ROYSTER!!!!

Drill Sergeant Royster.  The guy was crazy.  He looked a midget on steroids in a drill sergeant hat.  He was the quintessential Army leader – stubborn, disciplined, angry, motivating, pushing the limits of policy, and remaining ethical 95% of the time.  There were quite a few things I respected about our junior Drill Sergeant – and quite a few mistakes that I’m sure he regrets as well.  We were mortal enemies – but he was a leader, and I could at least count on knowing that his heart was in the right place, which was exactly the opposite of what I experienced later in my career.  Drill Sergeant Royster was a good leader – flawed – but not the kind of person that would ever stab you in the back. 

But I didn’t meet Drill Sergeant Royster right away.  When I arrived at Corry Station for AIT, I was greeted by my first “squad leader” in AIT.  Like Basic Training, trainees in AIT rotated through leadership positions.  PFC Berger was my first squad leader – and we would have several adventures over the next six months.  He met Uba, Tomkins, Arcand and myself outside the base, and escorted us into the Barracks, where he explained that we would meet our senior Drill Sergeant.  When I heard the word “Drill Sergeant”, my heart froze.  Was this going to be another six months of Basic Training?

The nervousness grew waiting outside the door.  Finally, we heard a sharp female voice yell at us, sounding like a stubborn den mother, “Get in here, soldiers.”

Her name was Drill Sergeant Garcia.  She was a Drill Sergeant – but she was more of a calming presence than your average DS.  The first thing I noticed about DS Garcia, was that her body was smoking hot. Her face was ok – she wore glasses, and had this wavy blonde hair that screamed “math geek” – but the body had obviously benefitted from many years of army fitness.  There’s nothing worse in training than having a female drill sergeant with a bangin’ body in tight ass PT shorts yelling at you to do pushups while your hoping your boner doesn’t peek out of your BDU’s.  I couldn’t even tell you what she told us in that first speech, because I was too worried about whether my erection was showing. 

DS Garcia dismissed us for the evening, and this is where I began to learn the truth about AIT.  Drill Sergeant Garcia was calm, spoke in direct even tones, and treated each of her basic trainees as her own children, since she didn’t have any personally.  Berger explained this to me as he helped me lug my bags up to my room for the night.  Drill Sergeant Royster, he explained would be quite different. 

Berger was a cool guy – he was kind of the “Zack Morris” of our AIT, and I was his “AC Slater”.  He was always scamming – but got along with everyone so well that we always covered for him.  He was always trying to make me cooler – loaning me designer clothes and such.  I was always helping him with his scams and backing him up – until he left and I was stuck holding the ball on my own. 

As he escorted me upstairs he explained how Drill Sergeant Garcia basically treated them like college students and didn’t really bother them too much as long as they did PT and finished school.  He said that there was this new guy – DS Royster – who basically treated them like shit and was making AIT seem like it was basic training again. 

That was the truth about AIT – it could be like college, or it could be like basic training.  It all depended on who was controlling the game at that point in time.  Unfortunately, I was coming as DS Garcia was leaving. 

I met Drill Sergeant Royster early the next morning.  I remember hearing him yelling in a LOUD deep voice as I was making my way downstairs for PT the next day.  His voice was way more intimidating than anything I had heard in Basic Training.  “New privates!” he yelled “you better bring your civilian clothes down here and lock them in this closet!!”  This was the procedure.  You start AIT with no civilian clothes (Phase 4).  If your good for six weeks, they let you have civilian clothes and off base privileges, with curfew (Phase 5).  If your good for another two months beyond that – you can basically go anywhere you want with no curfew (Phase 5b).  I never made it to Phase 5b.  

I grabbed my bag and rushed downstairs.  I ran in the door, and basically bounced off of one of the biggest heads I’d ever seen in my entire life.  Seriously – this guy looked like like the main boss from “Mike Tyson’s Punch Out”. 

“Soldier, watch where the heck your going!”

And there was my introduction. 

Needless to say, Drill Sergeant Royster and I never hit it off.  The guy looked and acted like a damn cartoon character.  I think, part of it was the fact that he was such an impressive physical specimen, he sometimes pushed too hard and injured soldiers who weren’t quite up to par with him.  He made fun of injured soldiers – in one Rifle PT session he replaced an injured soldier’s rifle with a toy water gun and made her exercise with it.  Needless to say, DS Royster was very popular with the “jocks” of the group, and hated by everyone else.

Having said that, there is a trade-off here somewhere, because Drill Sergeant Royster helped me to finish AIT with a 12:32 two mile run time – something I never in my entire life thought I would be capable of.  He made me into a pretty impressive athlete for a short time – and quite frankly I probably never would gotten a piece of ass from any woman, or married my gorgeous wife, if not for the training he gave me.  However, I had to sacrifice my body to get there, and I blame him for some of the lifelong injuries I’ve acquired, many of which begin from “pushing” myself to meet his exaggerated standards. 

The fights between Drill Sergeant Royster and I would become infamous amongst my fellow trainees.  He just rubbed me the wrong way.  I was constantly belittling him, talking crap to his face, and criticizing him in front of his commanders for his aggressive and unnecessary leadership style.  At the time I was just being a smart ass – but in certain ways I was right.  No other AIT class before ours, or since ours, has had it as tough as the class we faced with Drill Sergeant Royster.  It was like another six months of basic training – only worse. 

So, while I was barely surviving the daily army training regime of constant wall locker/room/testicle inspections and PT, I was also tasked with completing my “job” or MOS course, which was ################# – one of the toughest intelligence schools in the world.  This is your primary responsibility during AIT, and it took roughly 8 hours out of every day. 

Luckily, my AIT course was taught by the most adorable, sexy, Kate Hudson look-alike the US Air Force had to offer.  Her name was TSgt Kuke, and I’ll be damned if she didn’t have the attention of every single man in that classroom.  She was always out at night, and came in telling stories the next day of her hard partying and drunken exploits.  We loved every second of it.  I could listen to that blonde wavy bobbed hairdo explain PSK Demodulation for weeks. 

I had three classmates in AIT.  The Army platoon at Corry station ranged anywhere from 10-65 people depending on the time of year.  When I arrived there were ten of us. There were 65 when I left.  They split us off into groups for our classes, based on when your security clearances arrived.  Because I had basically done nothing my entire life, my clearance arrived immediately, while Uba and Tomkins waited 2 months for theirs.  Arcand was placed on a different shift.  I was placed in a group with four other men, who would become good friends as the years passed by – and we were all mixed in which the four other services in a class of 16. 

My group consisted of myself, Mosby, Dash, and McMahon.  Mosby was a short, fast-talking red headed kid from South Carolina.  He was a former football player, a jock, and became a fast favorite of DS Royster.  He also talked a lot of shit.  Dash was an aggressive young black man also from the south, who liked to sit on the sidelines and instigate controversy.  He could talk shit better than anyone in the platoon, but he was so friggin funny that none of us cared.  Finally, McMahon was one of those select few that joined the military to really “join the military”.  He was there to be a soldier.  At the time, I called him “rich white kid”, because I was so impressed his family owned their own car.  I guess this reflected more on my poor upbringing than it did on him. 

I would also give McMahon a lot of grief because no matter how many times he tried, he couldn’t pass his PT test.  He spent two months in phase 4 – and I tormented him endlessly for it.  Years later, McMahon would eventually surpass all of us in rank and professionalism.  That skinny little rich white kid would become the greatest soldier I knew in the U.S. Army – the kind of leader anyone would be happy to risk their lives with.  He was one of the the most successful SFC in our job field, but he started out as a skinny kid who couldn’t do the minimum number of pushups. 

I was known for being a fighter and a rebel in AIT.  Unfortunately, I fought with the wrong people.  I called myself *****.  This was the beginning of a dark period of growing and maturing in my life.  I was in constant conflict, with my family, who I once again tried to cut ties to, with my fellow soldiers, and with my leaders.  I slept on the floor and I talked crap and got in at least 30 fistfights while I was there.  I rebelled against policy – always trying to see how far I could push the system before I got caught.  The most ridiculous fight I got in, was when my friends and I turned on one another – for no other reason than bragging rights. 

It was about halfway through the course – we were all talking shit about who could beat up who.  At some point I opened my big mouth, “Mosby, I could kick your ass any time”

Mosby got all red in the face.  I could tell he was tired and fed up of the same routine every day. 

“Fine, motherfucker.” he furled his brow at me, “Fine, we’re gonna fight after school.  I’m tired of this shit.  We’re gonna fucking fight.”

The class grew silent.  I accepted the challenge with my usual bravado.  No one else talked the rest of the day.  Everyone was uneasy – wondering if we would go through with it. 

And we would…and it was violent…and it was pointless…

But I knew it would be.  Still, I clenched my fists and headed home to prepare for “the fight” with my roommate. 

LTC Pastore

If there was a small sliver of victory in my time at Menwith Hill, it was when 1SG Riley was finally removed from office and forced into retirement.  Now, no one ever gave a specific reason for his removal.  It would have been unprofessional for the Army to do so.  However, I was always one of those quiet listeners, with ears the size of doorknobs, who people always like to talk to.  I was able to piece together from various sources around base that he was indeed removed due to my IG complaints, combined with several others, and an overall poor performance rating.  CPT Riley was also replaced after his year in command was over.  This was CPT Riley’s second chance at being a commander – so he was now a two time failure.  His chances of promotion were very slim.  His replacement was CPT Jezercak, who I had worked with in operations and was even a member of my platoon for a short time.  SFC Wiggins took over for 1SG Riley. 

