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.