My first couple of days in the Army had been quite eventful to say the least. I had been exposed to more in those short hours than I had my entire life. I was amongst all walks of life, much more than the high school walks of life that I had been used to. This was indeed strange territory for me. I knew I was going to be tested physically and emotionally during this ordeal, just the pure shock of things had not set in at this point.
The days to follow were routine, wake up at 0430, PT, breakfast to start the day off. The PT became harder each day, we were pushed further and further, our bodies hurt each day the first week or so. As the first days pressed on, we would spend the majority of them in class rooms, learning the Army ways of living and basic knowledge that would get us by the remainder of the time. The platoon was starting to come together, we were starting to know each other better. One person who had the same common music interest as I did was Private Brian Kelly. He was from Worcester, Massachusetts and was also a bass guitarist. He would go on to become a Military Policeman after basic training. There were still a couple of guys in the platoon who I felt had questionable mental status, but none like Private Stinky who had just departed. And speaking of him, he was removed from our platoon and placed in a transition unit for out-processing. The out-processing unit was, from what we were told, not a happy place to be in. Those soldiers were always doing shit duties and staying under the microscope until they finally out-processed, which could take up to four weeks. No one in our platoon ever saw Private Stinky again after his incident.
After chow at 1800 hours, or 6pm, we had what was called drill sergeant time. It was kind of an informal after action of the day's events where the drill sergeant would tell us his expectations and address any issues we had. We'd also have what was called mail call during this time where we'd get our letters from home. The first week's drill sergeant time was mainly to ease our minds somewhat and we got to know Drill Sergeants Hicks and Washington and where they came from. We also got to tell a little about ourselves during this time and what we were expecting from the basic training cycle. Drill Sergeant Washington always told us on Thursday nights that we couldn't "mess up his routine. It was ladies night at the club." So those nights of drill sergeant time were brief. Our personal time started at 2000 hours, or 8 pm. This is the time we had to ourselves to write home, organize our lockers or just relax. Lights out was at 2100 hours, or 9 pm, with the drill sergeant doing a final head count and leaving for the day, all issues would be handled by the duty sergeant at the CQ desk.
The first week, our drill sergeants ran us hard each day and every little infraction resulted in push-ups. We were outside in the company area one day, and the custom was when a drill sergeant or someone of importance walked into the area, the first person to see them yelled out, "At ease!!" or "Attention!!" And then, everyone would stand up at attention until we were told to carry on by the sergeant or whoever. Apparently one day another platoon's drill sergeant walked into the company area and no one either saw him or paid attention, but the call at ease was not made. He tore into us with a verbal tirade that made even a sailor blush. All of us in the company area, nearly the entire platoon, had to drop and do push-ups. One kid who wandered into the area at the same time fell victim too, and wasn't even part of the problem. The drill sergeant got in his face and yelled, "Beat your face, private", which is another term for doing push-ups. Apparently this kid had never heard this expression and stood there with a dazed look on his face. The drill sergeant repeated the order with more demanding force and the kid still stood there. By this time, the drill sergeant was furiously screaming at this kid telling him over and over to "beat his face". The kid shrugged and hit himself in the face repeatedly. The drill sergeant backed away and had the strangest look on his face as he grabbed the kid's arms and told him to stop. The rest of us were already in the front leaning rest position and were cracking up. The dumbstruck drill sergeant told us to start pushing and began to tell the bewildered kid what he really meant. Just then Drill Sergeant Perry, our third drill sergeant for third platoon walked out and introduced himself. He asked the other drill sergeant what the problem was, and was brought up to speed.
"So let me get this straight, my third platoon Young Guns did not call at ease when approached'" Drill Sergeant Perry asked. The other drill sergeant acknowledged, and after we were told to recover from push-ups, Drill Sergeant Perry said it was his turn. We were ordered to lie on our backs and start in a sit-up position.
"I am Drill Sergeant Perry, your other drill sergeant. I am embarrassed that my Young Guns would disrespect another drill sergeant," he began.
