Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Chapter 4: The Long and Winding Road

"Fort Jackson, South Carolina, October 1992, I have completed almost half of my Army Basic Training." I had accomplished so much in the three and a half weeks, had seen things that I never thought I'd ever see in human beings up to that point, and had gained mounds of self esteem and confidence. Third Platoon, Delta Company 2/28 Infantry was entering the "white phase" of training, the halfway point where we would qualify with our weapons. We would really need to become a unified platoon to survive this part of our training.
As a whole, the platoon had come together as a unit, yet we still had a couple of people who tried the drill sergeant's patience. The weeks being apart from the secure environment of home and being thrust into a high stress setting started taking its toll on some. One instance was one of our platoon members had went to sick call and placed on barracks duty, only he was spotted casually strolling in a mini-mall Burger King by a Delta Company drill sergeant. Another incident happened in Charlie Company, a soldier had drank Draino and died one night. Our incident was quickly fixed by remedial punishment, the latter was set in our minds as a stark reminder. I personally thought about Private Stinky and how that could have been him. In addition to our marksmanship training, we also had to still contend with barracks inspections, PT, fire watch and a new nemesis, KP, or Kitchen Patrol. Every platoon in the company had to provide workers in the kitchen for a full day, doing tasks such as tray cleaning, assisting the cooks in meal preparations, and general housecleaning duties associated with it. For some it was a welcome break in all the monotony, for me, it was pure Hell...Give me a day out in the field any day than to have KP. Another duty we occasionally had to perform was called CQ, or Charge of Quarters. This duty would require us to work in the command offices, answering phones, running errands or general secretarial duties for the commander or first sergeant. This duty was not that bad, however, we had to make sure we were on top of our game with military bearing.
The beginning of the White Phase, or 'Gunfighter Phase', consisted of us being instructed on care and use of the M-16 rifle. This was called BRM, or Basic Rifle Maneuvers. We were issued an M-16 and learned how to break it down for cleaning and repair and the general features of it. Then we learned more drill and ceremony moves with the rifle. Finally we marched out to a rilfe range for a full demonstration of the M-16. I had fired rifles and shotguns many times before, my dad and I would go hunting occasionally. I had guns from the time I was eight years old. Dad had taught me to respect the weapons and the proper ways to handle them. For several in the platoon, this was the first time they had ever put a hand on a firearm, for others, it was probably the first time they had done so legally and without pending charges from law enforcement. For the demonstration, we sat in some bleachers as a range sergeant and Drill Sergeant Hicks discussed the features of the M-16 and the proper way to handle it. The range sergeant explained to us that the M-16 rifle had virtually no recoil because of a spring mechanism in the butt of the rifle. The further demonstrate this, Drill Sergeant Hicks placed an M-16 between his legs, firmly seated into his crotch. he then fired off a shot into a metal water can, and did not immediately hit the ground screaming. Point made, but I for sure wasn't planning on firing a rifle in that manner. The water can was placed a few feet away, a small hole in the front of it where the round entered. The back of the can was obliterated, a large gaping hole of about four or five inches in diameter was the result. The range sergeant explained that the M-16 round is designed to do maximum damage to anything it hits. With these dramatic demonstrations over, we then went to a classroom building and were taught how to zero the rifles in using the sight posts. After that came the dime-washer drills. The dime-washer drills were designed to help us control our breathing and trigger squeezing techniques, and not to just simply jerk the trigger and hop for the best. This would be very time consuming for me. The trick was to get into a prone position with the rifle in a firing stance, place the washer or dime on the front of the barrel of the rifle and click the trigger without the dime or washer falling off. We had to do this ten times successfully in order to pass this test, but many of us kept doing it over and over and over until we were so frustrated, we were told to stop and take a break. Understandably, the drill sergeants and instructors were very patient with us, more so than at any point so far in training. I mean, sixty plus guys with M-16 rifles is a rather good incentive to lay off the stress a bit.
The next few days, we would march out to the ranges to get more familiar with our weapons, we weren't allowed to call them guns. We would still practice our dime-washer drills and train on maintaining the weapons as before, but now we would have actual ammunition to fire on our own. We had a day or two of practicing getting our sights honed in, shooting at paper targets and checking our accuracy. The goal was to get three shots in a tight group as close to the center of the target as we could. We had to adjust our front and back sights on the rifles as directed by the drill sergeant or range sergeant in order to accomplish this process. I was firing a bit off to the right and low on the target, so the range sergeant suggested I make adjustments on the rear sight. My shot group was then straying to the left as it should have, but still low and a bit far off center. Drill Sergeant Washington suggested I make adjustments to the front sight, which brought the shot group up, but still off to the left. Again, I made the appropriate adjustment as I was told, but still wasn't getting any better. Drill Sergeant Washington and the range sergeant were telling me what adjustments to make, however were conflicting each other's orders. Once I told Drill Sergeant Washington that the range sergeant was telling me the complete opposite of what he was telling me, things got much smoother and I finally finished zeroing my rifle in. Keep in mind, the process should have only taken nine shots, by the time I was finished I had went through three paper targets and enough rounds to kill a company sized force. I thought to myself that less rounds were used to sink the Bismark.