SFC Wiggins became my platoon sergeant after I had finally convinced the Inspector General to remove me from my previous position, for which I was overqualified and underused.  Unfortunately, the Menwith Hill command, instead of logically putting me back into the position I had trained in for the last six years, decided it would be a better idea to stick me into another position completely outside my MOS, where I would again be trained by and answering to junior enlisted soldiers. 

SFC Wiggins was my new platoon sergeant and at first there were small conflicts between us.  Most of this came from him judging me based on what 1SG Riley had told him, and me demanding that I be treated equally with other NCO’s.  Eventually, my work ethic proved to him that I was a good soldier, and when he realized that most of what he had heard from 1SG Riley was bullshit, designed to make me look bad after filing so many IG complaints, SFC Wiggins and I reached a mutual understanding of respect.  As long as I wasn’t a screw up, he didn’t treat me like one.  He was one of the few NCO’s at Menwith Hill who judged you on your worth as a human being, and not on what he had previously heard about you.

This was a period for big changes.  PFC Kelly would finally get her discharge paperwork, as she was expecting her first child with her husband, Don.  Petty Officer David also decided it was time for him to finally resign himself to his fate as a Naval Academy attendee.  He would leave shortly after I did.  Airman Juise would leave for a new assignment at another Air Force base down south.  All that was left of Delta shift dispersed to different corners of the world – something I had gotten used to after eight years. 

I qualified in record time on my new position.  I tried to contribute as much as I could to a job field I knew nothing about compared to what I did in my previous training.  I made tiny gestures – creating training programs and such, but mostly I laid low and tried not to create controversy, lest I give the Menwith Hill command more fuel to throw on the fire they were trying to torch my career with. 

I finally got the chance to meet with our Battalion Commander, LTC Pastore, about my illegal NCOER, and the unverified, unfair information it contained.  He basically stated that he made them change a few smaller items, but that he didn’t think anything in the NCOER was illegal.  I showed him the policy that stated all negative information in the document had to be verified and ADJUCATED, which it hadn’t been.  He remained speechless, and simply repeated the same statement over and over, that he did not believe there to be anything illegal in the document.

Finally, I asked him point blank, “Sir, if there’s nothing wrong with this document, why did 1SG Riley try to rush it out the door without me seeing or having a chance to appeal it?  Why did the PAC secretary have to stop him on my behalf?  Why did he try to shout down the specialist as she walked to your desk with the NCOER in her hand and gave you my appeal?  Why did he claim I was making a big mistake in crossing him and threaten the PAC room for stopping him?”

LTC Pastore again stammered angrily, “SGT – I – I don’t see anything wrong with this docu-this document.  I don’t think 1SG Riley was attempting to do anything unethical.”

I wouldn’t be so easily brushed aside. 

“Sir,” I looked at him directly in the eyes, so he knew I meant every word, “People don’t try to hide things that are ethical.”

LTC Pastore didn’t say anything else.  He just smiled weakly and slid the policy I handed him back across his desk in my direction.  It was obvious he didn’t care what happened.  He just wanted this whole situation to be done and over with for him.  I was obviously nothing more to him than paperwork with a big mouth. 

I gave up trying to talk to higher commands after that.  The next higher commander was the European theater general, and he was in a separate country.  He would have an even less interested reaction than LTC Pastore.  If I was to get anywhere, I would have to go an external third party – I would have to go to the INSCOM Inspector General – at the cost of my career and reputation at Menwith Hill. 

Transition

Basic Training doesn’t really end with the final road march, but it sure gets a lot easier afterwards.  It’s about four days between getting home and walking across the graduation field, and flying on to AIT the next day.  Those days were filled with a sense of calmness, having finished the difficult challenges, tedium, having to spend all day cleaning equipment and preparing everything for the next arriving class, and fear, out of the approaching advanced training course that no one really knew what was like.

You see, when you sign up for the Army, the recruiter treats it like you go through 8 weeks of basic training and that’s it.  Your off to AIT which is more like going to college than anything else and very relaxing. 

Except for the fact that as soon as you get to basic training the Drill Sergeant explains to that AIT is nothing like going to college, and that depending on your MOS, it might even be harder than basic training itself.  No matter what, we were assured, you would be doing physical training and combat training your entire career, whether you were an infantryman, army film maker, or intelligence man such as myself.

The infantry guys were the most nervous, and perhaps rightfully so.  I held a small glimmer of hope that perhaps the Drill Sergeant knew nothing about military intelligence AIT, and that it would indeed be as easy as I imagined based on what the recruiter had told me.

I rested my ankle as much as I could between the road march and graduation, trying to hide my limp.  The Drill Sergeant decided to put me in the middle of the formation so no one could see.  The ceremony itself was nice.  Many soldier's families flew down.  I knew mine wouldn’t be there.  They’ve never flown their whole life or seen any of my moments as a child, so I didn’t expect this to be any different.  It didn’t matter…my pride was my own.  I beamed in the formation, watching another soldier sway in front of me as she almost passed out from heat exhaustion.  When they called for us to march across the field, I stood tall and walked proudly. 

And then it was over.  We got on the bus, everyone hugged, and then they whisked us away. 

We had the rest of the day free.  Our first taste of freedom in over nine weeks.  I walked down to the PX for the first time in my life, with some other friends.  I spend part of my first $400 paycheck on a CD player, which I had never owned myself before, and Burger King, which tasted like a king’s banquet.  The other soldiers hung around with their families…showed them the barracks and the victory tower.  I sat on the balcony and wrote in my *****. The same ***** that guided me through basic training and would provide comfort over the rough eight year journey ahead. 

The next day we said our goodbyes.  Lots of hugs…a few tears but not many.  We left at different times.  Some had gone a little past midnight.  Others were not leaving until late that afternoon.  Some were flying across the country.  Others were going to the battalion across the street.  I was boarding a plane to a tiny base known as NTTC Corry Station, in Pensacola, FL.  No one else had even heard of it.

I was placed in a group of nine people.  Four of us would go to Florida, the other five would break off from the group at a layover in South Caroline. 

At the taxi stop, I met my three counterparts, the first 3 in the military I knew with the same MOS, 98K.  There was a girl, Uba, with a short dirty blonde bob and hazel eyes, who was mildly attractive but had moderate acne and always seemed agitated.  Another male soldier, Tomkins, was very relaxed, but also seemed a little slow to catch on.  His face was slightly pudgy, and he had a narrow brow which seemed to make his entire face look like it was imploding into his eye sockets.  Still he was friendly and the first to introduce himself to me.  Finally, there was Arcand, who looked like, and was the quintessential Asian genius/video game geek.  He was thin, with prominent eyebrows, and always seemed to lift his head and look at someone out of the corner of his eyes while he talked to them. 

In the airport, I chatted with some of the other nine soldiers, but the one I specifically remember was a cute blonde named Nimba.  She was attractive in a geeky sort of way, with a huge smile, slightly bucked teeth, round cheeks that were small like cherries, and a chin-tucked shyness about her that I was instantly attracted too. 

I can never forget this girl, because it was the first time in the Army where I planned for, and received a woman’s phone number.  I remember how difficult it was for me.  Working up the nerve—faking the confidence—but then when we sat down and started talking, it was an instant connection.  We talked for two hours.  I can’t even remember about what – all I remember is that it was the first time I was able to produce that “spark” on purpose.  I had many high school romances – but they were always some chance filled happenstance.  This was the first time I wanted a woman, talked to a woman, and left with her number before she boarded a plane to California. 

I would only call her once – AIT was too busy of a time to continue calling her – but she certainly remained in my memory forever.  It nothing else, she convinced that I could actually stand a chance in life and love.  Before, I had committed myself to dying young, alone and miserable, because of my past and what I came from.  She made me realize that I was now attractive enough and healthy enough to live a normal life. 

She was a small part of the healing process – as were other girls and other experiences in the Army.  As I said earlier, there are silly little moments.  Silly little moments that make up a career.

The four of us, Uba, Tomkins, Arcand, and myself arrived at Pensacola’s airport that evening.  We split a cab, and headed towards NTTC Corry Station.  We all questioned amongst ourselves what journey might truly lie ahead…

Stripped Leadership

It felt surreal…like a movie, standing in the First Sergeant’s office, listening to him berate me for my lack of respect in the course of filing my IG complaints.  I had continued to discuss with the Inspector General my mistreatment at the hands of the Menwith Hill command, the abuse of authority, and attempts at retribution through the overall investigate process.

The truth of the matter was that I knew what was coming to me.  I knew I would possibly loose my rank.  I knew the command at Menwith Hill would attempt to discredit me in front of my soldiers and force me out of the military.  I just wasn’t prepared for it to be so blatantly obvious to everyone involved. 

Our Shift Sergeant, SSG P had just failed his PT test months earlier, and was to be soon replaced.  Everyone assumed that I would be taken over, having had both the experience of being a former platoon sergeant, and seniority in rank.

