So there I was compilation 1

 A friend wanted story snippets to make his upcoming novel feel more realistic.  He's welcome to use some, none, or all of these.  By the way, they're from my first enlistment, way back when Communists strode the earth with boots of nuclear steel.

So there I was...

• The low grade moron going through induction next to me was too dumb to be infantry (yes, that's a thing), and too weak (couldn't lift 40 pounds) to be anything useful.  They assigned him to be a dockworker, on the theory that he could get stronger without needing to be smart to move crates.

• During inprocessing, you basically wait around with very little to do.  So one of the idiots who would shortly become the bane of my platoon's existence decided it would be hilarious to poop in a paper bag, take it into the next bay (large, open barracks room for about 60), set it on fire, and run.

• There was another guy who went crazy during inprocessing.  I mean seriously nuts.  Screaming, crying, bouncing off the walls, tearing out his hair (this was even before the buzz cuts).  He couldn't handle the stress of, well... Waiting around with not much to do?

• We finally got assigned a task one beautiful winter's day!  Something to do!  We had to clear a bunch of old, decrepit, disgusting mattresses out of an unused bay.  This bay happened to be on the third floor, next to a passage to the next building over, which created a breezeway.  So I, the intelligent and mature one (at age 19), told them it would be easier to toss them out an open window (there was no glass in the passage) than to carry them down the stairs.  But I then said that we needed to post somebody as a guard on the sidewalk, to keep us from dropping a mold-streaked mattress onto some poor, unsuspecting, higher ranking (basically anybody) person's head.  Blank stares of incomprehension.  So I told them to wait for me to get down there, then toss down the mattresses once I said it was OK.  I hustled down the hall, down the stairs, then around to the breezeway, where of course the morons had already started tossing mattresses.  Luckily, nobody else was there.  The idiots had a great time trying to hit me with dirty mattresses.  The Lieutenant who ambled by a few minutes later was a little less enthused about the experience.

•  Basic training does weird things to people.  So many young people somehow aren't used to obeying arbitrary orders and working hard all day.  These people didn't grow up in my family.  To me, Basic was some sort of minor paradise.  Compared to life at home, I got less sleep, but I also got a lot more to eat, and the food was the best I'd ever had.  (Army chow halls are, in general, really not bad places to eat.)  I also got my own boots (two pairs!) and, for the first time in my life, I got to wear clothes that were new, not hand-me-downs!  Best of all, I got yelled at less, and the insults were hilarious!

• You're a waste of a good fuck. The better part of you ran down the crack of yo mama's ass!

• Your daddy would have been better off jacking off in the woods!

• If the Chaplain (military priest) asks, "Does you Drill Sergeant curse at you?" tell him the truth.  Look him straight in the eye, and say, "Fuck no, sir!"

• You have to pay for the buzz cut.  They take it (and several other things) out of your pay, automatically.  You aren't expected to leave a tip for it, though.

• After what felt like a year or two of inprocessing (two weeks), we finally shipped out to Basic Training.  They do this late at night, so you're tired and confused when you get there.  I remember the yellow footprints painted on the cement, and the drills yelling at everybody.  We were sorted out into platoons, given initial orders, and escorted up to our barracks.  Open, 60 man platoon bays, with little nooks for four man teams separated from each other by wall lockers.  The bunks were doubles, and being slightly taller, I got the top one.  Right under the air vent.  Which was blowing cold air.  In January.  These were the "starfish" barracks, and were new at the time.  Heat pumps may be energy efficient, but they still blow cool air at you all winter.

(Picture from icthomasson.com)

(Picture from Woolpert.com)

• We didn't have gun racks in the barracks back then.  Rifles were kept locked in the arms room.  And rounds were counted somewhat carefully.  And you weren't allowed to take your rifle into the porta-john with you, lest you shoot yourself in privacy.  Yes, the drills really did keep loaded rifles in the control towers at the range, and would shoot you if you turned around with a loaded rifle.

(Picture from pinterist.com)  (Note the line of death on the floor.  "Toes on line!")

