Chapter 11
The patter of rain fell against the top of my helmet as I paced up and down the concrete path leading between the buildings of the weapons complex. The cold wind blowing across the open parade field felt as if it came straight from the Artic. What I was doing there was the uppermost question on my mind, two in the morning, with a mattock handle, walking a beat in a god forsaken corner of Ft. Knox, hoping that if I saw anyone other than the poor bastard on the other beat; it would be a terrorist attempting to break in rather than a drill sergeant. Terrorist seemed mild compared to the evil of my drill sergeants, especially Senior Drill Sergeant Pimental. I had long since counted the steps between one end and the other of this guard post as it had been described to me. I paused long enough to push up my poncho and read my watch, SHIT, only 3 minutes had passed since I last consulted it. Would two hours never pass? My mind wondered back to the events that had lead up to my being here.
Sometime in early 1982 I’d been out of a job, married and broke, the military seemed like a great option, but now, my opinion had changed greatly. We had talked it over, my wife and I, and in view of the job market in South Georgia at the time, it seemed a great idea. I’d do basic, and then we would escape the little hick town I was raised in and be off into a brave new world. Together, we’d travel to exotic places, meet all new people and be happy ever after.
As the time for my departure loomed, it began to look a lot different, we’d never been separated for more that a day at the most since we’d started dating two years before. The night before I left she’d cried in my arms all night, not exactly the send off I’d hoped for. The next day, my father put me on the bus in Tallahassee, acting brave, but when he hugged me just before I got on the bus; he’d surprised me with tears in his eyes.
I began to regret my decision all the way to Jacksonville, all the next day at MEPS, and through the flight to Kentucky. Upon landing at Louisville and the being herded to Ft Knox, I discovered I had no idea how badly I’d screwed up, but I was learning quickly. Never in my young years had anyone, not even Coach Shealy, talked to me like this. I would soon learn that even this was tame in comparison to what I was soon to encounter.
The next day was spent getting shots, clothing issue, taking test and filling out miles and miles of paperwork, being poked and prodded by everyone from dentist to doctors and anyone else who came along. My glasses had been confiscated and in their place, I was issued glasses that looked like they were designed in the early 1950′s. My hair, which had hung past my shoulders was now a stubble against my scalp, and looking into the mirror, I had no idea who it was staring back at me. No longer was I Mickey, but rather, I was now Charlie0065, more commonly referred to as Numbnuts or worse.
The days that followed were a blur, as we were processed into the system, at each formation new faces appeared and ones that had become slightly familiar disappeared, having been processed and sent to their training units. Nights we pulled fire guard in the old splinter barracks which were a hold over from the days of WWII. We were living in a sort of limbo, waiting the time our number would be called and we would be off to start our basic training. We got our introduction to Army chow, formations, and the age old routine of “hurry up and wait”.
After about three days, we fell in for the noon formation, and it happened. From his wooden podium up front, one of the sergeants called out.
“LISTEN UP MAGGOTS, THE FOLLOWING NUMBERS FALL OUT TO MY LEFT, CHARLIE 0001, 0002,… 0065, 0066…”
Hurriedly I crossed over to the growing rank of men, as I lined up at the end of the line, I noticed a group of new drill sergeants glowering at us from a few feet away. I remember thinking that they all looked as if they wanted to kill us all on the spot. I stood with about 200 other men, waiting until the sergeant on the platform quit speaking. He dismissed the remaining recruits, stepped down off the podium and handed a large stack of files to the awaiting drill sergeants.
“All yours Drill” he said, he looked over at us and gave a small smile, “Have fun Ladies.”
I can’t really describe what took place next except to say that it was one of the busiest few hours of my life, the drill sergeants who had looked like they wanted to kill us immediately set out to prove they intended to do just that. Under a hail of curses and screaming, they herded us into a nearby hall, and began to inform us of the contempt in which the held us. From there we were rushed to our barracks to grab our belongings, then back to a room with large bins arranged into a square.