The road marches to the ranges and back were long and tiring, but made much easier because of the PT sessions each day. The soreness was far less now, and my shins were not hurting as bad. Still we were laden with our helmets, web gear and rifles on those long journeys to and from, and occasionally one person would get us all into trouble as usual. The worst was one day a guy had copped an attitude and on the way back because of his stupidity, we had to do rifle drills while marching back. The marching trails were primarily reddish sand and hilly in terrain. While marching in the South Carolina heat, in sand, with all our gear, we had to do these drills where we took our rifles and extended our arms out, then over our heads, then behind our heads in unison...All because of one idiot. This drill lasted probably a quarter of a mile or more before Drill Sergeant Hicks stopped us, only to halt and do push ups. By the time we got back to the company and platoon area, all of us were beat down.
One night after a long road march back and after private time, some of the guys decided to have some fun while doing barracks chores. Things got loud and we were all having a good time when in came a female drill sergeant who was on CQ duty. Apparently she was not in a good mood and lashed out at us, making us all get into formation and do side straddle hops endlessly. She then had us go out into the company area and run around it, stopping us from time to time to do push ups. We had never been 'smoked' like this before and this drill sergeant, who's voice was unGodly shrill, kept hounding us, yelling at the top of her lungs. Eventually, the session ended and we all went back up to the barracks room. My shins were burning like never before, I thought they would rip open the pain was so bad. Of all the drill sergeants who ever smoked us with PT punishment, hers was the absolute worst so far. The next day, during PT, many of us were hardly moving. Drill Sergeant Hicks demanded to know what was wrong and Specialist White told him of the previous night's event. We still finished PT as planned and before we marched out to the range later, Drill Sergeant Hicks called us into formation. He told us he understood we were being out of control after hours and needed to be smoked for it. We were fearing he would now unleash on us, but he didn't for once. Instead he gave us a stern warning that none of us would graduate if this continued, that we were half way through basic training and were becoming soldiers, soldiers who didn't need to be babysat. With that we marched out to the rifle range. My shins were killing me and I was slowing pace with everyone else. Drill Sergeant Washington called me out to the side of the platoon, who kept marching. I explained to him that my shins were giving me problems but I would be okay. He questioned why I didn't bring this to their attention and go to sick call, and I replied that I didn't want to do that, I wanted to continue to work it out. The rest of the journey, I kept a slower pace with Drill Sergeant Washington staying with me the whole way. This day would be the practice for the rifle qualifications. We would need to successfully hit forty pop up targets in a certain amount of time to qualify as expert, twenty three was the least amount to hit. The pop ups were spaced out from fifty to 300 meters and only were visible for a brief moment before dropping on their own. We were given two magazines of 20 rounds each to accomplish this, once those rounds were finished, there would be no more issued on that specific range. The first practice, I shot 34 targets, a sharpshooter qualification. The second practice later that day, i shot 38, an expert ranking. But this was practice only, the real test would be the next day. During the breaks on the practice range, we were left to our own accord at a holding area, cleaning weapons and chit-chatting. One soldier, Private Cooper, was our resident platoon clown. He had the act of mocking the drill sergeants to an art. This day, as we were sitting in the holding area, Cooper decided to do his routine. He was all into his act, doing the Drill Sergeant Washington "can't piss me off tonight, it's ladies night in Columbia" routine, and the infamous Drill Sergeant Hightower, 2nd Platoon's Sergeant, 'stare of death'. We were all rolling with laughter while Cooper was in his element, then Drill Sergeant Perry approached us, prompting a quick yell of "at ease".
"Well, well well, I see we have ourselves a right comedian here, " Drill Sergeant Perry said. All of us were still nearly cracking up because Cooper had just done a routine of Drill Sergeant Perry and how he stuck his gut out when he approached us.
