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

Chapter 15

We woke the next morning to the blaring sound of reveille. 0500 - right on time. After the usual morning ritual, we put on our ‘battle dress uniforms’ and marched to breakfast. Upon finishing, we fell into formation. The D.I. again lectured us on our impending five-mile run. This time, he also reminded us to be wary of the symptoms of heat stroke as well as heat exhaustion. This left me with the impression that it was okay to puke as long as we didn’t die doing it. Initially, we started with a half mile run during the second week of training. Eventually, we were running four miles a day. With half mile increments, I had managed to avoid throwing up. Now, we were going from four miles to five.

Shortly after we started marching the D.I. ordered us into double time. My body had become accustomed to the pain of constant strenuous activity and I handled the first three and a half miles easily. But shortly after mile four, I was struck by a different sensation - one that I was not accustomed to. It started with a bit of lightheadedness, then excessive salivation and a sudden feeling of nausea. I took this as a sign of something that was clearly imminent and moved over to the side of the group. I knew it was coming and there was no way to stop it. And yet, its suddenness caught me by surprise as most of my breakfast churned up and launched itself out onto the ground. As I found myself grasping my knees, I discovered how difficult it is to gasp for breath and vomit at the same time. From the perspective of comedy, I also found it amusing to see someone vomit. Not in the sense of illness or suffering but if someone did something stupid, like participating in a drinking contest that resulted in vomiting, my reaction was usually one of disgust. However, somewhere beneath my revulsion, I was secretly laughing. I guess that makes me somewhat twisted. But, there’s a world of difference between witnessing someone suddenly coating their shoes and being hunched over the dirt coating your own. It’s funny until it happens to you.

I continued dry heaving as I began to catch up with the group. The D.I. glanced back at me with a look that could cut through armor plating. We finally stopped at mile five. Apparently, I had not been alone in my gastric upheaval as I noticed several patches of grass that had recently been bleached by stomach acid. Steve had managed to keep his breakfast down during the run. But, as he bent down to get the blood moving back to his head, the contents of his stomach decided it was best left elsewhere and he too proceeded to become ill. There is no question that after running five miles puking isn’t just embarrassing, it’s painful. We were allowed to rest and hydrate ourselves, being told not to drink quickly or a lot in order to avoid water intoxication. Flushing out things the body needs can be debilitating and in a combat or survival setting, this condition can be deadly. I was expecting that we’d be driven back in cargo trucks, but to my surprise, we had run a loop that brought us back to the barracks. We were all in agony. Apparently, the abdominal muscles are the most affected by running. I know this because mine were on fire.

By the time we got back to the barracks, I could barely walk. With two weeks left of basic training, I thought everything else would be downhill. I was wrong. That afternoon we went to yet another class. This one, however, was part of gas chamber training. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Most people use these words and think of capital punishment. This gas chamber is designed to expose recruits to the effects of tear gas. I’m not sure why they do this when there are so many other chemical weapons used for war, but I suppose that tear gas is a better option than Sarin. After learning how to put on the gas mask, it was important to ‘clear’ it. This was done by taking a deep breath, putting on the mask and exhaling hard enough to open the valves and activate the filter.

Once we were in the gas chamber, we would be told to take a deep breath, remove our masks and recite aloud our name, rank, and social security number. Upon performing this seemingly simple task we would then exit the chamber. However, some things are not as simple as they appear and before walking into the gas chamber we were given one piece of crucial information - keep your eyes open. The tear gas will get into your eyes, but if you blink, it will burn. Funny thing about blinking, we do it both unconsciously and frequently. Under ordinary circumstances, it’s difficult enough to control the act of blinking. Now, step into a brick building filled with tear gas and this simple reflex suddenly becomes an inextinguishable fire.

The next day we marched to an isolated area of the base where a small brick building stood benignly near the tree line. It seemed to be nothing more than a box quietly nestled among the pines, themselves swaying in a soft wind. We were again briefed by the D.I. on the process of donning the gas mask.

“When you exit the gas chamber!” he began. “Put your arms out and keep your eyes open while walk into the wind!”