“DUMP THEM BAGS YOU MAGGOTS, THEN EMPTY YER DAMN POCKETS”
Two hundred or so duffle bags were upended, nervous hands fumbled to empty our pockets, everything we had went into the wooden bins. As we shed ourselves of all personal items, the drill sergeants roved behind us, eyes searching for contraband, or anything that could be used to humiliate us.
“Hey Drill, see what that Goddamn bonehead over there has … What? CONDOMS, Who does he think he’s gonna be fuckin? YOU QUEER YOU SOMBITCH?”
“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS SCUMBAG? YOU BRING YOUR SISTERS DAMN NASTY PANTIES WITH YOU YA FRIGGIN HILLBILLY?”
“EMPTY THAT DAMN BAG NOW BOY OR I SWEAR TO GOD I’M GONNA HAVE A DAMN VIETNAM FLASHBACK AND BEAT YOUR GODDAMN BRAINS OUT.”
A young Hispanic guy to my left caught the attention of one of the drill sergeants, who ran up to him screaming at the top of his lungs.
“HOLY DOGSHIT, WHAT THE HELL IS THIS SHIT? IS THAT A DAMN EARRING IN YOUR FUCKIN EAR? HEY DRILL, WE GOT A DAMN FAGGOT HERE!”
In one rapid motion he reached up and grasped the offending ear ring and snatched it out of the guy’s ear, leaving the man bleeding and grabbing his ear in pain. He continued to scream at the guy and threw the ring across the room. Two more sergeants descended upon the unfortunate soldier and they all began to taunt him and curse him.
“YOU SISSY COCK-SUCKER, LOOK AT HIM DRILL, HE’S ABOUT TO CRY! YOU LITTLE BITCH, YOU LITTLE FAGGOT, YOU THINK YOU GONNA COME INTO MY DAMN ARMY AND CONTAMINATE IT? HUH, ANSWER ME BOY, OR IS IT GIRL?”
One of the sergeants, a particularly mean and large black man, leaned in close to him and started speaking softly to him.
“Hell boy, you kinda cute, look sweet to me, maybe we just make you our little office bitch, you’d like that wouldn’t you boy. Yea, that’s what you want, ain’t it boy? Sweet little faggot like you, yessir, make a fine little piece of ass.”
While this was going on, all across the room similar scenes were being acted out, and those of us fortunate enough not to be the victim of the moment, were staring straight ahead and praying that we wouldn’t be next. I stood trying not to even breath deep, in fear that my mere proximity to them would bring their wrath down on me.
We somehow made it through the process, one sergeant would shout out an item, and we were required to hold it up until told to put it into our duffle bag. Item by item, we sorted through our clothing and sundry items, and like robots stuffed them into our duffle bags. All the while the drill sergeants roamed the room, commenting on our stupidity, hygiene, parentage, and occasionally picking out another victim for intense persecution.
The Hispanic kid who had been subject to their assault, stood staring straight ahead as tears ran down his cheeks, his ear occasionally dripping blood onto the floor. From down the room could be heard the sounds of someone sobbing, followed by the yells and shouts from the drill sergeants.
From the shakedown, we exited out onto the street, all our civilian clothes had been stuffed into the bag we’d brought from home, and we filed by a large truck and tossed them in. That was the last time we’d see them until we either completed and graduated Basic and Advanced Training, or were drummed out. From that point on, we had only what had been issued to us.
We lined up on the street, being pushed and shoved by the drills into what resembled a formation, our duffle bags strapped to our backs. A whistle blew, and we started forward, trying to keep up as the drills set a pace designed to wind us all in a few minutes. We left the reception station area behind, and started up the hill towards our new home, Disney Barracks, but Walt Disney is wasn’t. Welcome to basic Damn training.
I reached the end of my guard post, and my mind snapped back to the present. I stood for a moment watching Private Dunaway walking towards me. We spoke for a few minutes, then fearing being caught we both turned and started back down the path of our post. Another hour to go before we were relieved, the rain picked up in its intensity, and my mind drifted off again towards South Georgia.
