“If you fail because you did your own thing.” Shorty ignores the noise of the other sharks. “You will get very used to this position and I promise you will not like it–stop doing pushups.” My arms are burning, but I hold myself like everyone else in the position. “You will do exactly as we say and exactly how we tell you to do it. Get off the ground.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.” We shout as one.
“On your feet.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
Big Nose is hollering near the back. “No one said to dust yourself off–no one said to pick up your papers!”
“Right Half Face, Ho,” Shorty roars. We get back down, breathing hard. “Simple things, we tell you what to do–we tell you how to do it. If I’d wanted you to dust yourself off I would have told you to do so. Do your own thing you get used to this position–start doing pushups.” I breathe through my slow ups and downs, my body sweating, my muscles burning. Now, with my mind focusing on the words spewing from any of the three drill sergeants, there is no time to even get mad. My emotions are locked tight, so there is no way any inner heat will escape from me.
“While you are in this joint training environment at Fort Jackson, your Basic Combat Training will consist of three rules you will live by.” Shorty never stops. “Rule Number One: you will always have a battle buddy. Battle buddies for males will consist of you and another male; if there is no male present, you will get two females. Females, your battle buddy will consist of you and another female; if there is no female present you will get two males. You either have one member of the same gender or two members of the opposite gender. You will not go anywhere without a battle buddy present.” I struggle to maintain the position as my arms shake.
“Next, you will always be on the right-hand side in any and all hallways. If you’re in a hallway, you’ll be on the right-hand side, you’ll be on the right-hand side in the battle buddy system in single file line, that means ducks in a row, one behind the other. At no point should you ever be by yourself, at no point should you be on the wrong side of the hallway.”
“Off the ground. Push it off the ground!” Big Nose yells at a male recruit, who groans in his effort. “And at no point should you be outside the line. If you follow these instructions, you will succeed on your first day. Stop doing pushups. Point face.”
We scramble to our feet, breathing heavily, my arms crying in protest. The orders never stop. We are barked at, yelled at, cussed at for everything and anything, even sneezing.
“You might think that sometimes you hear us cuss, but that’s just your nasty-ass recruit ears playing tricks on you,” Shorty says. “Drill sergeants do not swear, do you understand?”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
It’s day zero. We are trotted into the building, through halls with two tones of blue paint, to a room where they do the shake-down—we empty all our stuff from our bags, then turn in contraband. Anything with a pointy end is a weapon. No metal nail files. No tweezers allowed. No mouthwash, because most brands contain alcohol. No scented lotions or perfumes–nothing with scent. We do everything as fast as we can. When they shout, “two minutes,” they really mean forty-five seconds.
The guys go through the barber and get their heads shaved. Everyone with poor eyesight is given “birth control glasses” with thick, ugly, black frames.
We receive our Physical Training exercises, PT, workout clothes: gray t-shirts with Army printed on the front in white block letters, black shorts, white socks and Army-brand sneakers we had to buy with our $250 advance on our Eagle cash card. They give us a list of supplies to buy from the PX—Post Exchange–the military’s effin’ Walmart.
By the time we get to our barracks, are given two minutes for cold showers in the common shower room, and drop to sleep in fresh workout clothes, it’s two-thirty in the morning and most of the girls are crying.
Chapter Eighteen
“O-Four-Hundred let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” A female drill sergeant screams as banging and clattering wake me from my groggy second of sleep.
“What the fuck?” I try to open my eyes, but the lights are too bright. My world topples onto the ground as my mattress and I are dumped to the floor. Thumps and tumbling groans echo through the stark, white room.
“You’re the laziest bunch of females I’ve ever seen. You’ll get up at zero-four-hundred every morning, and I expect you to be up and dressed before I enter the room. Accountability Line-up is at zero-four-thirty. If you’re not there, toes to the line, by zero-four-fifteen, you are late, do you understand?”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” our sleepy voices are not in unison.
“What did you say?” Another female sergeant barges in. This one a bit curvy compared to the first.
