Army Basic Training

[Doraemon]

Recently I visited the place where I attended basic training in the US Army, Fort McClellan, Alabama. The visit brought back many memories, and, looking back now, these memories are rather pleasant to me. Of course, at the time I attended basic training, Fort McClellan offered little in the way of pleasure.

My memories are now bittersweet, because Fort McClellan was closed some years back. What I remember as a well-maintained and meticulously-cleaned Army post is now overgrown with weeds, empty buildings, and is slowly decaying away. The boisterous marching songs and sounds of distant rifle fire from the shooting ranges are gone (though they still echo in my memories), replaced by the songs of birds. The place where many generations of young men learned the trade of war, and became men in the process, is now a ghost town.

It was 25 years ago this week that I volunteered for the Army. At the time, US troops were still in the process of liberating Kuwait. I was a student, struggling (and failing) to make ends meet with my part time job. I had a long way to go until I graduated, but no money for tuition, and unable to find a better job. I joined the Army mainly out of economic desperation.

I went to the recruiting station with a friend, and we took a preliminary vocational test which was to give a rough estimate of how we would do on the real test. I got a good score, my friend did not. The recruiting sergeants were "squared away" men, quick to smile and tell a joke, and to tell you how great life in the Army was. I listened to their sales pitch without much interest, as I had already made up my mind to enlist before going to the recruiting station.

Then the recruiting sergeant asked me what it was I wanted to do in the Army. Funny that I had not given the idea much thought. I assumed that you simply joined up, and was assigned wherever the Army wanted you to go. Using the results of the small test I had taken, I was given a list of the jobs I might qualify for, so long as my real ASVAB results were similar. I was quite surprised at all the options available; EOD, tank crewman, missile systems operator, dog trainer, graves registration specialist, there were many more which I can't recall.

But something came to mind. When I was a kid I loved the movie "The Longest Day", especially the part where the paratroopers jumped out of airplanes in the night. I asked the recruiter if I could be a paratrooper. His face didn't exactly light up; as it turned out, none of the recruiting sergeants had been to Airborne training. But he said he could get me a job as a paratrooper if that was what I wanted, and I passed the ASVAB with more than a 50, as well as passing the medical exam. That was enough for me, I was pleased to get a chance to be a paratrooper, like John Wayne in the movie.

Unfortunately (or not), one simply doesn't go to a recruiting center, join up, and then go off to training. Depending on the job, it can take several months before one starts. I took my ASVAB test with a large group of high school students, and was surprised to find that I got the second-highest score of the group. The guy with the highest score was a German national with a blonde ponytail which hung down to his belt.

After passing the test, I was shown a list of paratrooper jobs, as promised by my recruiter. What I had hoped to get was Airborne Infantry. To my dismay, only three jobs were available, none in the Infantry. The first job was parachute rigger. The idea of packing parachutes did not seem very adventurous to me, and, later, after meeting parachute riggers, I was glad to have shunned that job. The next job was combat signaler, which in reality is the person who carries a heavy radio everywhere on his back. Though it was likely to be an adventurous job, the thought of shouldering around a radio was not attractive to me. The last job available was medical specialist (combat medic, the sergeant called it). I was immediately interested in this job, it was a useful skill which might come in handy, I would be out in the field, and not have to carry a radio.

I swore an oath, and was told that I was a DEP, or in the "delayed enlistment program". I was given an information kit telling me how to prepare, and what I needed to bring with me. I was also told the exact date I would be leaving, which was more than three months away. On my departure day, I would have to report to the physical exam center, after which I would receive my orders and plane ticket.

The weeks passed slowly, and I scratched by, doing what part-time work I could find, and exercising in my abundant free time. I did pushups and sit-ups every day, and I ran every evening. I lived in a high altitude environment in the Rocky Mountains, so running was a struggle, but by the time I was ready to leave, I was running three miles every day.

The day arrived. I got to the medical exam center early, and did well in the test. I had to do things like the duck-walk, and in those pre "don't ask, don't tell" days, the doctor asked a little too optimistically "are you a homosexual?", to which I answered negatively. The only difficult part of the process was the hearing test. The day before I had been out shooting with my brother, and I fired my 7mm magnum rifle without ear protection. My ears were still ringing as I stepped into the box to test my hearing. My ears were not in great shape, but my eyes were, I could see the test buttons reflected in the doctor's eyeglasses, and could see which of his hands was pushing which button. He was probably amazed at how good my hearing was.

After passing the exam, the moment of truth arrived. I, and others who are leaving that day, were sworn in by a First Sergeant. I got my orders, "Medical Specialist, 91A, Option 4". I was going to be a paratrooper, and, according the the First Sergeant, I would be assigned to the 75th Infantry, the Army Rangers. "You really wanna be wanna those snake-eaters?" he asked. I answered in the affirmative, secretly doubting that anyone in the Army ate snakes.

I was given a package which contained my test and physical exam records, as well as a plane ticket, and vouchers for a hotel, and meals at the hotel restaurant. I didn't fully realize it yet, but I was in the Army, and in the morning I would be flying to Atlanta Georgia, after which I would be taking a long bus ride to a place called Fort McClellan, Alabama. I spent my last night on a real bed, and enjoyed strawberry pie with my dinner at the restaurant. In the morning, a van came to pick me and a few others up to take us to the airport. I had never been east of the Rocky Mountains in my life, but I would end up eventually going must further east than Alabama.