Instead I found myself again in the 1SG Tommy Riley’s office, being yelled at for continuing to appeal the lengthy string of NCOER’s I was receiving, and that I had no right to question the 1SG’s involvement in the process even though he was neither my rater nor senior rater.  Then he broke the news to me.  SSG N, a junior NCO with little experience, would become the new shift sergeant, and I would be placed in an advisory capacity to him.

Basically I was told “SSG, I don’t care what the Inspector General says.  I am the 1SG of this command and you will hold no leadership position while I am in charge.” 

And that was it.  My career was officially dead in the water.

It was a long ways from the stellar soldier who was leading 60 troops as a platoon sergeant and promoted to SSG just two years earlier. 

At that point there was nothing left I could do.  I had been removed from my previous platoon and operations section, and placed in a new position that had nothing to do with my job field.  My shifts really only consisted of working two hours a night, and doing my own pet projects the rest of the time.  I was more focused on getting married and having children. 

I still fulfilled all my duties.  I volunteered for events, organized and tried to get management roles in the back offices. 

But, ultimately I was left unfulfilled.  The best I could do was organize mock promotion boards, push junior soldiers to better themselves, and be the best leader I could be without having any sort of authority. 

In a way, it was kind of a good leadership exercise, because I had to lead from my charisma and spirit, and not from my army-given authority.  I spent my last year trying to inspire as opposed to trying to lead, which I believe is the only reason I kept the respect of my subordinates. 

The soldiers campaigned long and hard for me to placed back in a leadership position, and I did become a squad leader for the NCO’s in the platoon one final time before I separated.  It was my last hurrah, and I enjoyed it.  Still, there was conflict with the Junior NCO’s who would get in legal quandaries with their soldiers and disagreed with my advice.  I had no authority in such situations, and it came to quite a head one night when one of the specialists in the command, an alcoholic who continually showed up to work drunk, decided to take it too far. 

I had warned the junior NCO’s about this soldier.  We all agreed he needed to be counseled, but we disagreed greatly about how to do the counseling.  They wanted to do a quick “give him UCMJ and throw him out” counseling, and I tried many times to explain to them that it wouldn’t work that way.  That they needed to consult with JAG, Army Alcohol and Drug Abuse Program, and other agencies so that the proper policies were enforced and the soldier was given the opportunity to correct himself and discharged properly.

They went the “hard-ass” route—the soldier appealed to several agencies at once, and it took the command another entire year to discharge him—but that wasn’t the worst of it.

Late on CQ, SSG P called down to operations.  The M.O.D. (I believe the equivalent of American SWAT team) was standing outside the Army CQ office, looking for a young underage girl from Harrogate.

The alcoholic specialist had taken her hostage, and was literally holding her inside his room, refusing to let her go. 

SSG P, in all his ignorance, let the M.O.D. on base, and for a short time, the British Force invaded our barracks, arrested one of our soldiers, and took him into foreign custody.

Which made the discharge process even longer.

All of this could have been avoided by doing things the “right way” as opposed to the “army way”, but without older, experience soldiers running the place, it was trial by error. 

That was how I spent the last of my time in the military…inspiring to many…but only useful to a certain degree. 

Real Soldiers

I’ve never claimed to be a “real” soldier. I don’t think anyone in my job field carries that right. At least half of the eight years I was in the military, I didn’t even believe in what I was doing, and the other half I lied to myself just to get along. The goal was ALWAYS to finish my career and move on to something better…I wasn’t a soldier…I was just doing what I had to do. Towards the end of my career, as we were knee deep in the “Global War on Terror”, President Bush decided to authorize everyone in the military to wear the “National Defense Service Medal”. To tell you the truth, I felt kind of dirty wearing that medal…not because of my status as a soldier, but because I was getting a medal that my grandfather had to fight in the trenches of WWII for, and my other Grandfather had to serve through both the Korean and Vietnam wars for. I was wearing a medal that my great, great, great, great, great, great Grandfather wore for serving as a doctor on the front lines of the Revolutionary war.

My accomplishment, my reason for wearing that medal, was sitting behind a computer and watching people get killed from a distance.

It is funny, however, that I arrived at the same dark, cynical place towards the end of my career, as when I first came in. I say it’s funny, because I went through a LOT of changes in the military, and honest to God there were times I was damn proud to be a soldier and would do anything I could do guarantee freedom in this country.

The first of these times was this gawdawful Road March home. We had just hit the trail, after a 5-7 road mile march out, and three days of field exercises, a two mile road march back to a 100 meter low crawl under live fire, and now, the final test…the fifteen mile ruck march home, through dark forests, and culminating with the dreaded obstacle we had talked about for eight weeks…the one mile incline known as “fallout hill”.

Now, of course, to any seasoned infantry vet, this march would be a joke. Hell, even now for me, being much stronger than I was back then, I probably wouldn’t think much of it. At that point in time, though, at that particular place, it was some of the worst pain I’ve ever been through.

We started too fast for one thing.

Our other marches were leisurely, where we walked slowly, took quiet breaks to crawl down and scout for the enemy.

This march was more like a sprint in full combat gear. And IT WAS DARK! Darker than we had ever been before. The only way forward was to stare at the “cat eyes”, glowing stickers on back of the helmet in front of you. I could feel it, that if I lost sight of those cat eyes in front of me, I would disappear. My soul would evaporate into the vast forestry in the darkness around me, and my life as a soldier and a person would be finished.

There was pain…real pain. My entire body ached, from dehydration, from my skinny legs not being able to support the weight I was carrying, from total concentration on the cat eyes in front of me, from the confusion of stumbling so quickly through dense forest in fog of night.

I remember a small Hispanic girl, only four feet tall, named Noriega. She had almost collapsed under the pressure, but she was still moving. She stumbled once. The Drill Sergeant grabbed her, stood her up, and took her rucksack and threw it on back of his. He marched forward quickly towards the front of the platoon, and I caught a glimpse as he ran by. The crazy man, only a little bigger than me, had five different soldier’s rucksacks on top of his, and he was sprinting ahead faster than all of us.

I had to pee. No time to pee…but I had to pee.

Finally, we stopped, momentarily, to lay down and pull perimeter security with our weapons. I dug an unnoticeable trench next to me, and did my business.

We stood…kept marching, forever it seemed.

At some point, our platoon guide, Summers, fell. We rushed to pick him. We were soldiers at this points, battle buddies. There was no more ghetto infantry, no more cliques. We are all equally in the same hell, the same pain, and we needed to survive together. This was the road march home, and not one man was going to be left behind.

There were flashing lights in the distance. Ambulances taking care of some of the soldier’s who were injured, falling out. I couldn’t see exactly what was happening to whom, and the mystery made the sirens all the more spooky.

Perhaps that’s when it seemed the most real to me. Crossing that street between the darkened forests, with one street lamp, and the rain pouring down. To the right of the road was a fallout truck from soldiers who were unable to make it. A small few, less than ten, rested there for a couple miles, and attempted to rejoin the march. The miserable, muddy, downtrodden looks on their faces as they watched us struggle to march by was indescribable. They looked defeated, and I’m sure we looked the same.

We marched a few more miles, and then it happened. All through basic, I had pushed myself, my body, physically, in ways it had never been challenged before. For some men, basic training is easy…it’s like their football camp or gym class. For boys like me, it was an excruciating exercise in pushing my frail, malnourished body, to limits it never had before. I had taken pride in that through basic, I had challenged myself and won, without injury, and completed all my tasks.

But for the first time, ever, in my whole life, my physical body completely failed me. I felt my foot slipping, and no amount of control I exerted would stop it. I strained against the urge to fall, but my ankle rolled. The soldiers next to me heard the tendons in my foot snap, and my ankle crack.

I fell.

I fell hard. My foot and ankle felt like they had just become a foreign part of my body. They no longer belonged to me. They were just toys hanging off the edge of my leg.

“Drill Sergeant!” I heard a soldier yell. It was Santos, “Drill Sergeant, he’s hurt!”

Immediately I snapped back to reality.

Summers was next to me within seconds, and Santos on the other side.

“Get me up,” I yelled, “Get me up.”

I was not going to fail now. Not after all that I had been through…not just in basic, but in life. I was not going to fail and go back to shitty hick town life because of one broken ankle.

“Come on,” Summer and Santos said as they lifted me up. Drill Sergeant Evett sprinted towards us.

“All right, let’s get him on the truck.”

I pushed off and stood on my good leg. No way in hell I was getting on that truck.

“Soldier!” The Drill Sergeant yelled at me.

Santos asked if I was all right. The Drill Sergeant looked at all three of us, then directly at me.

“You want to keep going?”

I nodded.

“You two,” he nodded towards Santos and Summers, “Tighten the laces on that boot as tight as you possibly can. Let’s go.”

He sprinted ahead. Within seconds, my boot was so tight it was supporting me more than my ankle was. I limped forward…the pain was insanely excruciating.

We made it to fallout hill…and we kicked it ass like there was nothing to it. Because fallout hill may have been a mile incline, but it was a mile incline next to our home barracks. We all scurried up that graveled road like there was gold at the top. My rucksack had bent from the fall, so not only was my ankle destroyed, but a sharp stabbing in my back from the rucksack would turn into a 14” deep bruise the next day. It didn’t matter at that point…all the pain…was almost over…

Just a little further…

Then I’m “leaving on a jet plane.”

