Prologue: Sometime before dawn, those of us that were still asleep woke up and rubbed the sleep from our eyes. Today was the day, today we would actually enter Iraq. As a 19 year old in such a huge operation, it seemed a bit surreal. There was no sense of fear. I was too naïve to be afraid. I was indestructible. Nothing could happen to me.

All night the sound of jet noise, helicopters and the steady drone of what seemed like every tactical vehicle in the world had whirred on as the final preparations for the ground war were taken care of. Hence, none of us slept well. Not that we would anyway, considering the “two up, one down” rest cycle that we were on, in which two of the three man team were to be awake and alert at all times until hostilities ceased. This coupled with the fact that whomever was “down” had to find a way to sleep in the back quarter of the crew compartment of the M1025 HMMWV, behind the gunners feet, on the less than comfortable aluminum deck.

We sat in “Attack Position Wheeler,” just south of the Iraqi border, between Rafha and Logistics Base (LOGBASE) Charlie and just north of the “Tapline” road that runs from the Arabian Gulf to Lebanon, closely following the Saudi northern border for most of the way. This was our jump off point, from which we would enter Iraq and perform our missions. It seemed that we had been in Saudi Arabia for years, although it had only been a few months. We all expected a fight, but from my vantage point everyone seemed relatively confident. This, in spite of the propaganda from both the Iraqi and American press that seemed sure that we would be annihilated.

I grinned a bit as I tapped the driver on the back of the leg, and let him know that I was awake. He climbed out onto the roof of the M1025 and slid over the smooth sloping back hatch onto the ground to take a piss. I crawled out of the side door and pissed beside him. It was cold, damp and foggy and we could just make out the other vehicles near us forming up the loose perimeter. We could hear the squawk of radio checks from inside the vehicle as we both finished up and crawled back into our respective positions in the vehicle. The Team Leader (TL) was listening intently to radio as a message came across the net from our Platoon Leader.

He snapped his fingers at us to get our attention, and we realized that it was almost time to roll out. I put my vest and helmet on and double-checked my M60 and spare ammo as the countdown began for synchronized startup of the platoon’s vehicles. I heard the driver click the ignition switch over to the “run” position and could see the glow of the “wait” light letting him know that the big diesel engine’s glow plugs were warming up. When the disembodied voice on the other end counted down to one and said “start” – ten diesel engines coughed to life as one, masking our numbers and beginning over 100 hours of nearly non-stop engine noise for all of us. My war had begun.

The Beginning:

I honestly don’t remember the first time that I showed interest in the military, or if there was a “moment” that can be pinpointed. However, I do remember visiting my grandparents on my father’s side, on North Caledonia in Marianna, Florida and exploring the mysteries of my grandfather’s old war relics with my cousin. I remember going to the old “Army-Navy Surplus” store downtown and one of the adults buying us both a set of OD Green fatigues with black and gold “US Army” cloth tapes above the left breast pocket and a blank white tape above the right one. One of the adults wrote our first names on the blank tape with a Marks-a-Lot, and we were the happiest kids in North Florida that summer.

At some point I found an Army officer’s overseas cap insignia in a drawer somewhere and my grandfather used silicon sealant to attack the brass eagle to the front of a M1 helmet liner. This topped off my uniform nicely – and I never noticed that my white canvas “Keds” were WAY out of place in my make believe world. We read comics about the Civil War and World War II, and came up with ideas about how to play army in new and exciting ways. Of course we would squabble over the helmet, and whose stick was more like a tommy-gun and who shot who first.

While we knew that Papa (our grandfather) was in World War II, we had little frame of reference, other than he was fighting the Nazi Germans in the “ETO” – whatever that was. We knew he was on some sort of tank, and was lucky to be with us, but he didn’t really tell us much about his adventures at the time. Although he seemed to have a deep sense of patriotism, love of his family and respect for everyone he met – especially those in uniform. Vietnam had just ended when we were old enough to start to play army and as I became aware that there was a war OTHER than the Revolution, the Civil War and World War II, I began to ask questions of the other adults in the family.

My grandmother was very proud of her man, and always took time to show us his medals and badges, his uniform jacket and patches, and told us what it all meant. She would also tell us stories of the hardships that they faced at home – from rationing and a lack of transportation to the heartbreaking time and distance between them and shortage of just about everything. I looked up to her as a strong and independent woman who supported the love of her life through some very hard times.

One day I asked my father, who was at the time a truck driver for Poole Truck Lines, about his war (assuming that he was in Vietnam). He looked at me almost wistfully and told me that he wasn’t able to serve in the military directly. Of course, I was shocked and pressed him for details. It turned out that he volunteered to serve in the US Air Force, and had passed all of the aptitude tests to go to Officer Candidate School and through Pilot Selection – but when he went to Jacksonville, Florida to the Military Entrance Processing Station (MEPS), he was disqualified.

He had been horribly burned as a child when, while standing in front of a gas heater, his flannel robe caught on fire and left him with 3rd degree burns from his buttocks to his knees. While the burns were long healed, and he felt no pain, discomfort or limitations, the military doctors were less than impressed and barred him from service. I think that he may have regretted that rejection for the rest of his life. However, he made the most of it, had a successful career and later served his community and state as a Law Enforcement Officer for nearly 25 years. Whether he served in the US Military or not, Pop was my hero, and remains so to this day – but more about him later.

As the years passed, my family fed my growing obsession with the military, although they did it mostly either unwittingly or completely innocently. Remember dear reader, that it was a different time then, when little boys had BB guns that they carried around shooting cans and things that they shouldn’t as well as closely supervised trips to the sand pit to shoot .410s and .22s with our fathers. The steady diet of comic books like SGT ROCK and GI COMBAT were tempered with a set of encyclopedias, histories of the conquering of the American West and the documentaries that my father loved so much.

After reading the monthly feast of graphic imagery in DC’s comics, I would pore over the Encyclopedia Britannia to clarify the meaning of words, what specific weapons were and what they were used for, rank structures, what badges meant and why we were fighting. This was the start of my thirst for historic knowledge that would serve me well through my military career, and now as a part-time academic. It was not good enough to just play army and pretend to be Audie Murphy or Jeb Stuart, I wanted to know how they fought, what equipment they used, and most importantly WHY they fought.

Some of my fondest memories as a child were visiting the many coastal emplacements and forts that dot the shoreline of Florida, as well as observing living history exhibits that ranged from full-scale battle reenactments like the annual festival at Olustee to the pioneer exhibits at the Florida Museum of Natural History. I grew up on a diet of sugar cane and dusty books, while I clothed myself with Confederate gray and Army green, and I am grateful every day that my parents and grandparents were so willing to keep my appetite for history alive.