 

[dangerousdon]

[MENTION=47475]Doraemon[/MENTION] Thank you for sharing your life account with us. I assume I am somewhat in your age range, give or take a few years, and I have somewhat of a similar history. Since we don't write things with pen and paper anymore, these generational stories will be lost to those who don't ask and keep them. Thank you again for sharing.

 

[Doraemon]

The flight from my hometown to Atlanta Georgia was the longest I had ever taken. I had left a dry mountain city in the American Southwest, and arrived in the heart of the South. After getting off the plane, I went to the USO center at the airport, where I was directed to a bus terminal. I got a sandwich and a Coca Cola along the way, the last Coke I would taste for some months. As I went out the exit to the airport, and walked to the bus terminal, I was hit by the heat and humidity. I have felt hotter places, I lived in a place called Ludlow, California when I was as small child. But I had never felt such humidity before.

At the bus terminal, there were several young "men" ("boys" would be a better word). They were all going to Fort McClellan. I didn't know it at the time, but I would get to know all of these young men very well over the next couple of months, and some of them I would know for years. All of us were nervous, but we were all a little cocky. Two other people in the group were going to be medical specialists, another was going to the Infantry, another to intelligence, a few were going to be supply specialists. Not everyone in the group would make it through basic training. And a few of those who did finish basic training would not graduate from their specialized training. I was the only one who was going to be a paratrooper, and the only one going to be assigned to the legendary Rangers, I was rather puffed up with pride.

The bus arrived as the day ended, and we had to look forward to a 100 mile or so ride. I was now feeling quite nervous. The only thing I really knew of basic training was what I had seen in movies like "Full Metal Jacket". I assumed the worst, and as the worst came closer and closer, I became even more nervous. The bus rolled on through the night, and I looked at the passing trees and vegetation, and the homes and buildings, everything was so different, the air smelled different. This did not make me feel any better.

We arrived at Fort McClellan after midnight; tired, nervous, and having no idea what to expect. We were marched from the bus into a new and brightly light building, and we formed two lines. We gave up our packages, and were assigned roster numbers (mine was #52). Then we were taken to an auditorium of sorts, where we sat and faced a stage. We were all given a small box lunch with tasteless sandwiches and milk, and as we ate, we listened to a drill sergeant explain what we would be doing for the next few days. The lecture finished sometime around 2:30 in the morning. From the auditorium we were marched to a temporary barracks, where we would spend the night. We were given towels, wash clothes, and a small plastic case attached to a small chain, inside of which was a pair of ear plugs.

We entered the barracks, and half the bunks were already full of those who had arrived earlier in the day. I found an empty bunk, and climbed into it wearily. But sleep did not come easy, I was too nervous, and the bunk not very comfortable. It seemed I had only just fallen asleep when the light on with a bright flash, and a drill sergeant came in yelling at everyone to get up. We had only a few minutes to brush our teeth, shave, and get our shoes on. Then we were herded to the mess hall where we had a breakfast of powdered eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee.

After breakfast we had lots of bureaucratic nonsense to navigate through. We had to fill out forms and papers, sign up for insurance, etc etc etc. We also had to draw our first pay, which was a small amount to get us through the month until we received our full pay. After getting some money, we were taken to a small post exchange where we bought the necessities we might need. I bought new running shoes and socks, toothpaste, deodorant, etc. I had brought almost nothing with me, which turned out to be a good thing.

Then we went to take more medical tests, having our blood drawn, urine taken, and the first of a series of immunizations. It was during this process that I first saw my Drill Sergeant, whose name was Rodgers. Drill Sergeant Rodgers was a tall, lanky, and middle-aged black man with an EIB (Expert Infantryman Badge) and the stripes of a staff sergeant on his uniform. He was not pushy or loud, not yet, anyway. He spoke in a strong southern accent which was foreign to me as Russian. At the moment, he was not issuing orders, or conducting any training, he was just getting a look at us, the boys he would be trying to turn into soldiers over the next couple of months. "If you have a question, you will say, 'Drill Sergeant, permission to speak, Drill Sergeant!'", do you understand? We cried back "Yes, Drill Sergeant!"

After satisfying the pencil-pushers and medical staff, we picked up our things, and were taken by bus to the barrack were we would live for the next two months. It was a very modern building, 4 floors high, arranged in a "U" shape. The first floor was open on two sides, the base of the U was the office were the cadre worked, and a large laundry room. Us trainees were on the second through fourth floors. There were 5 such buildings, ours was the farthest one, situated on the edge of the woods. We were arranged in alphabetical order, and assigned to our bunks in the same way. Everyone in the bunks near me had a last name which started with G, then next to them, H, and so on. We unpacked our few belongings, and put them into our wall lockers, then we went to bed.

