by Dan Caddy
He hopped out of the car and asked, “You guys been sleeping?”
US: NO, DRILL SERGEANT!
DS: WHY NOT? THERE ARE TWO OF YOU. TAKE TURNS.
Later that afternoon, I asked the guy about his chat with the DS that first week. I told him that I was impressed with his perfect score on the range and pointed out that he seemed to be doing okay even though he didn’t want to be there.
He told me I couldn’t tell anyone, but here is what the DS said to him:
(QUIETLY, WITH THE DOOR CLOSED.)
“SON, I KNOW THIS IS A BIT TOUGH ON YOU, BUT I THINK YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES. IF YOU START TO FEEL TOO OVERWHELMED, YOU COME AND SEE ME, QUIETLY, NOT IN FRONT OF EVERYONE ELSE, AND I’LL WORK WITH YOU. MEANWHILE, I HAVE THIRTY-FOUR OTHER MEN OUT THERE WHO NEED TO HEAR THIS, SO JUST SIT BACK AND RELAX AND IGNORE ME FOR A MINUTE . . .”
Then the tirade began.
Twenty-five years later I still remember that DS fondly. He got the best out of us, without being a jerk.
DRILL SERGEANTS MAKE THEIR OWN AWESOME RULES . . .
“THEY SAY
I CAN’T
CURSE . . .
FUCK THAT!”
DRILL SERGEANTS WANT TO SET YOU UP FOR SUCCESS . . .
“I’M ABOUT TO
FUCK START YOUR
LIFE, PRIVATE.”
DRILL SERGEANTS HAVE AN EXTENSIVE VOCABULARY . . .
“YOU LOOK LIKE A
SPILLED BUCKET OF
FUCK! I DON’T EVEN
KNOW WHAT THAT
MEANS, BUT IT’S THE
ONLY THING I CAN
THINK OF THAT
ACCURATELY DESCRIBES
WHAT GOES THROUGH
MY MIND WHEN I
SEE YOUR OXYGEN-
THIEVING FACE!”
TOP 10 THINGS YOU ARE MORE FUCKED UP THAN
10.A screen door on a submarine.
9.An Amish electrician.
8.A pregnant trapeze artist.
7.A one-legged cat trying to bury shit on a frozen pond.
6.Polio.
5.Clown porn in church.
4.An albino trying to hitchhike in a snowstorm.
3.A nun doing power squats nude in a cucumber field.
2.Helen Keller using an iPod.
1.A football bat hitting a golf puck into a soccer basket wearing steel-toed flip-flops eating spaghetti with a carving knife.
DRILL SERGEANTS LOVE TO COMPLIMENT YOUR LOOKS . . .
“YOU LOOK LIKE
YOUR MAMA
FED YOU WITH
A FUCKIN’
SLINGSHOT,
PRIVATE!”
AND YOUR PERSONAL HYGIENE . . .
“WHAT DID YOU
SHAVE WITH,
PRIVATE? A BOWL
OF MILK AND AN
ANGRY CAT?”
DRILL SERGEANTS WANT YOU TO THANK THE RIGHT PERSON FOR GETTING YOU TO BASIC TRAINING . . .
“DON’T THANK
ME, THANK YOUR
MOTHER FOR NOT
SWALLOWING.”
“DON’T THANK ME,
THANK YOUR RECRUITER.”
“DON’T THANK ME,
THANK YOUR DAD
FOR NOT FIRING YOU
INTO A NAPKIN.”
HE FOLLOWED ORDERS . . .
We had all just completed the three-minute phone call home we were given when we first got to Basic to let our families know we were safe. A few minutes after we all returned to our bay, a drill sergeant came barging in yelling “FUCK” left and right and having us all toe the line. His veins were bulging out of his neck and forehead.
DS: WHICH ONE OF YOU FUCKING IDIOTS TOLD YOUR MOM WHAT I’VE BEEN SAYING?
(THE PRIVATES GIVE BACK BLANK STARES.)
DS: WHICH DUMB FUCK ACTUALLY THANKED HIS MOM FOR NOT SWALLOWING HIM?!
(ONE PRIVATE SLOWLY RAISES HIS HAND.)
DS: WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT FOR?
PRIVATE: BECAUSE YOU TOLD ME TO, DRILL SERGEANT?
(DS FACE-PALMS.)
DS: DO PUSH-UPS, PRIVATE. JUST . . . PUSH.