Up the hill…

Help your buddies, everyone…

Keep your weapon…

Watch the cat eyes…

A Soldier’s song...

We saw the barracks. Drill Sergeants slowed the march, and gathered us into an organized formation. In the distance, we heard…music?

They were playing, Lee Greenwood’s “I’m Proud to be an American.” Now, this was pre-9/11, before the song became overplayed and lost all its emotional value.

We arrived in front of the Barracks. Drill Sergeant Teague gave the order.

“Platoon, Halt!”

Never…never in the entire eight weeks of training had those words carried so much meaning.

“All right, soldiers, drop your gear, take of your boots, and do a foot check. PVT --, leave yours on until I get a chance to check it out.”

I left mine on…at this point it would have to be cut off anyways.

As we laid down our gear, the men in our platoon began to look at one another, and with the music, and the test we had just completed, we all wept openly. I know a lot of the guys would not admit to it now if you asked them, but I will say in all honestly, that there was not a dry eye. There were hugs, and congratulations, and a sense of pride and accomplishment in every soldier there. We were a team, a cohesive unit that had just finished one of the most intense basic military courses in the world, and lived to tell the tale.

They finished the night by putting us in a small, unofficial formation. Each Drill Sergeant stood in front of every individual soldier, and pinned us with our rank if we had any, (I had enlisted as a PV2, one rank up), and a gold plated US Army brass for our dress uniform. They congratulated us, and said a kind word to each of us.

My Drill Sergeant’s words were very simple.

“You know, you’re no longer the boy you were. You’re now the soldier who just marched fifteen miles and finished his basic training on a broken ankle. No one will ever change that about you.”

And the truth be told, for that very moment, I honestly believed in everything the military stood for. I loved my country, I loved freedom, and I would give my very life and soul to protect all those within its borders. For that very brief moment in time, I realized that I could be in the military and stand for something, without compromising who I am, because I did believe in those things we were fighting for. When I received that brass…I felt like I could WWIII all on my own.

I had done something my mother and father never expected or wanted me to do. I succeeded, as a human being, in one of the most challenging courses of life a person could go through. I was a SOLDIER. I was strong, mentally, physically, and emotionally.

For some people, Basic Training is a cakewalk, and hardly an experience worth mentioning, but I honestly believe, for the good majority of us, it is the true test of who we are as human beings.

Because, there are plenty of men like me, Santos, Summer, Trochnell, Hanner, and Eagle, who come from completely different walks of life. Yet, there, that day, on that field, we were all equals and brothers. In my heart and soul, I know it is only because of three Drill Sergeants that guided us, and their army curriculum, that we were able to become something better than we were.

That night, The Drill Sergeant cut off my boot and examined my ankle.

He said I needed to go to sick call.

I said not a chance in hell. I was marching across that graduation field, and I couldn’t do that if they gave me a profile.

He said do pushups, with my good ankle, and then he said he would keep it under wraps. But I was under strict orders to get it looked at as soon as I got to AIT. Of course, by that point it would be too late, and I would be stuck with a lifelong disability…

But I was going to walk across that field.

They let us sleep in the next day, until around noon.

Have mercy, that was the best sleep I HAVE ever gotten in my entire life. J

Request for Congressional Involvment

This is a letter sent to Darlene Hooley, a Congressional Representative from Oregon, from one of the soldier's at Menwith Hiil, dated in early 2002.

There‘s two things that the army can never take from you. They can never take your integrity, and they can never take your pride.

These are the words spoken to me by SFC Hudinburgh, a wise and strong NCO of the 404^th MI Company, whom a good majority of us young leaders someday aspire to be. His words were in response to the delicate position in which myself and a number of young leaders now find themselves, which I am outlining below, and seeking assistance for. When asking for redress in a convoluted situation such as mine, it is important to first outline the exact circumstances that have created such a situation.

As young NCO’s in the US Army, we define ourselves by seven ethical standards, known as Army values, which dictate our lives. We would find it,then, to be readily apparent that our senior leadership at all levels hold themselves accountable to those same standards, and enforces those standards equivocally across the command climate. It is only when our senior leadership violates these values, that a junior soldier must seek redress, be it through higher command leadership, Inspector General Requests, or Judge Advocate General Investigations.

A soldier who initiates the above actions expects certain reasonable discretions be taken when handling them, to include confidentiality and avoidance of any possible redress in response to such matters. Prudence suggests that with smaller, local commands, assistance would be readily be available through discussion with the next higher commander to expedite the complaint process. When this fails, soldiers have the option of disclosing command inquiries with Inspector General Requests, or Judge Advocate General Investigations. When a prolonged period of abusive command authority exists, however, at multiple levels in the command structure, and when soldiers have suffered extreme redress for utilizing the above military structures, it becomes necessary to seek further assistance through congressional means. Such has been the case of myself and fellow servicemen at Menwith Hill Station. The leadership under our Battalion Commander LTC Pastore, our company commander CPT Riley, our first sergeant, 1SG Riley, and several of their senior level subordinates, has contained such documented and repeated abuses of power and authority, that they must be addressed at the highest levels. To support this, I request that the following information be submitted for unbiased scrutiny to my congressional representative, and his staff.


ISG Riley has fabricated racial allegations against a junior SSG, SSG Turner, without credence. His basis for this was a police report, which contained no such allegations against SSG Turner. The police officer testified that no such racial incidents had occurred and any such allegations were completely fabricated on the 1SG’s behalf.


1SG Riley has called SSG Turner at operations on a night shift, while under the influence of alcohol. He slurred angrily at the soldier, claiming to be on his way to counsel him at 0300. He never arrived.

ISG Riley has repeatedly punished a junior soldier, PVT Dove, with UMCJ action, without attempting to resolve or identify the situation in which PVT Dove finds himself.

1SG Riley recommended a junior SGT, SGT Andrews, for UCMJ punishment for a minor incident; despite the fact this soldier was a stellar leader who never before had an instance of misconduct, and in direct opposition to her platoon sergeant’s recommendation.

1SG Riley ordered the platoon sergeant to counsel SGT Andrews that she would be receive UCMJ punishment, despite the fact that the UCMJ action never actually occurred.

1SG Riley contacted SGT Andrews on a night shift, while under the influence of alcohol. He slurred angrily at the soldier that he would be on his way to counsel her, but never arrived.

1SG Riley forced me to change a subordinate’s evaluation report as she was separating from the military, to include pending action he intended to take against her for missing work to take care of a sick child. SGT Taylor ETS’ed without receiving UCMJ punishment, even though it was still included in her final evaluation report at 1SG Riley’s insistence.

1SG Riley has been witness by many soldiers stumbling around on base while under the influence of alcohol, muttering and initiating drunken conversations.

1SG Riley and CPT Riley have both held company level training meetings in the base club bar with other SFC’s, while consuming alcohol.

1SG Riley has several times offered assistance to me and other soldiers personally, only to change his position entirely when finding the situation may negatively affect him.

1SG Riley has routinely fraternized with junior soldiers at dance clubs outside the base, in the local community of Harrogate, while under the influence of alcohol.


1SG Riley has allowed soldiers that are drinking buddies like SFC McClain and SSG Campanario, to routinely miss work, skip PT and training, and be held completely unaccountable for their actions by being placed in leadership positions.

Junior soldiers cite this as their number one concern that demonstrates the 1SG’s lack of ethics.

1SG Riley permitted marital indiscretions to take place between a junior soldier, SPC Dove, and SSG Campanario.

CPT Riley, the 404^th MI Commander, has frequently been seen by myself and other soldiers flirting with his company orderly room clerk, SGT Catino.

CPT Riley has been seen kissing SGT Catino by civilians, soldiers, and members of other services outside of military duties, and has been overheard discussing his wife’s anger over the matter.

CPT Riley and LTC Pastore both permitted officers to bring kegs of beer to the Army organizational day; the entire command climate at Menwith Hill is overrun with alcoholism, and this incident has repeatedly been mentioned by junior soldiers as an example.

LTC Pastore and CPT Riley denied SPC Muhammad’s request for religious headgear despite previous army precedence for such an item. Another soldier, SSG Gregg Johnson was permitted to wear his headgear by a previous Menwith Hill command and still continues to do so.

The 404th Ml Company has failed to train its soldiers on simple Army tasks such as risk assessment and counseling. They have distracted IC inspections into such matters by presenting a few soldiers who train themselves, instead of giving a general representation of their overall training environment. A random sampling of 404^th Senior NCO’s will demonstrate this lack of command Army knowledge.

LTC Pastore excludes SFC and above from professional interaction with subordinates by placing them in day support staff, where they are rarely seen for mentorship or guidance.

LTC Pastore has repeatedly claimed to investigate such incidents, but rarely finds any evidence in support of allegations made against both the Commander and 1SG of 4O4th MI Company.

1SG Riley has repeatedly ignored requests to resolve issues centered around soldier work positions, resulting in every single NCO working on a certain high priority system to receive negative evaluation reports, flags, bars, and denial of end of tour awards.

1SG Riley has caused severe professional redress to any individual who has attempted to inquire into the matter of why these soldiers are having trouble with this position; he has consistently refused to acknowledge documented problems with the day office. He instead blames junior soldiers with no support.

