Excellent, excellent, excellent reading. Than-you [MENTION=47475]Doraemon[/MENTION]. This is like the old times where people read serials, waiting for the next part of the story to arrive in the mail.
Army Basic Training
- Thread starter Doraemon
- Start date
Drill Sergeants are interesting creatures. They come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and personalities...Army life was very different from real life indeed [I guess we were strange bunch...especially looking at it from the trainees eyes].
...In basic training I got my first, and, believe or not, last experience with KP, or Kitchen Patrol. [(ah...that brought back memories), and with the Drill Sergeants who had to 'pull' KP Pusher for that day].
PS Keep your stories coming and again...thanx for sharing!
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- #23
The one thing all of us looked forward to, even those who hated basic training the most, was the chance to fire real military weapons. We were introduced to the M16 rifle in our third week of training at the rifle range. Whenever we would visit a range of any type, the person in charge would begin with a speech that began with "We here of the basic training committee group would like to welcome you to range ##" , and end with "We here of the basic training committee group are dedicated to giving you the finest training in today's Army, so that you might survive on tomorrow's battlefield". Such a speech could only have been written by a junior officer with nothing better to do. We wanted less words, and more time to play with rifles.
During the introduction a Drill Sergeant fired an M16 in a variety of way; semi-auto, full-auto, and also firing with the butt stock pressed against his chin, and against his crotch. The goal was to teach us not to be afraid of the kick of the rifle. We loved the noise, to see an occasional tracer flying, and to see the old coffee can which was used as a target being bounced around and perforated by countless holes. It was the most fun we had had up to that point.
We were then issued with our rifles. We were given a card with a number which matched our rifle, and when we went to the armory, we handed the armorer the card, and he handed us our rifle. My rifle's serial number was 5646619, I memorized it because my grandfather had told me that a particularly anal instructor might one day ask me what the serial number was. My rifle was an ancient and well-worn rifle made by the "Hydramatic Division of General Motors". It was an A1 rifle, and had probably been fired a million times. In our company, three privates were issued A2 rifles, we looked at these with lust in our eyes.
Guns and other weapons are odd things. No matter who you are, or what your background is, if you have a chance to handle a gun, a sword, or other type of weapon, it gives you some kind of sensation. No matter if you are tall, short, fat, thin, smart, or stupid, weak, or strong, a gun makes you anyone's equal. Though a gun or other weapon is a simple object, made of metal, plastic, and/or wood, it exudes and represents something which nothing else does. A gun or other weapon contains force and power, and when you hold a gun or weapon, you possess that force and power. If you put an AK47 in the hands of someone who is utterly opposed to guns, and hates all they represent, let him feel the weight, the controls, the balance, he will hand it back to you with a trace of reluctance, no matter what he says otherwise. I have done this many times, and I can always see the reaction in the eyes. The main look might be one of disgust and distaste, but you will also see a bit of awe.
Most of the people I was training with were not going into "combat arms" jobs when the graduated. They would become clerks, aids, supply people, or medical people, like myself. Still, without exception, all of us looked forward to BRM training. We had absolutely no problem carrying our rifles everywhere we went, or even sleeping with them.
Rifle practice was strictly controlled, and all rounds and brass had to be accounted for. We were told that being caught with any live ammo away from the range might result in our executions (or so we inferred), but more than one of us managed to swipe a round or two as a souvenir. We were taught endless exercises on how to fire a rifle accurately, like the "dime-washer" exercise, were a thin washer is balanced on the barrel, and you had to pull the trigger gently enough that the washer wouldn't fall off when dry firing. I eventually got to the point that I could both charge and dry fire my rifle more than 50 times without touching the washer, or having it fall off.
When the time came to actually fire the rifle, I was a little disappointed. First, the M16 seemed very weak to me. Despite it's businesslike appearance, it is pretty much a high-powered .22 rifle, and it will fire .22 bullets with an adapter kit. And when I fired it, the buffer spring in the butt stock made the rifle sound like a toy. I was not shooting very accurately at first, I had been shooting a 7mm magnum rifle regularly for a couple of years; the kind of gun which leaves a bruise on your shoulder after one shot, and which my friends refused to fire again after trying it for the first time. If you think a shotgun has a hard kick, try shooting a magnum rifle.
But I steadily became used to my M16, and applied the same techniques to shoot accurately. First, I always set my cheek and nose against the rifle in the exact same place, I always used the same hand position, and always used the sandbag support in the exact same position. I pulled the trigger steadily and straight back. Before long, I was hitting the 300m target regularly.
Our instructors told us that to qualify as expert, we needed to hit 36 out of 40 targets. We were given only 40 rounds to fire. The 300m target came up only 3 times, so the instructors recommended that we not fire at it, and save the three rounds for closer targets in case we missed them on our first attempt. They also said that if we had any left over rounds, it might help our buddies if we left them next to the sandbag (giving them a few extra shots to improve their score, the cadre didn't count how many shots they heard from each shooter).
I followed their advice, shooting at the easier targets, and not shooting at the 300m targets. At the end, I had hit 37 out of 40, and had 3 rounds left over. These I left by the sandbag. Needless to say, I can't describe how good it felt to qualify as expert in my first attempt.
After qualifying, we had to go collect our qualification badges. Those who qualified as marksmen needed to hit 23 out of 40, sharpshooters needed to 30-35 out of 40. The First Sergeant handed out our qualification badges. To those who qualified as marksmen, he handed them the badge in it's plastic wrapper. For those who qualified as sharpshooters, he took the badge out of the bag. For those who qualified as experts, he pinned the badge to our uniforms. As the First Sergeant pinned on my badge, he said "I see you followed your Drill Sergeant's advice" (the person shooting after me was dumb enough to turn in the three rounds I had left by the sandbag, saying that he found them there, and that they weren't his, worse yet, he had hit only 22 targets). I have to say that was my proudest moment in basic training. Only two men in our company qualified as expert, there were only 8 experts in the entire battalion. One must remember that nearly everyone in our battalion was not going to a combat arms MOS, (there was only one 11 Bravo -infantryman- in our company) and our rifles were generally old pieces of crap, so the low number of expert qualifiers was not surprising. Quite a few people failed to hit the minimum 23 targets, and had to try again later. A few failed even on the second attempt. Those who cannot qualify with rifle cannot complete training, and are sent home.
After qualifying, we went to the mess hall for dinner. Every trainee on KP that day working in the serving line looked enviously at my expert rifle qualification badge, and I have to say, I enjoyed their envy and attention.
I never developed a love for the M16 rifle, it would always be a toy to me. My favorite military rifle was the HK G3, which I found to have the best balance of power and accuracy. Without a gas system and gas port, (which allowed it to have a free-floating barrel), it was inherently more accurate than most other military rifles, and the sear and hammer could be smoothed enough to give it a buttery smooth trigger pull. Though I was a medic, I was always one of the top shooters in my company (thanks, grandpa), and as such, the company commander wanted me to carry a rifle. Though not an infantryman, I was in an Infantry unit, and the CO put people where he thought they be most effective.