“Yes, Drill Sergeant!” Adrenaline wakes us as we get up, disheveled.
“Get your sorry asses up–toes to the line.” Most of us slept in our workout clothes. We fix our hair and tie on our new, white running shoes to stand as fast as we can. A single line marks the center of the room on the floor. We queue up and stand at attention, shoulders back.
“Every morning you will stand at Accountability Formation downstairs on the line for PT at zero-four-thirty. That means fifteen minutes prior, or you are late, do you understand?”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.” The first sergeant has dark brown hair pulled tightly in a bun at the back of her head under her hat. A single, brown mole graces the middle of her neck. “You will rise before zero-four-hundred, get dressed, make your bed so that my quarter bounces on it. These are military corners.” The sergeant shows us exactly how to make our beds with our two gray, wool blankets and set of white sheets. With every little step we shout, “Yes, Drill Sergeant.” We are given fifteen seconds to make our beds. When she comes to mine, the quarter does not bounce, so we drop and do one hundred sit ups. The girls glare at me.
Every single move and minute are dictated. I’m assigned BJ Smith as my battle buddy; she sleeps in the bed next to mine. Smith and I stick together for every single second, even going to the toilet together. She has skin like espresso velvet and her short black hair is braided into tight corn rows.
“What does BJ stand for?” I whisper as we file like ducks in a line for our PT.
“Never mind, just call me Smith.” Her brown eyes are hard. The sharks pounce on us and smoke our whole platoon—three yelling at us now—we groan as we drop and try to do pushups for a solid minute.
“You have not earned the right to talk. Talking is a privilege. If we want you to talk, we will tell you to talk. Until you earn that right, you are not to talk, not in the barracks, not in the Dining Facility or commonly called, D-FAC. You will only talk to us to say yes or no drill sergeant, otherwise you do not speak, do you understand?”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant!”
We are tested the 1-1-1: a one-mile run, after a short break we do one minute of pushups, and then one minute of sit ups. We’re graded and put into one of three ability groups—AGR—according to our running pace. I’m put into Bravo Group, who run not quite as fast as Alpha, but we go farther and faster than Charlie.
We sprint to our bay as we have five minutes to change into our uniform and line up for the jog to the Dining Facility.
In the D-FAC we are told to line up side by side. We shuffle one side step at a time, holding our trays in front of our chests, while chanting as loud as we can: “Food tastes better with heels together!” We get our watery scrambled eggs, toast, and greasy bacon. Then we are directed exactly where to sit, and given two minutes to eat and be outside on the line.
I wolf down my breakfast, famished. It might not be Red Lobster, but at least I’ll get three meals a day.
When I make for the door, the recruit with the low blond bun shoves me out of the way, making me the last one to the line.
“You, Recruit, you’re late!” The sergeants pounce, three surrounding me shouting as loud as they can. “What’s the matter with you, Female?” “Why are you so
slow?” “Get your ass in gear. If you’re not fifteen minutes early, you’re late.” “Stupid, lazy Newbie, why don’t you quit right now–quit, effing bitch, I dare you.” Heat rises, flushing my face. My hands tingle, shaking. I try to clamp onto my rage, but it’s rising fast. A bit of smoke plumes through my clenched fists.
“Right half face, ho, courtesy of your friend Tardy here!” Everyone groans.
We drop and struggle through a hundred pushups: first legs together, then wide leg, and then diamond hands. I’m last to finish. The sun has only just risen but our sweat drips to the gray gravel. My muscles are screaming and cramping, and I’m going to throw up. I don’t. I can’t give my comrades more reasons to hate me. The redhead down the row already has tossed her breakfast.
Minute by minute is a chaos of shouting, screaming, drill sergeants in our faces, and hours of hellish pushups, sit ups, running, more pushups, more kinds of sit ups, more running. We get smoked every half hour, it seems. The girls throw angry glares at me; they’re blaming me for everything. Some of it isn’t even my fault. We’re sweating, our bodies are crying and sore, my mind confused and scared, my anger boiling just beneath the surface.