The 404th Ml Company has had two soldiers attempt to commit suicide under their command. Both instances were soldiers who have had excruciating negative actions taken against them by 1SG Riley and CPT Riley. With proper counseling and facilitation of their needs, the situation would have been avoided.

1SG Riley has repeatedly counseled a single NCO on situations that the soldier has filed IG complaints against about his back office supervisory staff. He does not understand the army ethic, and indicates that he feels that the soldier should ‘Ignore” evidence that completely substantiates a prolonged bias against fellow operators on the NCO’s position.

1SG Riley has ordered the same NCO to not talk with any junior enlisted soldiers and to not hold any leadership position; he gives orders specifically so he can later add them to counseling statements and convey inaccurate portrayals of individuals, stating, “I had to order the soldier not to talk to anyone”.

1SG Riley and SFC Dochterman have both caused severe distress since this soldier’s initial IG complaints were filed against them. SFC Dochterman has told different operators on shift, that if the soldier does anything that bothers them in any way, they are immediately to report it to him so that he may write it up and turn it in as proof.

CPT Riley is currently attempting retribution against this NCO’s complaints by initiating a commander’s inquiry into the soldier’s conduct as an NCO. As informed by 1SG, during this inquiry the soldier is to be flagged from all favorable actions, and must be sent to a mental health facility to have a professional evaluation on his mental stability.

At every opportunity during the above actions I and other soldiers have attempted all possible means of redress available. Our repeated requests for assistance have only been met by deference to the junior commands, which have made no honest effort to inquire into the above matters.

Instead, soldiers continue to find themselves the victim of 1SG Riley’s legal manipulation, which he uses to distort the truth. I have been reassured time and again that there would be no redress from such complaints. As it appears now, like the other NCO’s in my situation before me, I am on the verge of having my once stellar career destroyed. I can accept that penalty if it resolves the problems I have divulged above. As a great senior NCO, who does live up the army values, has taught me, “The Army can take everything from you. They can take your money, your rank. They can take your family, send you off to some godforsaken desert, and even take your life. But there’s two things they can’t take--your integrity and your pride. Your integrity; you know if it’s there or not and you keep it that way. Your pride is your own, well you’re the only that can take that away.” The process 1SG Riley has in place at Menwith Hill is so streamlined, that by the time this reaches your desk, undoubtedly my rank will have already been taken. My integrity and pride will still remain, as will the respect of my junior subordinates; what will suffer is their trust in military command and discipline.

I therefore, respectfully and humbly request that these matters be attended to, scrutinized, and resolved at the soonest possible date of convenience. There are issues of extreme urgency that need to be resolved at high levels in the army command at Menwith Hill station. Soldiers have already attempted to take their own lives. That alone should be an indicator of the type of dangerous environment that exists on site. Having resolved all other manners of solution, it is my sincere request that LTC Pastore, CPT Riley, and 1SG Riley all receive reprimand for their conduct in the course of my IG request and their own previous alcohol related incidents, and possibly relief of their duties. Although this is an extreme request, it is necessary recourse provided the above allegations, and the only way to assuage the legal wrangling and character assassination 1SG Riley uses to bully soldiers honesty and courage. I personally am requesting to be completely disassociated with this command as it has negatively affected both my career and chances for promotion. This inquiry has been made at several levels of command, but fallen on deaf ears. It is my humble and sincere hope that my congressional representative and his staff take a personal look into the charges I have levied, in order to facilitate a higher standard for the good nature and conduct of those in senior leadership at Menwith Hill Station.

Battle Buddies

My battle buddy in basic training was a laid back guy named Trochnell. He was a good guy, but an ordinary guy. Nothing stood out about him. He never talked much. We got along pretty well.

But if there's one thing I've learned about isolated training, (like PLDC, Basic Training, AIT, etc.) it's that they tend to make all Soldiers, even laid back gentlemen like Trochnell, want to fight one another.

So, Trochnell and I came to blows one day. It was a small incident, really, but it made me really think about the psychology behind it all. I mean, here you had me, a near pacifist, throwing blows with Trochnell, who's probably never even punched a guy his entire life, and for the life of me, I can't even remember what for.

Basic Training is a real mindfuck...it truly is.

For example, I remember going through the Gas chamber. There are only two things out of Basic Training I would never repeat again. One of them was the final road march, which nearly ruined me, and the other was that gawddamned fucking Gas chamber.

The Drill Sergeants are funny about it. They like to feed you as much chilly macaroni as possible before you go in. I remember them making us eat 2, maybe 3 extra meals that day. Then, they have the camera crew waiting on the outside so your parents can buy a tape of your misery as you leave the chamber vomiting.

You go in, line up against a wall. Everything is dark and red and spooky. Because, that's what the Gas chamber is...it's confronting your fears...letting your mind and body know that the equipment the army has given you is going to protect you.

But, it didn't protect everyone. Either the equipment was old and broken, or the seals didn't work, but one way or another, as we waited outside the line to go into the chamber, we'd see a soldier come running out crying because they couldn't breathe. They sent them out the front way, so we could all see how painful it was.

You went inside, and stood against the wall. The Drill Sergeant would come by and check your seal, then, at the proper moment, you would break your seal, take a breathe, and say your name and social security number. That was the easy part.

Then, at the end, EVERYONE had to break their seals at once. You stood in line, as the Drill Sergeant let each person out, one by one. If you held your breathe, or closed your eyes, you got sent to back of the line.

I remember breaking my seal, and I fully expected my eyes to hurt, and maybe my face. Everyone knows that about tear gas. I wasn't expecting my LUNGS to hurt! It's like breathing fire, and it's everywhere. You feel like you are standing and breathing in the pits of hell. Holding your breathe hurts, taking deeper breathes hurts...there's no escape. I remember standing there, moving sooo slowly towards the exit.

I closed my eyes...for the tiniest moment. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think. I thought I was going to die.

The Drill Sergeant physically YANKED me out of the line, by the back of my BDU shirt.

"Back of the line Soldier!"

And so I went...eventually I got out, and I was perfectly fine afterwards. I was never really in danger. The Gas chamber isn't about your body overcoming the elements. It's about your mind overcoming the fear.

Like I said, Basic Training really is a mindfuck...

And, not everyone was capable of handling it.

PVT Thompson was the guy who broke down in our basic training class.

He was a geeky kid, kind of medium size. I remember, we were standing outside the chow hall, and the drill sergeants decided to smoke us (make us do some push ups and other exercises). We did some push ups, then some flutter kicks...and so on. We did some overhead arm claps, and then to add to the torture, we had to hold our full canteens over our heads for as long as we could, while our string-noodled arms shivered from the workout.

Now, this stuff was easy to me. I mean...it hurt, but it was bearable.

But, something about this one particular exercise made this Thompson kid flip out. I remember, his arms slowly starting to fall, and the Drill Sergeant running towards him. It was the good looking female Drill Sergeant I talked about before.

"You better get that canteen up, private!" she yelled in his direction.

The normal response would be "Yes, Drill Sergeant!"

Instead, we all heard, "Fuck you, Drill Sergeant! I can't keep it up!", and EVERYONE turned their heads. Private Thompson was beat red, tears streaming down his face.

"What did you just say to me, Soldier, what did you just say?"

"I said I can't hold up this fucking canteen you fucking cunt!!"

He threw the bottle in her direction, and it landed at her feet. She began screaming in his face, at the top of her lungs, and within seconds, at least four other drill sergeants had joined her for support. They were all standing in a circle and yelling at the Private. He was standing perfectly still, yelling right back at the top of his lungs through the tears, his fists tightly clenched. His voice was intense and wavering, like nothing I've heard before or since. It was the voice of a mental breakdown, which shook all of us to the core.

One of the Drill Sergeants got behind Private Thompson...I couldn't really tell what happened, if he threw a blow first or if they just grabbed him, but either way, the entire group of Drill Sergeants dragged him off screaming, and that was the last we saw of Private Thompson.

For some reason, all of Basic Training seemed a lot more real after that.

There were a lot of emotions all flowing together towards the end of basic training. A lot of loneliness and longing for the normal life again.

I had just been to the hospital because for some reason my forearms were swollen up to the size of Popeye's. The doctor's called it muscle stress...whatever it was, it was damn weird looking. I was 118 lbs with bodybuilders arms. It took a day or so for the swelling to go down.

But, something about sitting their in that hospital, seeing the outside news, and the Burger King down the street. It reminded me that their was still a world outside of this tiny little camp, and I longed to be a part of it again.

For eight weeks, I had no contact with the outside world. Everyone else had spoken with their families and so on. Here, I was, ready to complete the course, and tackle the hardest physical task I'd every been through in my life, and I felt like I was going through it all completely alone.

Then the letter finally came...