For those who want to qualify well with a rifle, the key is to be absolutely consistent. I put a piece of tape on the butt stock against which I placed my nose. I set the rifle against my shoulder in the exact same spot every time. And when using a sandbank or support, I always balanced the barrel in the exact same position, making sure the sandbag or support was completely level. If it was not level, shots would stray to one side or the other of the target. Moving the barrel further up or further back on the support would result in shots hitting higher or lower. When supporting the rifle with only the arm, the supporting arm must be vertical, and your hand supporting (not holding) the hand guard in the same position every time. Squeeze the trigger slowly and smoothly, and when the rifle fires, it should push straight back, the barrel should jump vertically. You need to arrange you shooting position and style for the rifle to shoot straight, and to be able to follow through with an accurate second or consecutive shots.
When we were introduced to the M60, I developed a love-hate relationship. I loved it's utilitarian ugliness and brute strength. The M60 is strictly business, it is a "big-talking weapon". What I hated was it's weight, and the weight of it's ammo. All of us were eager to carry the M60 when we first saw it, but we learned to be careful what we wished for when we actually had to carry it around for a few hours. The logic behind weapons like the M16 was to give an infantryman a weapon (and ammo) which was light and easy to shoot accurately. It was light, but in my experience, few people (other than instructors) ever learned to fire one accurately.
At other ranges we would learn to use grenades and claymore mines. Impressive as these were (movies do not do justice to the destructive power of a hand grenade, a real grenade is 10 times what a movie grenade is), I didn't care for them. I didn't join the Army to shoot rifles, but I did a lot of shooting, and it was one of the things I enjoyed most about my time there.
During the introduction a Drill Sergeant fired an M16 in a variety of way; semi-auto, full-auto, and also firing with the butt stock pressed against his chin, and against his crotch. The goal was to teach us not to be afraid of the kick of the rifle. We loved the noise, to see an occasional tracer flying, and to see the old coffee can which was used as a target being bounced around and perforated by countless holes. It was the most fun we had had up to that point.
We were then issued with our rifles. We were given a card with a number which matched our rifle, and when we went to the armory, we handed the armorer the card, and he handed us our rifle. My rifle's serial number was 5646619, I memorized it because my grandfather had told me that a particularly anal instructor might one day ask me what the serial number was. My rifle was an ancient and well-worn rifle made by the "Hydramatic Division of General Motors". It was an A1 rifle, and had probably been fired a million times. In our company, three privates were issued A2 rifles, we looked at these with lust in our eyes.
Guns and other weapons are odd things. No matter who you are, or what your background is, if you have a chance to handle a gun, a sword, or other type of weapon, it gives you some kind of sensation. No matter if you are tall, short, fat, thin, smart, or stupid, weak, or strong, a gun makes you anyone's equal. Though a gun or other weapon is a simple object, made of metal, plastic, and/or wood, it exudes and represents something which nothing else does. A gun or other weapon contains force and power, and when you hold a gun or weapon, you possess that force and power. If you put an AK47 in the hands of someone who is utterly opposed to guns, and hates all they represent, let him feel the weight, the controls, the balance, he will hand it back to you with a trace of reluctance, no matter what he says otherwise. I have done this many times, and I can always see the reaction in the eyes. The main look might be one of disgust and distaste, but you will also see a bit of awe.
Most of the people I was training with were not going into "combat arms" jobs when the graduated. They would become clerks, aids, supply people, or medical people, like myself. Still, without exception, all of us looked forward to BRM training. We had absolutely no problem carrying our rifles everywhere we went, or even sleeping with them.
Rifle practice was strictly controlled, and all rounds and brass had to be accounted for. We were told that being caught with any live ammo away from the range might result in our executions (or so we inferred), but more than one of us managed to swipe a round or two as a souvenir. We were taught endless exercises on how to fire a rifle accurately, like the "dime-washer" exercise, were a thin washer is balanced on the barrel, and you had to pull the trigger gently enough that the washer wouldn't fall off when dry firing. I eventually got to the point that I could both charge and dry fire my rifle more than 50 times without touching the washer, or having it fall off.
When the time came to actually fire the rifle, I was a little disappointed. First, the M16 seemed very weak to me. Despite it's businesslike appearance, it is pretty much a high-powered .22 rifle, and it will fire .22 bullets with an adapter kit. And when I fired it, the buffer spring in the butt stock made the rifle sound like a toy. I was not shooting very accurately at first, I had been shooting a 7mm magnum rifle regularly for a couple of years; the kind of gun which leaves a bruise on your shoulder after one shot, and which my friends refused to fire again after trying it for the first time. If you think a shotgun has a hard kick, try shooting a magnum rifle.
But I steadily became used to my M16, and applied the same techniques to shoot accurately. First, I always set my cheek and nose against the rifle in the exact same place, I always used the same hand position, and always used the sandbag support in the exact same position. I pulled the trigger steadily and straight back. Before long, I was hitting the 300m target regularly.
Our instructors told us that to qualify as expert, we needed to hit 36 out of 40 targets. We were given only 40 rounds to fire. The 300m target came up only 3 times, so the instructors recommended that we not fire at it, and save the three rounds for closer targets in case we missed them on our first attempt. They also said that if we had any left over rounds, it might help our buddies if we left them next to the sandbag (giving them a few extra shots to improve their score, the cadre didn't count how many shots they heard from each shooter).
I followed their advice, shooting at the easier targets, and not shooting at the 300m targets. At the end, I had hit 37 out of 40, and had 3 rounds left over. These I left by the sandbag. Needless to say, I can't describe how good it felt to qualify as expert in my first attempt.
After qualifying, we had to go collect our qualification badges. Those who qualified as marksmen needed to hit 23 out of 40, sharpshooters needed to 30-35 out of 40. The First Sergeant handed out our qualification badges. To those who qualified as marksmen, he handed them the badge in it's plastic wrapper. For those who qualified as sharpshooters, he took the badge out of the bag. For those who qualified as experts, he pinned the badge to our uniforms. As the First Sergeant pinned on my badge, he said "I see you followed your Drill Sergeant's advice" (the person shooting after me was dumb enough to turn in the three rounds I had left by the sandbag, saying that he found them there, and that they weren't his, worse yet, he had hit only 22 targets). I have to say that was my proudest moment in basic training. Only two men in our company qualified as expert, there were only 8 experts in the entire battalion. One must remember that nearly everyone in our battalion was not going to a combat arms MOS, (there was only one 11 Bravo -infantryman- in our company) and our rifles were generally old pieces of crap, so the low number of expert qualifiers was not surprising. Quite a few people failed to hit the minimum 23 targets, and had to try again later. A few failed even on the second attempt. Those who cannot qualify with rifle cannot complete training, and are sent home.
After qualifying, we went to the mess hall for dinner. Every trainee on KP that day working in the serving line looked enviously at my expert rifle qualification badge, and I have to say, I enjoyed their envy and attention.
