torture session and shakedown ended, we were separated into male and female groups and led to separate buildings to our waiting bunks. My room had about twenty-five or so guys in it, and off the bat, one had decided he'd had enough. He was going home no matter what, couldn't take it. The sergeant berated him in front of us and the guy stood defiant, refusing to do the push ups ordered. At that point we were all told to drop and do push ups because of this guy. Many of us groaned and complained quietly, you could see the look on all the faces. The sergeant stood toe to toe with this guy and he still defied the orders given to him. The sergeant gave up and said he'd deal more with the problem tomorrow, that wake up was at 0430 hours, It was almost 0145 hours and he didn't have time for 'pansy asses'. It was going to be a long eight weeks, I just knew it. After the sergeant left, one of the other guys approached the rebellious recruit and asked what his problem was. Clearly after talking to him, we found out he had some issues going on inside his mind. How he ever got to this point, I have no clue. The mood calmed down and we retired to our bunks, ready to finally get some rest, to start a new day.
We were jolted from our beds at precisely 4:30 am, or 0430 hours it was now called, by the two sergeants from the night before. Again, the rebel guy balked at authority and stayed in his bunk. After a verbal tirade by the sergeants, the guy finally got up from the bunk and stood in line like the rest of us. We all sighed some relief, thinking that we had been spared from his stupidity. The sergeants walked down the lines of us and inspected us thoroughly. We then had to produce items that were on a pre-arrival check list as they were called out. Those of us who didn't have a certain item, well, of course, did push ups. Items like socks, soap, shaving utensils, underwear, all inspected. When we satisfactorily passed our inspections, we were led out to another area outside and started to learn what PT was all about. We did group push ups, sit ups and other exercises until we all thought we would puke and die. All the while, the sergeants grilled us and pushed our limits. After what seemed like an eternity, we were told to hit the showers and be back out by 0600 hours.
We had started to all be friendly with one another, realizing that all we had at this point was each other. All except the lone wolf rebel of the bunch. When we showered, he didn't take one, he didn't shave or change clothes. He sat on his bunk quietly the whole time. A couple others tried to talk to him but he never would budge from his spot. Then, at a few minutes til 6, we all, including him, regrouped outside just as we were told. We were again inspected and of course, the sergeants noticed our rebel who had not shaved and was still in the same clothing. We all suffered for the one guy again, doing more and more push ups. One sergeant led the guy back in the barracks room by the arm and stayed gone for quite some time. When they returned, the rebel was shaved and changed. Not quite sure how that worked out, but I for sure didn't want to be in his shoes. We were lined up in four squads, or lines, of ten people, and grouped together as one platoon. We were told what marching was to be, and basic drill and ceremony commands. We marched as a platoon to breakfast, the sergeant calling out songs as we did so in a call and response type fashion. When we got to breakfast, we were told to stay in line, head and eyes forward, no talking. We got our food and sat in the cafeteria, or chow hall it was now called, and were told to eat, not talk, and to finish all our food. If not, then, well you guessed it, push ups. I thought I would push South Carolina to the Gulf Coast before the end of the day.
After breakfast, we returned to the group area, then to another building where we would in-process all day. We first went into a room and were herded down a line where one person on each side of us would inject us with vaccinations with what looked like air brush guns artists use. One or two guys passed out in the process, but overall it wasn't too bad...so far. After that we would go and do paperwork, endless mounds of it..life insurance forms, pay forms, tax forms, identification forms. We then went to get our ID tags, and this was for some reason the first time I felt like a soldier. After that, it was off to fit for uniforms. We were measured and fitted over and over again for our BDU's, or camouflage uniforms, and dress uniforms. Once that was complete, we again met outside the building, on our way to our shearing.