DRILL SERGEANTS WILL ALWAYS BE HONEST ABOUT YOUR SHORTCOMINGS . . .
“YOU
PRIVATES
ARE SOFTER
THAN A
SNEAKERFUL
OF PUPPY
SHIT!”
DRILL SERGEANTS HAVE AWESOME SPECIAL POWERS . . .
“I CAN HEAR A RAT
PISS ON COTTON FROM
A MILE AWAY.”
DRILL SERGEANTS ARE DEFINITELY STRONGER THAN YOU . . .
“PRIVATES,
IF YOU EVER SEE
ME WRESTLING
A BEAR IN
THE WOODS . . .
YOU BETTER
COME RUNNING,
BECAUSE
THE BEAR . . .
IT’S IN TROUBLE.”
YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE . . .
It was our first day in Basic, and we had just arrived, and after the initial Shark Attack we were told to grab our bags and move out to our bay and put our things on our bunks and stand toe-to-line. As we were standing there, Drill Sergeant J proceeded to introduce himself as the baddest mo-fo in the land. While our attention was focused on him, Drill Sergeant H snuck in the back door and went into the latrine. He tossed a Snickers bar into the toilet and poured a little of his “mountain dew” over it. Immediately he came running out of the latrine yelling, “Which one of you mother#$*#@ took a shit in my latrine and didn’t flush it? No one? I guess God Himself came down from heaven and chose my latrine to do His business. EVERY ONE OF YOU, LATRINE, NOW!”
All sixty-four of us quickly piled into that little latrine, looking around, trying to determine who was the culprit. Now DS H was standing in the stall screaming at us, and all of us were silent and glancing around nervously. Without hesitation, he reached his hand into the toilet, picked up the “turd” and took a bite of it, then spit it in one unlucky private’s face. All of us were mortified and speechless. He said, “I don’t know what you pussies think you got yourself into, but I’m going to become your worst nightmare.”
DRILL SERGEANTS WANT YOU TO FEEL IMPORTANT . . .
“I’D RATHER BE
ON HAND-JOB
DUTY AT THE
PENTAGON THAN
BE HERE LOOKING
AT YOU STUPID,
PATHETIC,
MOTHERLESS
FUCKS.”
DRILL SERGEANTS THINK YOU HAVE POTENTIAL . . .
“JESUS CHRIST,
PRIVATE! YOU
LOOK LIKE THE
AFTERBIRTH
OF A CLUSTER
FUCK!”
SERGEANTS DON’T WANT YOU TO MOVE AT THE POSITION OF ATTENTION . . .
“I DON’T CARE IF A
SNAKE IS BITING YOUR
TESTICLES, YOU DO NOT
MOVE AT THE POSITION
OF ATTENTION!”
“I DON’T CARE IF A
PTERODACTYL STARTS
FUCKING YOUR FACE,
YOU DON’T MOVE AT
THE POSITION OF
ATTENTION. YOU LET
HIM FINISH.”
DRILL SERGEANTS REALLY DO WANT YOU TO STAND STILL . . .
“STAND
THE FUCK
STILL, YOU
TWITCHY
SHIT
KNUCKLE!”
I HAD NO IDEA WHAT TO EXPECT . . .
I didn’t know the first thing about the Army when I joined. I was a pudgy, five-foot-plus-your-dick-in-inches E-nothing—basically an enlisted member of the military with no authority over anything or anybody. I didn’t play Call of Duty and I wasn’t a big fan of war movies, so I had no idea what to expect going into Basic Combat Training (BCT). Honestly, I thought it would be camping, classes, and some exercising.
I had never been so wrong.
Drill Sergeant K was a six-foot-three-inch infantryman, a staff sergeant (SSG), and an all-around American badass. My first time meeting him was during the brutal introduction
to Basic Training known as Shark Attack on Day Zero. I remember having my name called out as a signal to join the rest of my platoon, and I had to run past him in a narrow passageway. His first words to me were “DON’T YOU FUCKIN’ TEST ME!” The explosive nature of the words and the volume in which they were yelled literally knocked me to the ground. Of course I ended up in his platoon.
Let me be clear: you DID NOT FUCK with DS K. I learned this the hard way in week six. We were all up bright and early, marching to take the second Army Physical Fitness Test (APFT) of the cycle. It was absolutely freezing and a dense fog combined with the complete blackness of the night. Only our reflective belts distinguished us from utter darkness as we marched toward our PT field.