I never developed a love for the M16 rifle, it would always be a toy to me. My favorite military rifle was the HK G3, which I found to have the best balance of power and accuracy. Without a gas system and gas port, (which allowed it to have a free-floating barrel), it was inherently more accurate than most other military rifles, and the sear and hammer could be smoothed enough to give it a buttery smooth trigger pull. Though I was a medic, I was always one of the top shooters in my company (thanks, grandpa), and as such, the company commander wanted me to carry a rifle. Though not an infantryman, I was in an Infantry unit, and the CO put people where he thought they be most effective.
For those who want to qualify well with a rifle, the key is to be absolutely consistent. I put a piece of tape on the butt stock against which I placed my nose. I set the rifle against my shoulder in the exact same spot every time. And when using a sandbank or support, I always balanced the barrel in the exact same position, making sure the sandbag or support was completely level. If it was not level, shots would stray to one side or the other of the target. Moving the barrel further up or further back on the support would result in shots hitting higher or lower. When supporting the rifle with only the arm, the supporting arm must be vertical, and your hand supporting (not holding) the hand guard in the same position every time. Squeeze the trigger slowly and smoothly, and when the rifle fires, it should push straight back, the barrel should jump vertically. You need to arrange you shooting position and style for the rifle to shoot straight, and to be able to follow through with an accurate second or consecutive shots.
When we were introduced to the M60, I developed a love-hate relationship. I loved it's utilitarian ugliness and brute strength. The M60 is strictly business, it is a "big-talking weapon". What I hated was it's weight, and the weight of it's ammo. All of us were eager to carry the M60 when we first saw it, but we learned to be careful what we wished for when we actually had to carry it around for a few hours. The logic behind weapons like the M16 was to give an infantryman a weapon (and ammo) which was light and easy to shoot accurately. It was light, but in my experience, few people (other than instructors) ever learned to fire one accurately.
At other ranges we would learn to use grenades and claymore mines. Impressive as these were (movies do not do justice to the destructive power of a hand grenade, a real grenade is 10 times what a movie grenade is), I didn't care for them. I didn't join the Army to shoot rifles, but I did a lot of shooting, and it was one of the things I enjoyed most about my time there.
Cool story. I, too, spent Basic Training in Fort McClellan. I joined the Army by way of the DEP also and became active on Aug 12, 1997. I also remember taking the flight to Atlanta then the bus ride to Alabama. I was very nervous. I was an MP and got out in 2003 due to disability received during service.
Doraemon:The one thing all of us looked forward to, even those who hated basic training the most, was the chance to fire real military weapons....Guns and other weapons are odd things....
Rifle practice [or what we call Basic Rifle Marksmanship (BRM), and there are 10 periods of instruction (POI)] was strictly controlled, and all rounds and brass had to be accounted for. We were told that being caught with any live ammo away from the range might result in our executions (or so we inferred), but more than one of us managed to swipe a round or two as a souvenir. [even after the Drill Sergeants conducted 'shake-downs' i.e., squads of firers were moved 'off the line' onto the Range access road. Lined-up in a row and were instructed to 'empty all pockets including opening you ammo pouches'. When the Drill Sergeant 'checked you out' for ammo, you 'sounded-off' with "No brass, No ammo"].
We were taught endless exercises on how to fire a rifle accurately, like the "dime-washer" [or the 'target-box' exercise among others] exercise, were a thin washer is balanced on the barrel, and you had to pull the trigger gently enough that the washer wouldn't fall off when dry firing...
Our instructors told us that to qualify as expert, we needed to hit 36 out of 40 targets. We were given only 40 rounds to fire. The 300m target came up only 3 times, so the instructors recommended that we not fire at it, and save the three rounds for closer targets in case we missed them on our first attempt. [oh sooo true...I gave the same advice]
Needless to say, I can't describe how good it felt to qualify as expert in my first attempt...
Your story again brought back 'trail' memories...great read!
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- #26
[even after the Drill Sergeants conducted 'shake-downs' i.e., squads of firers were moved 'off the line' onto the Range access road. Lined-up in a row and were instructed to 'empty all pockets including opening you ammo pouches'. When the Drill Sergeant 'checked you out' for ammo, you 'sounded-off' with "No brass, No ammo"].
We underwent these checks too, exactly as you quoted, but the Drill Sergeants never checked our socks...
We underwent these checks too, exactly as you quoted, but the Drill Sergeants never checked our socks...
- Thread starter
- #27
Basic training was 2 months of sweat, work, and stress. Every day was a busy day, and we almost never had any free time. There were pay phones in the company area to make calls to family and friends, but the time spent waiting in line at the phones was time that could not be spent getting yourself or your barracks squared away, and I would rather miss the time on the phone than get gigged.
But we did get one holiday that summer, and that was on the 4th of July. On the 4th, we were allowed to go to a fair at the athletic field The fair was held mainly by the families of soldiers assigned to the post, and the money raised went to fund various projects to help the families and children of the soldiers who lived and worked there. There were a few games, but the fair was mostly about food, and you could buy just about anything you wanted.
I said that the 4th was a holiday, but there was a time limit for this holiday, and we were allowed to participate for only 45 minutes. We had reached the point that 45 minutes of free time to do anything we want seemed almost an eternity. There are only two things any trainee would want to do with 45 minutes of free time, and that would be to eat or sleep. With so much food around, we chose the first option. We were allowed to take only $10 with us, so we wouldn't eat too much (though I had an extra $20 bill hidden in my shoe).
In 45 minutes I consumed 4 pieces of home made fried chicken, two large cheeseburgers, four pieces of pizza, a plate full of chocolate chip cookies, and three bottles of cola. The prices were cheap, I never had to take the $20 out of my shoe. I had never eaten so much in only 45 minutes, and I felt miserably full. We were called into formation, every single one of us stuffed with as much food as we could hold. The effect of extremely full bellies, a hot sun, and standing at attention had predictable consequences; several people passed out, and a couple began vomiting uncontrollably. After everyone regained consciousness, and control of their stomachs, we were marched to the mess hall for dinner. As luck would have it, the cooks had actually cooked some decent food for the holiday. To their disappointment, we took almost none of it.
To this day, I have not eaten so much food over such a short period of time. And it gives you an idea of the kind of hunger long weeks of difficult training can bring on. Food was the only real pleasure we could enjoy, other than sleep.
But we did get one holiday that summer, and that was on the 4th of July. On the 4th, we were allowed to go to a fair at the athletic field The fair was held mainly by the families of soldiers assigned to the post, and the money raised went to fund various projects to help the families and children of the soldiers who lived and worked there. There were a few games, but the fair was mostly about food, and you could buy just about anything you wanted.
I said that the 4th was a holiday, but there was a time limit for this holiday, and we were allowed to participate for only 45 minutes. We had reached the point that 45 minutes of free time to do anything we want seemed almost an eternity. There are only two things any trainee would want to do with 45 minutes of free time, and that would be to eat or sleep. With so much food around, we chose the first option. We were allowed to take only $10 with us, so we wouldn't eat too much (though I had an extra $20 bill hidden in my shoe).