The haircut was an interesting experience. We were sat in a chair, the barber, or hair butcher we called it, made about three or four swipes and swoosh our hair was gone. The two or three who had long hair sat in amazement looking in the mirror at their bald heads. I had been proud of my mullet hair style that my parents had let me grow out as a teenager. As I had said before, I turned down jobs and another opportunity to join the Army National Guard because I didn't want to cut my hair. The day I got the mullet cut off at Carol's shop, it was a packed house, my mom, sister, niece and cousins came with me, and by the time it was over, several more friends had piled into the tiny parlor. Now ALL my hair was gone. My neck looked like a giraffe's I thought. When I came home, would anyone recognize me still, I thought. But no time to fret over lost hair, I still had more to do in one day than I did usually in a week.
We marched to the chow hall again for lunch, and I thought that it had only been just an hour since breakfast, when in reality, it was 4 hours later. The day flew by because we were so busy.
After eating lunch, we were to go back to the barracks and change into our new BDU's. Once there, our seemingly reformed rebel acted up again, refusing to change into his uniform. One of the guys decided enough was enough and approached him, pushing him against the wall asking what his deal was. Great...the sergeant would come see this and go berserk on all of us. Eventually, the rebel guy changed, and soon after, the sergeant came in to inspect us yet again. It was around 1330 hours, or 1:30 in the afternoon by this time and we were told to pack our bags and get ready as we would be leaving again.
We were herded into another bus and dropped off at another part of Fort Jackson, met by a short drill sergeant who strikingly resembled a cross between Snoopy and Droopy the dog. His name was Drill Sergeant Couch, and when we were in formation, he stood on a crate while talking to us. Some of us laughed and quickly met the pavement again for push ups. At this time, another bus arrived and more soldiers arrived with us, bringing the group total to around fifty. After another round of push ups for God knows whatever reason, Drill Sgt Couch took off his brown hat and told us to introduce ourselves soldier to soldier. This guy wasn't too bad, I thought. When I stated I was from Kentucky, I was the only one to do so, prompting the usual Kentucky Fried Chicken jokes I would be accustomed to later. Drill Sgt Couch then told us to head upstairs to our barracks, get settled in that the rest of the afternoon was our time to call home and relax, but first we had to clean the barracks and be inspected once again.
I finally got to call home around 1700 hours, or 5 pm. Dad answered the phone and it was good to hear a familiar voice. He sounded choked up as he asked what all I had been going through. I really felt homesick at this point. Dad said that mom had ran to the store and would be back later, but had waited all day for my call. This, unfortunately, would be my only opportunity to call this day. After about ten minutes, I ended the call with a sense of loneliness that surpassed what I felt at the Louisville airport. Still, though, I was going to do this Army thing and was going to make it the whole four years. I returned upstairs to an argument between two soldiers, the usual misfit rebel and another guy obviously fed up with the whole attitude displayed. It almost escalated into a fight, but was quelled by two others. At this point, we all were fed up with this guy, who we now called Private Stinky because of his poor hygiene.
Battle royal adverted once more, Drill Sergeant Couch came into the barracks and inspected us and the room. We had passed his inspection and marched out to supper, now a platoon of 62 soldiers from all walks of life and backgrounds. We all knew we were there for the same goals, and had to back each other, but still there was Private Stinky that was just not into the game. What ever his problem was, it was going to make it Hell on all of us. After supper, we returned to the barracks and Drill Sergeant Couch came in to talk to us all about what to expect the next eight weeks. Just listening to him, I felt bewildered about what was to be expected of me, but was ready for the challenge. He told us about how we had to be team players and how we had to rely on each other. As he said that, each of us shot looks at Private Stinky, who just sat there with a blank look on his face. Drill Sergeant Couch wrapped up the speech by wishing us luck and to remember the Army is a team first beyond anything else. I think he had noticed our brewing issues and wanted us as a platoon to work it out. Still though, this guy didn't seem to get it.
