BrianH
02-02-2006, 18:05
After a long hiatus, I recently buckled down and started to flesh out some of the stories I wrote while I was at Basic Training and I thought you guys might get a kick out of them.
There are a lot of Drill Sergeant quotes, so it's pretty heavy on the profanity. I was pretty good at taking notes at OSUT, so most of them are verbatim. Also, they are written with the civilian reader in mind, so there is a lot of military explanation. Bear with it.
----------------
Some of you may have heard it before, but the Army has an acronym that gets used an awful lot in the field, and rightly so: "Bohica." Similiar to Fubar, Bohica pointedly describes situations where nothing has gone right, everything around you serves only to add to your torment and misery, all hope has been lost, and absolutely none of it was your fault. Other than joining the Army, of course.
Bend Over, Here It Comes Again.
Basic Training provides a misguided young lad with a lot of things. Patience, for one. Discipline too. It also issues this new soldier an insane amount of gear. Uniforms, socks, hats, sneakers, towels, jackets, toothbrushes, razors, sleeping backs, rucksacks... an ungodly amount of money is put into every new soldier that choses to close up shop on his former life and join the service. Looking at my Basic Training issue list, the number is exactly $1,778.11, which doesn't include any tactical gear. That's a lot of loot.
The most coveted of these issued items are heavy polypropelene long-john underwear, or "polypros". Comfortable, warm as hell, and easily packable, they are a warrior's dream. No matter how frigid it was in the woods, these magical polypros--when worn under BDU's--made you warm and toasty.
Trouble is, I was never allowed to wear them. Not once.
Regardless of what you may have heard, it gets cold in Georgia during the wintertime. DAMNED cold. During the months of January and February, a morning chill in the single digits isn't uncommon. Warm weather gear isn't just a luxury when exposed to such elements; it is a necessity. Or at least we thought. You'd have to be crazy to let a bunch of Joes go out into the blistering cold with nothing on to keep them warm, right?
"Oh, are my little bitches cold? If I hear any of you motherfuckers complain, we'll be doing up-downs in the ice until you’re hotter n’ a rabbit’s pussy. Until the sweat freezes, of course."
Um, can I get a price check on Cold Weather Injuries at Register 3, please?
But we'd never bitch. At least not to the Drill Sergeants. We knew damned good and well that there is only one thing worse than being cold; being cold AND wet. When you are cold, relief is always a hot fire--or warm sleeping bag--away. Water takes away any hope that your permafrost nightmare will end, because deicing your balls, unlike the wings of a Boeing, first involves getting dry. In the civilian world, that means going inside, taking off your clothes, and changing into some comfy sweats. In the woods, at 0300, it means waiting until the sun comes out. In four hours. If the rain ever stops, that is.
Most likely, it won’t.
The end of Basic Training, for infantry soldiers, culminates in a 7 day field exercise, or FTX. In theory, the FTX serves to provide new soldiers with a refresher course in military tactics, field procedures, and tactical operation. Reality is much closer to something resembling a glorified camping trip for the Drill Sergeants who, as an afterthought, happen to bring along fifty man companies full of new Joes. In turn, our job becomes something not unlike that of a migrant worker; manual labor for a very shitty wage.
"Private, carry that grill."
"Pick up that cooler, and load it into the truck."
"The pizza guy’s coming, and he can only get within 2 miles of here…. grab a buddy and double time it over to his drop off point."
“Fuck you, Sarn’t” isn’t a recommended reply.
FTX isn’t all bad. Soldiers get a lot of sleep, a lot of chow, and most importantly, a lot of time away from the Drill Sergeants who are more concerned with their poker hand than Joe’s minute-to-minute behavior, unlike the majority of Basic. But exactly like Basic, your DS still has absolute control over what you wore.
So of course, fifteen minutes after we arrived, it started to rain. HARD.
Precipitation isn’t really that bad when you are a civilian. You’ll get wet, sure, but that’s about all. If it’s cold, you can easily run around or do a few jumping jacks to warm up. But in the Army, in the field, your most common activity is “pulling security”. In the prone, with a weapon in hand, we spent hours on end scanning for an impending terror that in the middle of the Fort Benning woods was probably not going to appear. A little rain doesn’t change that mission one bit.