Indeed, I remember one year, convincing my Papa to let me carry “THE” gun to the Olustee reenactment, as it would only be proper with my brand new Kepi that crowned my head was a tribute to his grandfather – whose gun it was. That venerated ancestor was Thomas Lampkin Davis, who was a musician in K Company, 6th Florida Volunteer Infantry Regiment during the Civil War. He was a heroic mystery to me and in spite of extensive genealogy work, remains so, to some extent. At any rate, that was one of the proudest days of my life. While the old musket was battered, rusted and abused, it was a link to my past and pointed the way to my future. I still have that old musket – and it hangs, with the kepi, on my wall at home.

The years passed, and my tastes refined. For several years, the television show “The A-Team” was the cornerstone of playing Army for my friends and me. We all had a role to play, and perhaps not surprisingly to some of my friends today, my role was that of the mad pilot – Murdoch. During this time, I fell in love with both aviation and the Marine Corps. One of my friend’s fathers was a Vietnam Vet Marine, and my friend wore an ERDL camouflage pattern Marine Corps cover to school every day. I coveted that hat. It just had an aura of badassness…yes, that is a word. Of course, I began to research both and soon filled my young head with the specs and nomenclature of just about every aircraft in the American inventory at that point – as well as most of the foreign military aircraft. Likewise, I began to make special trips on my bike to the Marine Corps Recruiter’s office, which was just down the street from my grandparents’ house in Tallahassee. Decals and posters were the best treats that this boy could have – that and model aircraft – they filled the skies of my bedroom in our little apartment.

About this time, I began to spend a bit more time with my Granddaddy (My mother’s dad) and discovered that he had served in Korea during the war there as an Military Police Soldier (MP), and this was as intriguing as my Papa’s stint as the Tank Commander (TC) of a Tank Destroyer during WWII. To my further delight and respect, I found out that my great grandfather on my mother’s side was an Infantryman in the 81st Infantry Division in World War I and lost a lung to German mustard gas (Those damned brutal Huns!). Little did I know how all of this would profoundly affect my personal choices in the military later, but it did and I couldn’t be happier.

At some point in the early 1980s, my friends and I discovered a duffle bag full of US Army uniforms and insignia that someone had discarded next to the dumpster at our apartment complex. Soon I had a fully uniformed squad of troops (between 8 and 10 years old) marching in step and singing cadences that we picked up from various sources. We were in hog heaven. While playing at marching one day, we met “Sarge,” he was a veteran of some sort from the neighboring apartment complex, who taught us the “stomp your left and drag your right” cadence/step. I suppose we were probably fun to watch – not unlike the “Little Rascals” whose re-runs were a part of our TV diet.

When I visited my father, he always had a new stack of history and reference books (most of which I still have today), and I would spend hours studying the characteristics and lineage of American martial aircraft. He would take me to museums and monuments all over the state to let me see and experience for myself the wonders of the military world. He knew I loved it, and would not dissuade me from my dreams. By the time my mother took a job in Jacksonville, when I was in the 7th grade, I had completely turned away from Marine Corps Aviation and Aimed High – I wanted to be an “Eagle Driver” – a pilot of the US Air Force’s F15 Eagle.

I adored the airplane and coveted it. I collected anything and everything related to the F15 that I could get my hands on and afford (or convince my long-suffering parents to afford) – I acquired a flight helmet and painted it in the livery colors and style of the 33rd Tactical Fighter Wing out of Eglin Air Force Base in Florida. I found an “Eagle Driver” patch like those worn by the pilots and even scored some flight gloves at one point. Indeed today, I still grin uncontrollably when I see an Eagle fly over – she is the girl I never had.

When my mother got a new job and moved us to Jacksonville, and I started school at the Douglas Anderson 7th Grade Center (at that time, it was a centralized 7th-grade school for all of Duval County), I was pretty nerdy in my own right. All I really cared about was being a fighter pilot. Every day I wore an ERDL pattern jungle blouse with patches ranging from both grandfather’s combat units (3rd Infantry Division and Tank Destroyer Forces – that Grandfather was in the 629th TD BN, 29th Infantry Division) to that Eagle Driver patch I was so fond of – as well as wearing some old clapped out jungle boots and jeans – this would become an unofficial and unrealized “uniform” of some of my friends in high school. But, for now, I was the new kid. I still spoke with a bit of a country accent and didn’t really know how to handle myself yet.

There was a rumor that some of the older kids there were like 18 years old – and had flunked so many times that they were just homesteading at the 7th Grade Center. I had a run-in with one of them that changed my life. If was after gym class, and I was standing in line for lunch, talking to a very well developed and pretty blonde girl named Pam. I remember her skin-tight jeans, punky hair, and neon accessories made her seem much older, sort of dangerous, and hella hot. It was then that things went sideways.

Her beau – I don’t remember his name, but he was one of the ones rumored to be 18, slid in between us in line out of nowhere, and elbowed me out of the way. Of course, I protested as I thought Pam and I were getting on famously and did not want to be bullied. Moments later, when I picked myself up off the floor, nose bloodied, I realized that I might just want to learn how to fight. Damn – that hurt! Of course, it was not my last punch to the nose – nor the worst. That week, my mother let me sign up for martial arts lessons at a little dojo called LeeMarCas, where I would be hit in the nose hundreds more times.

I would ride my bicycle from our home in the Arlington Heights neighborhood, near Fort Caroline Road down University Boulevard to the little hole-in-the-wall Martial Arts studio and shop and put on my gi – ready for whatever Master Lee Barden could impart to me. In those days, Lee’s dojo was in the back room behind the small storefront. It had no air-conditioning, no pads on the floor, and no pads on the support poles that were spaced throughout the relatively large room. We wore leather bag gloves as they allowed better grappling and lasted much longer than the dipped foam that most dojos used. The drawback was that the padding was a bit thinner, so you felt the punches a bit more.

It was in that hot dojo that I learned to take a punch. I earned a few black eyes, probably a broken nose or two, and most importantly a deep respect for the teachings of Master Lee and the philosophy of Taoism. I don’t know if Lee knows this, but that was the beginning of a lifelong journey for me. The beginning of finding myself and trying to maintain balance within me. Over the years, I became a decent fighter, and that was exactly what Lee and his Black Belts taught me, how to engage and win a fight – in the quickest way possible. This would serve me well in the future, as that wasn’t the last fight I got into in school…but it was the last one in which I got my ass handed to me. Thanks again, Lee!