We had a prior ROTC guy in our platoon who was already an E-4 rank who was the ranking person of all of us. He took initiative to try to talk to Private Stinky once more to try to convince him to be a team player. Specialist White was a tall hulking man with fiery red hair. He was from the Boston area and had the strong accent to match. He had a calm voice and demeanor and seemed like he could take control of any situation. Private Stinky just told Specialist White to leave him alone. Again, Specialist White tried to reason with him again, but was shunned. Specialist White just shrugged and told him that he was in for a long ride. Private Stinky then said his intentions, how he didn't want to be there and would do anything he could to get out, and he stressed the word anything. No one offered to deflect this statement and we all kind of shot him a look of concern, not for him but our safety. How were we to know he didn't mean he was going to go ballistic and try to off one of us to get his way? This guy was an indeed disturbed individual. But still, we had no idea just how disturbed.
The next morning started off just as the day before, wake up at 0430, PT, breakfast. This day, however, we would be bussed to our regular company area. We loaded our buses after another inspection by Drill Sergeant Couch and were driven across the post to our new location, our home for eight weeks. We arrived at Delta Company, 2nd Battalion, 28th Infantry just around 10 am, and met by a drill sergeant who stormed on the bus yelling at us to, "Get off my damn bus move move move!!!" We had our duffel bags cradled in front of us in a bear hug grip and hurried off the bus. There were several more drill sergeants waiting outside, yelling at us to move, move, move, and to keep looking forward. One guy apparently looked off to the side and a drill sergeant grabbed him out of line, slammed him against the wall and said, "Don't ever look at me private, NEVER. If you ever do, I'll rip out your eyes and skull-fuck you!!!" That drill sergeant was a tall, thin black man who I thought was the devil himself. I was thinking, "Oh what have i got myself into????" We were formed into a platoon formation and told to drop our duffel bags in front of us. The drill sergeants swarmed us, looking all over us, randomly making someone in the formation drop and do push ups. They continued to yell at us, in our faces, making us all feel less than humans. Then, the company commander introduced himself. Captain Cook was a tall, light skinned black man who spoke in a calm voice. He told us his expectations and what we were supposed and not supposed to do.
"Keep your head in the game, do as you are asked to do, and you will breeze through this process," Captain Cook told us. Meanwhile, the swarm of brown hats continued to walk around us, leering at each of us. Another drill sergeant came out and read names off and had those he called move to another part of the company area. I then realized that not only had our platoon arrived, roughly 150 or so more soldiers had been bussed there too. The names read off would be considered First Platoon, Delta 2/28 Infantry. This process continued, and my platoon would be called 3rd Platoon, consisting of most everyone who was at the transition barracks, including Private Stinky, who by now had been singled out by a drill sergeant. Private Stinky had not shaved that day and still had an odor and was being made an example of. Sweet justice, we thought. He was made to do push ups, recover to a standing position and do it all over again and again. The drill sergeant was hounding him, yelling right in his face, calling him a disgrace to the Army. We couldn't help but feel vindicated by all this. We were rushed up to our new barracks room, another large open area with double bunks and locker units. We were ordered to start at the first row of bunks and stop, filling in the gaps through the room. I was standing next to a bunk and locker about a third of the way down the room, next to Private First Class Long. We stared straight ahead with our duffel bags in front of us. Two drill sergeants came in and started hounding us right off the bat. One I noticed was the drill sergeant who slammed the private against the wall earlier, I knew I was in Hell now. We were ordered to dump all our bags out and the drill sergeants kicked everything around, preaching the whole time that they were our new daddies and they were looking for contraband and would not tolerate anyone who didn't follow the rules. We had to do more push ups for every little thing that was found, no matter what it was.