"I was looking forward to seeing you people, but looks like I get the distinct pleasure in smoking your asses first," he continued. The term 'smoking' meant that we were to do an ungodly amount of push-ups or other methods of PT torture until the drill sergeant was finished or we collapsed in a heap of quivering flesh. We were ordered to do sit-ups, but at a slow count pace that made our insides feel as though they would rip out of our stomachs. We did a round of 30 sit-ups, then were told to assume the front leaning rest position for more push-ups. We did a round of 3o push-ups then were told to recover onto our feet. From there we were told to run in place, then drop to a push up position again, and do 10 more push-ups, back to a sit-up position and a round of 10 sit-ups, then all over again. We ended the Hell session with a round of 25 jumping jacks, or side straddle hops as they were called. Our bodies were beat. this was in addition to the PT session we had already had for the day. Satisfied that the point had been made, Drill Sergeant Perry dismissed us up to the barracks for yet another inspection. This would be a long way to go indeed.
Our classes were long and drawn out that first week, often causing someone to fall asleep. That person would then be singled out and had to do push-ups as usual. We were taught The Seven Core Values of the Army, military order and rule, the Three General Orders, Army policies and so forth. But the most interesting class was the day we went to the theater to have more blocks of instruction on the topics of sexual harassment and personal health concerns. We were a segregated Army then, meaning males and females were kept in separate barracks and the only time we could even see a female was in church services. The theater class was co-ed, and many of us got google eyes seeing the females. The first class we had was on sexual harassment in the military. For one, we were an all male platoon, why the Hell would that apply I asked myself, and two, after being cooped up with all guys for 8 weeks, I was ready to harass some poor female. Still we had to maintain what was called 'military bearing' during the class and not create problems. Then, the point of the class and the idea of it being co-ed struck me, this was really a test for us to see if the class taught us something. Maybe, maybe not, but still I thought it sounded OK. The next class was about 'personal health issues' and was a movie shown on the big screen. It started out as a personal hygiene refresher course, then into the subject of sexually transmitted diseases. Again I was like, ummm all males here.....Then the topic moved into a class on self detecting cancer for men and women. It featured graphic and in-depth video of how a man and woman should conduct self exams. The military bearing for some went out the window at this point, which resulted in, of course, push-ups. Our first and only look at bare female breasts at basic training and it had to be on a big screen.
The rest of the first week consisted of drill and ceremonies. We had already learned some basic marching moves, but this would be more in-depth. It amazed me how people who were basically adults still didn't know their left from their right. Thus I learned the term 'your other left'. The first part of the week were dedicated to how to stand in formation for inspections. This would require long periods of standing in one place, which in combat boots on concrete during the late summer in South Carolina meant misery. The marching and standing all day made me more tired than the PT in the mornings, and by lunch I was ready to nap, but sleep became a longed for commodity in basic training. Drill Sergeant Washington was constantly getting onto us for making simple stupid mistakes, and as the day wore on, the more the mistakes happened. This resulted in running laps around the parking lot usually, and an old familiar pain began to show itself in me. In high school, I played football and during hard practice or when I ran a lot, I would get a sharp pain in my shins that nearly crippled me called shin splints. When we ran PT, I would get a little pain in my shins, but never like I got when we had to run around the parking lot in combat boots. I pressed on with the pain without saying anything, but was still hurting immensely. Drill Sergeant Hicks was the person who did our PT sessions and morning activities, Drill Sergeants Washington and Perry would do most of our other activities. They had different tactics as far as punishment, Drill Sergeant Perry was more apt to make us do sit-ups. Drill Sergeant Washington still had that aura of pure scariness around him, I for one didn't want to be the one to get his wrath.
As I said, the only time we could see females or have any contact with them was during church services. As the weeks went on, many soldiers in my platoon who professed themselves to be atheists got religion. One tactic used was that they would exchange home addresses, send a letter to each other via family members who sent the letters as they would have got them from home. This was acceptable according to the drill sergeants. The method least acceptable was to actually exchange Army addresses directly to the platoon from another platoon. This fell under the 'fraternization' rule and was frowned upon. Still we had those who did not follow the rules and ended up with their letters read aloud during mail call.
