Getting to Hood

During my time at home I realized some things. First, I wasn’t the same person that left. I was eager to tell stories about what I had been through, and what I was doing. I wanted to explain the power of the mighty Abrams; I wanted to laugh about the things Soldiers laughed at, and I wanted everyone to be impressed. This was the first in a series of disconnections that would span the rest of my life. It took me a long time to learn this lesson, and I still probably feel a little miffed at the reactions I get when I misstep in conversation. I slowly learned an unforgiving truth about being a Soldier. It’s one long process of leaving everything behind. Your identity, your ability to relate to anything outside of what it gives you, and even your family will be left behind in some fashion. When I tried to talk about it, my friends would listen, but it was like I was speaking broken English. They understood some words; some ideas; but I could tell that there was just no way they were grasping what I was talking about. And this was just basic training.

I arrived at Fort Hood in September of 2004. I was assigned to First Brigade, 4^th Infantry Division. We were herded into an in-processing center, where we would spend approximately the next three days. I knew nothing about the Units I was assigned to. I did know that I recognized the black and yellow 1^st Cavalry patch from war movies, and had never seen the strange diamond pattern of the 4^th. I would wear both in my career, but for now, I was a member of the “Steadfast and Loyal” Division.

In-Processing was a series of paperwork and stamping that had us traipsing all over half of Fort Hood. We had no Unit patches, and every one of us was carrying a dogged manila envelope full of our most valuable possessions: paperwork. This appearance made us stand out with flagrance. On a day many years in the future, I was driving down what is now called “TJ Mills Boulevard”, heading towards the main gate for the last time as a Soldier. I stopped at the main intersection on Battalion Avenue, and watched as a herd of peach-faced Privates shuffled to the Soldier Center across the road in front of me, manila envelopes in hand. It was profound to me…here I was rolling out of the gate for the last time, and crossing in front of me were these boys still filled with feelings I could never have again. Right now, though, I was still one of them.

The last part of in-processing consisted of going to the “CIF” (Central Issue Facility). Upon arrival we were given a grocery store shopping cart and a computer printout. It was one of the early 90’s style printouts, with the overly wide paper that had perforated strips on the sides bearing holes for the printer crank. When unfolded, it was literally about 7 feet long. There was a Sergeant escorting us that I guessed was about 60 years old. He was probably about 35, but I had no knowledge of the Army aging factor at this point. Every time we saw him he had a bottom lip so full of chew that it couldn’t close, exposing the slimy brown mass next to his gums.

“You lose that and you’re screwed, Private. That right there is paper gold to you.”

I heeded his words and vowed to keep this document safe for eternity. He was right, actually.

 We were assembled into a line that reminded me of a grocery store. This place was actually a huge warehouse, with several aisles separated by walls with large windows that resembled a concession stand. When it was my turn to venture down the first one, I noticed that standing in each window was a Korean woman. These ladies were nothing less than venomous. I pulled up my cart to the first stop. The lady stood there glaring at me with her arms crossed.

“Uhm…I’m here for-“

She interrupted my mumbling.

“PAYPAH.”

I stared at her confused.

“Wha…”

“PAYPAH PAYPAH GIVE ME YOU PAYPAH!”

Oh…paper. Ok. I handed my folded paper over to her. It was apparently not in the right spot, and she forcefully snatched it from me, slamming it down on the desk and manipulating it to the right page. This was a game I couldn’t win. She scrawled some mark on my paper and disappeared into the equipment abyss behind her. I glanced around at some of the other guys. I locked eyes with a guy on the other side of the hall from me pushing a cart that was already heaping with a green mass of gear. He reassured me that she was coming back. She came waddling back with a stack of Army BDU’s in her arms. After plopping them into my cart she slid my paypah back to me and yelled out.

“NEX!”

As I was carting away I looked back, and she had returned to her original position as if she hadn’t moved. Arms crossed and glaring at me. This went on for approximately 40 windows. I approached each window from this point on with my paypah extended. Once we were finished we were corralled to an area where we were to remove all of our stuff and inventory it as we packed it up. It seems like a boring task, but I was kind of excited. This was cool. I was smelling and feeling all of these new things, and for the time being they were mine. I got two of my Armor crewman’s suit, called NOMEX (or green pajamas), one of the best sleeping bag sets I had ever seen, winter gloves, NOMEX gloves, goggles, Oakley eye protection, and a helmet along with a pile of other sweet sundries. It was like a grown man Christmas morning! I stuffed it all into my two big green duffel bags and heaved them on my back, skipping off like a troll with bounty.

This was our last day of in-processing. The next morning after PT we were to move to our assigned Units. I was eager to see where I was going. When we got our orders we immediately huddled together to see who was going where. My orders read “B CO, 3-66 AR 1^st BDE, 41D”.  The Black Knights. I had already scoped out all of the Unit crests we were to wear in the middle of our berets at the clothing and sales on post. This one was not one of my favorites. Three other guys from my basic class were headed there with me. The Battalion area was only a few blocks down the street on “4^th ID side”, and we moved out, lugging our bags of gear with us.

It was just before morning formation when we arrived, and Soldiers were trickling in after their shower and change from PT. We were instructed by a passing Specialist to drop our gear and report to SGT McClain, the training room NCO. SGT McClain was already there, fastidiously typing away on a laptop. We approached the desk and stood at parade rest.

“FNG’s.”

He said this without looking up from what he was doing. FNG, by the way, means “fucking new guy”. He asked us for our orders, which we already had in hand. We handed them over and he told us the 1SG would want to talk to us. This made my chest jump a little. First Sergeants were notoriously crusty and cranky, and the thought of having to stand in front one this morning was less than savory. He hadn’t arrived yet, so we were told to wait in his office.

As we walked in I noticed framed flags, a wood rack with a massive collection of coins, and a few pictures from the front lines. There was also a picture of three Drill Sergeants standing together and smiling. I guessed one of them was him. I was reminded for a second about getting a rusty bayonet in my back. From behind us a tall Mexican man walked in. I called “AT EASE!”.

The NCO moved around us, sat down at the desk, and propped up his feet. I noticed immediately that his rank was not that of a First Sergeant. This guy was a Staff Sergeant. He regarded us in silence with a blank expression. He then farted loudly, jumped up out of the chair, and left. A few moments later we heard someone in the training room yell the real “AT EAAASE!”

Top was coming. “Top” is the affectionate name Soldiers give their 1SG. Before any of us even had a chance to say a second “AT EASE”, which would have been wrong, he entered the office and said “Relax.”

We continued to stand at parade rest. When he sat down I noticed that, again, this NCO wasn’t wearing the rank of 1SG. He was a Sergeant First Class. Turns out Bravo 3-66 didn’t actually have a First Sergeant. SFC Kavanaugh was more than capable of running the Company, though. I would learn in my short time with him that he was one of the most badass damn tankers that ever tanked. He asked us a few questions, such as where we were from and what we did before the Army. He also assigned us to Platoons. I was to go to 2^nd Platoon.