I owe a lot to the excellent NCO’s who trained me when I was a young soldier.  It’s been 22 years since I was an eager recruit and 13 since I signed my discharge papers, but some things still hold true.  Most of them are ingrained habits that come from drills repeated until I dreamed about them.

• I was watching a documentary yesterday about military technology through the ages, and one of the soldiers was carrying a chemical weapons alarm that went off.  This equipment puts out a high pitched tone that no other thing makes when it’s tripped.  When I heard it, I immediately stopped breathing, closed my eyes, and reached to my thigh for my protective mask.  Irish Woman looked at me like I had lobsters growing out of my head.
• When loading a semi-automatic pistol or rifle, I always lock the slide to the rear, insert the magazine into the weapon, and then release the slide lock.  It never occurs to me to just pull the slide back and let it go after inserting the magazine.
• When I walk with someone, I almost always walk on their left as a show of respect.
• I know to stand and show respect not only when I hear the Star Spangled Banner, but also Le Marseilles, God Save the Queen, and Deutchland Uberalles.
• When driving up to the a vehicle gate in the dark, I still remember to turn off my headlights and drive up with my parking lights on so that I don’t blind the gate guard.
• When shooting my friend’s AR-15 at the range, I still do SPORTS without thinking about it when it has a malfunction.
• I cringe when I see how people on TV and the movies wear uniforms, especially when they’re wearing ribbons and decorations.
• I remember that an ensign is not a lieutenant, and a captain is not a colonel.
• I still think black jungle boots look silly, especially the ones with the jump boot toe.  And the ones that zip up the side are as wrong as a football bat.

It’s amazing what sticks with you, isn’t it?

So no kidding, there I was…….

I woke up about 30 minutes before the rest of the men in the room.  We’d only gotten to bed a couple of hours earlier after taking a bus from the airport in Saint Louis, but I woke up on my own.  We were on the second floor of a barracks that had been built during World War II.  The windows were wide open, and two large fans were droning their way through the night, but the air was heavy and hot.  I tried to go back to sleep, but I was too nervous and excited to drift off.  I didn’t know what to expect for the rest of the day, but I knew things were going to change forever once I got out of bed.

After what seemed like no time at all, the lights flicked on.  A tall, skinny man in a camouflage uniform walked down the center of the room.

“Get up!  We’ve got way too much to do for you to lay around!  Get the #$!@ up!”

He wasn’t a drill sergeant, he was the NCO who would shepherd us through our first few days in the Army.  He had the honor of spending his days dragging a bunch of civilians around and getting them ready to pass off to the drill sergeants who would turn them into soldiers.  After a couple of years in the Army, I truly started to pity him.

After getting everyone out of their beds, he rushed us through our morning rituals, including mandatory shaving.   Then he formed us up as best he could and walked us over to the chow hall.  We didn’t march because we didn’t know how to.  This poor guy was herding cats, and he kept us in line with a constant stream of ‘advice’ on how we should move and act.

For the first time in my life, I smelled an Army chow hall at breakfast time.  Imagine the smell of baking biscuits, frying bacon, strong coffee, and fresh fruit all melded together and so strong you can smell it half a block away.  I still get a whiff of it every so often when I go to Fort Knox, and it never fails to bring back the image of that little wooden building on Fort Leonard Wood.

After what I considered a very rushed breakfast, but was really quite leisurely, we moved off with all of our belongings to the main hall.  I had the clothes on my back, a shaving kit, and a couple extra pairs of underwear and socks in a gym bag.  Everything else I owned was at my mother’s house, and I never saw it again.  By the time I got back after Basic, my brothers had looted it for what they wanted and gotten rid of everything else.  Oh well, I was leaving that life behind.

We filled out more paperwork, drew half a month’s pay in advance, and got our haircuts.  I had cut my hair pretty short a few weeks before, but some of the guys had full heads of long hair.  The barbers seemed disappointed when they saw me, but the guys with shaggy hair got the full treatment of having their locks dropped in their laps as they were shorn.  The haircut cost me $2.50, and I still think it was an added kick in the ass to have to pay to have your head shaved.