Academically, I was a terrible student, but I was a good test taker and in the gifted program, so I thought that I would be able to do whatever I wanted after Middle and High School. My plans were to go to the Air Force Academy (I even had a subscription to the Air Force Association Magazine) and of course, become a bad-ass fighter pilot – shooting down Soviet MiGs like a Boss. I kept up on all of the latest technology as well as the latest paint schemes for NATO aircraft. Yeah – I was that kid. However, a few events during my high school years would change my perspective and my course. The least of which was not my terrible study habits.

I played football in one form or another until I got to 9th grade and went out for the High School team at Terry Parker. During pre-season work-ups, I was injured with a scratched lens in my eye and decided to call it quits. How was I supposed to be a fighter pilot if I messed up my eyes? Of course, the irony is that I continued to train with Lee until halfway through my Junior year, and was hit in the face multiple times every other day. Looking back, I suppose that it was just a period of transition. This was reflected in several ways in the coming years.

In the summer between 9th grade and my sophomore year (at the time, Duval County High Schools were 10th through 12th grades), I met a pretty girl named Debbie. As I mentioned before, I was a terrible academic student at the time and was attending summer school to make up some class or other (probably math, which I still struggle with). She was also there, but to get ahead – yes, she was my polar opposite when it came to academics. She came from a good, upper-middle-class, Episcopalian family that spent free time at their beach house or on their sailboat. Yes, she was a bit out of my lower-middle-class league, but we hit it off nonetheless.

We were crazy high school in love until about halfway through the first semester of our Junior year. We both had our own vehicles and friends, and spent a considerable amount of time apart, considering that we were so in love. She would spend much of her time with other members of the school band or church groups (often the same kids) and I would spend an inordinate amount of time with my friends in the woods, accomplishing whatever teen-crazy mission we dreamed up for ourselves on weekend camping outings.

As I mentioned before, looking back, there was a bit of a uniform that we subconsciously developed in those years. black T-shirts and jeans, with boots and a well-worn military fatigue jacket, were the go-to wardrobe items – although this was not a steadfast rule – all of us could and did assume more preppy threads when the need arose, like dates and dances. None of us really fit into any particular group – we weren’t jocks or nerds – socialites or gear heads, specifically. We knew and were friendly with almost everyone. However, we did seem to run in a pack, with a couple of us eventually serving our country in one way or another. Kenny joined the Army as an MP, Tyrome joined the Merchant Marines and Chad became a Ranger and later a Border Patrol Agent. These guys all shaped my life in many ways – and we bonded over fire pits and while paddling john boats across the mighty St. John’s River – both with varying degrees of success.

One weekend we decided to camp out on Quarantine Island, which is in the middle of the St John’s River and was used as a way station for incoming cargo ships back in the days of sail. Now it was deserted except for some workers during the weekday that were part of the crew building the nearly complete Napoleon Bonaparte Broward Bridge (Popularly known as the “Dame’s Point Bridge”) that would connect Arlington with Oceanway and provide a quick route for the denizens of Eastern Jacksonville and relatively short route to the Airport and Interstate 95 North. Well, initially, our little expedition went rather well, although, with only one 8-foot john boat, and five of us on the trip, we had to make two trips across the mile-wide waterway from Ruddy Point to the island. Once we all got on the island, we decided to explore the construction site and see what we could find. First we set up our little patrol base with our sleeping bags and some tarps for cover (tents were for pussies) and set our beer in the cold wet sand to stay cool.

After a considerable hike, we made it to the construction site where we found all of the typical equipment and detritus one would expect at such a place. More importantly, we found that there was scaffolding attached to the side of the support towers, from where we were all the way to the top almost 500 feet above. After a VERY short debate, we began to climb. The deck is a “mere” 174 feet above sea level, and at night with only a 10 inch wide steel been to cross, our first stop was horrifying enough. We clambered onto the deck and looked around for a bit before we noticed headlights headed in our general direction – so back across the beam, and up the scaffold, we scrambled.

The scaffold topped off almost level with the top of the south support tower and between the wind and the ridiculous height, it seemed like we were on top of the world. After soaking it in, we began the long descent and after what seemed forever, we made it back to terra-firma. Then one of the guys discovered that the construction workers had left the keys in a front-end loader. We grabbed every fire extinguisher we could find and climbed aboard. Our trip back to our little camp went much quicker as we tooled along over the rolling dunes, most of us piled on top of the engine compartment or the cab of the loader – all while leaving a smoke screen of dry chemical extinguisher powder behind us.

The next day we woke, sore and tired, to a blustery wind and a heavy line of storm clouds moving toward us from the West. It was February, and although we were in Florida, the weather in the winter can turn harsh and bitingly cold in short order, and we all sensed that this would be a bad storm. So, we hurriedly packed our gear and made our way back to where we had pulled the boat up onto a dune. It was still there, but the water was very close to surpassing the cord grass that marked the high tide mark. We had another quick debate about making several trips across and decided that we needed to make it in one go.

We cast about for suitable raft-making material and found a huge piece of Styrofoam that had once been part of a dock. Using our climbing rope, we tied it off to the stern of the boat, and found a board with which the person riding the Styrofoam could paddle. We loaded all of our kit into the boat and cast off, with Jimbo riding the Styrofoam like an aquatic horse. The water was still relatively smooth in spite of the wind, and it had not started raining. We paddled the overloaded boat as strongly as we could, all while the Styrofoam raft drifted and tugged on the boat. Then we saw the line of wind and rain coming.

The water started getting choppy and soon we found ourselves taking on a bit of water. Someone behind me complained that their feet were getting wet, and then I made a huge mistake. I stopped paddling to point to my rucksack and tell him to get my canteen cup out, with which to bail out the water. That was when we drifted abeam to the choppy waves. We only had about 6 inches of gunnel above the water as it was and when the first wave it us, the little boat swamped without hesitation. Suddenly we were in the VERY cold river, holding on to each other, the swamped boat and our sodden rucksacks all while Jimbo laughed at us from the comfort of his Styrofoam sea horse.

Chad was quickly becoming hypothermic as he did not have the nice layer of fat that I did, and I became worried about him. We all squabbled about what to do while our paddles and loose, lightweight items quickly drifted away on the wind assisted current. Jimbo continued to guffaw like a jackass as we slowly lost our body heat. I had one hand on his sea horse, and the other through the straps on my ruck and holding tightly to the johnboat. I decided that I had enough. I pulled down sharply on the Styrofoam float and sent a very surprised, and not so amused Jimbo into the drink with us. Yeah, I know that it was a dick move, but sometimes you have to be that guy.

After a prolonged and exhausting struggle, we dragged ourselves onto the far shore, like wet rats and dragging our soaked kit through the mud and cord grass onto the shore. As we shivered in the biting wind, we opened our rucksacks in hopes of finding dry clothes – to no avail. Except for Chad. His winter coat was wrapped in a tied-off garbage bag and was completely dry. While all of us were sorely jealous of his foresight, none of us had time to worry about it as the sound of sirens alerted us that we were not alone.