Our drill sergeants were Drill Sergeants Hicks and Washington. Drill Sergeant Washington was the black man whom I had seen pouncing the private against the wall earlier. He was a tall, thin man with dark skin and dark rimmed glasses. His voice was commanding and his demeanor was intimidating as he leered at us standing in formation. Drill Sergeant Hicks was a short, stocky man who also had a commanding voice. He seemed very short tempered and didn't seem to tolerate those who didn't grasp the total concept of things. As the pair dug through our belongings, Drill Sergeant Hicks found a Walkman radio in one bag. He held it up and yelled at us that we wouldn't see "these type of luxuries for a long, long time." I was purely convinced that I was in Hell now for sure. We were then ordered to pick up our belongings, and anything other than socks, underwear, or items as such were to be left in the bags, which would be stored away until the end of the eight week cycle. After another verbal barrage, we were told to occupy our lockers in our bunk areas. The lockers had a cabinet inside them in which we were to place our hygiene items, socks, underwear and t-shirts in. The bottom drawer was to be a place for our personal items and had to be locked at all times, otherwise, it would be subject to inspection by the dill sergeants. We had a specific way to organize each drawer, shirts rolled no more or less than 4 inches, underwear rolled 2 inches, socks rolled, and so forth. There was a specific place for everything, including where we hung our uniforms and placed our shoes and boots. After we had completed this task, the drill sergeants then showed us the proper way to make our beds. The beds were bunks of two, and had the green wool army blanket, a sheet and bed spread, and pillow. The beds were to be made with 45-degree hospital corners, the top of the blanket and sheet had to be tight and symmetrical, with the sheet exposed at the top and neatly tucked in underneath. The pillow had to be flat and placed squarely in the middle of the head of the bed. Several of us struggled with this and had to repeat it over and over until we got it right. After that was finished, we were told to form up outside in the company area and we would march to lunch.
We stood outside the chow hall in a single line and were told that there was to be no talking, head and eyes forward, body in a position of parade rest, or a modified position of attention. If we disobeyed this order, we had to get out of line, do push ups, then go to the back of the line, which also consisted of another platoon. If we had to go to the back of the other platoon's line, that platoon's drill sergeant would unleash on us and make us do push ups before getting in line. That would mean that our platoon would already be inside eating by the time we got in and would be finishing, so we would have little or no time to eat. Great concept for obeying the rules, I thought. Once inside, the chow hall reminded me of the school lunch line, older ladies wearing the hair nets and white smocks, the trays, the smells, and of course, the globs of food being plopped on our trays. We went into the dining area and seated ourselves, but there was to be no talking. The drill sergeants told us if we were busy talking we were considered finished and were told to leave. Another basic training concept I had heard about was also realized in the chow hall, the infamous Victory Punch drink. Chris, a friend of mine who had completed basic training and had gotten hurt in advanced training and sent home, had told me of Victory Punch, and that it had something in it to keep men from being aroused so to say. I kind of laughed when I saw the sign on the container and went about my business. It would be after basic training that I realized the validity of his claim.
After lunch, we had to form up again in the company area for a head count and roll call. My squad leader was Private Lewis, a black man who was a little bit shorter than me. He hurriedly went down the line and counted each of us, there were sixteen in my squad. After Drill Sergeant Hicks received his head count and report on all of us, he asked us once again if we were cut out to be in the United States Army, if we had what it took to be a soldier, and if we wanted to go back home to 'the block' and play Sega games all day. He told us that in the weeks to follow, he would transform us into soldiers, lean mean fighting machines that would be disciplined and respected. It was more of a motivational speech for us after the day we had already had. Private Stinky was in formation, slouching rather than standing. He was singled out again by Drill Sergeant Hicks and had to do push ups while being verbally berated. After he stood up, Drill Sergeant Hicks got in his face and told him, "Boy, I'll do one of two things, I'll make a soldier out of you or I'll break you". We were dismissed, except for the private, who was still standing at attention being berated.