In 45 minutes I consumed 4 pieces of home made fried chicken, two large cheeseburgers, four pieces of pizza, a plate full of chocolate chip cookies, and three bottles of cola. The prices were cheap, I never had to take the $20 out of my shoe. I had never eaten so much in only 45 minutes, and I felt miserably full. We were called into formation, every single one of us stuffed with as much food as we could hold. The effect of extremely full bellies, a hot sun, and standing at attention had predictable consequences; several people passed out, and a couple began vomiting uncontrollably. After everyone regained consciousness, and control of their stomachs, we were marched to the mess hall for dinner. As luck would have it, the cooks had actually cooked some decent food for the holiday. To their disappointment, we took almost none of it.
To this day, I have not eaten so much food over such a short period of time. And it gives you an idea of the kind of hunger long weeks of difficult training can bring on. Food was the only real pleasure we could enjoy, other than sleep.
Very interesting and quite well written.
I started air force basic training in December, 1963 - 52 years ago. Went through basic at Lackland AFB, Texas, training to be a medic at Gunter Field, Alabama, medical ojt at Andrews AFB, Washington DC and flight training at McGuire AFB, NJ. Ended up as a medic that was qualified to fly air evac missions; can't recall what the AFSB was.
Your writing brings back some memories of things that I had not thought of in years, as basic has similarities regardless of the branch of service. Thanks.
I started air force basic training in December, 1963 - 52 years ago. Went through basic at Lackland AFB, Texas, training to be a medic at Gunter Field, Alabama, medical ojt at Andrews AFB, Washington DC and flight training at McGuire AFB, NJ. Ended up as a medic that was qualified to fly air evac missions; can't recall what the AFSB was.
Your writing brings back some memories of things that I had not thought of in years, as basic has similarities regardless of the branch of service. Thanks.
- Thread starter
- #29
We finally graduated from basic training at the beginning of August. Before graduating we had to take number of tests, as well as our first official PT test. After 8 weeks of work and sweat, we were stronger, thinner, and much more confident than we had been when we first arrived.
We spent a long time preparing our brand-new dress uniforms for the graduation ceremony and parade, and I finally perfected the spit-polish technique on my dress shoes. I would polish these shoes just one more time, for a command inspection at AIT. After that, I completed Airborne training, and wore jump boots with my dress uniform.
There were many family members coming to see their sons; sons much different than they had last seen them. We young men were proud of having completed our training, and though many of us didn't fully realize it yet, made a big step to becoming real men. An old family friend had once told me that half of the people in the world were male, but a scant few were real men. At the time he told me this, I wasn't really sure what he had been talking about, I was only 17 at the time.
Of course, graduating from basic training did not really make a boy into a man, that takes time as well as effort. But we did get to meet some real men in the form of our Drill Sergeants and officers. These were men who had been around the world, and had undergone much longer and more difficult training than we had. I would get a taste of some of that training myself in the months and years to come.
It was rather sad to empty out our wall lockers, pack our bags, and leave what had been our home for such an experience. But in a few days, a new crowd of young men would be unpacking their bags, making the same bunks, cleaning the floors and the bathrooms. I was the last one out, and turned off the lights for the last time. In a few days a new group of young men would arrive, unpack their bags, and make the bunks again. They would laugh, cry, tell jokes, or ***** about the training, just as we had. Some of them would have good experiences, some of them bad, but good or bad, these experiences would be valuable to them sometime in their lives.
The day was hot and humid, our Drill Sergeants milled around, smiling and laughing, and telling stories to our families about our antics in training (some of these stories were even true). They shook our hands, and wished us luck. I and some of the people I had met at the bus stop at the airport in Atlanta boarded another bus, going back to the same place. Three of us, and a few others from our company flew to Dallas, and then to San Antonio, Texas, where we were to go through 10 weeks of medical training. We didn't know what lay ahead, but we felt confident that we would get through. We were still under rather tight control, we were met at the gate by sergeants, who kept an eye on us, and kept us away from alcohol. Those of us who were old enough had no trouble ordering drinks on the flight, but not much, the flights were short, and we weren't sure who would be waiting for us when we got off the plane.
Young men (and women) still attend basic training every day in posts around America, though not nearly in the same numbers as in the past. I see this as a good thing and a bad thing. Good, in that we enjoy a level of peace where we don't have to maintain large numbers of soldiers to be ready to fight. Bad, in that military training is an amazing method for teaching discipline, self-esteem, and enlarging the mental and physical perspectives of those who can endure it. And as few people now go through such training, they often spend their lives not knowing what they are fully capable of. Worse yet, they may not value so much what made the peace they enjoy possible.
For any young person who lacks direction, self-esteem, or feels out of place wherever he or she happens to be, I recommend they try the military. I don't guarantee that they will necessarily find what they are looking for, but some will. For those who don't, at least training will give them some of the tools they may need to have a better life.
We spent a long time preparing our brand-new dress uniforms for the graduation ceremony and parade, and I finally perfected the spit-polish technique on my dress shoes. I would polish these shoes just one more time, for a command inspection at AIT. After that, I completed Airborne training, and wore jump boots with my dress uniform.
There were many family members coming to see their sons; sons much different than they had last seen them. We young men were proud of having completed our training, and though many of us didn't fully realize it yet, made a big step to becoming real men. An old family friend had once told me that half of the people in the world were male, but a scant few were real men. At the time he told me this, I wasn't really sure what he had been talking about, I was only 17 at the time.
Of course, graduating from basic training did not really make a boy into a man, that takes time as well as effort. But we did get to meet some real men in the form of our Drill Sergeants and officers. These were men who had been around the world, and had undergone much longer and more difficult training than we had. I would get a taste of some of that training myself in the months and years to come.
It was rather sad to empty out our wall lockers, pack our bags, and leave what had been our home for such an experience. But in a few days, a new crowd of young men would be unpacking their bags, making the same bunks, cleaning the floors and the bathrooms. I was the last one out, and turned off the lights for the last time. In a few days a new group of young men would arrive, unpack their bags, and make the bunks again. They would laugh, cry, tell jokes, or ***** about the training, just as we had. Some of them would have good experiences, some of them bad, but good or bad, these experiences would be valuable to them sometime in their lives.
The day was hot and humid, our Drill Sergeants milled around, smiling and laughing, and telling stories to our families about our antics in training (some of these stories were even true). They shook our hands, and wished us luck. I and some of the people I had met at the bus stop at the airport in Atlanta boarded another bus, going back to the same place. Three of us, and a few others from our company flew to Dallas, and then to San Antonio, Texas, where we were to go through 10 weeks of medical training. We didn't know what lay ahead, but we felt confident that we would get through. We were still under rather tight control, we were met at the gate by sergeants, who kept an eye on us, and kept us away from alcohol. Those of us who were old enough had no trouble ordering drinks on the flight, but not much, the flights were short, and we weren't sure who would be waiting for us when we got off the plane.
Young men (and women) still attend basic training every day in posts around America, though not nearly in the same numbers as in the past. I see this as a good thing and a bad thing. Good, in that we enjoy a level of peace where we don't have to maintain large numbers of soldiers to be ready to fight. Bad, in that military training is an amazing method for teaching discipline, self-esteem, and enlarging the mental and physical perspectives of those who can endure it. And as few people now go through such training, they often spend their lives not knowing what they are fully capable of. Worse yet, they may not value so much what made the peace they enjoy possible.