Next morning the lights were on at 4am again. We were lined up, and marched to the mess hall. We were still wearing civilian clothes, not looking anything like soldiers. The breakfast was a bit better, the people working in the kitchen were Army cooks, privates, specialists, and sergeants. We were told by our Drill Sergeant to "take what you want, but eat what you take". The cooks served us with no comments or expressions.

After breakfast, we were marched to the main post exchange, and there we each paid $2 for our hair, which was cut off by civilian barbers. We were then given 5 minutes to buy anything else which was on our necessities list, but we couldn't buy anything else. To a man, everyone spent much of the rest of the day running their hands over their heads where their hair used to be. We marched back to our barracks, put our things away. When we came back downstairs, we found several buses waiting for us. These buses took us to the supply depot

The supply depot was a large and long building which had probably been built during the second war. On one side were truck docks, on the other side a rail line. The first thing we were given was a pair of duffel bags. Then we were issued our uniforms, starting with boots, of which we were given two pairs. The uniforms were new, and smelled like the dye they were colored with. Name tags were quickly made and attached. We packed everything into the first duffle bag. The next stop was for our field gear, which consisted of a ruck sack, web gear, pistol belt, canteens, sleeping bag and pad, shelter half, pegs, poles, ropes, etc. This was all stuffed into the second duffel bag. After drawing our gear, we wore one duffel bag on the back, and the other on the front. Getting back on the bus was not so easy.

After getting back to the barracks, we changed into our uniforms, put on our boots, and then went back down to draw linens for our bunks. It was at this moment that our Drill Sergeants came to life, with the yells, screams, and verbal abuse we had expected from them. Everyone was dropped for pushups for any or no reason. We eventually made it back to our barracks and bunks; frazzled, sweating, and wondering what would come next.

 

[ShaverGN]

Great story! Thank you for sharing and for your service.

 

[The Count of Merkur Cristo]

Doraemon:
Upon looking at the title of your Thread...I had to 'devourer' it and read every word you wrote.

An awesome story...I really don't know what to say. Your story was gripping and as told...it was riveting from the start. Great read and thanx for sharing!

On the other hand, if I wrote my Army story...it would be something like a tale I would tell my grandchildren and I bet mightily bored
they'll be.

But it does remind my of a short story...a story of when I was on the 'trail' (senior drill), at Fort Jackson, SC (Dco, 2-39 [Rabid Dogs], Inf Regt, 4th Basic Training [BT] Brigade), from 93-95.

I had 4th platoon...the 'Terminators' [...the best by far...smoking all others like a cheap cigar. Motivated, Dedicated...Boom!...That's our style...been that way for a long, long while...Kill at Will Hooah!!!"] and it was a great and experience.

During my 'trail time', I learned more about my leadership abilities, met many soldiers from different demographic backgrounds and acquired the technical and mental knowledge that provided me the unique skills (from marching, weapons, bivouac to graduation), required to train Initial Entry Training (IET), soldiers in a BT environment.

"Come here soldier...yeah I'm talking to you. You better get 'locked in tight'!!! CBJ

PS "Platoon!! Attention!! At Ease!!

Let me have your attention please. I am a Drill Sergeant!!

I will assist each [of you] in [your] efforts to become a highly motivated, well disciplined, physically and mentally fit Soldier, capable of defeating any enemy on today’s modern battlefield...[WHOOA!!!]". The Drill Sergeant Creed

 

[August West]

Fabulous narrative.


I remember meeting a 17 year old Cajun kid from deep in the bayou who spoke a language I hardly understood who loved to walk barefoot whenever he got the chance.

Who would have thought he would come to share a special bond with a smart mouthed New Yorker like myself?

 

[Al_S]

But it does remind my of a short story...a story of when I was on the 'trail' (senior drill), at Fort Jackson, SC (Dco, 2-39 [Rabid Dogs], Inf Regt, 4th Basic Training [BT] Brigade), from 93-95.

I had 4th platoon...the 'Terminators' [...the best by far...smoking all others like a cheap cigar. Motivated, Dedicated...Boom!...That's our style...been that way for a long, long while...Kill at Will Hooah!!!"] and it was a great and experience.

Small world. I went through B Co 2/39 Nov 94-Feb 95. Your face looks familiar; no I was not eyeballing you Drill Sergeant. Ok, I'll beat my face.

 

[August West]

Small world. I went through B Co 2/39 Nov 94-Feb 95. Your face looks familiar; no I was not eyeballing you Drill Sergeant. Ok, I'll beat my face.

Make a hole and make it wide, soup sandwich!

 

[The Count of Merkur Cristo]

Small world. I went through B Co 2/39 Nov 94-Feb 95. Your face looks familiar; no I was not eyeballing you Drill Sergeant. Ok, I'll beat my face [and give
me 20 ].

Al_S:
Small world...ah...those were the days.

"Come here soldier...yeah I'm talking to you. You better get 'locked in tight'!!! CBJ

 

[The Count of Merkur Cristo]

...It was during this process that I first saw my Drill Sergeant, whose name was Rodgers. ..He was not pushy or loud, not yet, anyway...

Doraemon:
I remember being asked (without fail), after Graduation, "Drill Sergeant, why did you yell at us so much?

