Learning To Walk - A Soldier's Story by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 8

My picture and fingerprints were taken after I signed several copies of the enlistment contract. Now, I was officially government property. Of course, my parents would have preferred that the family attorney review it first. I guess that when you’re born into wealth the family lawyer becomes as much a member of the family as the family dog, but in a good way. Finally, by mid-afternoon, I met up with my parents.

“Well, this is it,” I said.

My father shook my hand.

“If you really believe that this is the right thing to do, then you have my full support,” he said. “Just keep your head down, alright?”

My mother was not one for public displays of emotion, but as I turned towards her she threw her arms around me with tears in her eyes. I knew that she wanted me to finish grad school, but it wasn’t about that anymore. She no longer saw me as a Ph.D. candidate, but her son - her only child - who was now about to put himself in harm’s way. To my mother, it didn’t matter why I was doing it. She simply saw her son going off to war. After the longest five minutes of my life, we were again lined up alphabetically and in single file. Airline tickets were passed out as each recruit was called by last name. This was when I found out where I was going. There are four Army bases in the country dedicated to basic training - Fort Jackson, South Carolina; Fort Benning, Georgia; Fort Sill, Oklahoma; and Fort Knox in Kentucky. I was on my way to Fort Jackson. I was in the middle of a Maine winter, so the change in temperature would prove to be interesting, to say the least. Shortly after, we were loaded onto buses and taken to the airport. We were divided into groups based on our destinations. Those going into the Air Force were being flown to Texas. Recruits going into the Navy were flying to Chicago while new Marines were going to Parris Island. By this time, I had a pretty clear understanding of the phrase ‘hurry up and wait’. Those words easily summed up the entire day.

We waited at the gate for about an hour as a man in uniform stood nearby. There were seven of us going to Fort Jackson and it was obvious that we were all nervous. Finally, we boarded our flight. Naturally, there was a delay. The plane sat at the end of the runway while another plane was allowed to land. After that, we began moving as the plane’s engines roared to life. More than halfway down the runway I felt the nose of the plane rise up from the tarmac. My ears popped as we rose higher, leaving the earth farther and farther below us.

After several hours, we landed in Columbia, South Carolina under a full moon. The change in temperature was dramatic and upon walking out of the plane a warm breeze wrapped itself around my body. I found it strange that near the beginning of January there could be a place where nor’easters didn’t occur. I knew that not every place on the planet gets snow, but I had never traveled outside of Maine before. Knowing there are places that never see snow is one thing. Setting foot on them is quite another and after picking up what little luggage I brought, I was escorted to what was now a much larger group and onto one of two waiting buses. There were two very stern looking uniformed men standing off to the side. Their uniforms had been pressed to a fault, and they wore what could only be described as ‘Smokey the Bear’ hats. I didn’t know what else to call them. They ordered - yelled actually - that we line up and get on the buses as quickly as possible. I took an aisle seat somewhere near the middle of the bus. While each of the uniformed men boarded a bus, the man on our bus stood at the front with a clipboard in his hand and an angry look on his face. His intimidating appearance worked because no one made a sound and any whisper of conversation was met with an immediate response. "Hey!” he yelled. “Shut the fuck up!” The effect of his reaction was instantaneous and from that moment on the bus was deafening quiet.

After a very long thirty minutes, the buses turned onto the entrance of Fort Jackson. The main gate was very well lit and staffed by more uniformed men. These men, however, carried guns. They stepped out into the road and motioned for the drivers to stop. I.D. cards were checked and authorization papers were examined, after which we were allowed to proceed. I’d never seen anyone carry a gun outside a police officer. This site drove home the reality that I was about to embark on a military life. It wasn’t long before we pulled up in front of a large cinder block building. We were very sternly told to get out and form a line shoulder to shoulder. I quickly realized that there were several uniformed men, all wearing the same ‘Smokey the Bear’ hats. They called themselves ‘drill instructors’. "Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” one of them yelled. “What kind of goddamn freak show is this?!”

The thought crossed my mind that knowing what to do is largely based on knowing what to expect and I had no idea what to expect. I stood absolutely still, only to leap out of my skin when one of the drill instructors suddenly approached me, our faces only inches from each other. "Are you one of these freaks?!” he screamed. The tension was immediate and I answered without thinking.