If we managed to keep from blinking, the wind would blow the tear gas out of our eyes and off our uniforms. We were warned about the trees on the other side. If we left the gas chamber with closed eyes, chances were pretty good that we would walk into one of them. I wondered how many people had done just that. A second instructor was there to assist as we were ordered to put on our gas masks. I took a deep breath and cleared my mask. After tightening the straps, I stood at attention with the rest of the platoon and waited. I wondered what was worse - waiting to walk into a tear gas chamber or standing in a tear gas chamber without the protection of a gas mask. I would soon find out.

As the others entered ahead of me, it didn’t take long to realize what I was in for. The walls of the small building were not thick enough to contain the sounds of choking and vomiting, but most were able to recite their names, ranks, and numbers while a few made the mistake of inhaling after removing their masks. This was a lesson I had the benefit of learning as I stood waiting to enter and decided that the best way to do this was with a clear head - to think calmly and quickly. Right before going in, I went over the steps in my head. It was only moments until I was standing in a dimly lit chemical fog. There wasn’t much to see through the lenses of the mask - only fog and shadows. I could hear my fellow trainees as they recited their names and numbers. Then, I heard Steve. He tried his best, but was stopped in mid-sentence by a sudden, burning urge to vomit. Between this and the five-mile runs, I couldn’t help but think that the Army was, for some reason, obsessed with the need to make us puke. Now, it was my turn. The D.I. stepped up to my right side.

“Private Taylor!” he yelled. “Remove your mask!” I took a deep breath and removed my mask. I began reciting my name, but the one thing I wasn’t able to do was to keep from blinking. One thing is very certain, hay fever pales in comparison to tear gas. My eyes were immediately forced shut as tears streamed down my face. I instinctively reached up to rub the pain out.

“Private!” the D.I. yelled. “Do not rub your eyes!” It took all my conscious will to keep from rubbing. “What is your name, rank, and number Private?!” I quickly recited this information and was promptly ordered to exit the gas chamber. But, there was a problem. I couldn’t see and in my haste to leave, I walked face-first into the wall. I was so close. The startle of planting my face into a brick wall caused me to gasp. On the inside, I was cursing a blue streak. On the outside, I was again retching like a drunken college student.

I suddenly felt myself being pushed out of the building. This was followed by a sensation I hope never to experience again. As Steve blindly rushed toward the exit, he ran straight into me and after he vomited on my back, we both careened into the nearest Pine tree. Not only had I been up close and personal with a brick wall, but within the space of thirty seconds, I had been left picking Pine bark out from between my teeth while my back was covered with puke. I later came to the conclusion that considering I was still alive it must have been a good day. Now, I could hear everyone else laughing as we tried to help each other up.

Looking back, it was as funny as it was pathetic - both of us puking while stumbling to our feet. As soon as I was able to balance myself I opened my canteen, forced my eyes open and began flushing them out. Soon after, the burning was replaced by normal vision and the coolness of the water as I continued pouring it over my face. With outstretched arms, I walked forward as the wind carried the residue of tear gas away from my body. Unfortunately, the only thing that would remove the vomit from the back of my uniform was laundry soap. Steve had also managed to wash out his eyes and clean his face of the burning left by the tear gas. However, Steve wasn’t covered with puke. He was doing just fine. As we began to recover, the D.I. ordered us to fall in. He paced up and down in front of us, making sure that everyone was recovering. Then he passed me.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” he yelled. “Private, you smell like a barroom toilet on Mardi Gras! What the fuck happened to you?!”

Embarrassingly, I was forced to explain the ugly circumstances of what was a genuinely sticky situation.

Most of us were as white as a sheet but the D.I. would not make an exception for a platoon of queasy recruits. He gave us half an hour to recover while we ran water over our heads at a nearby row of faucets. After filling our canteens, we were ordered back into formation and marched back to the barracks. Things could have been worse - it could have been July. Before leaving, I tried to rinse the vomit out of my uniform shirt. It didn’t smell quite so bad, but it definitely needed to be washed and I was hoping that the sun would dry it out on the way back. Of course, I couldn’t be that lucky.

By the time we reached the barracks, a generous build-up of sweat had added itself to an experience that would forever be branded onto my memory. After being allowed to change, we attended a class on urban warfare tactics. It had been only about six months since nine eleven, but intelligence sources had come to the conclusion that the U.S. would become a larger part of the United Nations effort in Iraq and Afghanistan. These sources also predicted that fighting would be divided between the streets and the desert. Personally, if given a choice, I would rather be sent into the desert where the enemy could be seen at a distance. At least there would be enough time to take up a position.

