“OHMYGOD!!!”…
-“What’s going on at this unmentionable hour?”
-“Why all the racket?”…
Then it all came back to me, quickly making its way into my brain center and bringing me into my new reality. It also brought back the words of an old WWII song in which the chorus repeats: –“You’re in the army now….” And, so, I came to my first 04:00 (to be read: ohfourhundred) wake up call or, to better call it by its new name: reveille. We had ten minutes to throw on our underwear, t-shirt, and boots, and make it out to exercise formation. At 04:15 sharp we started basic calisthenics to be followed by a short march (this being the first day for our already aching muscles) and so, start our basic training to be in “This Man’s Army”.
The exercise routine followed a verbal dress down during the few minutes it took to throw on the before mentioned items. Amongst the several bits of news and information we received, were included:
-“your behind is Mine now BOY!!! ”
–“Your mama ain’t here now BOY”…
-“She ain’t gonna be able to wipe your behind”…
-“I’M YOUR NEW MAMA, BOY!!”
-“MOVE, MOVE, MOVE IT”.
All of the above came screamed at my face from about 2 inches away, in a matter of 45 seconds by what looked to be a bodybuilder on gorilla steroids, foaming at the mouth and dressed, I am sure by some incredible mistake, as a Sergeant, E-5 ranking. I’m sure my mama never looked like this, no matter how much he may have insisted on making me believe so. It was certainly reassuring to belong to a new “club” where apparently someone would be looking out for us, including the wiping of our collective behinds.
After the calisthenics and short (about one mile) run, we headed back to the barracks and a shower, redress in the day’s uniform, fix our bunks and have breakfast. To accomplish all these little things we were given half a day or 45 minutes, whichever came first. Once in the dining room (excuse me, mess hall) we were reintroduced to the buffet style breakfast: One roll, one cup of coffee, two toasts with butter and chipped beef in a white sauce over an overtoasted slice of bread. This serving is better known the world over (well, in the armed forces world) by its acronym: SOS. It could be interpreted justly as a call for desperate help but in reality, during the first two weeks of this breakfast it simply meant “Sh.. on a Shingle” and then, after two weeks of pretty much the same breakfast almost every day, the letters stood for the “Same Old Sh..”. As in: -“What did you have for Breakfast?” and the answer –“Oh, Same Old Sh..”.
Much can be said for KP or, Kitchen Patrol; most of it not good. Whenever it was your turn, you had the privilege of getting up at 03:15, have the shower to yourself and also the hand basin. There was quiet in the barracks and a glorious morning sunrise would soon be starting… Of course, you wouldn’t get to see any of this, since you’d be in the kitchen, at the mercy of the “cook” –usually a low grade sergeant, often close to a resentful retirement and little concerned with the servings for the day and, worse yet, a couple of second tier trainees (those who had “survived” the first half of basic training and had “graduated” to the second half) who thought you were the scum of the earth… and treated you accordingly. KP was not welcome news and we did all we could to get away from this; I found out that by volunteering for some services I would be on “special assignment” and exempt from KP. So I did. Besides, “special assignment” sounded so, well, James Bondish you know. Anyway, cleaning the house of an in-base officer was better than KP anytime. As for 007?... well, he did clean some quarters while in training, I’m sure.
After 3 weeks, the routine was assimilated and then the rumor mill about how those who did not make it in the final exam (no, an exam not about knowledge, but about being able to leap buildings in a single bound) would be made to repeat the initial basic training under much more difficult conditions (really??) and would be sent directly to the front lines. Of course none of this was real; only close. Due to the demands for more bodies from the VN front, indeed there were few who did not pass and these would be given a “refresher” for a week, and then sent on anyway to advanced training. Truth be told, however, I had never been(nor have I been since) in such good physical shape as I was when the basic training was done. We were up to “double timing” –that’s running, for you civilians- under a full load (about 35-40 pounds) some 5 to 7 miles every day, as well as forced marches (a little less fast than double time) of 15 miles. I am not sure I could leap buildings in a single bound, but I felt like I could.
About this time, our orders were in. This meant that our life in the army was already defined, as to what we would be doing for the next 21 months, in the drafted ranks, or 33 months for the regular volunteers. Yes, that’s right. If you were drafted, you were in for 2 years; if you had volunteered, you were in for 3 years. I think stuff like this gave way to that old saying: “when in the Army, never volunteer for anything”. My orders came in and I was going from Ft. Jackson, South Carolina, to Ft. Dix, NJ, where I would be trained as a heavy equipment operator (read: heavy truck driver).
One truly good and heartwarming memory I have from my basic in Ft. Jackson was directly related to the originally mentioned staff sergeant. He was a young guy and turned out to be a truly good guy. Usually with the enlisted men (as opposed to “officers and gentlemen”) there was a better rapport, since they came up through and from the ranks. Anyway, this man invited me to his house for Thanksgiving, since there had been a general leave and I had declined mine. At that moment my relationship with my step mother was not the best and I chose not to go, staying behind in what was fast becoming a ghost town.
One morning this huge mountain of a man who could order me to jump off a running truck, very shyly asked me if I would care to share Thanksgiving with his family. Why so shyly, you ask? Well, this was the deep south, circa 1966, when and where Jim Crow was still king and the sergeant was a black man. The invitation was gladly accepted and I went home with him, to his wife and two children: a baby boy and a beautiful 5 year old little girl who took to me immediately, and I to her… the beauty of children’s innocence; no black-white issues for her. Just an I-like-you attitude that would melt an iceberg, and I’m not even close to being one. It was a great holiday and I enjoyed it from the beginning to the end, turkey included. After I left Ft. Jackson I never saw that man or his family again, but my wish is that at least those children have grown in a world where racial issues are truly becoming a thing of the past. I hope I made an impression in them half as good as the one they made in me.
Well… next stop: Fort Dix, NJ. With maybe a detour or two along the way.
Be Well…
No comments:
Post a Comment