"Private Cooper, that's some comedy act you got going on," he continued, "does Drill Sergeant Hicks and Washington know what talent they have in their platoon?" An awkward silence overcame us, and Drill Sergeant Perry said, "I'll be right back, you stay right here funny man." Fearing that we would all get smoked for this brief outburst of humor, we all immediately dove into cleaning our weapons. A short time later, Drill Sergeant Perry came down the hill with the other drill sergeants following behind. He told the other drill sergeants about the comedy routine he had just seen, and called Cooper out to the middle of the area. Drill Sergeant Washington approached him saying, "I hear you got me down pat, is this true?" Cooper nervously replied, "Yes Drill Sergeant."
"Well then let's just see this," Drill Sergeant Washington replied. Cooper got back into his element and began the routine all over again. We were all laughing hysterically, including the drill sergeants. After Cooper finished, Drill Sergeant Washington, just shook his head and walked away laughing. Proof the man did have some humor about him.
We marched back that night, my shins not as painful, and into the company area stood the female drill sergeant from the smoke session. Drill Sergeant Hicks had us get into formation, and the female drill sergeant said, "Did those Young Guns of yours tell you I smoked their asses last night?" Drill Sergeant Hicks acknowledged that he was aware of it and walked over to her and said, "And further more, if you ever come up to my barracks and treat my young Guns like that again, I will smoke YOUR ass, do I make myself clear?" The drill sergeant stormed off huffing as Drill Sergeant Hicks approached the platoon. He told us he didn't condone us being out of control, but under no circumstances would another platoon sergeant treat his soldiers like that without consulting him first. Proof this man had pride in us.
The next day started as always, 0430 wake up, PT, breakfast, then off to the range. This day would be more than just a day at the range, it was qualification day. Everyone was nervous about the range, and rightfully so. If we did not qualify, we could be cycled out of the platoon and out of the Army. My turn approached and I took a deep breath and stepped into the foxhole. Thoughts of the dime-washer drills and the endless rounds I'd fired zeroing in my M-16 floated in my mind. I can do this, I thought to myself. The order was given to "scan our sectors" and the first target popped up at 50 meters, easy shot. Things went well until the targets got further away. I missed the 150 meter target and instinctively fired a second shot, forgetting that I only had forty rounds for forty targets. I would be short one round. The next target popped up and I rushed to fire on it, still dwelling on the missed shot before. I missed that and the next shot. Time to focus...Thirty-seven out of forty would still get me an expert ranking. the 300 meter target popped up and I fired at it, hitting the dirt below it. And another 300meter target, another miss. The time came to change magazines in the weapon, a fresh 20 rounds and targets awaited me. I became more focused and started getting into a groove with the next round of firing, yet still missed a couple targets. My final score was 34 out of 40, a sharpshooter qualification.
The qualifications were not only our lifeline, it was bragging rights too. The platoon who scored overall the best would get the BRM banner attached to our guide-on. We had one person who didn't make the first round and had to re-fire. There were about 20 or so in the company who had to re-fire, with two that I knew of who didn't qualify. Fortunately everyone in 3rd Platoon qualified, and with the highest overall scores, earning us the BRM banner. Proof we were coming together as a platoon.
Time in the barracks after duty days were still relatively the same. We still had time on Sundays to call home and take care of cleaning details. For the most part, all of us got along good, and all seemed to be getting better until one day when Melton finally had his moment. He was on the phone one Sunday morning, and his ten minute limit was over. There was a line behind him for the phone and someone told him his time was up. He ignored that person and when a drill sergeant from another platoon approached him he ignored him just the same. The drill sergeant took the phone from Melton's hand and hung it up. Melton then squared off with the drill sergeant and swung, missing the drill sergeant. The drill sergeant grabbed Melton and put him on the ground, another drill sergeant came running to assist. The two got Melton up off the ground and led him away. We didn't see him until later that afternoon when he and Drill Sergeant Hicks came in the barracks and into the office. Drill Sergeant Hicks remained in the barracks office most of the day, Melton returned to the platoon. Later that evening during personal time, Specialist White approached Melton and questioned his actions, prompting a negative response. White tried again and Melton attempted to square off with him. Specialist White was a large guy, and Melton was tall yet thin. The tension had built up and the two started to rumble. One person went to each door and watched, another went to the intercom system and made sure it was off, and we let the two duke it out. It ended shortly with Specialist White having a busted lip, Melton with a large bruise on his cheek and a busted nose. The pair shook hands afterward and walked away. The next morning when Drill Sergeant Hicks asked about the large bruise, Melton told that he had fell out of his bunk. We never had another issue out of him again.