You have to remember the Company just graduated 248 soldiers (62 per platoon...4 platoons per Company), and after all the training...I was proud of my platoon and I think they deserved to be answered...soldier to soldier.

My response (also without fail...and in a 'dead-pan' fashion with a sly smile), to this question was, "Hey, I only had 9 weeks to train you. Would you have done what you were told if I asked you nicely (it was my habit to 'slack off' as they got nearer to graduation)

Get's 'em every time.

"Here we go again. Same old stuff again. We're marching down the avenue. One by one and two by two's..."!!! CBJ

 

[the_edski]

Great narrative! Thank you for your service and for sharing!

 

[jasonb8736]

OP...That was a great read. Thank-you for sharing.

 

[Doraemon]

Our training started early the next day, once again at 4am. It was still dark outside, not even a hint of sunrise, but by then it was already very warm, and very humid. It would only get worse as the day wore on. We formed up in platoons in the open area under our buildings; there were three platoons, arranged alphabetically, I was in second platoon, which contained the last names from G to N. Squad leaders were selected alphabetically as well, but every one of them was fired that week, and new squad leaders appointed in their place. While it sounded prestigious, squad leaders got more verbal abuse and did more pushups than anyone else, so it was not long that becoming a squad leader was something one rather dreaded than hoped for.

We were all wearing our new PT clothes; grey Army t-shirts and shorts, and new running shoes. Even with just the shorts and t-shirt, I was already starting to sweat from the humidity. The Drill Sergeants came out carrying flashlights with orange cones, and orange reflective vests. Then they chose people at random to be road guards, and handed them the flashlights and had them put on the vests. The job of the road guard was to run ahead and block the side streets, so any cars, trucks, or anything else would wait until our formation ran past. Being a road guard meant you had to run twice as fast as anyone else. You ran ahead, blocked the street, waited for the platoon to run past, then ran past the platoon to the next street, and repeated the process. Luckily, I was not one of those chosen for the duty.

We started out on the run, and it turned to be surprisingly easy to me. I had been running 3 miles every night at an altitude of 7000 feet, running at near sea-level, where there was so much oxygen, was not difficult at all. But the Drill Sergeants were being easy on us that day, our runs would become longer and faster as time went on. As we ran, we sang out the cadence with various songs, all of which described us as "trainees". We were not soldiers yet, even though there were some trainees from other branches of the military, and held the rank of specialist, they were also not yet regarded as soldiers.

Our run took us along the woods, near the administration buildings, past the parade field, and back to our barracks. We passed many other groups of trainees and soldiers, all singing loudly as they ran. By the time we got back to the barracks, the horizon was becoming light. We formed up again as we had when we began, and then we began our PT, which was pushups and sit-ups. Though I had done a lot of pushups and sit-ups before I had come, it appears I had not done them correctly. A "correct" pushup required that one kept one's body perfectly straight throughout the exercise; lowered until you almost touched the ground, and raised until your arms were straight. A correct pushup is much harder to do than what many people think is a pushup. Correct sit-ups were not so difficult, one just had to start from a lying position, and sit up all the way without one's feet leaving the ground. Nothing was more annoying than to do either incorrectly, and therefore not counted. At the end of our PT, my chest, arms and stomach were numb, and I was soaked with sweat. The Drill Sergeants walked by looking at us with disgust. "What a bunch of p***ies!, my five-year-old daughter can so more pushups than you sorry sons of bitches!" After a few more such compliments, we were given 15 minutes to shower, shave, get dressed, and form back up.

We had already learned not to use both of the showers in our barracks, and to use only half of the sinks, this meant less cleaning. But it also meant that showering, shaving, and tooth-brushing had to be done very quickly. Most of us got dressed and were formed up 15 minutes later. Some were not, and as these men came out of the barracks, they were dropped on the spot for pushups. There were several people piled up at the foot of the stairs trying to do pushups. Eventually, we were all formed up.

Once we were lined up, our Drill Sergeants inspected us. Many of us did not have our uniforms on properly, buttons were not buttoned, shirts were not properly tucked in, belts were too long, or not lined up right, boots were not laced properly. Every violation was paid for in pushups. Our squad leader was summarily fired for us not reporting correctly attired, and an another unlucky unfortunate was promoted in his place.

Eventually, we were all squared away, and after the ordeal we went through that morning, we were more careful to be be prepared when we formed up every morning thereafter. We were marched off to the mess hall for breakfast, and as we did, the sun finally came up over the tree-covered hills (in the south, these hills are euphemistically called "mountains"). Though we had little time to eat, and the food was not particularly good, we enjoyed it very much. Eating would turn out to be one of the few pleasures we would enjoy over the next two months. We were young men, working hard, and some of us were still growing, our appetites were huge.