• Basic is separated into three phases - red (drill & ceremony), white (basic rifle marksmanship), and blue (common skill training).  The color of your platoon's guidon (small, triangular flag) shows what phase you are in.  To us, the victims, it indicated a slight lessening in the hostility of the drill sergeants.  Oh, yeah, the guidon bearer is the tallest guy in the platoon.  Until he fucks up sufficiently to get fired, jsut like the recruit platoon sergeant and squad leaders.  We rotated through those fairly rapidly.  I was lucky/clever enough to never get volunteered into any of these positions.  My goal in Basic was to have a good time and be invisible.  The trick to that is to, like Forrest Gump, do whatever the drill sergeants tell you to do, when they tell you to do it, to the best of your ability.  I knew I achieved my goal when, on almost the last day of Basic, while inspecting our dress uniforms for graduation parade, my senior drill sergeant stopped in front of me, got a puzzled look, and asked me, "Who the fuck are you?"

• We had three drill sergeants - an old (38?) black Sergeant First Class, who was on his last rotation as a DI before retirement, a middle-aged (27?) white lady Staff Sergeant, and a young (22?) black Buck Sergeant.  (Buck Sergeant is slang for Sergeant (E5), to all the leftist morons looking for an excuse to unperson me.)  The Sergeant went away on TDY (temporary duty) for five weeks in the middle of basic, so we didn't see much of him.  (He came back from Master Fitness Trainer school with the most inventively unpleasant exercises, and a plethora of truly obscene Jody calls.)  The SFC spent most of his time in his office, doing paperwork or something.  He came out for mail call, special occasions, ass-chewings, and smoke sessions.  (Smoke session - physical exercise as punishment until the sweat steams off your bodies and pools on the floor under you.  Then you have to mop it up and clean the floor.)  That left our poor, miserable female SSG to handle us all day, every day, without breaks.  After the first week of that, she made some sort of deal with the other platoons of our company, and they handled us for PT and morning chow.  She didn't show up until 0800 (8:00 AM), four hours into our daily routine.  Oh, how she grew to hate us.

• Jody calls - anytime you march, you have to keep in step.  You do this by chanting (one, two three four...) or singing.  These little ditties are collectively "Jody calls".  Some of them are about Jody, the asshole back home who is driving your car and banging your girlfriend, Suzy Rottencrotch.

• Near the end of red phase, my bunkmate apparently decided that enough was enough, and went AWOL one night.  He was caught in the swamp, a quarter mile from the fence line.  He didn't have any rank to take, but the Article-15 (nonjudicial punishment, routinely done in lieu of a Court Martial) didn't leave much of his meager pay for the rest of Basic.

• Payday!  Oh, how awful it was.  We got paid cash back then, direct deposit being almost a thing.  Well, not cash, precisely.  We got paid in traveler's checks, because Basic Training is full of morons and assholes who will try to steal anything and everything.  There was a whole ceremony to this process, which we practiced, money being (of course) handled by officers.  We had to sign each check right there at the table, and then record all the check numbers and amounts to use against whatever asshole decided to try to steal some of them.

• Pay - Recruits back then really didn't get paid much, about $630 per month.  On the other hand, your total expenses for the month amounted to less than $20, so essentially all your pay was gravy (unless you were married, you poor, deluded fool).  Except that there was nothing to spend it on, not that you had time or the privilege to go shopping for anything other than soap, shampoo, and shaving gear.

• I had to be taught how to shave.  (My stepdad always used an electric razor, which I didn't have, and they don't work on me anyways.  The steel wool that grows out of my face destroys them in just a couple of weeks.)  I had no idea that a razor blade was only good for a few days.  I was still using the same disposable razor after being there and shaving every day for two months.  My face was a bloody mess every morning, and I had no idea why.  Being me, with a ridiculously heavy and fast-growing beard, my drills thought I wasn't shaving until they watched me the next morning.  That day, the Sergeant took pity on me, took me (alone!) to the shoppette while everybody else was doing something boring, helped me pick out a blade set and handle, and explained to me how to use them properly.  Wow, DIs are people!  Whoda thunkit!?

To be continued...