The platoon arrived upstairs to find the barracks room a disaster area. Our bed sheets, mattresses, and items from our lockers were strewn all about the area. It looked like a tornado had swept through our barracks. Immediately, Drill Sergeant Washington appeared and told us to hit the floor and do push ups. He told us how we were not going to make it through basic training if we couldn't follow simple orders. He said that our lockers and beds were "pathetic to look at" and we were to redo all we had done earlier. Just then, Drill Sergeant Hicks and Private Stinky came upstairs. "Well, Drill Sergeant Washington, looks like we have ourselves a real individual here, " Drill Sergeant Hicks announced, pointing at the private. Drill Sergeant Washington went over to the private and got in his face saying, "Is that true, private? Is that true?" The private told him no, but Drill Sergeant Washington told him he couldn't hear him. The private again yelled a resounding "NO!!" and Drill Sergeant Washington quickly corrected him by saying, "That's no DRILL SERGEANT to you!!" Again, Private Stinky was ordered to do push ups. Drill Sergeant Hicks then informed us that being a soldier meant relying on each other, there was no such thing as an individual. He would not tolerate anyone disobeying him or disgracing the Army uniform by not maintaining themselves. He told us that we needed to fix the problem or we'd all pay for it. For the first time, I felt a sense of remorse for the private. What kind of life had he led before this experience, and why exactly was he here, I wondered. The drill sergeants left us to clean up the mess and "think long and hard why we were all there". We just all kind of went about our business, retrieving our belongings and reorganizing them into our lockers, wondering at what point and mood the drill sergeants would return. This was day zero for us as they called it, the real grit had yet to begin. Already, it was becoming a trying experience, the stress level was intense so early in the cycle for us. And then it got worse.
At some point, one of the people in the room asked if we smelled something burning. Shortly afterward, we saw puffs of smoke coming under the door crack that led to the stairwell. Specialist White and two others ran to the door and opened it to find Private Stinky and a pile of bed sheets smoldering. He had somehow smuggled a lighter in and had set the sheets on fire, and desperately was trying to set himself on fire. Luckily the material in our BDU's were flame resistant, but the sheets were still smoldering. The smoke set off the fire alarm, prompting the drill sergeants to return quickly. We were evacuated out of the barracks and told to get into formation. Another drill sergeant would contain us in the company area outside, and we wondered what was going on upstairs. Our squad leaders ran through a head count, even though we were four soldiers short. Captain Cook ran past us toward the barracks room, not looking at us at all. Then, First Sergeant Miller appeared. This would be our first meeting with him. He was a large frame black man who you just looked at and respected.
"Soldiers, this ain't the way I wanted to meet Delta Company this week," the first sergeant started out. He went on by telling us how if we didn't want to be there why did we sign up in the first place. The speech was stern, yet not necessarily demeaning toward us. I contemplated his words, thinking if what I had done was indeed worth it all. Surely it had to get better than this. After a few moments, two MP's, military policemen, arrived and went upstairs. Specialist White and the others joined the rest of us, not saying anything at all about the events unfolding. All our attention was shifted elsewhere during First Sergeant Miller's talk, but he didn't make us do push ups as expected. Eventually Private Stinky, our drill sergeants, Captain Cook and the MP's emerged downstairs. Captain Cook and the MP's escorted the private, who we now saw in handcuffs, away. Drill Sergeant Hicks reported to the first sergeant, then turned to us and in a calmer than usual voice addressed us by saying that the problem had been resolved and was no longer a threat to us. We were dismissed back up to the barracks, still in awe of what had just happened. What would push someone to the point of self immolation? Was it the harsh treatment or the entire experience of it all? What could we have done as a whole to prevented this? All these thoughts ran through my head as we gathered upstairs. Drill Sergeant Hicks had us all take a seat and explained to us that if we didn't want to be there to tell him. He would see it arranged that nothing like this had to be repeated. The talk was straight forward but informal. He told us that harder days were yet to come and we had better be prepared.
My first days as a soldier were harrowing to say the least. The sheer magnitude of the last 48 hours shifted my thoughts away from the life I had left behind, and the loved ones back home. For the first time, I was on my own in a strange new world where I had no control, and no crutch to fall back on.
Day zero....into the great wide open.