At the end of the first week, we were tested on all our class room material and drill and ceremonies and were taught another military tradition...the guide on. The guide on was a flag that was blue with the crossed infantry rifles and the company and platoons numbers on it. Each week we were to meet certain goals and received a banner to hang on our guide on. There were four phases we had to accomplish and receive the banners for in order to graduate basic training. The first phase, or 'red phase', would include our testing scores and how we performed as soldiers. Other banners would include the rifle marksman banner, the PT banner, the best scores in the field tests and so forth. One soldier was designated to carry the guide on at the head of the marching formation and care for it as if it were gold. This was to give us a sense of self pride as a platoon and made us determined to meet our goals. Each phase met would mean less harsh treatment, or so they said. One thing we never wanted to do was to fall back on a phase.
As hard as the training and PT was, it wasn't too overwhelming. What was still hard to get used to was being away from home. The first week, we had our new addresses and I spent my time before turning in writing in my journal and writing home. I missed everyone immensely, but knew I had to make it through this experience and would see them again soon. Before I left, I received an address book which was filled with names and addresses. Sue, one of my sister's friends, had got me a ten dollar roll of quarters to call home with before I left, but it was in my bag which was locked up. The homesickness wasn't nearly as bad as it was at the reception barracks but still was there. We got to call home every Sunday for about ten minutes and that was some good therapy to hear familiar voices. I remember one phone call, my niece Casey, who was 5 years old at the time, got on the phone and talked to me about her new cats and that she missed me. Casey and I were close before I left and it almost broke my heart to hear her say she missed me and wanted me to come home.
The duties we had in the barracks were set up by squad. We had regular every day chores, but on Sundays we had specific things to do. We would rotate duties like waxing the floors, cleaning the bathrooms, cleaning the bay area, general cleaning chores. The first Sunday, my squad had the task of the bay area and the windows to clean. We made it fun and entertaining the best we could, after all Sundays were our down days when the drill sergeants came in only two or three times during the day. This down time is when we got to know who were were and where we came from. I was the only Kentuckian in the platoon and was referred to as Kentucky. One guy named Rowe reminded us of McCauley Culkin and was nicknamed Home Alone. Another named Norman did clandestine hair cuts and was dubbed The Barber. And we had one who looked like the character Screech off the TV show Head of the Class, and that was his nickname. All the nicknames were fun at heart but one guy who had a larger than normal forehead earned the name Muffin Head and was never happy about it. Some being the typical young male types with no cooth ran with the name and the guy alienated himself from all of us eventually. One guy named Melton was one who we never really could read well. He was one who came off as ok, but sometimes just had that look in him that made us wonder what was going through his mind. All in all the first week we all got along well.
The following week would prove to be a lonely time for me as my birthday approached. I officially reported to Fort Jackson on September 16th and turned 19 years old on September 25th. I knew that this was going to happen when I signed up and got my orders and was ok with it at that time. The few days prior to the 25th, I received several birthday cards from people and letters that made me long for home. Then the day came. Drill Sergeant Washington at our first formation told the platoon that it was a special day, that it was his birthday and there was another one too. He called me to the front of the formation and asked how old I was. When I told him 19, he then proceeded to tell the platoon that due to the special day it was that we'd all get to celebrate. At that point, he ordered the platoon into push-up positions and said that since I was 19, that we'd all do 19 push-ups to celebrate my 'special day'. Not exactly the birthday gift I had wanted. After that, he told us he was 34 years old and to celebrate the really special day we'd get the honor of only doing 17 more push-ups. It was all taken into fun and ended up well, but still my thoughts were at home. My eighteenth birthday was a great time, Les, Dorothy, Angie, Jason, Chris Pettit and Chris Everman all came over to the house and we ordered pizzas and watched the newly released Doors movie, and Doors concert videos. Now a year later, I was in the middle of South Carolina doing push-ups and far away from those great friends and times. This was my first of four birthdays I'd spend away from home.
It was around this time we were taken to the small shopping mart or PX as it was called. It was located just a short distance from our barracks, but we were not allowed to go there without being with the drill sergeant. In basic training we had a strict diet and were not allowed to have soda or candy or anything like that. The trips to the PX were strictly to get hygiene supplies or other items for use. We got inside and it was tempting to see what all was considered taboo, my thing was the new release tapes and CD's. I had a walkman tape player but it was locked in the baggage room, but I could still get a tape and put it in my personal drawer that stayed locked. I scoped out a tape for my next trip and went about my business. Some, however, tested the rules and got candy bars and stashed them in the rolls of socks they were buying. Once up to the counter they would pay for the candy and quickly hide it again, the drill sergeant never knowing what was going on, the clerk just smiling because they knew.