Well Mr. **** :

Well I am glad that you finally gave us you adderss now we can write to you. You really don't know what it as been like around here not knowing how to write to you grandma calls almost every other day to find out if we heard anything from you or if we receive your adderss or when mom call's from work and ask me if you sent a letter and then there is poor *** waits right in the front room for the mail lady to see if there is letter from you and when there is he come's out yellowing we got a letter from ***** before I can even get out of the van. I want you to know that day you left was one of the roughfest day that I ever had in my life I look at your picture on the wall every night and think why did I let you join and then I say to my maybe it's for the best I want you to know that I am very proud of you and I Love You Very Much and I do miss you I will walk in your bed room and yell at you just to keep in practice. I want to know that if you don't think you can't make it you have nothing to be ashame of and you can come home and stay and go to school. I want you to know two things one is we had real bad time with ***** when you on the airplane man did he ever ball we didn't know if we could get him to quit then your mother started then you know what happen I started. Two. now your mother can never say you will be like *** again because you have done more than he will ever do in his life. I want you to remember one thing be proud of your self for you done more than any of the ****'s ever will do.

LOVE YOUR

DAD

P.S. You can call us collect if you want and remember one thing your dad stinks when it come's to writing letters. Will have new mattress on box spring for your room this week.

When I had received the letter, I took it to the bathroom. I sat down in one of the stalls, and frankly, I cried like a little bitch. I suppose part of it was missing home. Part of it was realizing how much I had already forgotten of who I was, in just those first 8 weeks, and part of it was a longing to see the outside world again.

I dried my face and left the restroom. A couple of the other guys smiled and nodded...most of them had done the same things the first time they received there letters from home. None of us said anything about it.

Two days later we started the final test. It began with a 5-6 mile road march. I remember the first five mile road march we did, almost four weeks ago. It was nearly impossible. It took every once of strength I had...and I was not looking forward to doing it again. I was even more not looking forward to the 15 miles on the way back.

We began the march by staggering off into two columns, one for each side of the road. You kept a 5-10 meter interval from the guy in front of you. Every once in a while one of the Drill Sergeants would give us the hand signal to halt, and we would stop and kneel or lay on the side of the road, behind cover, looking for an invisible enemy.

As we neared our campsite destination, something strange happened. We reached our destination, and I was feeling good. Not just good, but great! We marched around five miles, in the middle of the 100 degree heat, in full gear and rucksack, and I felt stronger then I had ever felt before.

We set up camp. Frankly, this was the absolute coolest part of basic training, and I think the most fun I've had EVER. We set up our own tents using the provided equipment. Everyone out at the campsite was supposed to dig their own foxholes, but the Drill Sergeant pointed at me and five other Soldiers. We were assigned "Special Duty".

Trochnell was left behind to dig our foxhole by himself. Now, in any other situation my battle buddy would have been pissed. But he and I both knew what "Special Duty" in basic training really entailed. It was never fun, and always much worse than the actual task at hand.

In this case, however, it was not so bad. We went out and about setting up the LRC course that we had to navigate later that night. It was standard stuff. Rope crossings, wall climbings. All of it was a lot easier than it had been eight weeks ago.

I was starting to fill out. In the past eight weeks I had gone from 118lbs to 138lbs. The newfound muscles were serving me well. I could run faster and farther as well. I remember in high school, running a mile seemed unfathomable to me. Now I could run two in less than sixteen minutes.

We got back from setting up the course, and I was just in time to help Trochnell finish up the foxhole. We covered it with some nice camouflage, and I'll be damned if by the time it was all said and done we couldn't see the campsite at all.

Or so we thought. It was early morning on the second day. During the whole field exercise we slept about 2-3 hours each night, between guard duties, exercises, etc. Around 3:30-5:30 each morning, we'd get up, grab our M-16s, and scurry into our foxholes to conduct perimeter security. It was during this lazy period that the Drill Sergeant managed to work his way into our perimeter. All I remember was the sound of a small "thunk" beneath us, and then white smoke everywhere.

But, even that was fun. The whole field exercise was a blast. We were dead tired by the time it was done. We didn't sleep at all that final night, but all in all it was the best time I had through basic training.

The time came to pack up. We filled in our foxholes, policed up the brass and garbage, and the Drill Sergeant assembled us into a formation. We brought along our rucksack and full gear, and stood at attention.

Now, this is where the fun ended.

Up until this point, when we traveled from range to range, for the different exercises, we were herded like cattle in the back of these tiny green trucks, 60 men to a truck. That would not be happening this time.

When the formation was finished, we were expecting to be dismissed and fall out to the truck.

Instead, the Drill Sergeant kept us at attention.

"Left face...forward march!"

Even though there was not a sound amongst us, you could feel the tension. Not only were we going to march home fifteen miles that night, after a low crawl under live fire, but we had now just been "unofficially" notified that we would be marching the two miles it took us to get to the live fire range.

I was a little angry, but mostly I was tired, in my mind, heart, body and soul, and I never hated a Drill Sergeant so much as that very moment.

Still, I knew this was it. I smiled, sucked up every ounce of motivation I had left in my tiny little spirit, and I moved on.

This was the march home...

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Dwight Bullard - Too Lazy to Council Subordinates...

Just a small update with this email...

I'm attaching two copies of the counseling that 1LT Bullard attempted to give to me while recommending me for UCMJ.

The incident was silly. I had decorated our work section for the Christmas holiday, something I've done every year in the military, as a way of establishing a tiny bit of morale with the troops.

Dwight Bullard and his cronies came in one morning and started complaining that a General (Maj. Gen. John DeFreitas - INSCOM Commander) was coming to visit and that all the decorations had to be taken down because they felt that he thought the decorations would be unprofessional.

Naturally, I disagreed. I thought the General would appreciate the fact that we cared enough for our troops to make them feel at home during the holiday season as best we could. LT Bullard and Mike Bolden, the section supervisor, had agreed only a week before.

Now, however, faced with the fact that the General was coming to visit, both LT Bullard and Mike reversed their positions, and were arguing with the soldiers and myself that everything had to be taken down. Never mind that this discussion should have taken place in private, not yelled to every operator in the work section.

We settled on an agreement. I would move the decorations to a less obvious location, where they wouldn't be so distracting to the visiting General. I agreed with this, and moved the tree behind a cabinet about four feet away from it's previous location in the middle of the hallway.

I left for the day, as it was the end of my shift. When I returned with my fellow soldiers for the next days shift, all of our decorations had disappeared, and the previous shift was angry because LT Bullard and Mike Bolden had made them take down all of our decorations.

I talked to my supervisor, Annette Wilson about this. Annette was an outstanding NSA Leader, who had recently stepped down from her position as watch supervisor, to take charge of our tiny little section until her tour of duty was over. She was stern, fair, and one of the only real leaders in the political nightmare that was Menwith Hill.

I was very concerned about the decorations, which were valued at around $1500, and a lot of which was personal property from different soldiers, some of which had been in their family for generations. When I talked to Annette about recovering the missing items, she suggested that Lt. Bullard had probably placed them in (Division Supervisor) Kevin Hay's office.

So, I went back to the office, with Annette, to recover the items. I asked Annette if I could redecorate now that the General had left, and she said I should probably wait until Lt. Bullard and Mike had regiven their approval.

Annette had a better idea. In the meantime, she thought it would be kind of funny and cute, if we decorated the Christmas tree and left it in Kevin Hay's office as a surprise when he arrived back from his holiday. Kevin and Annette were good friends, and she knew he would find it hilarious.

The next day, I was serving as interim platoon sergeant and doing some military paperwork on my off time. I passed Dwight Bullard's office, and he was smirking and asked about the Christmas tree. Mike Bolden was also their and said that he thought it was the funniest thing he'd seen in a long time. Lt. Bullard was halfway laughing, but also said that I shouldn't have "broken in" to Kevin Hay's office. It was weird the way he talked...he was acting like it was okay and he thought it was funny, but then he finished every sentence with "...we're gonna have to talk about this later..."

Later happened to be when Lt. Bullard came out to watch floor and started yelling at my in front of my subordinates, as documented in my previous email. As I said, Lt. Bullard never took the time to sit down with me and listen to the fact that Annette had given me permission to retrieve the Christmas tree. He was only interested in saving his career and becoming a part the witch hunt...

Below is a copy of Lt. Bullard's noncounselling...


And below is a copy of the "new" counseling he recreated after a lengthy discussion with IG working on my behalf...

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Storms

I’ve always loved a good storm.

And in basic training they had some REALLY good storms.

Now, I don’t know why I’ve always loved a good storm. I’ve just always held some kind of a romantic notion towards the rain and thunder. Honestly, I miss some of those days when I could just sit alone in the dark and watch the storm roll in. I miss the sense of mystery it entailed.

I remember marching towards the chow hall with my platoon in basic training, and the drill sergeant calling cadence. It began to drizzle. We didn’t stop…I’m glad we didn’t stop. I LOVED every second of it.

I could see the horizon miles ahead in the distance, and one of the chow hall buildings sticking out of it.

Without warning, a roaring clap of thunder shook the ground along with a simultaneous bolt of lighting that struck beyond the chow hall in front of us. At the same time, the skies let loose, and the winds pounded us. Everyone jumped with a start and a couple soldiers chuckled and murmured under their breath. The drill sergeant stopped the formation.

“Platoon halt! Half Left Face!”

This meant that we all stopped at once, and turned slightly to our left. It gave us enough room for the next command.

“Front leaning rest position move!”

I smiled a tiny bit from the corner of my mouth. This was the pushup position.

“DROP!! Everyone just DROP! You do not have any bearing! You are afraid of a little bit of thunder! You want to be soldiers and you can’t even handle the weather! DROP!!!”

