03/16/2007 Friday

Dear All,

We’ve had a very busy past few days. We marched off to our first field exercise as scheduled at 0530 on Wednesday morning. The journey as only three miles, but this was made much more uncomfortable by the presence of: body armor, helmet, weapon, light combat equipment (belt and suspenders of two canteens and two ammo pouches), and about forty pounds full of rucksack. This brought the total weight, in one soldier’s estimation and experimentation with the Bay scale, to about eighty pounds. Really not all that bad of a march. To graduate, we’ll be doing 9.3 miles under these loads. But some poor guys only weight about 140, so the loads were pretty rough on them. And later we found out that by some miscommunication we were the only platoon not told to remove the plates form our armor vests. That stuff is heavy.

Fortunately, despite the extra load, only one man in our platoon fell out of formation on the march. Second platoon was right in front of us and not as fortunate. They lost five or six of their guys, and Second Platoon’s DSs instructed the remainder to let them go. “Don’t help them. Ignore them. They cease to be soldiers when they drop out. Don’t even give them the courtesy of a second glance. They don’t deserve it.” Harsh. Regardless, I’m proud to say that I was leading our formation by the end of the march. I started near the back and just kept advancing until I ran into the back of our standard bearer and couldn’t go farther. Thanks to Mark and Alex for getting me prepped with our little hiking adventure earlier this year. Whatever my other failures, which are many, it turns out I am a hiking machine.

The rest of Wednesday was spend in the field. We set up tents, established a perimeter, dug in to fighting holes, and generally just lay prone in the dirt for hours while waiting for the mythical enemy to show up. Wednesday night was spent much of the same way. We slept in shifts of hours while our buddies lay prone and challenged DSs who made a point of testing the perimeter by trying to sneak through during the night. I embarrassed myself in front of Cpt. Fort again when I challenged him…he was walking very close to the edge of the perimeter but was still on our side of it. I figured that I should be on the safe side and challenge him anyway. Maybe he had slipped by my buddy’s position unnoticed, I thought. But no. It was Cpt. Fort, coming form our side of the line, and he gave me a gentle mocking after my “Halt, who goes there?” And yes, that actually is what you say. Well, at least he knows I was alert. Stupid, but alert. And it was pitch-black so he doesn’t know who he was talking to (thank God!). But it seems fate has destined me to be a total moron around this man.

Long of the short of it, I spend a long, cold night in a dirt hole with Lewis. We didn’t sleep much. And despite rumors of a DS-led nighttime invasion, complete with blank rounds and fireworks, the mythical enemy never showed up. The following morning, after enjoying some more delicious MREs, we filled in our fighting holes, repacked the tents, and then spent the day practicing combat maneuvering. Simple stuff: how to rise, run, drop, and crawl while under fire. And we did it over and over. Truth be told, I had some problems getting it down. The drop and roll somehow confused the heck out of me. I got it in time but needed some “assistance” before it became automatic. And DS “assistance” always makes you wish you’d gotten it right the first time.

Speaking of the DSs, we’ve picked up a fourth. DS “S” is preparing to deploy for another tour in Iraq. He’s not leaving during the cycle, but obviously there is paperwork and family time that interferes with his role as Senior DS. So we now have DS “A.” He speaks with an Italian (?) accent so thick we can barely understand him, and his screaming, which we experience often, is practically a foreign language. We just hear a torrent of jibberish interspersed with cursing that would make Lucifer blush. I mean foul stuff. Mostly the guy just yells obscenities and insults our intelligence for not understanding simple orders. At least that’s what I think he’s screaming. I can’t really tell.

I also have the overwhelming urge to sit down with DS “A” in a nice, calm environment and check his b lood pressure. It isn’t healthy to be angry as often as this man is. There may be something wrong. Nevertheless, he’s ours now. Or we’re his. Depending. The man isn’t that bad. Maybe it’ll take some time for us to get used to him, and to get used to the fact that we now have a total of four individuals working around the clock in shifts to torture us.

Now counting the Company 1^st Sgt. Years from now, when I’m sitting around the table with my own children, this man will find his way into the conversation. He’ll be the family boogy-man. “If you don’t finish all your spinach, 1^st Sgt. “B” will come and get you!” I’ll warn them. “Nooooo!” they’ll scream, while turning with renewed vigor on their vegetables. Seriously. I don’t know of a man more feared than the 1^st Sgt. He’s one of those people that curses at you for telling him “Good morning,” which is customary greeting everywhere else. And then he’ll ruin your morning. If there is anything wrong with you—one bootlace not entirely tucked in, a pocket not tally secured—he notices instantly. And then you pay. Salute an officer incorrectly? Problem. Salute an officer incorrect in the company of the 1^st Sgt? Disaster. Of epic proportions.

I just can’t explain this man adequately. Take all of your personal doubts and fears, all of your worst nightmares, and compact htem into a little black diamond such as the one on, say the insignia of 1^st Sgt. Then give it a body and a name. The body and the name are significant, but secondary to the terror they represent. The man is terror embodied. To walk by him is dangerous. To talk to him is suicide.

He reaffirmed my opinion today, on Friday, when he “congratulated” us for our phase change from Red to White. In White Phase, as I’ve mentioned before, we receive more breathing room to conduct our own affairs. Less screaming, mostly. Showers at our own time. During the brief ceremony where we changed our platoon banners form red to white, the 1^st Sgt. said a few words to the effect that we were scum, undeserving of any leniency, and that this change would only grant him more opportunities to test our knowledge of Army affairs. Any screw up, he says, and we belong to him. I imagine a dark basement somewhere waiting for offenders. And I pray, “Oh Jesus, please no me. I’ll be good. Not me.”

Not that we’ll be in White Phase long. Oh, no. I think we’re going right back to Red Phase tomorrow. Two of our “restarts” in the platoon, individuals who cycled back in after some kind of problem in their original platoon, had to go and get in a fight over something nonsensical this evening. And then one of them just had to blurt it out to the Drill Sergeant when explaining why he was late to Flag Duty. Of course. Maybe, at some level, this happened because we as a platoon never really embraced these “other” guys and made them full parts of our team, giving them something to prove. Maybe this is just a manifestation of the personality traits that got them recycled in the first place. Or maybe, just maybe, they’re both juvenile little hotheads with no understanding of where they are, what hey signed up to do, and how much their moronic antics could cost the platoon. But I’m not bitter. Oh, no. Just hunky-dory over here.

At least I finally got to fire my M16A2 yesterday. Only blank rounds, but still quite a kick. We were running around firing at the “enemy,” the other half of the platoon in this case, while conducting combat maneuvers. A lot fo fun. Quidachay’s first couple rounds put a gigantic silly grin on his face, which quickly caught the eye of DS “S.” “What’s so damned funny, soldier?” he yelled. “Drill Sergeant,” Quidachay replied, “I’ve never fired a weapon before. Never even played with toy guns! I didn’t know it would be like this!” “Then here, soldier,” DS “S” replied with a grin, “ have some of the extra ammo. Go crazy!” I swear, I’ve never seen this man so happy. He fired over a hundred rounds and giggled like a maniac the whole time. Don’t worry, the man wouldn’t hurt a fly. But he does love that rifle.

We’ll be spending a lot more time with our weapons. We’re entering the Basic Rifle Marksmanship section of our training, or BRM, and we’ll be firing until we’re sick of it. Maybe in White Phase, maybe not. But more on that tomorrow. I have to go wax a floor. Take care.

-Jeremy