After Easter

 
Weeks droned on after Easter left. There were a few other instances of note...like the one where one of the guys got the most grotesque staph infection I had ever seen in his armpit. Or the one where a guy decided he couldn't take it anymore and was going to kill himself by chugging a bottle of Simple Green cleaner. You know-the cleaner that says "NON-TOXIC" in big yellow letters on the front? Then there was the looming Ft Knox legend of the Private that devised the most violent plan ever to kill himself. This guy was so committed to his death that one night during his fire watch he decided he would lug one of the gigantic floor buffers (that we all became master operators of) to a window on the third floor. He wrapped the power cord around his neck and heaved the buffer out, jerking him to the cement blow with the added force of the 150+ pound piece of machinery. Story goes that he exploded like a water balloon. I discovered later that this tale has about as much truth to it as Paul Bunyan. There was still that guy, though, that would swear on his Mother’s life that it actually happened during his cycle. The Army is full of some of the greatest tall tales to ever be told, and some guys tend to be particularly skilled at clinging to them.


In the last few weeks of the cycle, the drill Sergeants began to berate less, and counsel more. They were teaching us how to survive in the Army. We had made it this far, and only had our final Field Training Exercise (FTX) to go. Sometimes they would even joke with us. We were almost real Soldiers, and we were getting a glimpse of what our relationship with our Platoon leadership would be like. One night in particular I was roaming the halls during the small hours for my shift on the fire watch. Our Platoon drill Sergeant, SFC Ostrander, was the one assigned to stay in the barracks that night. At this point in the cycle there were no more late night torture parties, and the Drill Sergeants had scaled back to one on duty at a time. They stayed in a mysterious room at the end of the first floor hall. Any poor, unsuspecting Private that ventured too far in that direction was usually brought close to death via pushups and sit-ups. I was wiping sleep out of my eyes and jiggling door handles when I noticed the door at the end of the hall swing open. SFC Ostrander peered out down the hallway. I immediately noticed that he wasn’t wearing his signature “brown round” hat. Something was strange about the look in his eyes. He saw me.





“Priiiivate Benton. C’mere, dick.”





I moved quickly and sounded off.





“Moving, Drill Sergeant!”





He replied with a hiss.





“Shut the fuck up.”





When I arrived to the area of the room I hesitated. This might be a trick. There was a black line of tape on the floor that we knew not to cross. SFC Ostrander was behind the open door, with only his head peeking out. I stopped at the line. He laughed and shook his head.





“Come in, Soldier.”





As I rounded the door I was shocked to notice that SFC Ostrander was clothed in only a pair of black PT shorts. I noticed that he was covered in tattoos. He was an exceptionally small man, shorter than me and weighing probably half as much. I had grown to respect him, though, and knew that he had prepared me well for life as a Soldier. I surmised that I may have been the only living recruit to see the inside of this room. The only light was from a television that was sitting on a lonely stand in the middle of the room. There was a ratty recliner placed in front of it that was in the open position. This is where the DS on duty would catch a few hours of sleep. There was a kitchenette in the back of the room that looked like your standard workplace break room, with a microwave, a full-size refrigerator, a sink, and a table with chairs. SFC Ostrander told me to pull up one of the chairs as he plopped down in the recliner. I was perplexed, as this was the first time it was apparently ok to address him not at the position of parade rest. I reluctantly pulled up a chair from the table. SFC Ostrander reached down beside the recliner and produced a bottle of Budweiser I hadn’t noticed before.





“What are your plans for the Army, Private Benton?”





He spoke without looking at me, staring ahead at the TV.





“I may want to go Green to Gold later on, or try flight school.”





Green to Gold is a program that transitions enlisted Soldiers with enough college credits to Commissioned Officers. Flight school would be the equivalent of “dropping a warrant packet”, meaning trying my hand at becoming a Warrant Officer-primarily the pilots of the Army. SFC Ostrander choked slightly, and turned his stare to me for the first time.





“Private Benton, Armor is a small community in the Army. If I ever see your ass somewhere down the road when my time on the trail is done, I will kill you with a rusty bayonet.”





I stared back at him, confused. I noticed for the first time a thick scar snaking from his hairline to the middle of his forehead. This was his way of complimenting me by threatening to kill me. I didn’t know it yet, but what he was saying was that the Army wasn’t a place for somebody like me. He was saying that he wanted better things for me. Sitting there, staring at him, I realized I was seeing my first broken man. One of many I would see, and even become. Neither of us said anything for a few seconds. I spoke quietly.





“Roger Drill Sergeant…”





He didn’t say anything, and returned his stare to the TV. He finished the beer in a prolonged guzzle. I was experiencing an increasing level of discomfort. We sat like this with only the light and muffled sound from the TV for several minutes. I stared ahead at it with him, not actually watching, just as he was. In a short time, I heard faint snoring.


Basic training’s approaching end was what I believe coming out of hyper-sleep in a sci-fi space travel situation would be like. Or like when Luke Skywalker was unfrozen. Except there was no 7’ tall wookie there to comfort me. My last dream was standing on a parade field at Knox during a ceremony that seemed to be about 15 hours long. I got an option in my recruiting process called “hometown recruiting”, which basically meant that I would be able to go home for 10 days before reporting to my first duty station. Just a few days earlier I had been told I was shipping to Fort Hood; “The Great Place”. The drill sergeants, who had become slightly more cordial to us as we approached graduation, would laugh maniacally while reading duty station assignments any time they came across Fort Hood or Fort Bliss. Not only did these places suck, apparently, but those poor souls headed there were to ship off to Iraq immediately upon arrival. I never understood this scare tactic personally, because if anyone here was under the impression that they weren’t going to have to Iraq or Afghanistan, they were delusional.


I maintained my position of Platoon guide for the entire cycle. I was the only guide that did this. The others were cycled in and out, berated for constant “leadership failures”, consisting of someone in the Platoon messing up. That’s what being the Platoon guide was all about-being responsible for when someone else messes up. This was a valuable Army lesson. The Drill Sergeants recognized a trait in me that I didn’t yet know I had. I was a natural leader. My achievements earned a few perks coming out of training. I was chosen for the Gen. George Patton Leadership Award, and was entered into the Excellence in Armor roles. Because of this, I was chosen to stand in front of the Company along with two other award winners during this eternal graduation ceremony. I was terrified that would be “that guy”. That guy is the guy that falls out while standing for long periods of time. It never happened to me during my career, but I saw it happen often. Eventually the ceremony ended, and I was on my way home for leave.