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