“Hey, motherfuckers, I better not see any of you with a fucking poncho, or wet weather top on, or anything. Yeah, you’ll get a little fucking wet lying in those puddles, but your balls will still be warm…. seeing that I’ve got ‘em all right here in a Zip-Loc baggie. You can put on wet weather gear when you see ME wearing it, bitches. If you need me, I’ll be in the tent.”
“Drill Sergeant? What about Hypothermia? Trench foot? Staph infections? MRCA? The HIV?”
“Jesus Fucking Christ, your sister moaned less when I slapped her in the face with my dick. Be a fucking man. Homos.”
“Roger that, Sarn’t.”
Bend over, here it comes again.
There lies a point along the emotional plane where the boundaries of misery and delirium intersect. It's that moment in your life when you honestly don't care about your own personal well-being, physically or psychologically. Secrets are no longer sacred. Risks are consequence-free. That ever-present causeway between your thoughts and your vocal cords breaks down, and all that's left is a direct conduit into the inner most bowels of one's soul. For my battle buddy pulling security with me, this catharsis occured exactly 27 hours after first laying down in that watery hate.
"Dude, when I get home, I'm going to murder my ex-girlfriend."
"What?"
"You heard me. When we get out of here, I'm killing that bitch. She ruined my life, and she's going to pay."
"Seriously, Fletch... take a nap or something. You're starting to turn on me."
"I'm not turning. I've never had more clarity in my life. Quite simply, she has to go."
"Ha ha... very funny. If you'd please move your selector switch to "safe" on your weapon, I'd feel a lot better about this conversation."
"My weapon IS on safe, asshole, and I'm deadly serious about this."
"What on Earth did she due to warrant this death sentence, then?"
"Where do I begin...."
Fletch is a great guy; one of the best guys I had the pleasure of spending Basic Training with. He's a no-nonsense boy from Tenessee blessed with angular good looks and a soft whiskey twang in the voice, just trying to make his way in this world. Before joining the military, he had great success in a few different business ventures, owned a beautiful house, and had the love of a gorgeous woman who had agreed to be with him until death did they part. Or, at least he thought.
Fletch decided that before he began the white picket fence life of matrimony he was creating he'd finally check off the last entry of his life's "to-do" list: serve the United States and join the service. Of course, that meant a great deal of changes were going to go through his (and his fiancee's) life, but he had talked it through with his family... and with her... and all agreed that his path was a noble and honorable one.
"Brian, everything was going great. I had everything I wanted, except for this. The girl, the house... I even had the cars, man. And that's what really put me over the edge... the motherfucking cars."
The motherfucking cars indeed. As young men are oft to do, Fletch used his hard earned money and bought toys. Big boy toys. Rare, classic Ford Mustangs. He spent years in the garage, caressing, massaging, and loving his cars back to pristine off-the-showroom-floor factory condition. A 1970 Boss 302. A 1967 Fastback. By the time he had joined the military, a stable of six such cars were born from the products of his labor and bankroll.
Love can do stupid things to a man, though. For tax purposes, before their marriage, Fletch had transferred the note on his house... AND the titles of his cars... to his fiancee. Most rational people only have to worry about losing control of their gross pre-taxable income AFTER they get married. Dumbass, party of one, your table is now available.
"She did it in a letter. THE WHORE BROKE IT OFF WITH ME IN A LETTER WHILE I WAS IN BASIC FUCKING TRAINING, MAN!"
"Well, maybe it's better this way. At least you know that it wasn't meant to be. You can turn your hate into your work. Or whatever."
"Yeah, maybe it WOULD have been better this way, but the bitch SOLD MY CARS, SOLD MY HOUSE, GOT RID OF MY DOG, AND IS NOW FUCKING MY NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOR!"
.....
"Oh."
Apparently, the law doesn't have a lot of leniency for men who implicitly trust their brides-to-be, and even though almost every single letter Fletch wrote after that was in search of a legal represenative who could help, there was nothing anyone could do. Everything he had worked for, sought after, and cared about had disappeared at the behest of a simple, two page, handwritten letter. So yeah, the man had damned good reason to be pissed.
"Now can you see why I'm going to kill her? She ruined my entire life, man. What am I fighting for now? Why am I even HERE? She's going to die a whore's death, and so is that guy she's been fucking."
"For good measure."
