Green Days, Ctd
I landed in the Atlanta airport, and made small-talk with the other would-be soldiers. Unsurprisingly, most discussion revolved around what to expect over the next few hours. Nobody had a solid understanding about what was going to happen. We were waiting for a bus to take us to Fort Benning, Georgia, we knew that much at least. Beyond that? Hard to say.
I assumed it would be just like the first scene of Full Metal Jacket. I expected to be kicked, choked, berated, and thoroughly abused by some jerk in a Smokey Bear hat, immediately after stepping out of the bus. The others had theories that more or less sounded like mine.
When we finally got on the bus and headed toward Fort Benning, everyone settled into an anxious silence. Nobody slept. Everybody just stared out the window at the evening darkness, mentally preparing for the unknown.
When we arrived, it was the most anti of anti-climactic events. It turned out that our final destination that night was not our basic training unit, but something of an in-between place. A military purgatory. It was called the 30th Adjutant General Reception Battalion, the first of many arcane names I would learn over the next few months.
It was a holding pen. I was assigned to a bay (a large open dorm area) with a few dozen bunk beds and matching foot lockers. The bay was constantly filled with nervous chatter. Some people were trying to be tough guys, walking around with their chest puffed out and talking about how remarkably bad-ass they were. Most just kept to themselves, trying not to attract attention.
The odd thing was that no authorities were being jerks to us yet. They weren’t nice either, but nobody had insulted my mother or asked me to choke myself yet. The enlisted personnel in charge simply put us into groups, showed us where the chow hall was, explained the rules, and otherwise walked us through the administrivia that lay before us.
Time stood still. I have no clue if I was there for 4 days or 4 weeks. I can’t even remember what exactly happened. I know it must have been where we got issued our uniforms and equipment. I vaguely recall some mundane chores, like waxing the floor with a large mechanical buffer (this device would become extremely familiar to me over the next two years.) The only things I distinctly remember about this place were a) hating everyone I was there with, and b) wanting to move on to the next thing, regardless of what it was. Maybe that is the real purpose of 30th AG: break you down with boredom so you’re eager for the next eight weeks of punishment.
There was one event I do recall, which involved my first dose of Army-style negative reinforcement. A first sergeant came to visit purgatory, recruiting people for the Old Guard. I was one of a dozen or so people who met the basic physical characteristics for that unit (something about height) so we were taken aside for this first sergeant to talk to us.
If you’ve never been in the military, it’s important to recognize that when someone of a lower rank (private/E-0 in my case, aka “e-nothing”) speaks to someone of higher rank, a certain communication protocol is to be followed. If the private is answering a question in the affirmative, the private will reply “Yes, sergeant,” or “Yes, first sergeant,” or “Yes, sergeant major,” whichever the case may be. If you simply say “Yes” without the proper suffix, it’s considered a dire breech of etiquette. If someone slips up and forgets, an agitated superior will commonly reply with, “Yes… what? Yes… asshole? Yes… fuckface? Yes what?” That is what passes for a “helpful hint” in the military world. You are supposed to quickly reply, “Yes sergeant!” and look appropriately remorseful for the indiscretion.
So this first sergeant is asking us all where we were born. He comes around to me, and I say “California.” Full stop. He blinks and looks at me like I’m insane. I have a touch of speaking anxiety normally, so in this awkward scenario my physiological responses are all already in the red zone. I have no idea why he’s still looking at me. Somebody next to me is mumbling to me, presumably trying to save my ass with a hint, but I can’t hear it.
“California, asshole? California, fuckface?” he says. I blink back, with zero comprehension. Is he calling me an asshole? I think so. I have no idea how I’m supposed to react to that. I’ve been called an asshole before, so I’m not particularly upset about this. I do what comes naturally, and flash him my winning smile.
I’m halfway through my punishment before I put all the pieces together and figure out what I did wrong. The punishment in this case involved “elevating my feet”, which means putting your feet up on a counter (or any sufficiently elevated surface) and doing push ups. Not pleasant, might I add, especially when you’re a fat kid. At some point he took pity on me, or maybe he just didn’t want sweat all over the floor. He allowed me to get up.
“You ready to sit back down?”
“Yes, first sergeant!” See, I can learn.
Incidentally, I decided not to join the Old Guard, and stuck with my Ranger contract. After all, my recruiter had really pulled strings to get me that contract! (Or so I thought, anyway.)
Then it was back to the drudgery of the 30th Adjutant General Reception Battalion. After some indeterminable length of time, I was told which basic training unit I was assigned to, and the day came to ship us off. We packed up our gear and formed up outside.
This time, our mode of transportation was not a nice comfortable bus. It was a “cattle car”. This is a big dirty trailer-looking thing, with poles to hang onto inside (like a subway) and inadequate seating. Each cattle car came equipped with a real live drill sergeant, yelling and cussing at us. They crammed more of us into the cattle cars than I thought could possibly fit, especially considering the hundred pounds of gear we were each carrying in an awkward green duffel bag.
As the vehicle pulled out of the driveway and proceeded to our destination, the drill sergeant politely informed us that we should keep our “motherfucking heads down until told otherwise.” He went on to advise that we should also carefully consider shutting the fuck up. We were en route to “Shark Attack”, he said, sans further explanation.
I stared down at my ugly new boots and waited.
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