“Put the gottdamned canteen away Private Hook!” yelled Drill Sergeant White.
Drill Sergeant White was a quiet man who stood about 5’8” and weighed 200lbs, all muscle. He had muscles on top of muscles. He never said much other than what was needed to get his point across and he very rarely yelled.
“Who in the hell told you to drink water Hook?” he continued yelling.
Soaked with sweat I stood there screwing the cap back on my canteen with what must’ve been the dumbest look on my face ever as I could not muster a reply.
“What makes you better than the rest of the platoon Hook? You gottdamned special?” he went on.
Dumb look turned to guilty look as I shook my head “no” feeling a knot form in my stomach for betraying my brothers who I was sure were also exhausted and undoubtedly dehydrated from the 15-mile forced march we had just completed.
It was range week. The platoon had marched out to the multi-range complex at the farthest end of Fort Dix, where we were to spend the next week learning to become marksmen on our M16A1 rifles. We started at sun-up and arrived to our bivouac area at dusk. Our first order of business was to set up our shelters. Each recruit was issued a canvas shelter half and three poles so that two recruits can combine their halves, insert their three poles screwed together on either end of the shelter to form a pup tent large enough for the two. My ranger buddy forgot to pack his half. He and I spent the next two hours in the front-leaning rest position doing push-ups until our arms gave out at which time we rolled over and did crunches until the drill sergeant’s stomachs got tired all the while listening to a lecture on the importance of not forgetting any of “your gottdamned equipment” and how ranger buddies are supposed to “check each other’s shit.”
By the time our lecture was over, we had missed dinner. Bobby and I slept under the stars that night. Bobby was from Boston. We were awfully tired.
We spent the week receiving classroom instructions on the principles of basic rifle marksmanship, which was new to many of us who had never handled a weapon of any type in our youth. We broke the M16A1 rifle down into its many pieces, cleaned them, and then reassembled them at least a hundred times that week. We placed dimes on the barrels and practiced squeezing the trigger so as not to cause the dime to fall. We were coached on our breathing as if in a Lamaze class and we cleaned our weapons. By day five we still had not been given any ammunition nor fired our rifles.
Instructions, rehearsals, and cleaning continued until finally the day came we were allowed to put some lead downrange. The loud pop of the retort rung in my ears as my nostrils filled with the ammonia like smell of an expended round as I fired at the little green silhouette of Ivan wearing a red star on his helmet taunting me from 150 meters away. The Cold War was still on.
By the end of the week we had all qualified with our rifles, all but two. One of our guys shot a perfect score of 40 hits and was allowed a pizza from Domino’s and Coca Cola as a reward. I felt bad for the two guys who failed to hit enough targets to be considered qualified. In order to graduate from basic training one had to be qualified on his weapon and these two privates were in jeopardy of not graduating. We were told that they would be given additional training to make sure they could get over this hurdle before the end of our training cycle. Every Sunday instead of enjoying a few hours of down time to write letters home or wait in line for hours to use the phone for minutes, they got up early and headed out to the range to try again. Every Sunday they came back from the range still unqualified. Time was running out.
Just four days prior to our graduation and earning the title “Soldier,” our two non-shooting brothers were heading out to the range again. This time we decided to take matters into our own hands. Two other guys switched uniforms with them and went out to the range, shooting damn near perfect scores and thereby ensuring the whole platoon would graduate together four days hence. The senior drill sergeant suspected something was amiss when he saw the scores and started asking questions. Our deception was quickly uncovered and the four culprits were brought up on charges under the Uniform Code of Military Justice.
The remaining twenty-nine of us approached the senior drill sergeant and said that we thought it was unfair for the four to be punished and that if charges were to be filed they should be filed against the whole platoon. We spent the entire night doing rifle drills in the pouring rain many falling in the mud or from exhaustion wondering if this was how our military careers was to end. At around 0200, the senior drill sergeant paid us a visit, accompanied by the battalion commander, a Lieutenant Colonel. The colonel gave us a brief rest from our rifle drills as he spoke in the driving rain.
“You recruits have surprised even this old Soldier with your loyalty to one another. I applaud that. I cannot, however, condone undisciplined behavior such as you’ve displayed.”
“A pity men, we’ve never had a platoon make it through a cycle with 100% strength, 4th platoon was the closest we’ve come.” He paused. “Then again, we’ve never had an entire platoon wash out either.” He turned and walked away into the dark, wet, miserable night. I felt sick to my stomach.
Three days later, Alpha Company, First of the Thirty-ninth Infantry Regiment, 4th platoon graduated thirty-three Soldiers from basic training and into the United States Army. Charges were never officially filed and our two non-shooting privates qualified on their own accord on the eve of graduation.
As I marched across the parade field of Fort Dix, the band playing and flags waving, my parents sitting somewhere in the bleachers watching me smartly dressed in my class A green uniform, I thought that of the hundreds of things I’d learned over the previous eight weeks, and the numerous changes I had experienced physically, emotionally, and spiritually, none had meant as much as the lesson I learned on discipline. Somewhere deep down in my kool-aid pumping heart, I discovered just how gottdamned critical discipline was to the entire Army. And there was something else. Something I felt but didn’t understand until years later, I began to understand leadership, good leadership. Sgt Hook out.
Posted by Hook @ 0003 zulu | | Permalink
This post is filed under: Army Times & Reconstructed