We began doing pushups to the drill sergeant’s cadence, with the pouring rain and the thunder surrounding us, and I loved every single little second of it.

It was in one of these fabulous basic training rain storms that I spoke to PVT Garland…the first and only time. She was my beautiful blonde haired blue eyed crush all through basic, who I would casually observe, but never really work up the nerve to talk to all through the length of the course. Except for that one brief moment…

It was the end of the day, the only daily 20 minutes of laziness we were allowed all throughout basic training. Most people were lined up outside the phones, calling home to loved ones, telling them how much they missed them.

I was about five weeks through the course, and hadn’t heard from my family yet. I had promised myself not to call them. After enduring eighteen years of torture, I had resolved to distance myself from that life and that pain that I once knew. Being as everyone else in basic training had already received several letters from their families, I was under the assumption that my family was ready to willingly abandon me as much as I was willing to abandon them.

So, while everyone else busied themselves with the phones and talking amongst one another, I would sit quietly outside on a bench ****** in my ***** ****. I was doing this one evening when the wildest storm broke out.

Most of the soldiers went running to the barracks. A couple stayed outside under the covered area and remained on the phones. I, on the other hand, put away my ***** **** and stood up. I walked directly into the rain, and stared up at the storm clouds, feeling the warm drops on my face and smiling at the sense of wonderment that this weather once instilled in me.

I spun slowly in a circle, staring at the sky. I know, it’s silly and gay to some, especially in the military, but I’m really beyond such trivial matters. It made me happy, and I don’t care who thinks it’s childish. I spun in the middle of the rain and the thunder and relished every moment.

And when I stopped spinning, that blue-eyed, blonde haired girl was standing right next to me, doing the same, and laughing. PVT Garland.

We spun together for a bit, with our arms outstretched, and she spoke a couple lines about how much she loved dancing in the rain and how happy it made her. I said the same.

And then it ended.

I can’t remember if the Drill Sergeants stopped us, or if the storm ended and we went back to our respective barracks. But, I know that was the extent of our entire conversation.

It’s a silly little moment. In the story of an entire military career full of politics and backstabbing and triumph and deceit, it’s really quite quaint. Still, these little moments were what made my career what it was.

Like the moment I fought the bastard Santos for the first time.

You see, my favorite thing about joining the military, was that it was a new life for me. It was a way of crafting a new personage. I did not have to be shy tortured loser from ****** anymore. I could be cool, heroic, and tough, and be respected for it. I could be the straight arrow and honorable man that I always wanted to be.

So I tried. I tried damned hard.

But the day Santos came out of the shower talking shit about he was going to rape this poor girl and he was going to beat up the Drill Sergeants, and he could beat the shit out of anyone in the room, I was just fed up. I stood up, and everyone looked. They knew what was happening.

“That’s not funny,” I told him.

You see, Santos had a way of getting on everyone’s nerves, but usually everyone ignored him and did what he said, out of fear. Everyone few days though, one Soldier would reach his breaking point, and attempt to stand up to Santos.

This was my day.

“What the fuck is your problem?” was his eloquent response.

I walked towards him.

“My problem is you’re always talking shit. No one here is scared of you. Half the people in this room could beat your ass. ”

“Oh yeah, mother fucker?” Santos roared as he darted towards me.

He swept me off my legs and lifted me into the air. Santos was a small kid, couldn’t have been more than 150-160 lbs, but I was even smaller. I was around 118 at the time, and I needed a waiver to get in.

I pounded on Santos back using really basic martial arts I had learned as a kid. Santos claim to fame was that he was a trained kickboxer, so I knew a fistfight was out of the question. After a few more blows to the back, Santos weakened his grip, and that’s when I busted out some pro wrestling holds I practiced with my little brother and daycare friends.

I was a grappler…always have been. I high school I infamously defended myself against a school bully by putting him in an inescapable “cross face chicken wing”. Of course, after I did let him go he threw a few choice blows, but I always gained the upper hand using leverage and speed.

But Santos was FAST. I mean, REALLY FAST. As he loosened his grip from the initial slam he was in the middle of giving me, I wrapped my arms around the front of his and put him in the best front facelock I could muster. Then, in what felt like a bad cheesy action movie move, I climbed the side of the bunk next to us with my now free legs, and dived backwards, driving his head into the ground.

The other guys in barracks gasped, and for a split second, Santos was still. I really wished he would stay that way…and I mean stay that way forever. For that moment in time, in all my rage and frustration, I really hoped I had broken the bastard’s neck.

It was only a split second. Santos raged as he attempted to stand up and reverse the hold. He slipped out, but I quickly wrapped him in a half, and then full nelson. Once in a great while, he’d throw a punch, or I’d sneak in a knee while I had him wrapped in a hold.

Santos would do this STUPID thing every time he escaped from a hold. He’d back away from me and do a couple of quick mid-front kicks in the air, like he was threatening me with his martial arts or something. At one point I just full on tackled him and wrapped into an STF with the same leg that he was throwing at me.

The whole fight really lasted less than three minute before the rest of the barracks pulled us apart. Basic Training fights never lasted really long, as no one wanted to get caught by the Drill Sergeants and be served with an Article 15. (The thought was horrible to me…nothing worse that a blemish on my military record from the very beginning. )

Truth be told, I don’t think I really won the fight with Santos. I mean…he was a friggin’ kick boxer. Yeah, I managed to keep him locked in holds for most of the fight, but he got in some really good blows and I definitely looked the worse for wear. No, I definitely did not win that fight that day with that particular bully.

But I did win respect, from my peers, and even from the Drill Sergeants, who have a sneaky way of figuring these things out even when no one tells them what happened.

Because, if a little ethiopian looking shit like me could hold his own with the big bad Santos, then anyone else could. Once again, I was a champion to the average guy.

Santos never got the same respect after that day. He still bullied other soldiers, but now other groups gathered against him, and not another day in basic training went by without someone standing up to him. I remember towards the end of basic, when Santos began talking shit again, and five soldiers at once muttered out of their mouths “Shut the fuck up Santos!”

Shortly after our fight, Santos was fire from being our Platoon Guide. He was replaced by a guy name Summers, who was one of Santos “Ghetto Infantry” members, but was much more level-headed than Santos. He treated the platoon with respect, and even stood up to Santos a couple times when it came to making the hard decisions. We were all happy with his appointment.

Santos was made into a Squad Leader, and strangely, I was also okay with that. He did calm down towards the end of the 8 week courses. Maybe Santos continued that trend and actually turned into a good leader somewhere down the line. Who knows? He had the potential.

I remember counting down towards the final road march. I was terrified. The final field exercise began with a 7 mile road march out to a field site. We would set up camp and conduct a variety of field training exercises over the course of three days. Then we would pack up, road march 2 miles to the live fire course.

At the live fire course, we would be required to low-crawl (and I mean LOW crawl) for a hundred meters while live ammunition was being fired over our heads and mortar was exploding around us.

From there, we were to dust ourselves off, and march back home, fifteen miles through the terrain, with a fifty pound rucksack, a 17 pound M-16, and full combat dress.

My buddy Hanner and I were sitting and talking about the end. Hanner looked at me.

“It’s gonna be hard.”

“The five mile march was hard.”

He was silent for a moment.

“Yeah, but at least we’re heading home. That’ll make it easier.”

I nodded in approval, “Yeah, then that will be the end of it. We clean weapons for a few days, and we go off to AIT.”

“I heard AIT’s even harder,” Hanner frowned, “Do you think it will be worse than this?”

I simply shrugged my shoulders.

Hanner shook his head. “I don’t think the road march will be that hard,” he smiled.

But his eyes betrayed his optimism. We both knew the worse was yet to come.

It was the longest, most grueling physical exercise I had ever put my body through…

For the first time in my life, something physically broke me…

My body was never quite the same…

Documented Examples

I am sending a documented example of how fruitless it was trying to change things at Menwith Hill. I had previously filed several IG complaints against SFC Dochterman, 1SG Riley, and a slew of others on the base who were continually harassing me and my soldiers, and attempting to ruin several careers in the process.

I had requested to the senior command and Army IG several times that I be placed in a different platoon due to the unethical bias of SFC Michael Dochterman (who I shall from this point forward refer to as DICKterman because he is truly a dick.), but the command stubbornly refused. As such, I continued to receive unverifiable, derogatory evaluation reports from DICKterman despite my best efforts as a Soldier.

It became a witch hunt, where DICKterman told everyone around me to give him all the information that they could so he could use it against me. Junior soldiers would whisper in my ear that SFC DICKterman had just been by to talk to them about me and wanted to know if I had done anything to them. Because Soldiers were refusing to talk to him, SFC DICKterman would make up statements and then force Soldiers into signing them. I learned this from my friend at the time, who said he was bullied into making this statement:



Which looks suspiciously close to this statement from one of SFC Dochterman's Senior Enlisted cronies:



Copy and paste much?

It turns out, then SFC DICKterman was so frustrated at not being able to find anything wrong with my performance, that he chose an incident where I had loosened my tie at work to exaggerate into something worthy of taking my rank. Granted, I probably shouldn't have been out of uniform, but keep in mind this is the ONE single item that they actually found wrong in the entire two years I was kept under scrutiny.