The ongoing pillow wars were becoming epic, now each of the platoons were involved and running raids. This was good nature fun until one night, PFC Berlingeri was injured. Berlingeri was a tall guy from Puerto Rico who usually headed up the raid posse on the other platoons. During a raid with another platoon, someone had put a boot inside a pillow case and hit him with it, blacking his eye. Again when asked by Drill Sergeant Hicks, the reply was not what happened, but that he was hit by a door. The fun didn't just go with the pillow raids, one time someone dental flossed a guy to his bunk on a Sunday and yelled 'at ease' loudly. When the flossed victim attempted to jump out of his bunk he was unable to and nearly cut his head off trying to untangle himself. We would pull pranks on each other all the time, and no one took much offense to any of it. It was a welcome release from the stress.
Week two of the White Phase involved a bit more weapon familiarization. We still had our M-16's that we carried back and forth, however this week we would get to see how heavy weapons like the anti-tank weapon and grenades worked. We were bussed out to a range called Remagen, named after the famous World War II battle site, to see a demonstration of the heavy weapons. As we were seated in the observation deck, the range sergeant warned us that it would be deafening loud and exciting at the same time. The first thing we got to see demonstrated was the hand grenade, a person downrange tossed one and with a deafening concussion, a large plume of grayish smoke rose high above the grounds. The next demonstration was with the anti-tank weapon, or AT-4. A person positioned himself with the AT-4 and aimed at an old troop carrier downrange. With a loud swoosh and powerful explosion, the troop carrier erupted in fire. Now this is the Army I saw on TV as a kid!!! Another demonstration was with the Claymore mine, an anti-personnel mine that fires off tiny pellets of metal 50 meters out. This was exciting, and then we learned we'd be doing some of those skills, the only live fire we would do would be tossing grenades.
The grenade qualification would consist of a day of practicing and qualifying with dummy grenades, ending with tossing a live grenade. We had an obstacle course we had to run through with the dummy grenades and then toss them into an area and get within so many feet of the target. The dummies were around 2-4 lbs each and solid metal, which made a large thud when they hit the ground. One of the first stations I came to was tossing a dummy grenade 25 meters to the target area. Drill Sergeant Washington was standing just beyond the target, looking the opposite way. I tossed the grenade with a little more effort than needed to be and plopped it down next to him. He jumped and yelled, "Who threw that?" I replied that I had done so, and he told me to start doing push-ups. He then told me that I only had to throw it 25 meters, I must have tossed it 75 meters. Down inside I was laughing my guts out. I qualified the course as an expert, and then it came time to throw a live grenade. This was that gut check moment. I always saw cartoons where the coyote had the bomb holding it to throw and it went off too early, leaving him a blackened mess. What if that happened to me?? I stepped into the pit and nervously looked at Drill Sergeant Hicks. He explained to me that I had roughly five seconds from the time the pin and lever was pulled until detonation. I positioned myself, pulled the pin and threw for all I was worth. We ducked behind a concrete wall and then the sudden WHOOOMMFF and concussion hit. It felt like the earthquake back home in 1989, a monstrous jolt. Another task complete. The next day we learned how to place a claymore mine, a dummy one of course. Then we learned about the AT-4 using a paintball round fitted inside the launcher canister. This was fun stuff, what my cousin Jason and I had played many times over as kids.
We did another obstacle course, like the ones most commonly seen on TV and movies where we ran up to a pole obstacle or wooden wall and climbed over it into a puddle. This was much more easier than Victory Tower, and not 50+ feet up in the air. Then, we had what was called the 'super bowl', a skills test to see how well the last week's training had been absorbed. The platoon who did the best overall in first time passes on their skills got the banner for the super bowl skills. We were tested on various skills we had learned some even going back to our early phase of training. It was a highly motivated day as we ran from skill stations to the next. Our platoon won the banner for the super bowl skills and superior bragging rights.
Phase Two was a fun time for me in my training, it was more hands on skills. I had reached the halfway point, but it was still a long and winding road from here. Aside from the random incidents, 3rd Platoon was doing well and riding high. Our morale was very high as we ended this phase, we had won two crucial banners to show for it. The days would close with me reading my mail from home, and responding back. I felt less and less homesick now and becoming comfortable in my surroundings. Hearing from everyone who wrote kept the loneliness down to a minimum. I heard from Tonya a couple more times, her brother Kevin wrote me and sent me a school picture, he was in the 6th grade now. My niece Casey wrote me some letters, she was just learning to write, and sent pictures of her new kittens to show me. So far no one had forgotten me at home. Calling home on the weekends eased me, but it was still hard to hang up after those ten minutes. I knew that in the end, I would be much better than I was when I left, no doubts this time. I was almost there, just a few short weeks to go. A long and winding road indeed was ahead, one I was eager to follow to the next location.