Apparently, someone living in the apartment complex up river from where we came to shore saw us swamp and struggling, and eventually called 911 in hopes of helping us out. Jacksonville Fire and Rescue were first on the scene, followed closely by officers from Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office. They must have thought (mostly correctly by the way) that we were just stupid kids and after a brief interrogation loaded us up, wrapped in the firemen’s bunker gear, and drove us to Chad’s mother’s house, less than a mile from where we waded ashore. Never had I been so happy to strip out of my clothes in front of friends and a mom! She turned her heater way up and shepherded us all into the showers to warm up while she washed and dried our clothes.

These and other experiences had a duel effect on me. They fed my hunger for adventure, while toughening me up a bit for some of the trials in the future. But physical toughness is not the single attribute that makes a soldier decent. You have to be mentally and emotionally tough as well. This I was not. In fact, my grizzled old Papa told me that if I ever did join the military, I would not make it through Basic Training – I was that big of a wimp emotionally back then, in spite of ongoing martial arts training and being able to take a punch.

And emotionally, I was a bit of the pussy that Papa insisted that I was. What he didn’t understand, and what I didn’t either, until later, is that physical pain never bothered me much, and even extreme physical and emotional stress is a good thing… it was the close bonds that I formed with people that would hurt me and break me down. They reason that I could take a punch and play football, suffer broken bones and worse without being a pussy is that I really had nothing invested in those tribulations. But, if I disappointed Papa or my Dad – those were the things that broke my heart…and I guess they still do. I suppose that I fully subscribed to the idea of never crying for pain – only for for love. If that makes me a big pussy, then so be it.

Anyway, it was around this time that I became much more interested in joining the Army. The life of an Airborne Ranger and eventually Special Forces seemed like the life for me. Perhaps it was a realization that I would never have good enough grades to get into the Air Force Academy, or maybe the romanticism of being a snake-eater got to me, or perhaps the fact that Debbie and I went through a nasty breakup in which I showed the depths of my immaturity and douchebaggery and simply wanted to change everything. Regardless of what combination of things led to the change of heart, I soon found myself in the US Army Recruiter’s office wanting an 11X (Unassigned Infantry) contract with an Airborne option. The problem I then ran into was the fact that I was still 17 and needed a parental signature.

When I approached my mom and stepdad, they were adamantly against the idea of me going into one of the direct combat branches of the Army and preferred that I choose a job that would have some application in the civilian world when I got out. Additionally, they refused to sign unless I joined the Army Reserve first – to see if I even liked it – before committing to at least four years of active service.

So, I made my way back to the recruiting office and met with the Army Reserve Recruiter. I explained my plight and asked for his advice. I know that any military or veteran reading this is now wincing, waiting for the other shoe to drop. However, Staff Sergeant (SSG) Swed was actually as good as his word. He never lied or misled me, and actually helped me out in this situation. However, there was much that he did not – nay, could not – know about the field that I would choose. He convinced me that being an MP had much of the adventure of Combat Arms, without the long ruck-marches, as well as being a transferable skill. He also let me know that there was an MP Company local to Jacksonville and I could get a bonus for enlisting to fill one of their slots.

Let me make one thing clear – SSG Swed WAS a smooth talking bastard, and after a brief meeting with my parents, they were convinced that I would be riding in a patrol car and learning how to be a civilian cop…which is partly true. So soon, I had the parental signature that I needed and was at MEPS taking my physical and signing my contract. That day is a bit blurry to me, but I remember SSG Swed coaching me through most of it, including making sure that I got everything that he promised I would – IN WRITING. So I left MEPS that day a newly enlisted recruit, feeling physically violated (not for the last time!) and bearing a contract that guaranteed that as long as I fulfilled my part, I would get a $1500 bonus (split into three payments and taxed heavily), split option training (where I would attend Basic Combat Training [BCT] during the summer between by Junior and Senior years in High School and then attend MP School after Graduation), a unit close to home where I could attend drill and begin learning about my trade, and an 8 year commitment to the US Government.

Soon after signing the contract, I had a huge falling out with my mother and stepfather that resulted in my relocation to Plant City, Florida to live with my father. I enrolled in school there and found that I really liked PCHS and the people there. Pop was very no-nonsense about everything and basically made it understood that I could sink or swim, pass or fail at my leisure. He impressed upon me in no uncertain terms that while he loved me, this was my journey and that he would rather me choose to fail and suffer the consequences than spend his time and effort in a fruitless and ongoing effort to MAKE me do the right thing. This is when I began to turn myself around…although I still struggled in some classes.

Nonetheless, I made it through the remainder of a relatively uneventful Junior year while making some new friends and finding that I could be outgoing and friendly without revealing too much about my past. This would also stay with me, as I am often considered an extroverted introvert to this day. Funny how that works. I dated and spent time with several young ladies, and Debbie even came to visit me once on a whim. But I promised myself that I would remain single and unattached after such a messy breakup with Deb (not that I fault her at all!).

June approached rapidly, and I began to pack my bag to leave for Fort McClellan, in Alabama and did so strictly according to the packing list provided by my recruiter. Little did I know that the bag was to be of little use to me. See, other than a few of the toiletries that I brought, everything I needed would either be issued to me or purchased from a limited selection in a small troop PX (Post Exchange – this is a military only store, and can be from the size of a very small convenience store to a full sized mall). Nonetheless, when my ship date came, I was ready and Pop dropped me off at Tampa International Airport with a ticket to Atlanta and on to Anniston Alabama – thus beginning a very long journey.

Warm Reception:

Growing up as a Cold War kid, I was inoculated against the evils of Communism early on – and learned to shelter under my desk in case of a nuclear attack by the dreaded Soviets…or Chinese. The Soviets were the Bogeyman of the Cold War – and not without good reason. In spite of the seemingly innocuous name, the Cold War was anything but cold. Almost every conflict between 1945 and 1991 was in some way tied to the struggle between the United States and the Soviet Union. From the overthrow of regimes to the horrific wars in Vietnam and Afghanistan, the sneaky fucking Russians were in a very real war with the (sometimes-misguided) patriots that defended the Free World.