The pressures of the day were hard on each of us. The drill sergeants gave no quarter when it came to us doing things right the first time. We were constantly competing with the other platoons to be the best in the company. We needed a release from the pressures and competition, otherwise, we'd all be insane or killers by the end of the 8 weeks. Thus, the pillow wars began around the end of week two. Every night after head count and bed check, when we were supposed to be in our bunks, a posse of us would grab pillows and run raids on the other platoons in our building. The way it worked was there was always one of us on fire guard at night, we rotated duty shifts every hour. The fire guard sat at the back door and basically watched all of us sleep. The fire guards also manned the door in case the drill sergeant or duty sergeant needed to come into the barracks after hours. We would knock on the back door and when the fire guard opened up, blitz the room with pillows blazing, hitting everyone we could see. Eventually this caught on with the other platoons who wanted to avenge the raids they had endured, so it became a nightly ritual. This was welcome release and just pure fun for us for the most part.
Week two consisted of hand to hand combat training and negotiating Victory Tower. The tower was a 50+ wooden tower that had rope ladders and obstacles on it that were suspended high above the ground. Under us was only a rope net to catch us if we fell, and according to the drill sergeants, falling off the tower was not an option. We then had to rappel down the side of the tower to finish the individual part of the skills. As I have said before, I am not a fan of heights. Looking down at a 50+ drop with just a rope to slide down did not look inviting to me. A female drill sergeant was at the top of the tower and screaming in a shrill voice that almost made me want to jump just to keep from hearing her. I repelled down the tower and felt a sense of huge accomplishment as I reached the ground. I had tackled my biggest fear and succeeded. After the individual skills we did team skills where we had to rely on team members to negotiate certain tasks. It was challenging but rewarding, because each team made a competition out of it. The losing teams had to do rounds of push-ups.
We learned about land navigation the second week too, how to read a compass and find certain points using a map of the area. We had to learn to read a grid map and get within 100 meters of the target we had to find, which was a flag or a numbered marker. This was kind of a challenge to me to get the correct 8 digit coordinates from the map and compass and would become an issue later down the road in my Army stint.
The next task we learned was basic first aid and treating heat casualties. I don't know how many times I learned the signs and symptoms of shock that week and recited them. This training was more my style, having already had some knowledge from the fire department back home. I did rather well during this part of the week's training.
All this training we were having to do in addition to the PT and drill sergeant tirades started to wear on some of the platoon. Specialist White had to quell a brewing fight between two guys one day during personal time. It started over something rather mundane but the pressures got to both of them and they needed an out, and the pillow raids were not helping them. If I recall it had something to do with one of the guy's cubical mates mistakenly getting into the wrong locker. Anyway it almost caused a serious fight, but Specialist White calmly cooled the situation. His calmness contradicted his demeanor, he came across as a hard nosed fiery person but executed great leadership in situations. My cubicle mate and second squad leader on the other hand, PFC Taylor, was letting his title go to his head. He was very critical of us in the cubicle and would try to make us do push-ups for minor stuff. One person, Private Caplinger, came to heads with PFC Taylor one day and caused a scene, in which SPC White intervened and warned Taylor not to get above his boundaries. That didn't take well and we had issues with Taylor the rest of the time we were there. Another person we were starting to watch a little closer was Melton. He was starting to get into trouble more and more with the drill sergeant and he was becoming more bold each time. The push-ups were not working with him to rectify his attitude and he would often clash with anyone in authority. One Sunday, he was found in the bathroom bleeding from the head, he had taken a razor and shaved his head, cutting it in 2 places. When asked why he did it, his reply was, "What's it matter to you?"