For any young person who lacks direction, self-esteem, or feels out of place wherever he or she happens to be, I recommend they try the military. I don't guarantee that they will necessarily find what they are looking for, but some will. For those who don't, at least training will give them some of the tools they may need to have a better life.
I have been retired since June. I miss my friends and my purpose.
I should have been a better soldier. I took basic training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina.
That fort was probably named after Stonewall Jackson.
He was one of the best Generals that the United States ever had. He fought for the South.
That fort was probably named after Stonewall Jackson.
He was one of the best Generals that the United States ever had. He fought for the South.
Great read! So many memories come back.
- Thread starter
- #33
I will talk a little bit about AIT (advanced individual training). For a medic like myself, the course was ten weeks long. The first three weeks were to obtain a basic EMT certification, the other seven weeks would prepare us to be entry-level medics in the Army. An entry-level medic is like any other entry-level position, it requires the minimum amount of knowledge and experience. We would get most of our experience later on, on the job.
We arrived in the city of San Antonio, in the middle of Texas. This was nearer to my home in the southern Rockies, but the landscape and weather were still much different. The air was much less humid than in Alabama, the sun a little brighter. Accents were different, and there was all kinds of souvenir crap at the airport. Mugs shaped like cowboy boots, Dallas Cowboys merchandise, cowboy hats for dogs, giant flyswatters (everything is big in Texas) and bumper stickers which said "Don't Mess with Texas".
Our training would take place at Fort Sam Houston, located near the middle of the city, a short distance from downtown. Fort Sam Houston was a relatively small post, smaller than Fort McClellan. The old part of the post was near the main entrance, and some of the buildings reminded me of the old west. But we entered from the back side of the post, nearest there airport, going through the national cemetery, with it's countless white crosses, perfectly spaced on well-kept green grass.
Arrival at Fort Sam was not as stressful as at basic training. Though we were a little uncertain about our reception, and how things would go, we had no doubt that we would be able to get through it.
Once again, we were met by Drill Sergeants, and all of these wore the EFMB, or "expert field medical badge", which is said to be harder to earn than the expert Infantry badge. We were by now well-used to Drill Sergeants, and gave the appropriate amount of respect. But our Drill Sergeants at Fort Sam took things down a notch from the kind we had in basic training. They still kept an eagle eye on us, and dropped us for pushups whenever we messed up, but we were not under the same "total control" that we had been up to that point.
We also got to know our officers better than in basic training, our Captain and XO also wore the EFMB on their uniforms. Our second lieutenant was new, and was taking the EFMB course over the days we were preparing for our class to start. He passed the qualification, but said that it was one of the most difficult things he had done. I got to talk to our officers quite a lot, as I was always in need of money, and my platoon mates were happy to pay me to do their orderly duty for them. So for anywhere from $25 to $50, I would cover their shift, and answer the company phone. On weekends the shifts were long, and I could get more money. I would rather have gone out, but if someone offers me $100 to cover their shift, I will do it. My pay as an E1 was less than $500 per month after taxes, McDonald's paid better.
Our company was divided into three platoons, and, to our surprise, one of these platoons was entirely female. We were told that all Army nurses had to attend the basic Army medic course before going on to their nurse's training. Things looked much better. We were then taken to an auditorium where a specialist gave us a quick preview about what we would be doing during training, and what we could expect. He was relaxed in his presentation, and said that we would enjoy ourselves at Fort Sam.
I did enjoy myself very much, Fort Sam Houston was like summer camp. PT was easy, lots of young ladies about, and near one of the most interesting downtown areas one could ask for. There was a pool and fitness center nearby, which we actually had time to use, as well as many small shops and stores we could enjoy. And there were so many things to see and do in the middle of San Antonio.
Training was interesting, and to me, not at all stressful. We learned the basics, like how to bandage wounds, splint fractures, give injections, start IV's, etc. We learned rescue breathing, CPR, and how to use basic medical equipment. The training was serious, and though I found it easy enough, not everyone did. There were those who fainted when trying to give an injection, or drawing blood, and there were those who simply could not pass the regular textbook exams we had to take. About 15% of our fellow trainees would not graduate. I had no idea where they went after failing. Some would get a second chance, some would not. I got my first ride in a helicopter, a Vietnam-war era Huey. The helicopter was used for medivac practice, and Fort Sam kept two of these choppers on station. There was also a non-operation M1 tank; we needed to know how to get into one of these tanks, and to evacuate anyone who might be injured inside one. I loved to play around inside the tank, moving the turret with the backup cranks and levers. Would you believe that you can raise, lower, or turn an M1 turret with nothing more than the weight of your hand on a small crank wheel? You can.
7 of us medics would go on to Airborne training, and we quickly got to know each other. One of these was a fellow basic training buddy. Unfortunately, he would end up getting in trouble, and not going along with us; more on that later. Most Airborne medics would be assigned to the 82nd Airborne division, me and one other would go to the Rangers. We were told that we wouldn't actually become "real" Rangers, we would only be assigned to a Ranger unit. As in basic training, most of the soldiers training at Fort Sam were reservists or guardsman.
We were allowed our first leave after two weeks at Fort Sam. We were allowed to leave the post for 5 hours, we had to be back in time for the 10pm bed check. Though most of use were under 21, that didn't prevent nearly everyone from getting very drunk. Ironically, I was over 21, but I have never been a drinker. I spent my time eating non-Army food at some Mexican food places (I love Mexican food, my home state is New Mexico) along the river walk, and then had a couple of beers with some of my soon-to-be Airborne friends.
We arrived back in time for bed check, and the first thing we noticed was the smell of vomit in the barracks. I don't remember how many got drunk, but it was a mess. The guy in the top bunk next to mine vomited all over his bunk buddy's shoes and boots, one of our trouble-makers was asleep in the bathroom with the top of his head submerged in the toilet. Two more were passed out in the shower, fully clothed, with water showering on them. Someone from first platoon was passed out in the day room, he had walked into the wrong barracks. The less-drunk were chatting or sleeping in their bunks. Those of us who were capable had to clean up the mess, and to get our passed-out buddies in their bunks before bed check.
Those who drank too much on that night had learned their lesson, and toned it down on the times they went out in the future. Eventually training would relax to the point were we were free every afternoon until bed check, and could leave on Friday night, and be back for bed check on Sunday night. We had lots of time to see the city, hang out with friends, and spend quality time with our female trainees.
Honestly, I had never had so much fun as I had had at Fort Sam. It was a great post, in a great place. Since those days, I have lived in LA, Miami, New York, Paris, Tokyo, and Rome. But San Antonio still ranks as one of my favorite cities in the world, and I still like to visit when I get a chance. We worked more or less from 9 to 5, and had PT only three days a week. And in mixed companies where males and females train together, the PT standards are not very high, the runs are kept at a slower pace. There were no road marches.