"You're damned right for good measure! Thank god the military is teaching me how to actually pull this off."
"Holy mother of God."
There are a lot of Drill Sergeant quotes, so it's pretty heavy on the profanity. I was pretty good at taking notes at OSUT, so most of them are verbatim. Also, they are written with the civilian reader in mind, so there is a lot of military explanation. Bear with it.
----------------
Some of you may have heard it before, but the Army has an acronym that gets used an awful lot in the field, and rightly so: "Bohica." Similiar to Fubar, Bohica pointedly describes situations where nothing has gone right, everything around you serves only to add to your torment and misery, all hope has been lost, and absolutely none of it was your fault. Other than joining the Army, of course.
Bend Over, Here It Comes Again.
Basic Training provides a misguided young lad with a lot of things. Patience, for one. Discipline too. It also issues this new soldier an insane amount of gear. Uniforms, socks, hats, sneakers, towels, jackets, toothbrushes, razors, sleeping backs, rucksacks... an ungodly amount of money is put into every new soldier that choses to close up shop on his former life and join the service. Looking at my Basic Training issue list, the number is exactly $1,778.11, which doesn't include any tactical gear. That's a lot of loot.
The most coveted of these issued items are heavy polypropelene long-john underwear, or "polypros". Comfortable, warm as hell, and easily packable, they are a warrior's dream. No matter how frigid it was in the woods, these magical polypros--when worn under BDU's--made you warm and toasty.
Trouble is, I was never allowed to wear them. Not once.
Regardless of what you may have heard, it gets cold in Georgia during the wintertime. DAMNED cold. During the months of January and February, a morning chill in the single digits isn't uncommon. Warm weather gear isn't just a luxury when exposed to such elements; it is a necessity. Or at least we thought. You'd have to be crazy to let a bunch of Joes go out into the blistering cold with nothing on to keep them warm, right?
"Oh, are my little bitches cold? If I hear any of you motherfuckers complain, we'll be doing up-downs in the ice until you’re hotter n’ a rabbit’s pussy. Until the sweat freezes, of course."
Um, can I get a price check on Cold Weather Injuries at Register 3, please?
But we'd never bitch. At least not to the Drill Sergeants. We knew damned good and well that there is only one thing worse than being cold; being cold AND wet. When you are cold, relief is always a hot fire--or warm sleeping bag--away. Water takes away any hope that your permafrost nightmare will end, because deicing your balls, unlike the wings of a Boeing, first involves getting dry. In the civilian world, that means going inside, taking off your clothes, and changing into some comfy sweats. In the woods, at 0300, it means waiting until the sun comes out. In four hours. If the rain ever stops, that is.
Most likely, it won’t.
The end of Basic Training, for infantry soldiers, culminates in a 7 day field exercise, or FTX. In theory, the FTX serves to provide new soldiers with a refresher course in military tactics, field procedures, and tactical operation. Reality is much closer to something resembling a glorified camping trip for the Drill Sergeants who, as an afterthought, happen to bring along fifty man companies full of new Joes. In turn, our job becomes something not unlike that of a migrant worker; manual labor for a very shitty wage.
"Private, carry that grill."
"Pick up that cooler, and load it into the truck."
"The pizza guy’s coming, and he can only get within 2 miles of here…. grab a buddy and double time it over to his drop off point."
“Fuck you, Sarn’t” isn’t a recommended reply.
FTX isn’t all bad. Soldiers get a lot of sleep, a lot of chow, and most importantly, a lot of time away from the Drill Sergeants who are more concerned with their poker hand than Joe’s minute-to-minute behavior, unlike the majority of Basic. But exactly like Basic, your DS still has absolute control over what you wore.
So of course, fifteen minutes after we arrived, it started to rain. HARD.
Precipitation isn’t really that bad when you are a civilian. You’ll get wet, sure, but that’s about all. If it’s cold, you can easily run around or do a few jumping jacks to warm up. But in the Army, in the field, your most common activity is “pulling security”. In the prone, with a weapon in hand, we spent hours on end scanning for an impending terror that in the middle of the Fort Benning woods was probably not going to appear. A little rain doesn’t change that mission one bit.