Now, in no way was I a PT stud. My goal was simply to pass the APFT by the end of the cycle, not max out. On this specific test I was able to get through the push-ups and sit-ups just fine, but then the two-mile-run event arrived and I was shaking in my size-nine sneakers. I’d never done well in the two-mile, even though I ran hard out every morning in Assigned Group Runs.
Anyway, before I knew it, the event had started and I paced myself through the first couple of laps (eight laps = two miles). Around lap three, I tried to pump myself up, saying “C’mon, halfway there, you can do it,” that kind of shit. But before long I was sweating, shaking my head, and muttering to myself like a priest getting a lap dance.
By lap five I was suffering BAD, almost all words of encouragement were lost to me, and I could tell my body was starting to shut down. But then, for whatever reason (it escapes me to this day), I began to vocalize two simple words, repeating them again and again to myself: “Oh yeah.”
Not even NBC’s best writers could come up with the shit that came next.
As I muttered “Oh yeah” over and over again to myself, I failed to realize two things: (1) I was beginning to say it louder and louder; and (2) I was running side by side with DS K, who was pacing for slower privates like me. Then, without realizing what I was doing, I bellowed out, louder than ever, “OH YEAH!”
From behind I hear DS K shout, “WHAT ARE YOU? THE FUCKING KOOL-AID GUY?!”
Now, at that point, most privates would respond “DS, no, DS” and keep running. Or at the very least, all non-mouth-breathing privates with at least half of a brain would just shut the hell up and refrain from saying what I was about to say.
Instead of changing course, I amped up. I raised my head and bellowed with all my might, from the abyss of my lungs, “OHHHH YYEAAHHHHHH,” and kicked my ass into maximum overdrive.
This is where it gets hazy. Now I sure as hell didn’t purposefully disrespect a DS who I looked up to and still do to this day . . . so why did I say it? I know it wasn’t because I mistook him for a private, because he had a voice that sounded like hatred and sharp weapons (mostly hatred).
For the remainder of the run I sprinted, not daring to turn and look behind me. With every step, I had the image of DS K closing in on me like a lion on a baby gazelle, ready to grind my face into the asphalt and leave a bloody skid mark as a warning to all privates everywhere.
Luckily, that didn’t happen, and I finished at 13:56, two and a half minutes faster than I had ever run it before. And then, of course, I puked at the finish line more than Tara Reid did on her twenty-first birthday.
DRILL SERGEANTS UNDERSTAND THAT YOU MISS YOUR FAMILY . . .
“I KNOW A LOT OF YOU
COME FROM A LONG
LINE OF WINDOW
LICKERS. BUT TODAY
I NEED YOU TO PUT
YOUR CRAYONS
BACK IN YOUR BOX
AND PUT AWAY YOUR
HELMETS AND STOP
CHEWING ON YOUR
FOOTLOCKERS.”
YOUR DRILL SERGEANTS BELIEVE IN EQUAL OPPORTUNITY . . .
“I DO NOT
DISCRIMINATE.
IF MY OWN
MOTHER WAS IN
BASIC TRAINING,
I WOULD SMOKE
HER ASS TOO!”
BUT YOUR DRILL SERGEANT WANTS YOU TO KNOW YOU DO NOT IMPRESS HIM . . .
“PRIVATE,
EVERY ONCE IN
A WHILE A SOLDIER
COMES THROUGH
HERE THAT GIVES ME
A GLIMMER OF
HOPE FOR THE FUTURE
OF OUR ARMY.
YOU’RE NOT THAT PRIVATE.
AS A MATTER OF FACT,
I DIE A LITTLE
INSIDE EACH TIME YOU
ATTEMPT A TASK.”
When you arrive at Basic Training you are a civilian, but more importantly you are an individual. In civilian life it’s normal to think about yourself and focus just on what you need, but this is not how things are done in the Army. The smallest military unit is a two-person, “Battle Buddy” team. The saying is “two is one, and one is none.” That’s a major adjustment for most privates.