This was the attitude that I had in 1989 upon entering Basic Combat Training with E Company, 795th Military Police Battalion at Fort McClellan, Alabama. I tell you this not to give you, the reader, a “USA! USA!” surge of patriotism, but to give you the context of the times and the mindset that a 17-year-old kid had in the late 1980s. Being a part-time historian, I am well aware of the cold facts of the Cold War, and that has tempered my worldview extensively. In fact, my Master’s Thesis and the subsequent book, Misadventures in the Middle East examines much of what went wrong during the Cold War and led to “my” war. (Yes, that was a shameless plug)

Having already attended a couple of “Drill” weekends with the now deactivated 449th Military Police Company (Combat Support) and 810th Military Police Company (Combat Support), I had some vague idea that the “Combat Support” bit of those titles would mean much more than any proffered Law Enforcement activities for a good portion of my career. I noted, somewhat dourly, that these units were equipped with the remnants of Vietnam. From helmets to weapons and vehicles, it was all old school Army. M16A1 was the standard rifle, with the sidearm being an M1911A1 (every MP is issued a sidearm, and in a CS unit, every MP also has either a rifle or a heavier weapon assigned). Our vehicles were a variant of the ubiquitous workhorse of the Army since WWII – the Truck, Utility, 1/4-Ton, 4×4, M151 – or “MUTT” Jeep. These had nice roll cages and a pedestal mount for our M60 machineguns – but were woefully outdated. However, they were in line with the M1 steel helmets and highly polished liners – emblazoned with “MP” on the front of the camouflage cover and the liner, respectively.

I reflected on the equipment and my upcoming adventure in Alabama as I sat in the terminal waiting for my flight to Atlanta. I chatted with the other recruits who were off to various training installations all over the United States via Hartsfield–Jackson Atlanta International Airport – an airport I would learn to hate. We had been given vouchers for meals – and thought that the Military must really be the best thing ever! We ate as though we were royalty –on cheap, yet expensive, airport food. Then we queued up for the security line when our flight time got close.

The wait wasn’t that long, as, of course, this was pre-9/11, our bags were run through an x-ray machine, and we were through in short order. I looked over at the adjacent restaurant and noticed a familiar face on the other side of the glass. It was professional wrestler Hulk Hogan. While I was not, and am not, a fan of professional wrestling, many of the other recruits were, and there was a scramble to go meet one of the most famous people in America at the time. It is kinda funny to me, the cult of personality. While no doubt, I have had my fan-boy moments, I usually come away from meeting supposedly important people feeling less than impressed.

We arrived in Atlanta and had lunch there while waiting for our connecting flight to Anniston, Alabama, when the airline started asking for volunteers to be bumped off the overbooked flight. As good little future Soldiers, the five of us who were headed to BCT ignored the plea. Nonetheless, eventually all five us were bumped. We were compensated for our troubles with a hotel room, meal vouchers and a flight the next morning. Before leaving for the hotel, we called the number we had been given for just such an occurrence and let the sergeant who answered on the other end know what had happened.

As we made our way out of the airport and down to baggage claim, we noticed some uniformed and armed MPs stalking around and checking the IDs, orders, and stories of the other obvious new recruits that appeared as lost as we felt. As we waited for our bags, I wandered over to them and asked what was going on. They explained that they were an AWOL (Absent Without Leave) apprehension team looking for Servicemembers who had skipped out of training at some point. While this is no longer done today – in 1989 it was still a very real thing, and it would not be the last time I saw these guys at work.

We were finally loaded up into a van and driven to one of the airport hotels where we were given decent rooms with cable (yay!) and were told we could order from room service for dinner. Heh. Bad Idea. I know that most of us had a large steak dinner, but perhaps they didn’t mind back then. One of the guys discovered that each of our rooms also had pay-per-view movies. As we knew, we were not being billed for the room or the amenities – so by unspoken agreement, we all retired to our respective rooms for the night and watched porn. Such is the life of a traveling Soldier – although now one can just surf the net for five minutes on their iPhone and find what Soldiers sometimes call “Spankavision” – back then as a 17 year old on my way to BCT, on-demand porn seemed like a gift from the gods.

In the morning, we rose early and ate again, then headed out to the airport and on to Anniston without further delay. We arrived at the airport and were herded onto a bus for the ride to the Reception Center at Ft. McClellan. We were pleasantly surprised that we were greeted by stern looking Drill Sergeants who were distant and aloof, VERY businesslike – but not all crazy, swearing and shouting like R. Lee Ermey’s portrayal in Full Metal Jacket. We were soon in our temporary barracks, being instructed on the various events and protocol for the next few days and then sent to the mini-PX adjacent to our barracks with a list of exactly what to buy with the funds that we were required to bring with us.

Over the course of the next several hours, as we bought the items on our list (shower shoes, toiletries, running shoes, padlocks, etc), a couple of the other recruits (now derisively referred to as “Private”) ran into some issues immediately. A couple guys had locked their wall lockers and immediately forgot the combination or left the key inside. A couple of others had failed to bring the recommended cash with them and were taken away for the torture known as “casual pay” (wherein you are given money that will later come out of your actual paycheck – and thence taken out again, and recouped again and screwed up so bad that you end up having to stand in line for hours to get it fixed). And a couple ran afoul of the Drill Sergeants, calling one “Sir” or failing to do something important. But overall, we really got the sense that this was not at all what we envisioned – and wasn’t going to be that bad…as long as we obeyed the few simple rules.

During the next few days, we got an official picture taken, were issued a laminated ID card, and a very stuffed and very heavy duffle bag full of uniforms, boots, underwear, socks, and hats – our complete “initial issue.” We also got a plethora of vaccine injections in assembly line style with crazy-looking air gun injectors that we were told could cut us open if we flinched – no one flinched. We were also tested for tuberculosis and pricked on the upper arm several times with the smallpox vaccine. This we would have to keep covered and monitor it for infection over the next couple of weeks as it creates a nasty puss-filled blister and often leaves a strange round scar. We had physicals and were briefed about military rank, customs and courtesies, and allowed to call home and let our loved ones know that we had made it and were alive.

One day, because of scheduling, we ended up at the Chow Hall (now known as the much haughtier “Dining Facility” or “D-FAC”) at the Chemical Regiment training barracks. We were amazed that we were front-loaded and got to eat before the Privates that were already in line. They were locked at Parade rest as they stood there, staring at the back of the head in front of them. Later in the barracks, we all agreed that the Chemical troops had real dickheads for drill sergeants compared to ours. While we had to stand at parade rest, it wasn’t all ridged like that. THAT would have to suck. We were comfortable and relieved.

That evening we had to get weighed in and do a few pushups and situps to confirm we were fit enough to start Basic Combat Training. Those that didn’t make the cut – and there were a couple who were really fat or really weak – would be sent to the “Fitness Training Company” (FTC) and would start BCT later. Those that were segregated were laughed at and ridiculed by both Drill Sergeants and Privates alike. Finally, we were told to make sure our stuff was packed, as we would be getting on the bus first thing in the morning to be transported to our training company. In this case, E (Echo) Company would be where we learned to be Soldiers. We were excited to finally be moving forward and chatted until lights out time about how amazing the entirety would be.