In the evenings, if we weren't out on the town, we would be at the nearby pizza place, or sitting around the company area, shooting the breeze while polishing our boots. Over time, I had learned how to get the highest possible shine on my boots and shoes. It was all in the technique. You start by simply putting on a coat of polish, and buffing it off. Then you take a most cloth with a dab of polish, and apply it with a circular motion until you start to get a shine. The more you apply, the thicker the polish is, and the more shine you can get. The trick to the highest shine was to use a good cotton cloth or cotton ball, and just the right amount of water and polish. I got the best shine with old brown cotton Army t-shirts. For the brass bits of our uniforms, we bought Sta-Bright, which looked great, and didn't require polishing. The old technique for polishing brass was to use an electric drill, a buffer, and some polish, and though some people tried "spinning" their brass to get it to shine, they didn't get very good results.
Army medical training is thorough, but not too difficult, the only thing you have to do is get through the classes is to pay attention. I had learned this in basic training. I listened carefully in class, wrote notes in the margins of my textbooks, and carefully practiced when practice was required. On exam days I would not stay up late the night before the test cramming, I would wake up early, and review for two hours before the exam. I ended up graduating 3rd in my class. This was disappointing to me, because, in truth, I had not really tried very hard to get good grades. All I had done was simply to pay attention. I realized that if I had pushed myself, I could have finished at the top of the class.
We had our first command inspection at AIT, and it was a big event which we spent a long time preparing for. I emptied my wall locker of personal items and extra things, and hid them above the barracks ceiling panels. My t-shirts were rolled up with sheets of paper inside, and taped in the back. All the uniform gear in my locker was brand-new, and had never been used. The hangers were spaced with a ruler, the creases all shirts were folded over the same way. My shoes shined like mirrors.
The door opened, someone cried "Attention!", and we snapped to attention with a single motion and sound. Our eyes looked at each other in amazement (we didn't dare turn our heads), our precision was purely accidental. The colonel walked up to each man, asked him a few questions about his hometown, hobbies, and sometimes about something he should know from training. He opened drawers, patted bunks, and spoke precisely and professionally. He came up to me, looked over my uniform, and at the open door to my wall locker. He said "Where are you from, private"? "Los Alamos, New Mexico, Sir!" I answered back. Then he said "I don't have to look in your wall locker, do I"? "No Sir!" I replied. He pointed out my shoes to my Drill Sergeant, and said "His shoes are spit-shined." I was the only one in our squad who had not bought Bates patent leather shoes for inspections. He turned to me and said "Dismissed!" I put away my things and closed my wall locker while the rest of the squad remained at attention, where they would stay until the inspection was finished.
In our squad there was another one of those who could not get anything right with is uniform or wall locker. On one our inspections, a Drill Sergeant checked out this particular soldier's wall locker, and said "your goddamn locker smells like a French cathouse", before throwing all the contents all over the floor. We had no idea what a French cathouse smelled like, or how the Drill Sergeant knew what one smelled like, but the thought was entertaining. A month later at bed check this same private showered much later than usual, having returned more than a little drunk, and another Drill Sergeant come in for the bed check headcount. This private was completely naked, his locker was full of board games, girlie magazines, pile of unwashed laundry and other assorted junk, which was all falling out as he was trying to close the doors. The Drill Sergeant shined his light on this spectacle, and the private froze like a deer in the headlights of a big truck, sprawled naked over the open doors of his wall locker. The Drill Sergeant was so overwhelmed that his mouth dropped open, and he drew a large breath before unleashing his wrath. But apparently he had places he had to go that night, and did not have the time necessary to properly discipline this private. He closed his mouth, let out his breath, turned off his light, and continued his walk as though he hadn't seen anything. It was one of the funniest things I had ever seen, and when the Drill Sergeant left the building, many of us laughed uncontrollably.
We had another interesting incident. One day I was on duty, and had to find one of the Drill Sergeants in the barracks area. I entered my own barracks, and as I walked by the property room (where our personal property and valuables were contained), I noticed a light on under the door. I also heard a jingling of coins. I quietly walked by, and found the Drill Sergeant on the next floor. I brought him back to the property room with me, and he unlocked and opened the door. Inside there was a young-looking private holding an opened duffel bag. The ceiling panel on one side of the room was lifted up, he had snuck into the room from the day room next door. Apparently he had been going through the duffel bags stealing things. The Drill Sergeant took him away, and I locked up the property room.
A lot of things had gone missing from the property room, and now we had the culprit. That night a couple people from the next squad came over and began threatening the young soldier as he say on his bunk. They threw the bunk over, and were going to through him over as well before we broke things up. An investigation was started, and during this investigation it was found that the young private had enlisted with a fake birth certificate and SS number, worse yet, he was only 15 years old. He was taken away the next morning, we never saw him again.
In AIT there was a thing known as "honor platoon". Platoons who had scored high in the captain's inspections, had a low number of poor-scorers in class, or the fewest number of men (or women) getting into trouble could become the honor platoon. This meant that in formations they would march first, have the honor platoon flag hung on their guidon, and, more importantly, be the first in line for chow at the mess hall. Unfortunately, our platoon was always overlooked for honor platoon, much to the disappointment of our Drill Sergeant. We were a bunch of bad boys who were always getting drunk, or getting into fights and such. Our Drill Sergeant also thought part of the reason was political; "dontchya'll take it personal, they just don't like Drill Sergeant Johnson" he would say of himself.
But we finally got our chance when first platoon held a blanket party for one of their more unruly trouble-makers. This trouble-maker was one of my future Airborne colleagues, but he loved to drink (despite being underage), and was a mean drunk. His fellow trainees hated to deal with his ranting and arguing on those nights he got wasted. One night he came back more drunk than usual, and got into a shoving match with several of his platoon mates. After he finally passed out in his bunk, his platoon mates shaved off his hair and eyebrows, and liberally applied Kiwi shoe polish to his head and face.
The next morning we fell into formation, and saw the trouble-maker with a strangely dark-blue face. To his credit, he did not rat out his platoon mates, but there was no way to hide what happened from the Drill Sergeants. The XO had seen him come home late, and very drunk, and the Drill Sergeants knew more-or-less how he had been behaving. In the end, he graduated from AIT, but was not allowed to go to jump school, and I never saw him again.
That week we were bestowed with the title of honor platoon. The female platoon cheered out loud (the first time they had ever done so), and Drill Sergeant Johnson was in a good mood for the rest of the month. First platoon, who had been honor platoon for most of the cycle, looked on indifferently, though we could tell the reaction from the females annoyed them. Third platoon were the bad boys, and as such, we were more respected by the females.
Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and we had to leave Fort Sam. If anyone here is thinking of joining the Army for their education or simply the experience, I recommend you try to get a position at Fort Sam Houston, regardless of what kind of work you have to do. A job at Disneyland would not be so fun.
Once again, I was on a bus, with a few others from my company and others, and we were flying back to Atlanta, and from there we would take another bus south, to go to Fort Benning, home of the Infantry.