"No, sir,” I replied.

"No, sir?!” he yelled. “Is that all you have to say?!”

I felt a huge sense of relief as he began pacing up and down the row of recruits.

"From this day forward!” he yelled. “Everything you say will begin with the word ‘sir’ and will end with the word ‘sir’! Do I make myself clear?!”

We all answered with the same words. "Sir, yes sir!”

Some were louder than others, but any sense of time was completely absent.

"I didn’t hear a fuckin’ word of that!” the drill instructor yelled.

He turned to another drill instructor. "Did you get any of that?!”

The other drill instructor shook his head in disgust. "They sent us a bunch of fuckin’ retards this time,” he said. I noticed that they spoke with a slight southern accent. It wasn’t something I thought to expect, but I wasn’t surprised. I momentarily recalled a conversation with my recruiter who told me that the drill instructors would do a lot of screaming and yelling. He told me not to take it personally and that it was part of their job not only to create stress, but also teach us how to cope with it. So far, it was working.

"Let’s try this again, assholes!” he yelled. “From this day forward, everything you lowlifes say will begin and end with begin and end with the word ‘sir’! Am I understood?!” This time, everyone responded with one voice. "Sir, yes sir!”

"I didn’t hear you!” the drill instructor yelled. "Sir, yes sir!”

This was repeated several times. We were then taught how to stand at attention - back straight, shoulders back, head up, heels together, knees slightly bent, palms in, fingers curled, thumbs pointing down and touching the outside seam of the pants. It was nine o’clock at night, but training had already begun. We were ordered to turn to our left and escorted into the building. There, we were taken into a large bay lined with freshly made up cots and footlockers. Each of us was assigned a cot. This, of course, was done alphabetically. The drill instructor told us that we were guaranteed a full eight hours of sleep - no more, no less.

By morning, I realized, to some degree, the level of comfort I had been living. Sleeping with a roomful of complete strangers on a four-inch-thick mattress was an adventure in itself. But, I was confident that things would get much worse. The drill instructor stormed into the room while a recording of reveille played over a speaker. Five o’clock in the morning had never arrived with such cruelty.

"Get up, morons!” the drill instructor yelled. Looking back, I think my senses had been partially on during the night because I woke immediately. Those who didn’t wake so readily faced the drill instructor’s wrath as he screamed in their faces, taunting them into a state of wakefulness

"Get your shit out!” he screamed. “Get into the goddamn lavatory! Shit, shave and shower! C'mon, move your asses!”

I had the good sense to go quickly to the lavatory - or, the head, as it would be called. Every once in a while the drill instructor would stand at the entrance of the shower and loudly prompt us to hurry.

"Hurry the fuck up, girls! Get your asses in gear!” Within twenty minutes, most of us were done and dressed. Those still in the head were chastised repeatedly. We were, once again, lined up and escorted to the dining area. I have to admit the food was not as bad as I expected. In fact, it was actually pretty good. The drill instructor repeatedly urged us to eat quickly. There were no seconds. As each of us finished, we were told to leave the dining area and line up outside. Apparently, screaming and yelling were not the only things one deals with in basic training. Mind games were part of it as well. A word of advice: when someone yells ‘hey you!’ don’t stop and to look back. I made this mistake and was called back by the drill instructor to a table of drill instructors. This area was actually a number of tables placed end to end and was known as ‘the snake pit’ "What the fuck were you looking at?!” he yelled. Not knowing what else to say I spoke as quickly as I could. "Sir, nothing, sir!”

"Nothing!” he replied. “Were you looking at me?!” "Sir, no sir!” I answered.

"Are you sure?! ‘Cause I swear to Christ I saw you look back at me!”

"Sir, I’m sure, sir!” I replied.

I was impressed with his attempt to stare me down. But, I refused to let him get to me.

“Get out of here!” he yelled.

I turned and walked away, taking my place in line just outside the dining area. In military speak - a language I would become fluent in - this was called the ‘mess hall’.