We were roused early as the overhead florescent lights flickered to life. We performed the now ritual “Shit-Shower-Shave” that starts every morning in garrison. We assembled downstairs and were kindly instructed to strap out duffles on our fronts, and carry our “AWOL” bag (which was the small backpack or duffle bag that each of us arrived with, that contained the very few items that we were told to bring with us from home) in hand. We slowly shuffled onto a Bluebird bus with green vinyl bench seats. These were nearly identical to those we have all been on, although normally in the bright yellow livery of the Public School system. These were painted overall white, with austere black markings that identified them as US Army property and lacking the ripped seats, graffiti, and used chewing gum that one sees as decoration in the yellow version.

We took our seats – loading back to front, two Privates per seat. We crammed ourselves in, as instructed, with our green 1000 denier duffles shoved between our chests and the seat back in front of us. It was soon claustrophobic. We weren’t allowed to put the windows down – and couldn’t even if we wanted to, as we were packed in so tight that we couldn’t move even so much as our heads very much. The Specialist-4 (SP4) that drove the bus grinned back at us, almost leering. As the drill sergeants from Reception Battalion saw that we were all safely seated and the buss was full, they smiled graciously and kindly bid us farewell, and to have fun at Echo Company! While we were crammed in this hot bus, it was a nice send-off, and we would be starting our REAL training soon!

The bus trundled across the picturesque installation – but we couldn’t see much of it due to the physical situation. We made a stop where the four or five Privates that failed the weigh-in or physical test quietly disembarked with an escort to the FTC. We had heard rumors that they would do eight to twelve hours of Physical Training every day, on a starvation diet. At the end of each week, they would be reexamined to determine if they were then fit to proceed to BCT. Until then, they were stuck on zero.

Our next stop was just around the block from FTC and I could see the odd multi-story brick and concrete building that was bisected by a long open area, that, in turn, looked almost like a well-groomed patio. The building loomed like a cell block, three stories tall. But the bottom floor was largely cut-away and formed what might look like an open-air carport underneath either wing and connected to the patio area that was open to the sky. Honestly, while a bit industrial looking as far as architectural cues; it was light years beyond the Quonset huts of Gomer Pyle or the austere barracks of Full Metal Jacket that we all imagined would be our homes. Indeed, this looked almost…nice…

We could see our Drill sergeants approaching; talking amongst themselves and forming what looked like a welcoming line on the walkway that led from where we were parked to the big patio. I thought: Well, that IS something; I guess we will all be introduced to each one individually– or maybe they will be picking us for platoons? But my thoughts were interrupted as the SP4 shouted that we had arrived.  “At-Ease!” as he stood and pulled the handle that opened the door to the bus. We already knew that this was not only a drill command but also Army jargon for BE QUIET and pay attention.

A large man in a starched Battle Dress Uniform stepped onto the bus, and thanked the SP4, who in turn acknowledged the big man and sort of disappeared into the ether. We craned our heads around our duffle bags to better see our new friend. His brown felt campaign hat was worn, sun bleached on its top and sweat stained around the band. The brass disc and eagle, circled by a thin blue border, that adorned the front was sparkling, even in the interior of the bus. We could not see his eyes as they were behind dark sunglasses. He had a huge pearly white and friendly smile above his board-like uniform. His left breast was adorned with a Combat Infantryman’s Badge, Parachutist’s wings, and an Air Assault Badge. His right shoulder sported the “Electric Strawberry” of the 25th Infantry Division. This guy was a no-shit Combat Vet. I was already impressed.

Then in a booming, but cheerful and almost soothing voice, he greeted us: “Welcome to Echo Company, Seven Hundred and Ninety Fifth Military Police Battalion… I am Drill Sergeant Williams and this is my bus.”
Then there was a beat of silence… and something suddenly went horribly wrong.

The impressive, but nice man that was there a second ago was gone. He was replaced by a contorted face from our nightmares that shocked and froze us- we felt betrayed and didn’t yet know why. The pleasant and friendly, but booming, voice was an octave higher now. It was at least 100 decibels louder. It had taken on an intensity and urgency that pierced the warm blanket of comfort that we had mistakenly thought was Army mentality. We were so wrong. So very wrong.

“YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS TO GET OFF MY BUS – AND EIGHT OF THEM ARE ALREADY GONE!!”

Shark Attack:

The din was pervasive. A cacophony of shouting, shouted or whimpered responses, cursing, and the sound of 30 some-odd privates crawling over each other, trying to escape HIS BUS. I don’t remember how we did it, but somehow, one by one, we stumbled, disoriented, from the bus, with that heavy duffle still strapped to our chests. What had moments before, seemed like a beautiful, bright summer day in the mountains of Northern Alabama, was suddenly the harsh glare of a damning sun spotlighting each of our many faults and missteps for the green sharks that feasted on us.

The Drill Sergeants had started out in an orderly double line – a gauntlet of hardened men in sunglasses and brown Campaign Hats that barked and seemed to bite at us from either side in a feeding frenzy of profane (and often hilarious) verbal bloodlust. They shouted and shoved, belittled, and kicked as we wearily and surprisingly quickly made it to the concrete expanse that we would come to know as the CTA (Company Training Area). There, we saw even more Drill Sergeants and well over 100 other scared Privates – the Drills were circling and attacking as they sensed a weakness or a mistake. If you have ever watched the Discovery Channel and seen sharks in a feeding frenzy – or Hyenas harassing a herd of impalas, you have seen nature’s equivalent.

This went on for some time, none of us knowing what to make of it. We were formed up into a mass formation of long ranks and were quickly aware that we were to stand at the position of attention with our duffle held in one hand and the AWOL bag in the other. A few poor souls decided to put their bags on the floor – this was a grave mistake. Drill Sergeants demand discipline, unwaveringly attention to detail, and performance of orders to the letter. Dropping your bag before being told, staring at anything except the six inches in front of your face, speaking without being spoken to or any other false move brought specific attention to the offender – and this attention was unwanted and inevitably painful – in one way or another.

So some poor bastard dropped his bag – and a hulking, sweating drill was immediately in his face, swearing and questioning the intelligence of the Private. Several things could happen from there – largely dependent on the subsequent response of the Private in question. While it all seemed chaotic and random – eventually, we learned that this was a well-scripted, and highly practiced show. It was meant to shock and disorient, to put us in a place of mental and physical disadvantage, and it worked well.