We arrived in the city of San Antonio, in the middle of Texas. This was nearer to my home in the southern Rockies, but the landscape and weather were still much different. The air was much less humid than in Alabama, the sun a little brighter. Accents were different, and there was all kinds of souvenir crap at the airport. Mugs shaped like cowboy boots, Dallas Cowboys merchandise, cowboy hats for dogs, giant flyswatters (everything is big in Texas) and bumper stickers which said "Don't Mess with Texas".
Our training would take place at Fort Sam Houston, located near the middle of the city, a short distance from downtown. Fort Sam Houston was a relatively small post, smaller than Fort McClellan. The old part of the post was near the main entrance, and some of the buildings reminded me of the old west. But we entered from the back side of the post, nearest there airport, going through the national cemetery, with it's countless white crosses, perfectly spaced on well-kept green grass.
Arrival at Fort Sam was not as stressful as at basic training. Though we were a little uncertain about our reception, and how things would go, we had no doubt that we would be able to get through it.
Once again, we were met by Drill Sergeants, and all of these wore the EFMB, or "expert field medical badge", which is said to be harder to earn than the expert Infantry badge. We were by now well-used to Drill Sergeants, and gave the appropriate amount of respect. But our Drill Sergeants at Fort Sam took things down a notch from the kind we had in basic training. They still kept an eagle eye on us, and dropped us for pushups whenever we messed up, but we were not under the same "total control" that we had been up to that point.
We also got to know our officers better than in basic training, our Captain and XO also wore the EFMB on their uniforms. Our second lieutenant was new, and was taking the EFMB course over the days we were preparing for our class to start. He passed the qualification, but said that it was one of the most difficult things he had done. I got to talk to our officers quite a lot, as I was always in need of money, and my platoon mates were happy to pay me to do their orderly duty for them. So for anywhere from $25 to $50, I would cover their shift, and answer the company phone. On weekends the shifts were long, and I could get more money. I would rather have gone out, but if someone offers me $100 to cover their shift, I will do it. My pay as an E1 was less than $500 per month after taxes, McDonald's paid better.
Our company was divided into three platoons, and, to our surprise, one of these platoons was entirely female. We were told that all Army nurses had to attend the basic Army medic course before going on to their nurse's training. Things looked much better. We were then taken to an auditorium where a specialist gave us a quick preview about what we would be doing during training, and what we could expect. He was relaxed in his presentation, and said that we would enjoy ourselves at Fort Sam.
I did enjoy myself very much, Fort Sam Houston was like summer camp. PT was easy, lots of young ladies about, and near one of the most interesting downtown areas one could ask for. There was a pool and fitness center nearby, which we actually had time to use, as well as many small shops and stores we could enjoy. And there were so many things to see and do in the middle of San Antonio.
Training was interesting, and to me, not at all stressful. We learned the basics, like how to bandage wounds, splint fractures, give injections, start IV's, etc. We learned rescue breathing, CPR, and how to use basic medical equipment. The training was serious, and though I found it easy enough, not everyone did. There were those who fainted when trying to give an injection, or drawing blood, and there were those who simply could not pass the regular textbook exams we had to take. About 15% of our fellow trainees would not graduate. I had no idea where they went after failing. Some would get a second chance, some would not. I got my first ride in a helicopter, a Vietnam-war era Huey. The helicopter was used for medivac practice, and Fort Sam kept two of these choppers on station. There was also a non-operation M1 tank; we needed to know how to get into one of these tanks, and to evacuate anyone who might be injured inside one. I loved to play around inside the tank, moving the turret with the backup cranks and levers. Would you believe that you can raise, lower, or turn an M1 turret with nothing more than the weight of your hand on a small crank wheel? You can.
7 of us medics would go on to Airborne training, and we quickly got to know each other. One of these was a fellow basic training buddy. Unfortunately, he would end up getting in trouble, and not going along with us; more on that later. Most Airborne medics would be assigned to the 82nd Airborne division, me and one other would go to the Rangers. We were told that we wouldn't actually become "real" Rangers, we would only be assigned to a Ranger unit. As in basic training, most of the soldiers training at Fort Sam were reservists or guardsman.
We were allowed our first leave after two weeks at Fort Sam. We were allowed to leave the post for 5 hours, we had to be back in time for the 10pm bed check. Though most of use were under 21, that didn't prevent nearly everyone from getting very drunk. Ironically, I was over 21, but I have never been a drinker. I spent my time eating non-Army food at some Mexican food places (I love Mexican food, my home state is New Mexico) along the river walk, and then had a couple of beers with some of my soon-to-be Airborne friends.
We arrived back in time for bed check, and the first thing we noticed was the smell of vomit in the barracks. I don't remember how many got drunk, but it was a mess. The guy in the top bunk next to mine vomited all over his bunk buddy's shoes and boots, one of our trouble-makers was asleep in the bathroom with the top of his head submerged in the toilet. Two more were passed out in the shower, fully clothed, with water showering on them. Someone from first platoon was passed out in the day room, he had walked into the wrong barracks. The less-drunk were chatting or sleeping in their bunks. Those of us who were capable had to clean up the mess, and to get our passed-out buddies in their bunks before bed check.
Those who drank too much on that night had learned their lesson, and toned it down on the times they went out in the future. Eventually training would relax to the point were we were free every afternoon until bed check, and could leave on Friday night, and be back for bed check on Sunday night. We had lots of time to see the city, hang out with friends, and spend quality time with our female trainees.
Honestly, I had never had so much fun as I had had at Fort Sam. It was a great post, in a great place. Since those days, I have lived in LA, Miami, New York, Paris, Tokyo, and Rome. But San Antonio still ranks as one of my favorite cities in the world, and I still like to visit when I get a chance. We worked more or less from 9 to 5, and had PT only three days a week. And in mixed companies where males and females train together, the PT standards are not very high, the runs are kept at a slower pace. There were no road marches.
In the evenings, if we weren't out on the town, we would be at the nearby pizza place, or sitting around the company area, shooting the breeze while polishing our boots. Over time, I had learned how to get the highest possible shine on my boots and shoes. It was all in the technique. You start by simply putting on a coat of polish, and buffing it off. Then you take a most cloth with a dab of polish, and apply it with a circular motion until you start to get a shine. The more you apply, the thicker the polish is, and the more shine you can get. The trick to the highest shine was to use a good cotton cloth or cotton ball, and just the right amount of water and polish. I got the best shine with old brown cotton Army t-shirts. For the brass bits of our uniforms, we bought Sta-Bright, which looked great, and didn't require polishing. The old technique for polishing brass was to use an electric drill, a buffer, and some polish, and though some people tried "spinning" their brass to get it to shine, they didn't get very good results.
Army medical training is thorough, but not too difficult, the only thing you have to do is get through the classes is to pay attention. I had learned this in basic training. I listened carefully in class, wrote notes in the margins of my textbooks, and carefully practiced when practice was required. On exam days I would not stay up late the night before the test cramming, I would wake up early, and review for two hours before the exam. I ended up graduating 3rd in my class. This was disappointing to me, because, in truth, I had not really tried very hard to get good grades. All I had done was simply to pay attention. I realized that if I had pushed myself, I could have finished at the top of the class.