We took the next two days putting these tactics into practice and it was at this point that we were introduced to a new tool - the flashbang. It looked like a small fragmentation grenade, but packed a blinding punch. Thrown into a small room, it would stun the enemy long enough to gain the element of surprise. Another trick we learned during this part of training was how to kick in a door. Trust me, it’s not done like it is in the movies. If the amount of force necessary to accomplish this isn’t applied in the right place, the results could be quite painful. The idea is to use the heel of the foot to deliver enough force just below the doorknob. I once read an old Chinese proverb that said ‘you can move a mountain with one finger, as long as you know where to push’. While this can be true for many things, it’s especially true when kicking in a door. If you missed your mark, you probably wouldn’t be doing it again. It was demonstrated to us that this technique, when combined with the flashbang, created an element of surprise that could provide a devastating advantage when doing a house to house search and as we stood in a small mock village, the D.I. had each of us stand in one of the rooms while wearing ear protection. We were to experience this tactic from the other side of the door. The D.I. picked out the ‘tough guys’ as the first to be given this experience. A trained assault team carried out the exercise. The first of the ‘tough guys’ walked into the room with an obvious strut, waving with a grin as he closed the door.

The demonstration was performed after some delay so as to be unpredictable. But when executed, it was done with terrifying speed and in spite of a cavalier attitude, the recruit who was sent in first could not only be heard screaming like a child but stumbled out of the room wearing pants that had become soaked with urine. As our laughter quickly grew out of control, he looked down at himself with both embarrassment and angry frustration. “Fuck!” he screamed.

Even the D.I. found it difficult to maintain his composure. Now, I knew what to expect and after a long wait, I stepped into the ceilingless room, closed the door behind me and donned the ear protection. There was no way to tell exactly when it would happen and even though I knew it was coming, I practically jumped out of my skin as the assault team kicked the door open and tossed a flashbang into the corner.

As soon as it went off they rushed into the room and surrounded me with weapons drawn, their tactical lasers focused on my chest. I instinctively raised my hands. “Shit!” I yelled.

I felt a bit foolish afterward, but when you find yourself staring down the barrel of an AK47 after having your senses rattled by an explosion, you quickly learn that it’s just a drill. At least their weapons weren’t loaded and I didn’t piss myself. The doors we trained on simply swung on their hinges. At that point, kicking against such little resistance carried a minimum potential for injury. Besides proper placement, the key to kicking is in leaning back so as to extend the hips. This puts more force behind the kick, instead of leaning into it. For me, the most difficult part was balance and I fell flat on my back just as many times as everyone else. But I have to say, there is something satisfying about kicking in a door - something visceral. Or maybe, I was in the process of becoming a soldier.

Graduation finally arrived and my parents flew down from Bangor for the ceremony. They sat in the bleachers and waved as our platoon marched by. As ceremonies go, it was uncomplicated. The word ‘tradition’ was used by the commander more than once. The military has always stood by a long tradition of pride and ethics, but as I would later discover, pride can sometimes get in the way of ethics. My father is a man of few words and after the ceremony, he shook my hand and told me how proud he was of me.

“I think I understand, now,” he said. My mother has never been given to strong emotions, but on the day I graduated she approached me with tears in her eyes, telling me how handsome I looked in my uniform. “So, are you coming home now?” she asked. She was obviously so caught up in being a ‘mom’ that she really didn’t understand how it all worked. I explained to them that I still had another month of technical school. After that, I would be going back home for ten days of leave.

“Then what?” my mother asked.

I glanced at my father, who expressed an obvious look of concern.

“Well,” I began. “That’s up to the Army.” That answer was of little help. What she wanted was a firm sense of certainty. But, the military isn’t known for giving people control - even parents. I knew the chances of being sent to Afghanistan were very high. I just didn’t think it was a good idea to tell my mother that, given her emotional state. I introduced them to my drill instructor. Yes, ‘my’ drill instructor. By this time, Sergeant Frank had become one of the most influential of my life. He taught us that if we pushed ourselves, we could accomplish anything, that there were no barriers for anyone who wants to succeed badly enough. Granted, he didn’t exactly say it in words, but I do think he forced us into realizing it for ourselves. My parents spent the night at base visitor housing while we were assigned to temporary quarters. Basic training was over, but that didn’t necessarily mean we were soldiers - not just yet. I had reached the understanding that being in the Army and being a soldier can be two very different things. Yes, I was now in the Army, but was I a soldier? I believed that the only way to find out was to experience battle.

