My company is made up of four platoons, and there are six companies in my battalion. I don't think I explained that at all. The other three platoons are named Night Stallers, Warriors, Warlords, and mine is called Blackhorse. I think our name is the best. My company is Bravo Blackhawks, and my battalion, the 2-28th Infantry Regiment, is Blacklions. "Black Lions" is our response of affirmation or acknowledgement here.
I live in a large brick and concrete complex of buildings interconnected. The outer coutryard under our bays has certain places for our four platoons to form up, and in between them, through the center, it's open to the sky straight to our stairs. Both my bay (4th) and my platoon area (indoors) are on the second floor, across from each other. The guys of 3rd and 4th platoons live in 3rd bay; the girls live in 4th bay. During the day we are allowed in either with our ever present battle buddy, to use the latrine or whatever need arises (for latrine, one stands guard outside the door). We have to march some distance to reach chow hall, but that is because we aren't cutting through the inner corridors of the other companies. Additionally, there is major construction going on. This makes life difficult. We can hear the DS's, and we have to take all sorts of detours - and the ground is messed up and churned into mud frequently. Oh, and we get really dusty and dirty all day, and take it into the bays. the bays really are filthy by night. After lights out, there are alarms set on the doors so that in order to open them, a call to the DS on duty downstairs in the CQ office is necessary. And five guards have to identify a person before letting them in. So we are safe from whomever would harm us.
Additionally, though all the DS's tell us to do this or that with a threat - "Take that corner off before I drop-kick it off your head!" or "Move your sorry behinds downstairs before I freakin' throw you out the window!" (I quote directly) - they never touch us more than to grab an arm, and that to move away from conflict. All discipline is enforced verbally. And therefore mentally.
Slowly, I'm getting to know the guys of my platoon, even though getting into a good conversation can be grounds for "fraternization" accusations with all the penalties implied. You live and train with people all day every day and you can't help learning a little.
Anson and Beynon stand across from me when we toe the line by the bunks in 3rd bay (Alphabetically, guys across from girls, straight down the bay at position of attention). Ansons also stands next to me or near me frequently in formation. He's very wirey and small, probably 5'2" - 4". He is one of the good ones like myself, who do what is expected and proper whenever we know what to do, but he tells me that he is a clown at school, always making people laugh and having a good time. He's in the Reserves; will head to college after training (just graduated highschool), and joined for college money, patriotism, family pride, and desire to better himself. Beynon is harder to get to know, but he's a biology major at college. He's very quiet and reserved (oh, both are white).
Blaine and Bowline are next. Blain is very much a gentleman with a great sense of humor and self-preservation. He does what he's supposed to do most of the time, but he likes to talk, and Bowline gives him plenty of space to be a goof without going too far. Blain will let me in front of him when I'm cut out of the chow lines, or on the stairs. [Interuption for smoking - I grow resigned to being punished for other's sins. I was doing nothing wrong, but DS Martinez says "On your feet!" and then we're at it again.]
I was terrified last night that my little finger on my violin (left) hand was broken or more permanently messed up. I smashed it between my rifle and my (dummy) opponent's on the bayonet course Saturday. Twice. I'm running through the woods, hurdling logs, leaping trenches and stabbing things, and I misjudge my hand placement in a parry. So in other words, sheer stupidity had me a pulped finger, with blood welling unde rthe skin and puffing out. Last night it was swollen ice cold, and purple. But I prayed about it and went to bed, and it's only very ugly and dark red this day. I can't do pushups because the blood rushing into it hurts, but hopefully I will soon. I was attempting one-armed everything during our smokings, but there's only so many my right arm can stand.
Back to Blaine - he makes me laugh because he stands and smiles and smiles and I know exactly what he is thinking and he knows I know. He's black, and wears glasses and a couple inches shorter than I. National Guard, I don't know where.
Bowline is another kettle of fish. He is dedicated and motivated, very gawky and white, with a ripe accent straight from Oklahoma. He messes up all day and gets smoked all the time; he has very little self-control and he loves to be the center of attention, and talk. He is friendly almost to nosiness, but he treates girls respectuflly and tries to be helpful constantly. He gets us in trouble, but he is a great guy. I admire his tenacity and good cheer. He takes more wearing out than most guys in 3rd bay, but he will stand up ready to go at it again with all his might. He chose this as his profession and is determined to succeed at it. I know he will do it. Or die trying.
Gas chamber tomorrow. