X. The Quiet
Fort Benning, Georgia.
March 4, 1984.
I ran silently through the darkness, clearing a hundred feet of open ground in a few seconds. In the half-light I nearly tripped on the first spool of barbed wire, stretching threateningly between wooden stakes. It was a long set of squares hanging over a pit of mud. One step in and my boot sunk almost four inches, making a sick squishing sound as the mud tried to swallow me up.
"In the height of the Vietnam war tactical recovery units were formed as a prelude to the modern army rangers. Hostage situations were so common the units were trained using new programs to increase the rate of hostage survival, and one of them was the night infiltration course."
Each step brought me closer to the end, but deeper into the mud. It got harder and harder to work my boots free to make the next step, and my legs got heavier and colder as water splashed up on my pants. Water seeped into my boots and soaked my socks. My big toe sheared up against the side of the boot as the shoe slid sideways, and I could feel the blisters forming.
"In the jungle, or in the city, in the dead of night without so much as a moon to guide them, soldiers were taught to move quickly and quietly with over fifty pounds of gear, to become ghosts."
It was the middle of the night and barely forty degrees outside. I had fifty pounds of gear in my backpack, I was wearing my full uniform with a tank top under an army shirt and a thick camo coat over that, and pants so heavy I had to strangle myself with my belt to keep them on. It was hard to keep track of time with no sun, but at least two hours had passed and the end seemed miles away. I was all alone, ahead of the pack, staggering through the dark.
"If we all ran through the forest screaming like banshees, we may win, but the people we're trying to save will lose. If we start every fight with gunfire, we may win, but the people we're trying to protect will lose. If you give up, if you decide the jungle is too hot, the mud is too deep, the slope is too steep, the people who cannot fight for themselves will lose."
When the barracks alarm went off in the middle of the night and they shuffled us into busses and delivered us here, to this cold, dark field in the middle of nowhere, they had pulled me out of a bad dream. Tully gave us our history lesson on the bus, but my mood was black and I just waited for him to finish talking, so we could get this over with. What he said barely sank in at the time. But it had been two hours and there were no other recruits around. It was coming back, giving me fantasies about becoming a ranger and saving those people he insisted we try so hard for.
Finally the barbed wire ended. It took me ten more feet to realize I could stop walking carefully. I dragged my boots over the solid ground, took a knee, and then fell dizzy to my hands. I panted until foam formed at the corners of my lips.
"You were assigned to a team, Westen."
His voice came out of the night, back at the barbed wire. He walked up to me with his arms folded behind his back, a smooth, fresh new cut partially hidden under his clean army hat, his uniform free of all the mud and wrinkles and chaos of mine. McKinney had his lip curled, obviously displeased to find me like this, and his tone made my hackles raise.
"Have you memorized the creed yet?"
I shook my head, trying to get my feet under me to stand again.
"No, no, stay down there." McKinney adjusted his pants, and then fell into a squat in front of me, his eyes glimmering black in the darkness. He spoke softer, "Second line. I am a warrior and a member of a team. You think wars are won by men going off on their own?"
He was waiting for an answer, but it took me several seconds to find one that wasn't disrespectful. Going home was not an option. "No, drill sergeant."
"You have someone you know who was a soldier?"
"No, drill sergeant."
"Let me tell you how war goes, then." He pointed backward, where the barbed wire was still glistening, and spoke in a soft, menacing tone, "War is a thousand boys all marching in together, holding their polished guns and chanting, until the shooting starts. It's piles of bodies so thick you have to walk on your own friends to keep going, until a bullet hits you and you join the carpet and become someone else's stepping stone. It's one thing going wrong, and losing it all. Courses like this help prepare you for infiltration, yeah, but all of this – this place, this training, those barracks – prepare you to be part of a team. You left yours behind."
I felt my jaw stiffen, locking into place like iron, and the words all got backed up. His description came to life in my head, but the people on the ground were stick figures and mannequins, and the gunfire I heard never came with bullets, and the jungle never showed me the enemy. I didn't know what they looked like, or who they were, or where I might end up.
McKinney could have seen that in me, or he could have seen the stubbornness, the anger, coming through. I was prickling at his words, indignant at his insult, angry to be treated like a child again, to be lectured. Whatever he saw, it made those black eyes narrow. He stood straight, and beckoned me to do the same, reaching up to pull my hat down hard over my forehead and set it straight.
"Start over."
My jaw unhinged, "What?"
"Start the course over, recruit. Everything is twice as hard on your own. If you want to be alone so badly, you can do it alone. Go back to the beginning and start over, and I swear if I hear you whine about it one time you can spend the whole week digging ditches by the road."
I took a step back like he had punched me, my whole body heating up despite the cold. McKinney was a big man but I found myself sizing him up like a territorial dog.