From the mess hall, we were marched to an area which was comprised of old barracks buildings built during the days of the Vietnam war. These were one-floor buildings with exposed beams, arranged around an old main building and mess hall. All of these had been converted into classrooms. I had no idea that we would be taking classes in classrooms, but there were many such classes. In these classes we were taught things like first aid, the "Law of Land Warfare", how to read maps, etc. These classes were not as pleasant as one might think, because we were constantly dozing off, and whenever one person dozed off in class, everyone in the class had to do pushups. I kept myself awake, and, for whatever reason, I began to pay attention in a way which I hadn't done as a high school or university student. The classes were not challenging, but by paying attention, I could keep myself from dozing off, and also save myself some pushups, because the drill sergeants often questioned us randomly about things we had studied at the most unlikely of times, and if you didn't know the answer, you were immediately dropped. I was something of a wonder among my platoon mates because I always answered these questions correctly. This unfortunately led me to become a squad leader, and at the worst possible time.

Our first week was spent mainly doing PT, learning to keep our barracks and uniforms squared away, and learning the nuts-and-bolts knowledge required of an Army soldier. It was stressful, we were denied any free time, except for Sunday mornings, where the wiser of us went to church services, where one could get 45 minutes or so of extra sleep as the chaplain read a sermon. Those who did not go to services were stuck with the floor polishing, toilet cleaning, and policing the battalion area for trash. We were always tired, always hungry, and more than a few of us were rather unhappy about our lives in the Army thus far.

On Sunday mornings we had time to talk and BS with each other (while working, of course), and I learned a lot about my platoon mates, where they were from, what they were doing in the Army, if they had girlfriends, etc. In real life, we would have had little to say to each other, but our lives together in the Army would bring us together closely. We slept in the same rooms, ate at the same tables, carried each other when practicing first aid, and saw each other be cussed out by Drill Sergeants, some to the point of tears.

My first week of basic training was rather miserable, as it was intended to be. During this time, a surprising number of people washed out. A few discovered they had health problems, such as asthma, or other problems which had not been discovered in the physical, and some weren't mentally capable. I had not really thought it possible to quit the Army after enlisting, but it was. The Army did not want people who didn't really want to be there. The Drill Sergeants tried to get those who were motivated, but otherwise not very capable, through training, sometimes successfully, sometimes not. But those who were not motivated were not encouraged to stay. Those who quit did not leave immediately, it took some weeks to process them out. Since they were still being paid, they were required to do work, but they were given soft jobs, like answering the phone, running errands or such.

At the end of our first week, we were tired, hungry, and not happy, we were not yet adjusted to the routine, but we were off to a good start.

 

[Doraemon]

The next weeks went by much like the first. The Drill Sergeants were always on us, keeping us on very short leashes, never giving us time to do anything but focus on our training. We were under what was termed "total control". We could do nothing without permission, not even use the toilet, we were watched at all times. Even at night, a Drill Sergeant would take an occasional walk through the the barracks to make sure we were all there, and that the unlucky person assigned as a fire guard was still awake.

Every morning was for PT, which became progressively more difficult. Some of our fellow trainees were overweight, and had to reach a certain weight before they could graduate. With lots of exercise, little time to eat, and no junk food available, they lost weight quickly, all surpassed their weight loss goals. I myself became much leaner, and meaner, as the weeks passed. We were busy from 4am, until 10 every night, and those who were selected for fire guard got less sleep.

I hated those first weeks, and I hated myself for being so stupid as to join the Army. My life up to that point had been soft and easy, I had been a lazy person for a long, long time. I had slept late, ate when and what I wanted, and attended only enough classes so as not to get dropped. At my job I did the minimum amount of work I could get away with. I kept no particular schedule, and lived day-to-day as I pleased. I was not at all happy with the regimentation of Army life, it stressed me out terribly. At night I could not fall asleep because I was already dreading getting up the next morning. And in the mornings I hated to get out of bed, because I was tired, and knew that the day could hold only misery for me.

As the summer season wore on, the weather became more hot and humid. The Army's reason for getting up so early was not because they wanted us to get more time out of the day (though that was not a bad thing), but because it was the only time it was cool enough for us to get a good workout. It simply wouldn't have been possible to do PT in the middle of an Alabama summer day. Every day the Drill Sergeants measured the temperature and humidity, and assigned a heat category according the results. Nearly every day was a category 5 day, meaning that we didn't wear our BDU shirts, and did not "blouse" (tuck in) our pants to our boots. We sweated an incredible amount, my black boots and BDU pants were covered with white salt stains from the sweat. We were constantly told to drink water, and to hold our canteens over our head upside down to make sure we had drank all of the water inside.

On a particularly hard day we had to go on a road march to the obstacle course. The day was hot, humid, and miserable. The obstacle course was nothing to laugh at, and any mistake on the obstacles, or taking too much time, resulted in pushups (remedial PT, as one of the Drill Sergeants termed it). I did more than a hundred pushups in addition to the road march and the obstacles. We had hot food brought to us, and ate our lunch at the obstacle course range. In the afternoon, after a very long day, we marched from the course to the mess hall, singing as we marched. The sun was getting low in the sky, the heat and humidity were as miserable as ever, but the day was almost over, the training done. Our singing grew louder, and even louder; a strange emotion or feeling swept over us, and carried us away. Drill Sergeant Rodgers sang along with us, raising his voice as well, until our songs were ringing out loudly enough to drown out those of the other platoons. At that moment, something in my head switched, and everything changed. The stress and misery I had felt for the previous weeks was replaced by a simple feeling of tiredness, and a strange sense of well-being. I realized that nothing I had done so far had been impossible to do, that the Drill Sergeants couldn't really hurt me or kill me, and I knew that I would be able to get through the rest of basic training. I had overcome a great mental obstacle, and experienced a great change in my perspective. I think of that instant as the moment I finally became a man.