For an entering private, the focus in “Red Phase” is to shock you, shake you up, and break you down to your base level—all the while training you in the basics of individual soldier skills. Think of it as if the drill sergeant is a painter. When privates arrive, they are a canvas, only one that is messy, unorganized, and covered in the random junk they’ve picked up over a lifetime of doing things the civilian way as opposed to the Army way. Not the type of art anyone’s hanging in their home! Before your drill sergeant can begin to paint you as a professional soldier, he needs to wipe that canvas clean. Reception, Shark Attack, Red Phase . . . all are means to getting a clean canvas to work with.
As privates move into the White and Blue Phases of Basic Training, the painting begins in earnest. Among the most important goals is to get you thinking not of yourself, but of your fellow soldier, your squad, your platoon, and how your actions affect them and the overall success of whatever task is at hand. Teamwork is the key. You are now learning the major aspects of soldiering, namely shooting, moving, and communicating . . . all done under the watchful eye of drill sergeants.
In order to complete one phase and move on to the next, all soldiers must be tested and show that they are able to carry out the required tasks in that phase, as well as be free of disciplinary and performance problems.
At this point in the training, privates are starting to get used to the routine and the differences between civilian life and Army life. Take standing in line, for example. As a civilian, you would most likely be moving, talking, playing with your doggone smartphone, or some other undisciplined crap. As a private, you stand in line at the position of parade rest with your eyes forward. No moving, no talking. When it is time to move forward in the line, you come to the position of attention, move forward, and then snap smartly back to parade rest.
For civilians, a meal is usually a calm, leisurely affair where you have all the time you want to eat. As a private, YOU HAVE SEVEN MINUTES TO SHOVEL THOSE GROCERIES DOWN YOUR THROAT AND GET THE HELL OUT OF MY DINING FACILITY!
As a civilian, when you fuck up . . . you might be punished. As a recruit, when you fuck up . . . your entire platoon has the dog shit smoked out of them while you stand there at the position of attention and watch.
These are just a few examples of the culture shock that is taking place. At this point drill sergeants have an idea of who is who—who the natural leaders are, who the slackers are, who the smartasses are, and most importantly . . . who the guys trying to stay under the radar and skate through are. Rest assured, they have a plan for all of the characters listed above, as you will see in this chapter.
SINKING IS NOT AN OPTION . . .
PRIVATE: WHAT HAPPENS IF WE DON’T KNOW HOW TO SWIM, DRILL SERGEANT?
DRILL SERGEANT: I SUGGEST YOU HOLD YOUR BREATH AND RUN LIKE HELL WHEN YOU GET TO THE BOTTOM. ANY OTHER QUESTIONS?
YOUR DRILL SERGEANT THINKS YOU’RE MAKING PROGRESS AT BASIC . . .
“WELL, FUCKIN’
CONGRATULATIONS,
YOU ARE NO LONGER
A SOUP SANDWICH.
YOU, PRIVATE,
HA
VE BEEN PROMOTED
TO A CHICKEN
NOODLE HOAGIE!”
BUT YOUR DRILL SERGEANT WANTS YOU TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS TO HIM WHEN YOU FUCK UP . . .
“TOE THE LINE,
ASSHOLES! GODDAMMIT,
SECOND PLATOON!
YOU MAKE ME SICK!
YOU KEEP FAILING ME!
YOU KEEP FAILING
YOURSELVES!
YOU CAN’T SHOOT SHIT!
YOU CAN’T GET
READY ON TIME!
YOU GET ME SO PISSED
OFF THAT LAST NIGHT
I WENT HOME AND KICKED
MY WIFE’S DOG.
HAD TO SLEEP ON THE
FUCKING COUCH!
I CAN’T DO THAT SHIT
BECAUSE SHE GETS
PISSED AT ME.
WHEN SHE GETS PISSED
AT ME, I TAKE IT
OUT ON PRIVATES.
WHEN I TAKE IT
OUT ON PRIVATES,
I GET DEMOTED.
WHEN I GET DEMOTED,
MY WIFE DIVORCES
ME BECAUSE I CAN’T
PAY FOR SHIT!
STRAIGHTEN OUT YOUR ACT,
SECOND PLATOON!”
DRILL SERGEANTS KNOW HOW TO LET YOU KNOW WHEN YOU ARE WRONG . . .
“PRIVATE,
YOU’RE LIKE
BANGING A FAT
CHICK IN AN
ELEVATOR.
WRONG ON
SO MANY
LEVELS!”
DRILL SERGEANTS JUST WANT TO ENCOURAGE SELF-IMPROVEMENT . . .
“YOU
SERIOUSLY
CAN’T DO