He didn't notice my aggression, or ignored it. He just turned and walked off, saying, "Maybe the quiet will teach you something."
I must have stood there for ten minutes debating with myself. Going home was not an option, but did I really want to stay here? I could see my dad smirking, could feel his satisfaction if he found out I failed. I could be the person my mom expected me to be – a hooligan with a minimum wage job barely making ends meet, with hungry mouths to feed and a drinking problem. I could be the man I thought my father was when I was little – strong and brave, too clever for most people, with no fear of the unknown. But when I thought of going home, those people melted away. I was going to be something else. I could feel it.
If he wanted me to go through the course again, alone, I could do it.
I pushed through mechanically, doggedly, and slowly, growing colder no matter how much I exerted. My backpack got heavier, my uniform wetter, my boots clunkier. I fell off of obstacles I had cleared easily the first time through. I let my shoulders slump, let my poster sink into a hunch, and dragged on.
Headlights flashed over while I was swimming across one of the ponds, my bag floating in front of me. It was the bus. The other recruits were leaving.
I was really alone now.
Hours passed in silence before I made it back to the barbed wire. I stood looking down at the squares, glistening with water now that the other recruits had all been through them. It was even harder to get through them the second time and I kept getting my pant leg stuck, but there was no more frustration, and no more anger. By the time I made it to the other side and sunk down to my knees, panting, all that remained was the determination.
McKinney was waiting for me in the same stiff pose. As soon as I was down on my knees again, he said, "Repeat after me. I am an American soldier. I am a warrior and a member of a team."
He was a big man, straight-backed, with a square head and a matching haircut. In the dark it was easier to look right at him, because those black eyes of his were obscured. His gaze could cut through steel on a sunny day. I couldn't decide what made him so interested in me. His face gave away nothing. His words were flat and monotonous.
"What do you want from me?" I asked.
He said it again, firmer, "I am an American soldier. I am a warrior and a member of a team."
I hesitated, and then responded hoarsely, "I am an American soldier. I am a warrior and a member of a team."
"I serve the people of the United States, and live the Army Values."
Next to his baritone, my voice sounded thin. The contrast reminded me of when I would having screaming matches with my father when I was little, when I sounded like an upset kitten. "I serve the people of the United States, and live the Army Values."
"I will always place the mission first. I will never accept defeat. I will never quit."
"I will always place the mission first. I will never accept defeat. I will never quit."
"I will never leave a fallen comrade."
His description of war came back to the front of my mind, and I pictured Ford lying there on that mass of bodies. How far could I carry him, if it came down to it? Would he do the same for me? "I will never leave a fallen comrade."
"I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained and proficient in my warrior tasks and drills. I always maintain my arms, my equipment and myself."
I got up on one knee, and struggled to my feet, my calves aching. "I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained and proficient in my warrior tasks and drills. I always maintain my arms, my equipment and myself."
McKinney straightened my hat again, grinding the seam against my forehead, and then started walking away. He motioned for me to follow. "I am an expert and I am a professional."
"I am an expert and I am a professional."
I had nowhere else to go, so I followed him. We were all alone in the dark, several miles from the base based on the bus ride over here.
He crossed a deserted road, glancing both ways despite the late hour, and approached a beat up camo van parked on the roadside. His door squealed when he dragged it open. "I stand ready to deploy, engage, and destroy, the enemies of the United States of America in close combat. I am a guardian of freedom and the American way of life."
I repeated his words, staring at the van hungrily. I hoped he didn't want me to walk back alone. I was so tired that standing was getting hard.
McKinney turned toward me to say the last line, "I am an American soldier."
"I am an American soldier."
He curled his lip again at the soft finale I gave. "Learn it. Live it." He patted the van. "Get in."
It was warm inside, and McKinney blasted the heat. I leaned heavily on the window and watched dark grass pass by the roadside.
"It may not seem like it now," McKinney said during the drive, "But each of those statements means something important. It speaks to our way of life. Civilians will never understand. Your brothers in combat are the people who will be closest to you on this Earth. When you go to war with someone you become part of each other, forever."
He fell quiet, and I had nothing to say.
He dropped me off at the barracks and I trudged to the showers alone. He was right about the quiet teaching me a lesson. Ford would have made that second run through the obstacle course easier. He barely talked, but companionship had its own sound. It was like music. In the barracks I flopped down onto my bunk and looked over at him, at that stupid little book he read every night.
"What?" he wondered, after a moment.
"If I got shot or something, would you carry me to safety?"
Ford looked back to his book, and answered simply, "Like a sack of pure gold potatoes."
That made me smile. It was the best I had felt the whole night. While I lay there in a state between nagging exhaustion and sleep, I thought about McKinney. I thought of his favorite words.
Get over it, get through it, or let it destroy you.
Today I had gotten through it.