I finally understood the purpose of basic training. It wasn’t just about how to wear a uniform. It wasn’t just about adopting the military mindset. From that small exchange I had with the D.I., it dawned on me. This was about learning to deal with chaos while remaining calm and clear-headed. Basic training was a safe zone of controlled chaos as opposed to war, which seemed to be neither safe nor controlled. Not that I’d had that experience. However, the reality of this idea would later confirm itself. After everyone was back in line we were, again, escorted elsewhere. The D.I. tried to get us to walk in unison. "Left, left, left right left!” he called out. It didn’t seem so much as marching, but as forty monkeys trying to build a spaceship. It was pathetic. Apparently, learning how to be a soldier means learning how to walk as well. We were ‘marched’ to the other side of the building and slowly filed into a room where we had our heads shaved. It wasn’t completely down to the skin, but I have to admit it felt quite liberating. I really didn’t care what I looked like. After all, it was just hair. But, in the winter warmth of South Carolina, the sudden loss of my hair actually felt pretty comfortable. After this, we stood in line and prepared to leave. However, adding insult to injury, they had arranged for two strikingly beautiful women to photograph us as we stood in line with our newly shaven heads. Obviously, prompting embarrassment was also part of the game and anyone who so much as glanced at either of them was harassed to no end. After getting our haircuts, we were once again led outside. This time, we were taken to a large paved area and instructed to form into four lines of ten. The D.I. began teaching us how to march in formation. It occurred to me that what we were really learning was how to act as a single unit. No one picked it up right away and more than a few of us began tripping over each other’s feet.

"Jesus Christ!” the D.I. yelled. “I've got to teach you morons how to walk too?! Let’s try it again, ladies!” He began calling out ‘left, left, left, right, left!’ It was a complete fiasco of clumsiness.

But, even in this display of disarray we were ‘marched’ to yet another sterile looking military building. Here, we were issued our equipment - our ‘gear’. Uniforms, combat boots, belts, helmets, a gun holster, everything. The fitting for uniforms was quick and efficient, resembling a conveyor of people and clothing. We were also issued a combat knife. If at an earlier point, someone had told me that I’d end up carrying a gun and a combat knife I would have told them to stay on their meds. Yet, there I was, holding ‘my’ combat knife and holster, which would later carry a .45 caliber pistol. I have to admit, holding these items felt more than a bit surreal, but during my training, I would become more attached to them than anything I had ever possessed and from that day forward, they would never leave my sight.

We were again shuffled back to the barracks and told to put everything on our bunks. We didn’t know quite what to do until the D.I. walked in.

“Stand the fuck up, morons!” he yelled. “When a ranking officer walks through that door you get off your lazy, good for nothing asses and come to attention!” We were all on our feet by that point and I did my best to stand at attention exactly as they told us. “Jesus Christ!” he continued. “What a bunch of pussy-whipped fucks did they send me now?! You are the most pathetic bunch of trouser stains I have ever seen!” He walked up and down the aisle looking for anyone who seemed uncomfortable. Then, he passed me. He suddenly walked up into my face and started screaming. “What the fuck are you looking at?!” he asked. “Did I see you looking at me, asshole?!”

“Sir, no sir!” I yelled.

I quickly learned that when answering the D.I., yelling was the appropriate way to do it. He continued staring at me. “What’s your name, private?!” he asked.

“Sir, Clarence Taylor sir!” I answered. “Clarence?!” he screamed. “You’re different from the rest of these fuck ups! Why is that?!”

I knew exactly what he was talking about. The idea of going to college is to cultivate one’s intelligence. It doesn’t actually make you smarter, but it does change you. This was what the D.I. saw.

“I’ll bet you went to college, didn’t you?!”

“Sir, yes sir!” I replied.

“I thought so!” he said. “And I’ll just bet you got yourself a degree, didn’t you?!”

“Sir, yes sir!” I answered.

“So, what did you study, slimeball?!” he asked. I answered with only a moment’s hesitation. “Sir, philosophy, sir!”

“Philosophy?! You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me!” he yelled. “What kind of philosophy?!”

Now it was my turn. I had recently read several books on the philosophy of warfare in order to gain some insight into the military mindset and with staunch military bearing, I listed them off - Sun Tzu’s ‘The Art of War’, the Samurai code, General Patton’s ‘Principles of War’ and the ‘Roman Philosophy of Warfare’.