Week three consisted of training that would put some of our frustrations to good use. We would learn bayonet combat skills and fight with pugil sticks, or as I called them, giant Q-Tips. The bayonet training was intense. If anyone had a problem with another person this training was not a good idea. We were given dummy M-16 rifles and bayonet knives and learned moves to use in close hand combat. Then we would negotiate a bayonet course, slicing and stabbing foam manikins before coming to another station in which we would drop our weapons and bayonets and use our learned hand to hand combat skills. This worked well to vent frustrations, but two guys from another platoon ended up actually fighting during the hand to hand drill. They were separated by a drill sergeant and escorted off the field for a short time. They returned later and shook hands, never having any further problems. When we did the pugil stick fights, we dressed in protective head gear and body pads and got into a circled pit. Each person faced off and used the bayonet skills on each other with the 'Q-Tips' as their weapons. Private Mefford, aka Muffin Head, faced off with Private Shultz, one who continued to taunt him endlessly. During the fighting sequence, Shultz hit Mefford twice and yelled out, "Come on you muffin headed freak," causing Mefford to go into a rage. Mefford pummeled Schultz into the ground and began savagely beating him with the Q-Tip. Luckily, there was no chance of serious injury, and the drill sergeant let the beating continue until Schultz finally said enough. The drill sergeant backed Mefford off Schultz and similar to the Pearl Jam song Jeremy, Mefford stood there with his arms raised in victory. Mefford had vindicated himself and was not picked on as much from then out.
Another week three activity was the CS gas chamber. CS gas is basically an industrial strength version of tear gas riot squads use. We were issued gas masks and went to a wooded area that had two buildings on the property. From there we were grouped up and escorted to an area where we learned to put the masks on properly. It was similar to the breathing apparatus masks we had on the fire department, so it came easy for me. Then we were brought over to the other building and Drill Sergeant Hicks explained what we were to do next. We were to put on our masks outside, file single line into this building and stand in there for a few minutes. Easy enough we thought, only we noticed a yellow haze forming around the eaves of the building, and a strange pungent odor I had not experienced before. We donned our masks and filed into the room as directed. The room was filled with a yellow haze that was thick and emitting from a can on the floor. Then, the drill sergeant who was inside with us came around and pulled our masks off and told us to recite our name rank and social security numbers. Each person who did this immediately began to cough and drool as they struggled to speak. Then it was my turn. The drill sergeant took off my mask and the instant burn in my nose and throat began. I recited my information and started to cough as I was ordered to exit the building. My eyes were on fire it seemed and there was a steady stream of mucous coming from my nose. My exposed skin burned like crazy and I felt as though I was going blind. A drill sergeant was waiting nearby with a jug of cold water to flush our eyes out and ease the burning some. It was a hot day and we were sweating so the CS gas had bonded with the perspiration, causing it to go into our pores. It was truly a horrible feeling, one that I never wanted to do over. Later that evening, during shower time, some did not adhere to the drill sergeant's instructions to take a cold shower. The hot water reactivated the CS effect, causing several to yelp out in anguish.
As a whole, we were coming together as a platoon, even though the cracks of pressure had started to wear some thin. Kelly and I would talk about music constantly and how we should have become rock stars and I would hang out with Walters and Pittman some. I got along with everyone for the most part, no one gave me too hard of a time. When my shins started to hurt during road marches or PT, several of my platoon mates would edge me on to not give up. These guys were now a new family for me and eased the homesickness some. I received letters almost daily from mom and Dee Dee, they must have owned stock in the postal service. I heard from Tonya a few times, but it was sporadic. Jason kept me up to date with the local happenings, and Jeff with the concerts coming through that I would be missing. My inside locker door was covered in birthday cards that were sent to me by my family and friends back home. Each night I would look at those cards and the messages from the people who sent them and smile, knowing that they so far hadn't forgotten me. I would end each night with an entry of the day's events in my journal and replying to the letters I had received. I had survived three weeks, doing things I had never imagined myself doing. I was thrust into a cultural blend of people, people and cultures whom I had never been exposed to before. I had overcame my biggest fear of high places. I had pushed myself to the physical brink like never before. I could finish this experience, nothing to stop me now. But I still had a long way to go, and in the following weeks to come, I would need to gather all my strength and mind to succeed, and the platoon would need to rely on each person to pull the entire group through the next phases like never before. The basic training red phase was coming to an end, and new phases in my life were abounding....