This Private attempted to stutter a response, ended up calling the Non-Commissioned Officer “Sir” and accepted a tongue-lashing, correcting the mistake, followed by a shout to “By Some Real Estate!” The confused kid just stood there, shaking and staring at the Drill – not understanding what he wanted. This, in turn, enraged the Drill, who shouted and cursed even louder. This was like blood in the water and drew several other Drills – their heads snapped around to the commotion and their body followed – making a b-line to the source of trauma. Some were shouting profanities – some screamed PUSH! – others were completely incomprehensible as they screamed at the top of their lungs at the Private – who was literally shaking in his boots.

Eventually, the pitiable fellow figured out that they wanted him to do push-ups – and collapsed onto the smooth concreted and began to push against Alabama as rapidly as he could. The small crown of Drills dissipated – leaving just the original aggressor to finish up. He shouted “RECOVER!” – and again, the Private hesitated. The Drill shouted, “THAT MEANS GET UP, DUMBASS!” – the Private popped back up as the Drill shouted, his spittle spraying the flushed face of the Private, telling him to pick up his bags, which he did – quickly.

I had not realized, while I stood there, ramrod straight, gripping my bags and waiting for the next order, that I had begun to grin a bit. I had been in the Civil Air Patrol when I was younger and infatuated with the Air Force – and had learned basic “Drill and Ceremony” – albeit in the Air Force’s style. Therefore, I had a bit of an idea of what they were demanding and had thus far gone unnoticed as I watched with amusement while my fellows got “smoked.” Unfortunately, not keeping a straight face had singled me out as well. I was abruptly confronted by a very short, very Hispanic, and very pissed off Senior Drill Sergeant. He was another Combat Vet and had a triple stack of qualification and combat badges above the “US Army” tape on his Battle Dress Uniform (BDU) blouse that demanded respect.

His query was simple –

“What the fuck are you smiling about, Private?!” He said urgently, without quite shouting. (they said “Private” after a short pause, because they were obviously enamored with the Oxford Comma, and with a sneer – you knew it was as much an insult as a title.)

I tilted my head down slightly to look at him – mistake – he lost his goddamned mind.

Apparently, looking down was tantamount to having my way with his sister in front of him. I had insulted him and his stature. A flood of Spanish and English (Spanglish!) streamed out in a venomous invective that I only partly understood – having taken two years of “Spanish 1” in high school.

The stiff brim of his “Round Brown” wool felt Campaign Hat bounced uncomfortably off my chin as he shouted, gesticulated, and poked his very bony finger painfully into my chest. He questioned me rapid fire if I thought that I was better than him – that I needed to look down on him. He questioned my heritage, parentage, manhood, the honor of my mother, and if I were even human. I distinctly remember something about the best part of me being a stain on a mattress back in the 1970s…

To all of his questions and accusations, demands, and eventually the gratuitous push-ups, I answered loudly with either “YES DRILL SERGEANT” or “NO DRILL SERGEANT” – these were really the only appropriate answers – as the questions were not open-ended. However, these guys were fond of forcing you to answer what would today be considered “inappropriate” questions with a yes or no – alternatively, they would twist any answer to put you on your back foot mentally – which would lead to more pushups, burpees, butterfly kicks, mountain climbers or whatever else they could think of right then.

For example – during the berating and smoke session, led by this diminutive tornado of a Drill – my rapid-fire answers got me in trouble. This was his game; he made the rules and was already two steps ahead of me.

“Were you smiling at me, Private?”

“NO DRILL SERGEANT”

“I think you were smiling at me; you like me, don’t you, Private”
“NO DRILL SERGEANT”

“You sure you aren’t a cocksucking sort of faggot, Private?!”

“NO DRILL SERGEANT”

“You lied to your dumbshit recruiter, didn’t you, Private”

“NO DRILL SERGEANT”

“So you don’t like me, huh, Private?”

“NO DRILL SERGEANT”

“Why the fuck not, PRIVATE – what the fuck have I ever done to you?”

“…DRILL SERGEANT?…”

“What, you piece of shit, racist fuck? Were you gonna call me a beaner? You don’t like fucking Mexicans, do you, pendejo maricon? Or is it because I am short? I will put my fucking boot in your ass, cherry – do NOT fuck with me!”

“NO DRILL SERGEANT”

Magically, a taller white Drill appeared. He had a clipped mustache and looked like a bulldog. He was taller than me and much thicker. He was physically intimidating, and his hot breath smelled of stale Copenhagen snuff.

“This little faggot doesn’t like Mexicans? I ought to smoke your racist ass to death, Private. – We are ALL GREEN, dumbass. Fucking PUSH!”

This went on for what seemed like hours. The words – even just yes and no – were twisted to insult, berate, belittle and break down. It really didn’t matter how you answered – you were wrong. We were singled out, one by one – a few for a couple of sessions. All were humbled, physically smoked, and then left to recover. We picked up and dropped our bags on command, as each staccato of heavy bags thumping the ground caused another round of pushups, sworn insults, and a long period of holding our bags – that now felt like a ton in each hand. The random thumps dwindled to a single, resounding “THUMP” as we learned to perform even this menial task in unison. But then there would be that lone small “thump” in the back of the formation and the whole process would start over. Eventually, we did it – and with no small relief, simply had to stand at attention and wait to be called forward to in-process.

This part is more of a blur to me as I was hot, tired, thirsty, excited, confused, and eager to do the right thing. I do remember being called forward – handing over the Manila envelope with my paperwork, standing on a scale, and being summarily dismissed by a Specialist that was taking notes the whole time. I was directed to get my bags and fall into formation with the 3rd Platoon. I rushed over – saw that each group of Privates (four groups in all) had a trio of Drill Sergeants standing in front of the formation, along with a Private holding the numbered guide-on banner for the platoon. I formed up in my squad, and waited. The Drill Sergeants were explaining what was about to happen – as they did before each evolution of training or period of instruction. And paused only to tell those of us just joining the group to put our bags down and assume the position of “Parade Rest” in formation.

I had learned an important lesson with the pissed-off Senior Drill Sergeant – head and eyes locked straight – no looking around – and keep your stupid face impassive. So I did. We would soon be going upstairs, by squad, to our “Bay” area – this was a big open room where our bunks and wall lockers were – home for the next 8-17 weeks… if you made it. I listened closely as he explained how we would move up, how we would find a bunk and wall locker, and how we would stand by there, at the position of attention, with our bags in hand – and await instructions.

But I had also been paying attention to my peripheral vision and an acute sense of smell…. The 4th Platoon was all female! This was the first I had noticed it – and apparently several of my Platoon mates had also noticed – which was in turn noticed by the Drills. We were quickly disabused of any notion that we were to even glance sideways at the female Privates. We were to avoid them. We were to speak to them only if it was absolutely necessary, and we were most assuredly not allowed to touch them in any way, shape, or form. They were off limits. How the hell did we not notice females among us?