We had our first command inspection at AIT, and it was a big event which we spent a long time preparing for. I emptied my wall locker of personal items and extra things, and hid them above the barracks ceiling panels. My t-shirts were rolled up with sheets of paper inside, and taped in the back. All the uniform gear in my locker was brand-new, and had never been used. The hangers were spaced with a ruler, the creases all shirts were folded over the same way. My shoes shined like mirrors.
The door opened, someone cried "Attention!", and we snapped to attention with a single motion and sound. Our eyes looked at each other in amazement (we didn't dare turn our heads), our precision was purely accidental. The colonel walked up to each man, asked him a few questions about his hometown, hobbies, and sometimes about something he should know from training. He opened drawers, patted bunks, and spoke precisely and professionally. He came up to me, looked over my uniform, and at the open door to my wall locker. He said "Where are you from, private"? "Los Alamos, New Mexico, Sir!" I answered back. Then he said "I don't have to look in your wall locker, do I"? "No Sir!" I replied. He pointed out my shoes to my Drill Sergeant, and said "His shoes are spit-shined." I was the only one in our squad who had not bought Bates patent leather shoes for inspections. He turned to me and said "Dismissed!" I put away my things and closed my wall locker while the rest of the squad remained at attention, where they would stay until the inspection was finished.
In our squad there was another one of those who could not get anything right with is uniform or wall locker. On one our inspections, a Drill Sergeant checked out this particular soldier's wall locker, and said "your goddamn locker smells like a French cathouse", before throwing all the contents all over the floor. We had no idea what a French cathouse smelled like, or how the Drill Sergeant knew what one smelled like, but the thought was entertaining. A month later at bed check this same private showered much later than usual, having returned more than a little drunk, and another Drill Sergeant come in for the bed check headcount. This private was completely naked, his locker was full of board games, girlie magazines, pile of unwashed laundry and other assorted junk, which was all falling out as he was trying to close the doors. The Drill Sergeant shined his light on this spectacle, and the private froze like a deer in the headlights of a big truck, sprawled naked over the open doors of his wall locker. The Drill Sergeant was so overwhelmed that his mouth dropped open, and he drew a large breath before unleashing his wrath. But apparently he had places he had to go that night, and did not have the time necessary to properly discipline this private. He closed his mouth, let out his breath, turned off his light, and continued his walk as though he hadn't seen anything. It was one of the funniest things I had ever seen, and when the Drill Sergeant left the building, many of us laughed uncontrollably.
We had another interesting incident. One day I was on duty, and had to find one of the Drill Sergeants in the barracks area. I entered my own barracks, and as I walked by the property room (where our personal property and valuables were contained), I noticed a light on under the door. I also heard a jingling of coins. I quietly walked by, and found the Drill Sergeant on the next floor. I brought him back to the property room with me, and he unlocked and opened the door. Inside there was a young-looking private holding an opened duffel bag. The ceiling panel on one side of the room was lifted up, he had snuck into the room from the day room next door. Apparently he had been going through the duffel bags stealing things. The Drill Sergeant took him away, and I locked up the property room.
A lot of things had gone missing from the property room, and now we had the culprit. That night a couple people from the next squad came over and began threatening the young soldier as he say on his bunk. They threw the bunk over, and were going to through him over as well before we broke things up. An investigation was started, and during this investigation it was found that the young private had enlisted with a fake birth certificate and SS number, worse yet, he was only 15 years old. He was taken away the next morning, we never saw him again.
In AIT there was a thing known as "honor platoon". Platoons who had scored high in the captain's inspections, had a low number of poor-scorers in class, or the fewest number of men (or women) getting into trouble could become the honor platoon. This meant that in formations they would march first, have the honor platoon flag hung on their guidon, and, more importantly, be the first in line for chow at the mess hall. Unfortunately, our platoon was always overlooked for honor platoon, much to the disappointment of our Drill Sergeant. We were a bunch of bad boys who were always getting drunk, or getting into fights and such. Our Drill Sergeant also thought part of the reason was political; "dontchya'll take it personal, they just don't like Drill Sergeant Johnson" he would say of himself.
But we finally got our chance when first platoon held a blanket party for one of their more unruly trouble-makers. This trouble-maker was one of my future Airborne colleagues, but he loved to drink (despite being underage), and was a mean drunk. His fellow trainees hated to deal with his ranting and arguing on those nights he got wasted. One night he came back more drunk than usual, and got into a shoving match with several of his platoon mates. After he finally passed out in his bunk, his platoon mates shaved off his hair and eyebrows, and liberally applied Kiwi shoe polish to his head and face.
The next morning we fell into formation, and saw the trouble-maker with a strangely dark-blue face. To his credit, he did not rat out his platoon mates, but there was no way to hide what happened from the Drill Sergeants. The XO had seen him come home late, and very drunk, and the Drill Sergeants knew more-or-less how he had been behaving. In the end, he graduated from AIT, but was not allowed to go to jump school, and I never saw him again.
That week we were bestowed with the title of honor platoon. The female platoon cheered out loud (the first time they had ever done so), and Drill Sergeant Johnson was in a good mood for the rest of the month. First platoon, who had been honor platoon for most of the cycle, looked on indifferently, though we could tell the reaction from the females annoyed them. Third platoon were the bad boys, and as such, we were more respected by the females.
Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and we had to leave Fort Sam. If anyone here is thinking of joining the Army for their education or simply the experience, I recommend you try to get a position at Fort Sam Houston, regardless of what kind of work you have to do. A job at Disneyland would not be so fun.
Once again, I was on a bus, with a few others from my company and others, and we were flying back to Atlanta, and from there we would take another bus south, to go to Fort Benning, home of the Infantry.
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Excellent read! Thanks for sharing.
I went to Fort Sam for AIT.
3/4 of Fort Sam is female. The story about drinking reminded me of our first weekend at AIT. The class before us had several people who got hammered drunk on the river walk and had taken someone who hadn't earned the privilege of off post pass with them. She ended up having to get rushed to BAMC (or what ever they call the hospital now) and got her stomach pumped.
I was a food inspector so our classrooms were in a giant walk in freezer/cooler. No lie there I was wearing a lab smock over a field jacket and a black beret taking notes over a side of beef inside a freezer. One of our civilian instructors was part of the very first Food Safety Warrant officer class back in the 70s, and drove a mint condition Mercades Benz that he bought in the 80s.
3/4 of Fort Sam is female. The story about drinking reminded me of our first weekend at AIT. The class before us had several people who got hammered drunk on the river walk and had taken someone who hadn't earned the privilege of off post pass with them. She ended up having to get rushed to BAMC (or what ever they call the hospital now) and got her stomach pumped.
I was a food inspector so our classrooms were in a giant walk in freezer/cooler. No lie there I was wearing a lab smock over a field jacket and a black beret taking notes over a side of beef inside a freezer. One of our civilian instructors was part of the very first Food Safety Warrant officer class back in the 70s, and drove a mint condition Mercades Benz that he bought in the 80s.