The following weeks were no less difficult than the first ones, but I got through them with a quiet determination. I was motivated, healthy, and I paid attention. One thing which we were always told to do was to be mentally alert. We now spent little time in classrooms, but I paid extra close attention. When we began marksmanship training, I took the advices of the Drill Sergeants seriously, and applied what they taught me carefully. My fellow platoon mates began to secretly call me "Drill Sergeant ******".

But the training was still tough, and there were challenging days ahead. The worst day of all was during BRM (basic rifle marksmanship), a day when we were to practice shooting with a simulated rifle shooting at simulated targets at an indoor range. The rifle was a full scale copy, and used a pneumatic system to simulate the real kick a rifle would produce when fired. I had been shooting guns since I was 5 years old, and anything involving shooting anything was fun to me, but it was not the rifle practice that made it such a tough day.

The day we went to the range began with a road march. The weather had been very hot and humid until this particular day, which for some reason was cold and rainy. We started off dressed for a cat 5 day, carrying a rucksack with enough weight in it to give us a little challenge. From the start I hadn't been feeling well, I had a bit of a fever, some aches and pains, and a bit of nausea. The march to the range was about 10km in a roundabout way. By the time we got to the range, it was raining rather heavily. We "grounded" our gear (set our rucksacks and such neatly on the ground in formation) on the grass, and then headed into the range. After hours of practice, we went back out to our gear, and our Drill Sergeant ordered us to put on our gear, "You have 30 seconds! Move!". Needless to say, it takes more than 30 seconds to put on one's LBE, canteens, ruck sack, rain poncho, and then stand at attention. Worse yet, I began to be stung all over by fire ants; it turns out that I had grounded my gear on a fire ant hill. 30 seconds passed with almost no one being geared up, we were dropped for pushups. We were then given the order "You have 10 seconds to get your gear on!, Move!". The results were no better than the first time, we were dropped again for pushups, some wearing full gear, some with partial gear. I was miserable enough that I ignored the fire ants entirely, hoping they would drown slowly and miserably in my sweat and the rain water soaking my body.

The next miserable day was the day we had to experience the gas chamber. The gas chamber was a simple hut, about the size of a bedroom, on the wall next to the door was a sign which said "Disco Hut". In the exercise we were to see how well our gas masks would protect us from CS gas. The line to the disco hut was quite long, every few minutes the door would open, and a squad of soldiers would poor out, falling over themselves, snot, tears, and sometimes vomit, pouring out of them. Other men were walking around flapping their arms up and down to get the gas out of their clothes. To us waiting in the line, it was very entertaining, until our own turns came.

We put on our masks and hoods, and then walked into the disco hut. The room was small, extremely hot, and lit only by the sunlight coming through the windows. In the middle of the room was a small table, atop which was a hot plate. On the hot plate, a Drill Sergeant wearing a gas mask was cooking CS gas crystals in a frying pan, creating CS gas. I immediately began to feel my skin getting hot, and starting to burn. We were then told to take off our masks, and then walk around the room with our hands on the shoulder of the person in front of us. The gas immediately burned into my eyes and throat, I started choking. Another Drill Sergeant blocked the door, and asked each of us a question which we had to answer before we could leave. I was asked my service number, which I had to choke out twice before I was let out. I stumbled out of the room, snot and tears running down my face, flapping my arms to get the glass out of my clothes. Immediately I heard a sound from the loudspeakers "dah dah, doh, dah...", the warning notes to "colors", played when the flag was taken down. I immediately had to snap to attention, and then as the song played, salute in the direction of the source of the music. No one dared to cough, sneeze, cry, or flap one's as the music played. The worst part of the experience was that my name was not marked off on the list, meaning that a couple weeks later they wanted me to do it again. I made myself scarce on that day, and missed the truck. Somehow my name ended up getting checked off, and I avoided a second dance in the disco hut.

I eventually got promoted to squad leader when my predecessor broke his arm. He didn't break his arm in training. On a Sunday afternoon, we had cleared out our barracks to wax the floor, and while we had some open space out of sight of the Drill Sergeants, we decided to play a little football. We used a rolled-up towel as a football, split up into teams, and played a rather rough came for about 15 minutes. The game ended when our squad leader was tackled, and broke his arm on the floor. We quickly got to work finishing the floor, and staged a fake accident, saying that our squad leader had broken his arm after slipping and falling down the stairs. Everyone stuck to the story, and the Drill Sergeants never found out about it.

Immediately after my promotion, late at night, a "blanket party" was held against a rather obnoxious young man who had been an extremely despotic squad leaders some weeks before. A group of a dozen or held a grudge against this particular young man, and decided one night to get back at him. They didn't use bars of soap wrapped in towels like in the move "Full Metal Jacket", they simply used their fists. I knew nothing about the party, I was not in on it, and slept through the entire thing. But I noticed the young man missing from my squad the next morning. Word got to me about what had happened, and I knew the results would not be pretty.