We then lined up and headed off for uniform issue.  I got everything in the biggest they had.  I was tall and fat, so they just kept shoving extra large/extra long BDU’s, tee shirts, socks, and underwear at me. The one snag in the process were my boots.  They didn’t have a single pair in my size.  I have a size 15 in civilian sizes, which translated to a 13 in combat boots.  The biggest they had was a 10, and those didn’t even let me get my toes in them.  I was told to wear my sneakers with my BDU’s and two pair of black leather clown shoes were ordered for me.  They arrived about 5 weeks into basic.  For those of you paying attention, that made me the odd man out for 5 weeks in an environment where the only chance for peace is to blend into the background.  I did a lot of pushups over those 5 weeks just because of my feet.  We were also issued our uniform name tags, which we left in neat piles with our BDU tops and field jackets along with a 10 dollar bill for the nice ladies who would sew them on for us.  We changed out of our civilian clothes for the last time and put on our uniforms for the first time.

Next, we moved off for vaccinations.  Some guys came with shot records, which were officially ignored.  We lined up with an arms length between us.

“Take one step forward!”

We shuffled forward, with the first man in line centered between two medics holding air guns.

“Stand still!”

The two medics put their guns to the arms of the first man, and pulled the trigger.

Chunk!

“Take one step forward!”

The process continued.  There were four or five pairs of medics, each with a gun for a different immunization.  I flinched at the first one, and got a nasty cut on my bicep from the pressurized air they were using to force the vaccine through our skin.  After that, I tensed up and took it.  A few of the guys didn’t make it to the end of the line on their own two feet.  Two collapsed into the arms of a medic who seemed to be waiting for it to happen, and one poor soul got to the end of the line and fell over like a sack of potatoes.

After getting all of those shots, including a new smallpox vaccination in my left arm to go with the one in my right, we went outside and stretched the muscles that were cramping from having vaccine driven into them at industrial speeds.  We picked up our uniform tops and headed off.

Next stop was lunch, even though we didn’t feel much like eating.  I choked down some mashed potatoes and sweet tea, a first for me.  I’d never had tea that was basically stained sugar, but I’d learn to like it over the next few months.

That afternoon, we were led to a small PX to buy things we needed for the next few weeks.  I was forced to buy the largest pair of running shoes they had, a 14, because the basketball shoes I was wearing weren’t going to cut it when we ran in basic.  I loaded up on shaving cream, razor blades, and sundry other things.  A couple of guys tried to be slick and make off with a candy bar or magazine, but that got them outside lifting big rocks over their head for a while.  Mental note – those rocks got really heavy really quick.

Next came a meeting with the training brigade chaplain.  He was a soft spoken man with a Vietnam combat patch and a Combat Infantryman’s Badge to go with it.  He told us about the different services available for each of the different faiths:  Jewish, Catholic, Protestant, and Lutheran.  I never did figure out why the Lutherans got their own service, but the guys in my platoon who went to Lutheran services got away from the drill sergeants for several hours every Sunday, so I cursed myself for identifying as Catholic, and only getting about an hour.  The chaplain advised us against trying suicide to get out of the Army, and that we should come to church if only to get a nap during the sermon.  He then wished us luck, made sure everyone who wanted one had their camouflage bible and a rosary, and headed off for his next group. I still have that bible.  It sits in my BOB and it goes to the woods with me when I hunt.  It went on every field problem I did and deployed with me on numerous occasions.  If nothing else, it gave me something to read, and at the worst of times it gave me something to keep me sane.

By then, it was time for dinner, and I was feeling a bit better.  I wolfed down chicken fried steak, more mashed potatoes, and a huge helping of green beans cooked with ham and onions.  Everyone I knew back home told me the food in the Army sucks, but I can honestly say that I never had a bad meal in a chow hall.  Breakfasts were phenomenal, lunches were good, and dinners were at least adequate.  By the time I left Missouri, I was sick to death of chicken and catfish, but it was from over-exposure, not from bad quality.

Next was just some last minute stuff before doing clean up and going to bed.  We were issued our ID card and tags, and we were given a stencil with our name, number, and birth date on it to mark our duffel bags. We were advised to wash all of our newly issued clothing in hot water to get all of the lanolin out of the wool and the protectant chemicals out of everything else.  I’m glad I was one of the first to the washers because those who either didn’t wash their clothes or were too late to get it done before lights out ended up with some hellacious sores on their feet and ankles from the chemicals and lanolin in the wool socks for the next week or so.