I don’t know any of these bitches. Even the men hate me. Where is Smoke? Tage? This isn’t fair. I can’t do this alone, not again. No one knows me.
What if I lose control?
We get five minutes for lunch. Then we sit in classrooms for the afternoon, receiving briefings and classes on SHARP anti-sexual harassment and assault prevention, learning about army history, core values, Army General Orders, shit like that. We’re all so wasted, our heads droop as our eyes close of their own accord. We jerk them open before we can get smoked again.
We’re given more gear. We’re made to run everywhere we go – everything is hurry, hurry, hurry up and then wait.
After our ten-minute supper of lumpy meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and canned green beans, we’re taught exactly how to roll our socks so they smile, pack our lockers just how Neck Mole wants it, how we’re to only change clothes when told to in the bathroom, given our evening chores and Fireguard Duty schedule, and take our two-minute shower. This time we get a little hot water. It is heaven for a minute before I have to jump out.
We’re so tired we all drop, groaning, into our beds. Lights are shut off at 2100—9:00 p.m. I sleep for only a minute, though, before I’m shaken awake by Smith, my Battle Buddy, for Fireguard Duty.
Shit.
Chapter Nineteen
Smith and I do our standing guard duty from 0100-0300. This is the only bit of quiet I’ve had. I try to cherish the precious alone time, as I stand watch in the dark hall or walk through the sleeping barracks and bathroom. But I’m too tired to think or care. We also have to sweep and mop the bathroom floor, so we do that to keep us awake.
Smith ignores me like I don’t exist.
Nothing happens for the long two hours: everyone stays in their beds, and we stand in the dark hallway, trying to stay awake. We mark the head count on the hour. A couple of times, a drill sergeant walks through, making sure we’re not talking and doing our guard duty at attention.
The minutes drag like hours as I try to keep myself awake. This is a different kind of hell. It lasts forever. Finally, 0300 ticks and after marking the head count, we wake up the next two to take over our shift. We have to shake the girls hard before they get up. Then we drop onto our beds. But I toss and turn: I can’t sleep. What’s wrong with me?
It's this effing place.
I hate it. I hate being without my twin, my friends. I hate not being able to talk, being around all these strangers. I’ve already caused the entire platoon to get smoked three times, they hate me. I still have nine effing weeks to go. I can’t do it.
The tears that squeeze out steam as they hit the white pillow.
***
My body is jolted awake and I try to get my mind to work. I think I slept for thirty minutes. The last two on Fireguard Duty are waking everyone at 0350 so we can be on time. They turn the lights on at 0355.
Every muscle in my being is sore and complaining. I’m tired as crap and have trouble getting my body to move. Smith shoves me hard to get me going, as she doesn’t want me to get us smoked again. Heat flushes my body as I get my ass in gear. I’m exhausted and can barely function. With little sleep and proper rest, I’m finding it difficult with my control. Smoke rises not only from my fingers, but my arms, too.
So, when my bedding catches fire, I’m not surprised. Of course, my bunkmates are though. The small flames are doused quickly, and nothing is ruined except the green blanket. I get reamed a new one for destroying government property and since there are no cameras in the bunkers the DS on duty couldn’t really pin it on me. I’m lucky I don’t get dishonorably discharged.
We still make it downstairs and on the PT line in the open bay under our building at 0415. At 0430 we march to a pit of shifting sand and begin our PT exercises. We learn several drills: Preparatory Drills, Conditioning Drill One and Two. This is a Running Day and we run in our designated groups for two miles.
They call this Red Phase, but they really mean Red Fails. That’s all I seem to do.
We are told to never touch a drill sergeant’s hat. But Shorty walks up to Mendez, a short, brown-skinned guy in our platoon. Shorty removes his fancy-ass hat and tosses it to the ground. “Pick it up, Private!” Mendez obeys, dusting the hat off before handing it back. “Pay attention, dumb-fuck, I said yesterday you are never to touch a drill sergeant’s hat, not for anything, do you understand?”