The day went as normal, and the missing man returned while we were at the grenade range. He looked angry and embarrassed, and, quite contrary to his nature, he kept his mouth shut. He was angry at everyone, but no one really cared about how he felt, most thought he had brought his misery on himself, and others resented him for reporting what happened to the Drill Sergeants; they thought he should have taken this lumps like a man, and kept quiet (and the Drill Sergeants felt the same way). I was questioned directly, and as squad leader, I was dropped for numerous pushups, and summarily fired.

At the end of the day, after dinner, we were made to stand in formation in our barracks, and a Drill Sergeant whom we didn't know questioned us all about what had happened. Most of us had seen and heard nothing, and said so, those who had seen what happened refused to talk. The young man identified one of us as having witnessed what happened, the Drill Sergeant yelled "Did you see what happened!" "No, Drill Sergeant!" he answered. He was dropped for pushups, which he did perfectly, but in the "diamond" style (where you put your hands together and form a diamond with your fingers and thumbs, which is difficult). After several sets of pushups, he still refused to talk. Then our entire platoon was put in the day room, which had only enough from for one squad. We were all dropped simultaneously for numerous pushups, even though there wasn't really room to put our hands and feet on the floor, and mostly did pushups on each others backs and legs. We did this until the floor was covered with sweat, and still no one talked. We were finally released, and the Drill Sergeant left.

The next morning my missing man was gone, having been transferred to another company. Our senior drill sergeant appeared, and with a slight smile on his face, he said loudly, "I received a great report about the teamwork in this platoon!". He didn't have to say anymore. He knew nothing he said would make it back to the private who had been "assaulted". He understood that though what had happened was not a good thing, it was a form of internal justice which sometimes happened in order to bring people into line. But I was not reappointed as squad leader, to my relief.

 

[Doraemon]

Drill Sergeants are interesting creatures. They come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and personalities. Fort McClellan was mainly an MP training facility, and most of our Drill Sergeants were former military police officers. The few who were not were former Infantrymen. The infantrymen seemed to hold in lower esteem anyone else who was not an infantryman, the former MP's did not seem to care one way or the other.

As each Drill Sergeant is different in their appearance, so their approach to training is also different. And though the different styles all pushed us in the direction the Army wished, that is, to be good soldiers, we could recognize, or at least sense the differences in personality and style.

Some Drill Sergeants were always yelling in our faces, dropping us for pushups constantly, and pushing us in every way, and in some cases, we weren't very intimidated by them. But then there were others who never raised their voices, nor ever dropped us for pushups, but we were terrified by them, they could tell us more, or get more out of us with an angry look than others could tell or get out of us with a torrent of verbal abuse.

Our platoon had three Drill Sergeants, two former MP's, one a former Infantryman. Our Drill Sergeant, Rodgers, was the oldest of the three. First platoon's Drill Sergeant was the youngest, and had just begun instructing. Our problem private, the one who had received the blanket party, once said "as you were, Drill Sergeant, when said sergeant made a mistake teaching use the manual of arms. It is okay to say "as you were" person makes a mistake, but it is not always wise. A simple questioning look will usually be enough to show the instructor that he might have made a mistake, calling out a mistake will not endear you to any sergeant or officer.

Speaking of officers, we very seldom saw our officers, they were more-or-less nonexistent during our two months. They would make an appearance in the morning formation, and we learned their names so as to be able to correctly describe our chain of command, but they didn't interfere with the training, and we almost never exchanged words with them. We saw the battalion commander a couple of times, at an inspection at the beginning of our training, and at graduation.

It was very important that we learned and respected the chain of command, everyone had their place in it. If a higher-ranking person ordered us to do something, we did it without question. We were not at the point where it was possible to give or receive questionable orders, we learned to obey instantly, and without debating orders in word or thought. Having been up in a free country where people do more or less what they want, getting used to obeying orders was unfamiliar to some people. But obedience was instilled in us gradually, starting with simple orders, which were simple to obey, and moved along from that. In time, we obeyed without hesitation, as though sergeant or officer were the head, and we were the hand.

Officers command various levels of respect. The chaplain was an officer, as were the local pilots, but they were not sticklers for salutes or etiquette. In time we could identify which officers demanded the most respect, and gave it to them. As a medical specialist, I spent a lot of time working with doctors, and I also spent a lot of time working with career Infantry officers. You can be familiar with a doctor who is a full colonel, but you had better know your place if you are addressing a second lieutenant in the Infantry.

In basic training we learned how to tell who was who, and acquired a near god-like respect for anyone who was a captain or higher. The more senior sergeants, our first sergeant, and sergeant major, were rough-and-ready types who let all who listened know that they "work for a living". Our first sergeant was a former armored Cavalryman, in the same unit my grandfather was in, but in my grandfather's day, the Cavalry still rode horses. This somehow endeared me to the first sergeant, and some years later I found a letter of recommendation which he had added to my paperwork. Too bad I never saw him again to thank him for it.

Army life was very different from real life indeed.