I had read somewhere that in the Marine Corps, fourteen percent of Marines in battle were unable to kill the enemy. Instead, they would fire over their heads. So, in spite of all the training, the lectures and indoctrination a question lurked in the back of my mind. Could I kill someone? Obviously, it’s a lot easier to talk about doing it than it is to actually carry it out. Having the means to kill, especially on the battlefield is easy - just pick a weapon. But, being able to kill without hesitation is a different matter altogether. War is not a video game. Sure, it’s probably easier from a drone console, where the enemy is just a target on a display, but what about when the enemy is standing in your rifle sights when you can see the color of his clothes or the way he walks? Considering what happened on nine eleven and what continues to happen in the Middle East, there is a clear difference between having a human appearance and being truly human. I just hoped that this logic would work in battle. If it didn’t, I would likely come back home in a box.

My parents and I got together early the next morning for breakfast. They found themselves in a bit of a hurry, so they could get to their flight on time. My mother again asked when I’d be coming home. I told them that I’d just received orders to Fort Benning in Georgia for technical training.

“Training in what?” my mother asked. I explained that I’d be going to school for Cavalry Scout and as I described the job, she appeared to be genuinely interested. My father looked at his watch and quietly interrupted the conversation. It was time for them to leave. After calling for a taxi, we sat at a nearby picnic table. It’s amazing how much a person can express while saying so little and my mother was oddly quiet that morning. “Mom,” I said. “I’m going to be coming back home in about a month.”

She looked up at me with sullen eyes. “But then you’ll have to leave again, won’t you?”

“They're giving me ten days off, mom,” I replied. “But yes, I’ll have to leave again.”

I could see the taxi in the distance. “I suppose you’ll have to carry a gun, right?” she asked. I think she finally understood. The military, ideally, is a force that acts as the defender of freedom.

Although more often than not, the military acts as the pawn of political ideology. Still, we must answer the call to arms. This means putting ourselves in harm’s way, for whatever reason. I could have tried to appeal to her sense of logic, telling her that the chances of being killed while crossing the street were higher than being killed in Vietnam. But, I don’t think that would have done much good. Being a mom seems to be something that exists beyond the idea of reason and she was afraid of losing her only child. “Yeah,” I answered. “But, I’m hoping I’ll never have to use it.”

I don’t know if that helped or not.

After the taxi pulled up, I gave her a badly needed hug. She hugged me as though I was never coming back. I helped my father put their luggage in the trunk. He hesitated while putting a hand on my arm.

“You do what you have to do,” he said. “Your mother will be okay but you might want to call a couple times a week. It’ll help her to hear your voice.”

As he walked back around to the door of the taxi, he stopped momentarily and pointed toward me.

“See you in four weeks, right?”

I closed the trunk of the taxi and walked over to him. “See you in four weeks, Dad,” I said. He shook my hand again, got into the taxi next to my mother and closed the door. As the driver started the engine, he waved at me through the window. I waved back as they pulled away and headed toward the main gate.

My mother is a very formidable woman. As a corporate executive, she is someone never to be trifled with. This was not that person and she presented herself as almost being a stranger to me. Her emotional state made her appear frail and vulnerable. As someone who was used to being in charge, these were qualities she found as signs of weakness. Perhaps she felt it was better to be feared by those who hated you than loved by those who respected you. Naturally, I disagree, but that was one of those issues we didn’t talk about much. Our ideas of what defines power are as different as night and day. I spent another night in temporary quarters and after nine weeks of living shoulder to shoulder with thirty-nine other people, it was good to finally have some privacy. The dormitories held two to a room and so far I was alone. This gave me the chance to reflect on where I was at this point in my life. One of the things Sergeant Frank told us was that when we go back home, people will seem different. But, they will not have changed - we will be the ones who have changed. Later, while on leave, this idea would come to fruition.