Drill Sergeant Blue was a tall man with a serious look who when wearing his big brown brimmed Sam Bowie hat looked even more foreboding.
Billy Baxter was a young troubled kid who thought the Army might bring him normalcy, hope and stability, but instead brought only more trouble.
I was in 3rd Platoon of Charlie Company, Billy Baxter was in 2nd Platoon and Drill Sergeant Blue led 4th Platoon, still it was a small company and everyone knew everyone.
Drill Sergeant Blue was tough. He didn’t take any crap from anyone and demanded 100% from all of us all the time. Even when you thought you were on top of your game, Drill Sergeant Blue found the one fault with your uniform or the seemingly small step you missed in completing a task. He was professional. He was hard. He was fair.
Billy Baxter had been at Fort Eustis longer than any of us. He had almost graduated from the previous class, but because of some serious trouble he had gotten into, was recycled and started over with our class. He was a smart kid. He did stupid things. He was self-destructive.
The hand grenade range was always a source of worry for the drill sergeants. Drill Sergeant Blue was the range safety for my lane at the hand grenade range and was very serious about how we were to handle our explosive pineapples. He made our group practice throwing baseballs, over and over and over again before even considering allowing us to draw our hand grenades from the ammunition issue point. We sat on a bench behind a three-feet thick brick wall that had a small glass shrapnel proof window built into it to allow for viewing down range.
“Next Soldier!” commanded Drill Sergeant Blue.
I walked out to the pit with my two hand grenades firmly held in their carrying pouches, wearing a flak vest and the Army’s new Kevlar helmet which was much more comfortable than the steel pots we used to wear all through basic training. The pit was situated behind another three-feet thick concrete wall that stood about waist high. There were two sumps dug on either side of the wall and another pit was directly off to the left and rear of where I stood at the ready to launch my hand grenade. Drill Sergeant Blue positioned himself between the second pit, and myself standing behind me with one hand on my left shoulder.
“Secure grenade,” he gave the command. I secured one of my hand grenades in my right hand, my heart racing as my breathing increased.
“Ready,” he said next. I assumed the proper throwing position with the grenade held tightly in my right hand leaning back, left leg forward, at the ready.
“Pull pin.” Looking down at the grenade, I moved my left hand to the pin, squeezed the clip, and pulled the pin.
“Ready,” he said again. I extended my right arm back, still firmly holding the grenade, while pointing my left arm in the direction of the target ready to throw.
“Throw.” I did. As it sailed over the waist high wall I assumed the crouch position that we had tryingly rehearsed feeling Drill Sergeant Blue leaning over me making sure we were behind cover and heard my pineapple explode hoping it hit its mark, or at least got close.
Tapping me on the helmet, Drill Sergeant Blue said, “again.” And we repeated the process.
“Next Soldier!” I heard him yell as I was walking back to the bench behind the spectator’s wall passing Billy Baxter as he walked out to the pit with that happy go lucky look he always had on his face.
I was still pumped with adrenaline as I sat down and watched Billy Baxter go through the motions. Something was wrong.
“Pull pin.” “Oh shit.” “Down Gottdammit”
We all looked on with our eyes wide and jaws agape, and as if in slow motion Billy Baxter dropped his grenade inside the pit after pulling the pin. He started looking for it on the ground when Drill Sergeant Blue grabbed Billy Baxter and threw him like a rag doll into the second pit to the left and rear of the hand grenade pit, then he turned, looking down, and kicked the live grenade into one of the sumps before throwing himself on top of Billy Baxter who was then trying to get up. The grenade exploded just as Drill Sergeant Blue landed on Billy Baxter knocking him back into the dirt. The rest of us instinctively flinched at the explosion, but quickly restored our stare, anxiously awaiting the dust to clear. Shrapnel peppered the spectator’s wall.
The next thing we heard was Drill Sergeant Blue’s voice yelling every obscenity in the book, and some not yet published, at Billy Baxter demanding he surrender his second hand grenade and berating him as he sulked off the range.
Two weeks later while watching television in the day room on a Friday night, one of the guys from 2nd Platoon ran in and said that Billy Baxter was drunk and had gone AWOL, jumping out of the second floor window. We agreed to help find him before the drill sergeants did. We thought we could talk some sense into him before he got into any more trouble.
I walked up on Billy Baxter just as Drill Sergeant Blue did. He lay face down on the sidewalk with a Military Police Officer’s foot on his head and his hands cuffed behind his back. I was too late. My heart sunk.
“Get your foot off my Soldier’s head,” Drill Sergeant Blue ordered.
“But Drill, we caught him…” replied the MP.
“And take the handcuffs off him, now,” cutting the MP off in mid-sentence.
Picking Billy Baxter up, Drill Sergeant Blue quietly said, “C’mon Private Baxter, let’s go.” I watched as they walked into the darkness, waiting to hear Drill Sergeant Blue’s voice violently explode into a seething ass chewing. It never did.
Billy Baxter, three weeks later, was a civilian with that happy go lucky look on his face.
Drill Sergeant Blue taught me more than he realizes. Sgt Hook out.
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