After a quick speech from the sergeant who had herded us around all day, we were ordered into our bunks and the lights went out.

As I lay there, I marveled at how easily and quickly the first day had gone.  I had expected Full Metal Jacket, and this was nothing like that.  Heck, this wasn’t going to be that bad at all.  I wondered when I was going to get my gun.

The next morning we were put into trucks and sent off to our basic training units, and we met our drill sergeants.  It was then that I found out just how wrong I could be, but that’s a story for another time.

That day was 22 years ago today.  I stayed in the Army for 9 years and change.  A lot of the days have blended together into a mishmash of impressions and fleeting memories, but some stand out in sharp focus.  This was one of them.

Fox News is reporting that the bodies of the men who died over the weekend in Afghanistan are beginning to arrive at Dover Air Force Base.  Reports are that the Chinook helicopter they were in was hit with RPG fire and crashed, killing everyone aboard.

The news of the death of these young men was shocking.  To lose so many dedicated and talented people at once is a blow to the gut.  I wasn’t a member of the special operations community, not by a long shot, but I was lucky enough to serve with some who had served in that capacity and I supported SOF units on occasion.  The overwhelming majority of the folks I met and worked with were professional and dedicated. All of them were volunteers many times over, and they will be sorely missed.

The media feeding frenzy over what this loss means to the war effort and especially the talk in the open press about the condition of the bodies and the effect that has on the ability of the press to photograph the homecoming disgusts me.  The country as a whole, and the families of the fallen in particular, do not need nor want the media to make this into a circus.

I listened to “Dark Secret Place” the other day, and Brian Suits had a good comment:  In combat, the enemy gets a vote.  Our country has been convinced that we can fight a war without hurting people or incurring casualties, and that is one of the most horrendous lies I’ve ever heard.  Every death or wound is horrible, but our military is trained, equipped, and led well enough that our casualties have been incredibly light when compared to other wars we have fought.  Even with all that, casualties have happened and will happen again.  We need to be mature enough to recognize that so that when they do happen we don’t immediately lose our resolve.  Convincing Americans that wars can be done without paying for them in blood only encourages them to unnecessarily go to war.

The media needs to back off, let the families grieve, and stop trying to use this tragedy as a lever to pry the eyes of the public away from the competition or to influence our leaders.  The war is not going to be abandoned because of this, more young people are going to be hurt or die, and we will eventually find a way to bring all of them home.

To the men and women, especially those who have shed their blood for us, I say thank you.  To the families of the fallen, you are already in my families prayers.  For the media, I will pray for your souls, as I believe that you don’t have much regard for their worth.

A group of soldiers in Afghanistan was saved  from harm recently when the remote control truck they were sending ahead of their patrol to check for bombs set off 500 pounds of explosives in an IED.  The truck had been in use since 2007, when another soldier received it in a care package from home.

It is amazing how when a need is not fulfilled by the military, soldiers will figure out a way to get it done themselves.  I’ve seen soldiers use silly string and spray foam cleaners to find trip wires, or spend their own money to buy ratchets to replace the purpose built wrenches they are issued for their vehicles. I knew a soldier who had his mother knit gloves for him when the largest issue glove liners were so small on his hands they cut off circulation.  And almost every platoon I ever served with in field units had someone who went to the field with a Coleman stove, a couple cheap pots, and a spice rack so that a hot meal could be fixed every so often when MRE’s were the main part of our diet for weeks on end.

I’m thankful that these soldiers are safe for another day, and that the only casualty in this case was a 5 year old RC truck.  I have faith that the inability of the American soldier to accept “no you can’t” will continue to save lives.

A soldier, absent without leave from his unit at Fort Campbell, has been arrested in Texas for possession of a destructive device.  He has made statements that he planned to make two bombs and detonate them in restaurants in Killeen that are frequented by soldiers from Fort Hood.  During a hearing, he is reported to have shouted out the name of the Army major who is being tried for a mass shooting of soldiers at Fort Hood last year.  The most recent bozo is being held without bond in a civilian jail.