So, we all locked it up again, in spite of the sweet scent of girls gently wafting on the breeze…the Drill shouted:

“PLAToon – ATTEN – SHun!”

“RIIIIITE – FHAce!”

“FIRST Squad – FORWArd…”

“MAHARCH!!”

And we moved to the next stage of Army indoctrination…

Learning to Toe the Line:

We learned. We learned fast and we learned to act without error. From that first day of shock treatment, we learned mindless bullshit that was part of the indoctrination and we learned the basic skills of Soldiering. We learned our limits: physical, mental, and emotional. We learned everything that we would need to *start learning* to become professional Soldiers.

We filed up the doublewide stairs to the 2nd floor of the “Starship” as the training buildings were sometimes called, up a half flight, turn 180 degrees, up another half flight – and then turned left into our “Bay.” We entered the huge room with the Drills shouting orders and making sure we arraigned ourselves in the manner prescribed. Each hesitation, each misstep, was met with a berating by one of the Drills at best, and at worst, a smoke session, which is a series of exercises designed to be performed rapidly, correctly, and to the point of muscle failure.

The Bay itself was perhaps 25 to 30 meters in length and half that in width – but it was difficult to tell because of the arraignment of furniture. The outside walls of the Bay were set up with large double-door steel wall lockers standing at attention against the wall itself. In between each pair of wall lockers, was a steel frame bunk bed that held two twin-sized mattresses made of striped canvas or pea green vinyl and felt as though they were stuffed to bursting with straw. They rested on the steel springs of the bunks themselves – which were made of 6 pieces (4 extensions and two interchangeable bunks) that could be disassembled. On each mattress, there was a neatly folded and arraigned set of linens, including two identical green wool blankets, two flat sheets (apparently starched), one equally starched pillowcase, and an under stuffed feather pillow – also made of striped canvas.

This was all arraigned as if the bunks and wall lockers were Soldiers themselves – ridged at attention and awaiting inspection. Mirroring these was another row, back-to-back with yet another row down the middle of the bay. The wall lockers in the middle formed a central steel wall that divided the 1st and 2nd Squads from the 3rd and 4th. On the wall at the head of the room was a large corkboard as well as a chalkboard. A large easel with a huge pad of paper stood near the small alcove that led to the Drill Sergeant’s Office, whose doors were opposite the entrance.

The Bay looked almost antiseptic as we walked in, and smelled of comet and wax. Each steel bunk and most of the wall lockers, although “Dress-Right…Dress” (lined up in perfect formation), bore the scars of abuse, and the paint was worn through to metal that had a brown patina where it was not bright from constant use. In fact, some of the bunks looked like they had been twisted by some titan in a fit of rage. A few of the wall lockers had the long marks of having been dragged across a rough, hard surface.

The latrines were located at the back of the Bay – as well as a storage area for cleaning supplies and a large closet with a heavy lock on it. The latrines themselves were tiled from floor to ceiling, and contrary to our expectation, each toilet was actually enclosed in a stall, not to mention the small partition between urinals and partitioned showers. The whole of the latrine smelled strongly of cleaner and bleach and gleamed as if each individual fixture and tile were freshly installed and polished by a detailing crew.

We were shouted at, to “Toe the LINE” and “Get off my RUNWAY, Privates!” – we were as bewildered and confused as we had been down on the CTA. So most of us were pushing Alabama again as the Drills circled impatiently and actually began to explain (albeit while shouting at the top of their lungs) what exactly they wanted us to do. They wanted us to line up our toes on the line formed by the ends of the bunk beds and coincided with one of the faint lines that formed at the edges of the tiles and to stand at the position of Parade Rest until told what to do next. Through much more shouting, swearing, pushups, and confusion, we eventually conformed to what they wanted. They continued to pace up and down the “Runways” between the bunks, their spit-polished Jump Boots striking hard on the heel with each step – and each step leaving a black mark on the off-white tiles of the floor.

As one of my platoon mates was pushing to China, the Drill shouted: “That’s enough, Private, GET UP!”

Naturally, the guy sprung to his feet, feeling quite relieved, and seemed to hang in mid-movement as the Drill came unhinged.

“DID I TELL YOU TO RECOVER, BOY!?!”

The Private stammered as his shoulders slumped, realizing suddenly that this was a whole new game.

“DROP!”

We all heard, rather than saw, the heavy thud of the Private hit the floor, combined with the double slap of his palms striking the tile.

“GET UP!”

We heard the now familiar scuffle of the Private trying to get up…

“What the ACTUAL FUCK are you DOING, PRIVATE!?”

More stammering from the Private –

“BEAT your fucking FACE!”

The thud and double slap – and then rapid pushups.

“Now listen up, PRIVATES – when a Drill Sergeant tells you to ‘RECOVER,’ you can cease exercising, and return to the position of Parade Rest. HOWEVER, if a Drill Sergeant tells you to ‘GET UP,’ “Stand UP,” or anything else than ‘RECOVER’ you must ask PERMISSION to Recover. This is very easy to do, Privates…repeat after me…

Drill Sergeant, Thank you for conditioning my mind and my body, Drill Sergeant (we echoed this loudly)
Drill Sergeant, Please feel free to do so at any time; Drill Sergeant (Again, we responded in kind)
Drill Sergeant, Private (state your name), requests permission to Recover”

You would think that guys who had a certain minimum ASVAB (‘Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery” – The Military ‘Entrance Exam”) score, as well as a minimum GT (General Technical test) score, would have avoided the obvious mistake of shouting “State Your Name” – instead of shouting their own last name – but alas – no. Thus another round of swearing, pushing, breathing heavy, sweating, and recovering.

After the smoke session, we tried again… “Privates…repeat after me… Drill Sergeant, Thank you for conditioning my mind and my body, Drill Sergeant….”

This went on for what seemed to be hours – it was broken up only by smoke sessions.

Eventually, we got the point – and aside from the occasional verbal flub, this was forever engrained into our memories. The night continued with the harsh lessons learned about the minutiae of Training Barracks life, and just before midnight, a chorus of beeps went off, chiming from the wristwatches of every Drill. The beeps were alerting all of the Drills that the mandatory lights-out time was fast approaching. We were summarily dismissed and told that wake-up would be at 0400 hours. Then the lights went out and we were drowned in the sudden darkness. We noisily, slowly, and clumsily made our beds, stripped off our BDUs that smelled of mothballs and sour sweat, and crawled into our racks to sleep more soundly than we had since arriving at Fort McClellan.

I would not remember the sunrise the next morning….