 

[Doraemon]

I had never been to the South before coming to Fort McClellan, it was like nothing I had ever seen. The universal color was green. Trees, grass, bushes, Spanish moss, and kudzu. The soil (Army trainees see a lot of soil) was red, and the fire ant mounts were easy to spot in the grassy areas, most of the time, that is. Another thing which I noticed was the smell in the air. There was a faint, but curious scent which I could not place. I was told it was the smell of a paper mill some miles away. The smell came and went, and I grew accustomed to it. When I was eventually sent to Fort Benning for my advanced training, the smell was much stronger, and always present; a large paper mill was located only a small distance away.

Fort McClellan was an old post, and many of the buildings dated to before WW2. There were a number of the old wooden two story barracks built in the early 40's, and the later wooden one story buildings put up during the Vietnam war. There were many houses, large and small, for the permanent cadre. Some large Georgian styled houses were the senior officers lived with their families, to small duplexes for junior enlisted men. The houses and old barracks were whitewashed, and gleamed brightly in the sun. The grass and trees were meticulously maintained, not a piece of trash, cigarette butt, or other garbage was to be seen anywhere.

In the mornings, the air was full of the sound of men (and a handful of women) singing cadence as they ran. Later on the sound of rifle fire could be heard from the ranges, and on rare occasions, a helicopter might pay a visit. A far as Army posts go, Fort McClellan was rather quiet. It was only big enough for it's purpose.

There were numerous facilities that us trainees would seldom or ever use. In two months, I visited the main PX only twice. There were basketball courts, baseball fields, a gym, and a pool. There was also a golf course. Life could be comfortable enough for those who were stationed permanently ("permanent" is a relative term in the Army) at Fort McClellan, but as trainees, we were not supposed to be comfortable.

In the hills overlooking the fort were the various ranges for light weapons, most within 20 minute's walk from our barracks. Near one of the ranges was an old prisoner of war camp, where captured German soldiers were kept during the war. The camp was overgrown with weeds and kudzu. One could barely make out the fences, gates, and guard tower. I couldn't help thinking about what the Germans who were kept there felt, living in the woods in the American South. I myself was miserable enough there, being a German prisoner living in Alabama was beyond comprehension.

One could not help but think of the generations of young men who underwent rigorous training in times of war and peace, and that many who were trained to become solders were sent far away to other lands, never to return home. The post seemed to hold part of the spirit of all those who had endured training there. There were various monuments with lists of names, and if I had a moment to stop and read them, I would. And I wondered what Fort McClellan was like during their days. I am sure it was hot and humid, and that the instructors were as tough as ours were.

In basic training I got my first, and, believe or not, last experience with KP, or Kitchen Patrol. Somehow my name had escaped the KP roster for most of my time at Fort McClellan, but one day my name was there. It meant getting up at 3am, and walking in complete darkness with the other unfortunates whose names were also on the list to the mess haul, where we would stay until the evening. As luck would have it, we were spending our entire Sunday there. The men previously assigned to KP had not arrived back until midnight on the previous Sunday, and we were not looking forward to our turn.

The mess haul was not particularly big, but an entire battalion of men had three meals there every day. It took an amazing amount of skill and organization for things to run smoothly. Early as we were, the cooks had arrived before us, and breakfast was already underway. We didn't have all that much to do until breakfast time, when an endless line of trainees, Drill Sergeants, and even a few officers came in to eat. We worked on the serving line, dishing out whatever we were asked for. Breakfast time passed quickly, and then we were allowed to eat breakfast. This turned out to be a pleasant surprise. The trainees and cadre ate what was dished out to them, and what they got was the plain minimum. The kitchen staff on the other hand, prepared their own meals, and these were much better. Blueberry pancakes, pork chops, tasty stuff, food the likes of which I hadn't tasted in a long time.

After breakfast, it was time to clean up, and clean we did. I doubt most hospitals are kept as clean as an Army kitchen. All the tables and chairs were picked up, the floor was hosed and scrubbed down. A mountain of dishes, cups, glasses, trays, pots, pans, and flatware had to be washed, and ready for lunch. I took the assignment of washing pots and pans, which were huge, and very much in need of cleaning. Surprisingly, our KP teem worked very well together, and we got our work done quickly and properly, singing out songs as we worked.

Lunch and dinner were as busy as breakfast, and we enjoyed two more very good meals, which I supplemented by sneaking into the large walk-in freezer and eating a large bag of chocolate chips. By dinner we had more or less perfected our cleaning routine, and to our surprise, and the surprise of the mess sergeant, we were finished by 7pm. If I had been assigned to KP again, I wouldn't have complained at all. We got back in time to get into the lines in front of the payphone, and to get our gear and such ready for the next day's training.

 

[Screech8710]

[MENTION=47475]Doraemon[/MENTION]

Excellent stories, thanks for sharing. Reading about your experiences brought back many memories of my own time in boot camp at MCRD San Diego. I can smell the squad bays now, and almost hear the cadence being called for platoons on the march.

 

[DCRIII]

Very fascinating. Thank you for sharing your stories.

 

[ouch]

This thread should be required reading.

Thank you to all the strong and brave men protecting us from morons.

 

[the_edski]

I am fascinated by this thread. I'm looking forward to more, if you have it!