Personally, I say that the civilian justice system is not the appropriate place for this miscreant.  He joined the Army, but later decided that as a Muslim he could not serve in combat.*  After being granted conscientious objector status and beginning the process of release from the military, he was caught with child pornography, and then went AWOL, allegedly to cause mass casualties among his fellow soldiers. I would rather that this wayward soldier be handed over to military law enforcement, be read his rights, introduced to his lawyer, and courtmartialed.  The military justice system, while still fair to the accused, has few of the bells and whistles that have been grafted onto the civilian system in the past few decades.  The accused gets a fair investigation, a fair and speedy trial, and punishment is still commensurate with the crime.

If this guy did indeed possess child pornography, go AWOL, and conspire to murder other soldiers, the place for him is Leavenworth for the rest of his natural life, not a civilian prison, no matter how harsh it may be.  I hold military personnel to a higher standard of conduct than I do the general public, and I fully support harsh treatment for soldiers who break the law.  The military needs to take care of its own, even if they are criminals in need of the boom being dropped upon them.  The civilian world needs to know that if soldiers break the law, the military will investigate, try, and punish them swiftly and severely, not leave it to civilian judges to clean up after a soldier.

*By the way, I call B.S. on this one.  Muslims have been fighting other Muslims for centuries, and I served with several practicing Muslim soldiers in various places without them acting as if their beliefs would interfere with them serving in the Mid-East, even if it meant fighting against other Muslims.  My gut tells me this twit didn’t want to deploy with his unit and used his faith as an excuse to get out of it.

Colonel

• Leaps over tall buildings in a single bound
• Is faster than a speeding bullet
• Can fly higher than a mighty rocket
• More powerful than a locomotive
• Gives policy guidance to God

According to DefenseTech, the Air Force is looking for proposals to keep the A-10 Warthog flying until 2040.  This may be one of the smartest things the military has done in a long time.  The A-10 is one of the few fixed wing aircraft that has a dedicated air support role.  Yes, there are fighters from the F-15, F-16, and F-18 families that have a ground attack role and do some Close Air Support (CAS) work, but there’s nothing like a virtually indestructible airplane build around a big gun that can linger for a long time to make you feel better about your day.

When I was stationed in Arizona, A-10 pilots from Tucson liked to buzz our columns when we were in the field.  The A-10 is surprisingly quiet when it’s coming at you, and amazingly loud when it flies over you.  If the pilots had lit us up with their cannon, most of us wouldn’t have known they were there until big holes started appearing in our trucks and tracks.

I hope this comes to fruition.  There’s been no talk about replacing the Warthog with a comparable airframe, and this friend of the ground soldier fulfills a crucial role in our fighting capabilities.

“Initially, it was like, ‘OK, he’s dead,’ ” McAlister recalled thinking. “Focus on the firefight, getting everybody out of here. When he came back to life, it’s like, ‘Oh, here we go. This just got interesting.’ ”  —Sgt. Alan McAlister, USMC

Sgt. McAlister wasn’t talking about something from a Larry Correia book.  He was talking about HM2 Jake Emmott, who took a rifle bullet to the side of his nose, which travelled through his sinuses, and ejected near his ear.  Did I mention that he was taking care of a wounded Marine when he got hit?  After regaining consciousness, he stood up, refused aid, and continued to provide critical first aid to the Marines he was charged to take care of.  When it finally came time for him to get on a helicopter, he did it under his own power.


I like to think I’ve got a good work ethic and can take a lot of pain.  But to be perfectly honest, I don’t think I’m tough enough to take a rifle bullet to the face, refuse pain meds, continue my job, and walk out of the freaking area.  


And to top it all off, HM2 Emmott is trying to finish his rehab and get back into shape so he can pass the Marine physical fitness test and go back to being a combat medic with his Marines.  He’s lost half his hearing, the left side of his face is mostly paralyzed but getting better, a good chunk of his skull has been replaced with a plate, and all he wants to do is return to Afghanistan and continue his mission.


As a proud Army veteran, I have to say that this is a story about a Navy medic that should be told to every boy and girl in American schools so they know just how dedicated the men and women who protect them are.


H/T to This Ain’t Hell and Navy Times for the story.