Chapter five

And so it begins...

Nine more weeks.

Our platoon is sixty five recruits and three drill instructors.

First morning, overhead lights came on, a trash can crashed into the wall as Sergeant Pyle kicked it down the center between the bunks, the sound echoed against the walls. This was worse the yesterday with Sergeant Sherman clanging the lid on the bunk.

"GET UP, GET UP, GET UP! GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE RACK!"
All the drill sergeants were there, Sherman, Pyle, and Harris, all in sharp-pressed uniforms, stalking up and down the center of the bunks, barking and shouting as we recruits stumbled to attention at the foot of our racks, looking pitiful in our baggy boxer shorts.

The absolute darkness outside the windows was total contrast to the lights flashing on within seconds in all the other in barracks all around ours.

Sleep to awake in zero seconds irritated me, I stood squinting in the bright light, I still didn't fully understand my situation. It seemed wrong to have so much commotion and light that early in the morning.

I was still bone tired, even though I'd slept three hours it as if I'd had no rest at all. As I came gradually more aware of my situation, a foreboding replaced my irritation, apprehension knowing this madness would be for many mornings to come. (I learned we would get three to four hours sleep for the next two weeks.)

"You have two minutes to get dressed. MOVE!" barked Sergeant Pyle.
Pyle stood there staring at his watch as his cohorts shouted at us.

The barracks was a frantic rush of movement.
"One minute," Pyle warned.
One minute? There was no way a whole minute had expired.

I grabbed the first fatigues in my locker, still a little damp from yesterday's sweat. I hurried to pull on the damp fatigues, I had made a rookie mistake by taking my belt out of the loops, in the future that would save precious seconds getting dressed in the morning.

Luckily I was already wearing a white T-shirt saving me a few seconds, it was still sticky from sleep but at the moment I didn't care.
"Thirty seconds," came the next warning after what was in reality probably 15 seconds. Pyle stood there, staring at his watch.

My muscles could not move fast enough. I hadn't learned the trick of unlacing my combat boots in a way that would allow me to quickly slip into them. In the future I would save a few more seconds each morning. I tugged on the leather, trying desperately to stuff my foot in as Pyle counted down the last 10 seconds.
"FREEZE!"
We all froze I was bent over with only one foot jammed halfway into a boot no belt in my belt loops. Most other were in similar stages of not quite dressed.

"What the fuck is this?" Pyle demanded.

"Didn't your mommies teach you fools how to dress yourselves?"
We were berated as incompetent slugs and then ordered
to finish the job as Pyle, Harris and Sherman tore through the barracks, singling out recruits for abuse, shouts directly into their faces. It was a terrible start to our army careers.

After breakfast, we were taught how to 'toe the line', apparently not just a saying we were told exactly how to form the perfect line, toes in an exact line no one out of place.

Next was PT, pushups, situps, leg tucks. This continued for two weeks. It was during this time we became familiar with the Georgia fire-ants, they grew so of the finest fire-ants in the world I believe. There may be fine fire-ants in other parts of the world, but the got there by biting and holding on until you move to the next duty station.

First you run in place pissing them off, they you drop and do fifty pushups and stare them in the face. Next you tour over and do kicks giving them prime meat for the little carnivores to chow down, then you run in place just to remind them how mad they are at you.

You beg to get to the showers in the hope they will give up their grip. Then you repeat it all again the next day.
Now that is just the beginning of the torture, I was starting to understand why my sister Cali had laughed at me and taunted me with a dare about finishing.

Week two.

We were taught *Battlefield First aid, this is really the first I started to realize what it would be like out there. We learned how to stop bleeding, this is one of the most important things, it in past wars is accounted for up to eighty percent of the deaths on the battlefield.

One of the things funniest things was watching the medic insert a tube up the nose, the NPA (Nasopharyngeal Airway), is a tube you put up the nose of the injured person. We stopped laughing after being told opening the airway is the second most lifesaving aid to give on the battlefield.

Gas chamber.

Yes gas chamber, you are taught how to put the mask on and how to take it off.

We walked into a room cloudy with CS gas, after a few exercises we removed the mask, then a few more exercises. I tried to hold my breath big mistake I eventually had to gulp in a breath, it burned, and I coughed and hacked.

The sergeant finally had pity and allowed us out, sweet air but it hurt to breath. Lester puked, El and I just had snot and drool ran down our faces, it hurt to breath. My sweat stung, felt like little darts all over. This made me hope for just fire-ants.

At least we got a little more time to eat, it hurt to eat.

Rappelling.

Fun times, our drill sergeants were demonstrating when a body fell we stood in shock then saw it was a dummy. We learned the importance of strapping in correctly to avoid sudden deceleration syndrome on the dummy.

This was enough fun to make up for all the torture of the first two weeks.

Week three.

Guns, after we carried our M16 around for two weeks, we got to fire our rifle. It was simulated but still a blast. It was about this time I started to feel comfortable carrying a gun at all times. But I didn't carry two guns and a knife until I was a Ranger.

The last thing in this part of training is called the hammer.

We had a five mile ruck, we carry our weapon, bullet-proof vest, helmet, radio, water and first aid kit, then the ruck sack adds even more, all in all about fifty pounds.

We all feel like we are really getting are we are closer for getting into the fight.

Graduation from Red phase.

White phase next, it's called the gunfighter phase.

Lester, El and me are looking forward to it.

Training is hard but getting more fun. We are in a competition to see who is the best between us three. I think I am in the lead, Les thinks he is.

Note:

Battlefield medicine, the prompt treatment of wounded military personnel within the vicinity of a war zone.

Historical casualty rates have shown that about half of military personnel killed in action died from the loss of blood and that up to 80 percent died within the first hour of injury on the battlefield.

This time period has been dubbed the "golden hour," when prompt treatment of bleeding has the best chance of preventing death.
Developments in military medicine have focused on treatment to quickly stop
bleeding and immediate medical care.

In the early 21st century these developments-together with the use of of advanced body amour and helmets, which reduce the incidence of lethal penetrating wounds to the torso and head-led to improved survival rates of troops.

Today many casualties of war survive with debilitating injuries, such as the loss of one or more limbs.