Sweat breaks out on Mendez’s forehead as he stares straight ahead. “Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“Recruit, beat your face!” I’ve heard the Drill Sergeants use this slang, it means to drop and do pushups. But Mendez’s brown eyes are wide. He makes a fist and punches himself in the face so hard his body shifts.
“Carry on, Recruit.” Shorty keeps a straight face. The other Drill Sergeants bend to their knees, turning away, as Mendez punches himself over and over before the DS tells him to stop.
***
More classes all afternoon. More briefings on the SHARP Anti-Harassment Policy, Operational Security, and a Hot Weather Brief. They’ve had recruits pass out from heat exhaustion. They show us buckets of cold water to dunk our arms in.
Day Four, we learn more PT drills. It’s a Muscle Failure Day. We learn the Pushup/Sit Up Drill and the Mountain Climbing Drill, pushing our bodies until we completely collapse. The Cool-Down and Recovery Drills save our asses as we stretch and catch our breath.
We get our M16’s today—the rifle is heavy in my hands. We spend class time learning how to disassemble and assemble our weapon in under two minutes each. The metal is cool in my hands, and it feels good. It calms me. For a flash of a moment, I think of Torrent. The way he could settle my nerves, too. Kinda how Smoke does it. Do I want Tor to tame me? Possibly.
This I can learn to control. We practice the three fighting positions; standing, crouching, and laying in the grass with our rifle.
That night we pack for our first ruck march on Monday, day after tomorrow.
Yelling wakes us in the middle of the night. There’s a commotion. The two fireguards on duty are wrestling with Berring, the thick, shy, mousy-haired girl. They pull a razor out of her hands, and her wrists are running rivers of blood. Another Recruit, Jenkins, runs for the Commanding Officer and several Drill Sergeants arrive within minutes. Berring is taken away to the infirmary. All our razors are removed, so no shaving for the rest of Boot Camp.
Berring eventually returns. We get the news that since she attempted to hurt herself, she has to attend counseling sessions, and someone on fireguard has to sit by her bed and watch her every night. Now we each have to do a fireguard shift every single night. At least the platoon’s heat turns from me a little bit.
On Sunday we can choose to clean all morning or attend a chaplain service. There are several religious meetings to choose from on the sign-up sheet. I go to the Protest
ant service and slump in the back row with several others from my platoon. The chaplain preaches and my head drops into unconsciousness. He lets us sleep.
We still have to clean all afternoon, but that nap revives me like nothing else. No one yells at me or smokes me for the two hours of church service. The platoons catch on quickly. Not only that, but we don’t have PT on Sundays and we get to sleep in till 0600, thank God.
***
Monday after PT and breakfast we do our first ruck march. Finally, we’re escaping the constant sprinting between the barracks and classrooms. It’s not too hot this early in the morning. My pack is heavy, and the walking is hard, especially since I’m so tired and my muscles are sore. But this is better, getting out into the woods.
After an hour of marching we reach an obstacle course. They give us basic instructions and we’re put into small groups. Then we’re given two minutes to heat and eat our MREs. I fumble with mine and get only a few bites of the chicken enchilada, practically gulping it down. The DS’s take the snacks from our MREs – the M&M’s, peanut butter packet, and cookie. I bet they’re going to eat them, the assholes.
The obstacle course is challenging. Our squads are to help each other get through it. Smith is in mine, and a blond girl, as well as a guy named Whitehall. The girls cut me off and push in front of me with every obstacle. An elbow jams into my ribs, and I tumble off the log I am balancing across. I face plant into the sand, and it gets in my nose, eyes, and mouth.
I see red and clutch handfuls of sand, coughing the grains out and trying to breathe.
“You, Recruit, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” I scramble up and get back on the log, my group pausing for me at the next obstacle, staring at me with contempt.
I just get onto the wooden platform when the last of them swings across the mud puddle. I don’t have time to catch my breath, as I’m trying to keep up.
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