“Hey, motherfuckers, I better not see any of you with a fucking poncho, or wet weather top on, or anything. Yeah, you’ll get a little fucking wet lying in those puddles, but your balls will still be warm…. seeing that I’ve got ‘em all right here in a Zip-Loc baggie. You can put on wet weather gear when you see ME wearing it, bitches. If you need me, I’ll be in the tent.”
“Drill Sergeant? What about Hypothermia? Trench foot? Staph infections? MRCA? The HIV?”
“Jesus Fucking Christ, your sister moaned less when I slapped her in the face with my dick. Be a fucking man. Homos.”
“Roger that, Sarn’t.”
Bend over, here it comes again.
There lies a point along the emotional plane where the boundaries of misery and delirium intersect. It's that moment in your life when you honestly don't care about your own personal well-being, physically or psychologically. Secrets are no longer sacred. Risks are consequence-free. That ever-present causeway between your thoughts and your vocal cords breaks down, and all that's left is a direct conduit into the inner most bowels of one's soul. For my battle buddy pulling security with me, this catharsis occured exactly 27 hours after first laying down in that watery hate.
"Dude, when I get home, I'm going to murder my ex-girlfriend."
"What?"
"You heard me. When we get out of here, I'm killing that bitch. She ruined my life, and she's going to pay."
"Seriously, Fletch... take a nap or something. You're starting to turn on me."
"I'm not turning. I've never had more clarity in my life. Quite simply, she has to go."
"Ha ha... very funny. If you'd please move your selector switch to "safe" on your weapon, I'd feel a lot better about this conversation."
"My weapon IS on safe, asshole, and I'm deadly serious about this."
"What on Earth did she due to warrant this death sentence, then?"
"Where do I begin...."
Fletch is a great guy; one of the best guys I had the pleasure of spending Basic Training with. He's a no-nonsense boy from Tenessee blessed with angular good looks and a soft whiskey twang in the voice, just trying to make his way in this world. Before joining the military, he had great success in a few different business ventures, owned a beautiful house, and had the love of a gorgeous woman who had agreed to be with him until death did they part. Or, at least he thought.
Fletch decided that before he began the white picket fence life of matrimony he was creating he'd finally check off the last entry of his life's "to-do" list: serve the United States and join the service. Of course, that meant a great deal of changes were going to go through his (and his fiancee's) life, but he had talked it through with his family... and with her... and all agreed that his path was a noble and honorable one.
"Brian, everything was going great. I had everything I wanted, except for this. The girl, the house... I even had the cars, man. And that's what really put me over the edge... the motherfucking cars."
The motherfucking cars indeed. As young men are oft to do, Fletch used his hard earned money and bought toys. Big boy toys. Rare, classic Ford Mustangs. He spent years in the garage, caressing, massaging, and loving his cars back to pristine off-the-showroom-floor factory condition. A 1970 Boss 302. A 1967 Fastback. By the time he had joined the military, a stable of six such cars were born from the products of his labor and bankroll.
Love can do stupid things to a man, though. For tax purposes, before their marriage, Fletch had transferred the note on his house... AND the titles of his cars... to his fiancee. Most rational people only have to worry about losing control of their gross pre-taxable income AFTER they get married. Dumbass, party of one, your table is now available.
"She did it in a letter. THE WHORE BROKE IT OFF WITH ME IN A LETTER WHILE I WAS IN BASIC FUCKING TRAINING, MAN!"
"Well, maybe it's better this way. At least you know that it wasn't meant to be. You can turn your hate into your work. Or whatever."
"Yeah, maybe it WOULD have been better this way, but the bitch SOLD MY CARS, SOLD MY HOUSE, GOT RID OF MY DOG, AND IS NOW FUCKING MY NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOR!"
.....
"Oh."
Apparently, the law doesn't have a lot of leniency for men who implicitly trust their brides-to-be, and even though almost every single letter Fletch wrote after that was in search of a legal represenative who could help, there was nothing anyone could do. Everything he had worked for, sought after, and cared about had disappeared at the behest of a simple, two page, handwritten letter. So yeah, the man had damned good reason to be pissed.
"Now can you see why I'm going to kill her? She ruined my entire life, man. What am I fighting for now? Why am I even HERE? She's going to die a whore's death, and so is that guy she's been fucking."
"For good measure."
"You're damned right for good measure! Thank god the military is teaching me how to actually pull this off."
"Holy mother of God."