When the soldiers refused to follow along with his scheme, even after being threatened, SFC DICKterman collaborated with one of his bully counterparts, TSgt Harris, to construct the second statement, then threatened SSG Maurice Turner (One of the Soldiers who had previously experienced racism firsthand from 1SG Riley) if he did not submit a similiar statement documenting the incident.

SSG Turner refused, instead comprising by submitting the EXACT SAME STATEMENT as TSgt Harris, and admitting to me that he was doing so to save his career. There was no statement from CPT Jezercak, who witnessed the same incident, but did not want to become involved in the political witchhunt, and carried enough rank behind her to counteract SFC DICKterman's intimidating nature.

No soldier has confidence in a leader who has to whisper behind his subordinates backs instead of facing them head on, and the juniors knew SFC DICKterman was a complete tool. It backfired on him, as he quickly lost the respect of his platoon members and eventually left for a "day job".

But, not before giving me a series of horrible NCOER reports before he left. This was despite the fact that my supervisors...the people ACTUALLY WATCHING ME DO MY JOB said that I was the best soldier there and that they couldn't operate without me. DICKterman didn't listen to any of it...he made up a bunch of random derogatory bullshit and stuck it in my evaluation report, and since I didn't have the commands support, short of waiting three years for an army board to correct everything, there wasn't shit I could do about it.

Of course, all of this is in strict violation of AR 623-205, which states in paragraph 3-17:


"No references made to unproven derogatory information. No reference will be made to an incomplete investigation (formal or informal) concerning an NCO. References will be made only to actions or investigations that have been processed to completion, adjudicated,and had final action taken before submitting the NCO-ER to USAEREC; State AG; or CDR, AR-PERSCOM. "

So, despite the fact that the regulation clearly stated any negative NCOER information had to be investigated and adjudicated (of which this information had been neither), SFC DICKterman was blatantly allowed to disregard policy and throw a bunch of career-killing junk into my evaluation report with no ramification.

I tried to change this by appealing to the higher command for help. There is another clause in AR 623-205 that allows a soldier to request a commander's inquiry into a negative NCOER report. When SFC DICKterman sat me down, showed me a year's worth of negative counseling statements that he had just written in one day, and gave me a completely fabricated report, I told him straight to his face that I was going to request a commander's inquiry to LTC Pastore, the senior commander, and that it was illegal for the NCOER to be sent to PERSCOM (Where it is placed in your permanent folder) until the inquiry was completed. He said that was fine, and agreed. Here is the counselling form that he showed me, completely fabricated that day.



But, I knew SFC DICKterman all to well, and I knew that him and his racist good ole boy of a 1SG, Tommy Riley, would send the NCOER out under the rug, knowing full well that I intended to request an inquiry into it, and despite the fact that I had just told this to their faces. They were trying to keep things as quiet as possible.

So, I went down to the PAC office the next day, where they send paperwork out from the command. I walked right in the door, straight up to the SPC in charge of keeping track of the NCOERs, and asked if she had received mine yet. Indeed she had.

"Oh, it's right here. 1SG Riley told me that is was supposed to go out straight this afternoon." She pulled the paper out and showed it to me.

Like I said, they were trying to sneak it out under the rug. I'm glad I double checked, or I wouldn't even have had the chance to appeal. That's the way these people worked. If you weren't on the tip of your toes, they would sneak right past you, no matter what regulation it meant throwing out.

I explained to the SPC the regulation, and the procedures that had to be followed because I was requesting the commander's inquiry. That brave little bundle of 5 foot nothing walked right over to 1SG Riley's office and broke the bad news.

And he THREW A FIT!

There was screaming and stammering as he stood above her looking down and pointing. "Soldier that paperwork's supposed to go out today. Your not supposed to talk to that soldier about that paper."

God bless that little SPC, who coolly and calmly explained to the 1SG that she was going to have to follow the policy, and set the NCOER aside for the Batallion Commander to look at.

1SG Riley muttered under his breathe, "Fine, whatever, SSG ***, you're just digging yourself deeper," followed by another five minute lecture on not falling in line.

As part of requesting the commander's inquiry, I sent them this memo, along with the highlighted 623-205 NCOER Regulation:

THRU Sergeant Major, MHS MI BN (P)
MEMORANDUM FOR Commander, MHS MI BN (P)

SUBJECT: Request for Commander’s Inquiry


1. Under the provisions of AR 623-205, chapter 6, I am requesting a Commander’s inquiry into evaluation report ***. I have requested ongoing IG investigations into my rating scheme, and believe that because of this they are not serving my best interests as objective evaluators.

2. I believe that SFC Dochterman and 1SG Riley expressed biased judgment and included unverified, inaccurate information in the evaluation report mentioned above. My reason for this is the inclusion of several unproven statements of a derogatory nature in the Duty Performance/Values portion of the report, despite statements to the contrary from direct line supervisors who monitor my performance on a daily basis. I have also received Needs Improvement in the area of Responsibility/Accountability, with another derogatory statement pertaining to the same situation in support of the rating. I was also given a three in performance and two in potential, while ignoring several high profile contributions to the intelligence community. SFC Dochterman has ignored several of the efforts I made, that were mentioned by the commander of the MHS MI Grp in addition to national consumers, but abandoned them in support of his biased rating. He includes unsupported bullets that state I cannot perform without supervision, foregoing the input of direct supervisors that commend my daily mission contribution.

3. I respectfully request that all derogatory, unverified information be removed. SFC Dochterman has made blanket statements that I do not perform well without supervision, even though my direct line supervisor Annette Wilson will testify that I am the best operator on my position. I also request changing Duty from no, to yes in the Values portion of the report and eliminating a derogatory comment that does not support the rating. It also contains statements to the same effect as above, without evidence of what SFC Dochterman claims is substandard performance. In AR 623-205, this is specifically referenced, as statements of a derogatory nature must be fully investigated and adjucated before including them in an evaluation report. I would also like to receive a rating in performance and potential that more accurately reflects my abilities as an NCO. Peers, supervisors, and subordinates outside of the rating scheme still view me as a stellar NCO, and I have even been referenced at Navy training programs as an example of outstanding leadership. I feel that SFC Dochterman’s rating does not accurately reflect my performance, but rather provides an inaccurate, biased point of view, in retribution for ongoing requests for investigation into his conduct.


For months I got no response from the command on my NCOER. One afternoon I was bored and decided to check my OMPF, the permanent record where the army stores my NCOERs. Lo and behold, the original, unverified, made up NCOER appeared. The commander had supposedly "completed his investigation" and submitted my NCOER without notifying me. That's how confident the leadership was. They were afraid to tell me their findings to my face. I went to LTC Pastore's office to request the information.

I can't remember the entire conversation, but he said something like based upon reading the counseling statements provided by SFC Dochterman (The years worth that he came up with in a day), that the NCOER seemed accurate and that he could not change it. That's the extent of how hard the army investigates it's command issues.

With that type of hardcore detective work it's easy to see why 1SG Riley's racist reign of terror and CPT Riley's sexual harassment were allowed to last for so long.

I do remember the end of the conversation, however. I reread the regulation for LTC Pastore, explaining exactly why the NCOER was in violation. He has no response other than that he thought 1SG Riley and SFC Dochterman were not violating in his eyes. The army loves to look at it's regulations through various shades of gray. He said he didn't believe that they had any ill intentions.

Which is when I asked him "Well, then why did they try to rush my NCOER out the door without me knowing?"

"What do you mean?"

I explained what had happened, "I told them not to send it out yet, because I was requesting a commander's inquiry."

For the first time, LTC Pastore actually had a slight look of disgust on his face. He had brushed aside the stack of earlier complaints, but, I think a light bulb finally went on for him.

Still, he spoke, "SSG ***, I don't think they were doing anything unethical."

"Sir," I replied, "you don't try to hide things that are ethical."

LTC Pastore just said "Well," shrugged his shoulders and frowned a bit. He looked a little angry and confused as I grabbed my papers and left.

I was supposed to receive a written response to my commander's inquiry, but I didn't even bother asking. At this point, my fight was really through. They could write whatever they really wanted to about me, and there was nothing that I could do.

The funny thing though, is that I did get my written response. Months after getting out of the Army, while sifting through the stack of thousands of outprocessing papers that the command had given me, I found this small memo, that I never received but was obviously filed somewhere in the middle of my paperwork:

SUBJECT: Commander’s Inquiry — NCOER for ***


1. At the request of *** and lAW AR 623-205, I conducted an inquiry into his allegation that his NCOER (November 2004 — February 2005) contained unverified, derogatory, and inaccurate information. My main purpose was to provide a greater degree of command involvement in order to prevent injustices to the rated NCO and to correct errors before they became a matter of permanent record.

2. After personally discussing the evaluation with the entire chain of command and reviewing the NCOER, the Counseling Checklist (DA Form 2166-8-1), and a counseling statement, I’ve determined that SSG ***'s NCOER is accurate and lAW AR 623-205. The NCOER does not contain errors, injustices or illegalities.

3. Point of Contact: MAJ Kenneth Kaaihue, MHS MI Battalion (Provisional) Executive Officer at DSN (314) 262-7184 or Kenneth.kaaihue@menwithhill.af.mil.