“And what did the fuckin’ Romans think, huh?!” he yelled. It was now obvious to me that I had been singled out and it happened as soon as the D.I. saw me. My response was both quick and effortless.

“Sir!” I began. “The Romans believed that the key to victory was in the complete and utter devastation of the enemy, sir!”

I’m not sure if he was impressed or not. He walked around behind me and stood at my right.

“Well, if you’re so goddamn smart!” he began. “What the fuck are you doing here?!”

Now, it was time for a more masculine approach. “Sir, I’m here to kill terrorists, sir!” I answered. “Is that so?!” he replied. “A philosopher on the battlefield?! Is that some kinda sick joke?!”

“Sir, no sir!” I replied.

“Well, here’s a news flash for you!” he continued. “From now on, your name’s going to be Socrates! How do you fuckin' like that, asshole?!”

Protesting would not be a good idea. So, I said what anyone in their right mind would say.

“Sir, it’s fine sir!”

He pointed a finger in my face.

“I’d better be!” he began. “Cause you're going to hear it a lot! Got that, Socrates?!”

“Sir, yes sir!” I answered.

I was greatly relieved as he quickly walked away. “Now, you assholes listen up!” he started. “My name is Staff Sergeant Frank! You will learn that name and you will remember it!”

He began walking down the row of new recruits - all standing at attention.

“Now, you may think you are soldiers. You are not soldiers! When I look at you I do not see soldiers! I see a bunch of pussies who can’t even wipe their own asses without their mama’s doing’ it for them! Well, I’m not your mama! I am not here to wipe your ass! Now, anyone who says that they were in this Army because they did a few weeks of basic training is a failure! In this Army, failure is not an option! If you do not finish your training, you will be an even bigger pussy than you are now! You may have noticed that there is no name on your uniform! That is because, at this point, you do not deserve a name! You do not have names because you are nothing! You are pukes! You are the most disgusting, vile, lowest form of life on God’s green earth! But, that will change! You will be pushed to your limits! You will experience pain! You will experience hardship! But, you will learn to ignore pain! You will learn to ignore hardship! You will move beyond your limitations! You will become soldiers! You will become men! Right now, each and every one of you are nothing more than a waste of skin! I will reshape you! I will make you soldiers and when I am done, each of you will be a well-oiled cog in the United States Army war machine! You will not waver from the mission! You will not hesitate in battle! Hesitation is the first enemy! If you hesitate, you will die! Your fellow soldiers - your friends - will die! Therefore, you will learn to think quickly! You will learn to react with a calm mind! And when you kill the enemy you will do so without mercy! You will kill them before they kill you! And after you kill the enemy, you will walk off the battlefield with your heads held high, for you will have snatched victory from the jaws of certain death! Now, I am certain that all of you are aware of what happened last year on September eleventh - that this country was attacked by terrorists! There is only one kind of person who gets a hardon by attacking innocent and unarmed men, women and children, and that is a coward! Terrorist are nothing more than cowards! Terrorists are not people! They do not deserve to live! They are not worth the putrid, stinking shit they are made of! As the soldiers you will become, it will fall to you to make sure that every one of these cowardly bastards dies! Now, the Army does not want murderers! The Army does not want mindless drones! The Army wants warriors who will stand and fight, who will risk their lives for their country; who will receive and carry out orders without question! If I tell you to jump, you will ask how high! If I tell you to shit, you will ask what color! You will become soldiers! You will become warriors! And when you graduate, you will leave behind the person that you are now! You will be different! People will look at you and they will know that you are a soldier! You will leave your training as a symbol of freedom and why we fight to defend it! Defending the United States has never been as important as it is right now! Is that understood?!”

“Sir, yes sir!” we replied.

The dormitory - or barracks, by its proper name - momentarily rang with a slight echo as a feeling of pride was felt filling the room like an oncoming storm. Sure, it wasn’t Patton’s ‘blood and guts’ speech, but it worked and it was those words that acted to reaffirm my reason for being here in the first place. I had reached the point beyond any certainty that this is what I should be doing - right here, right now.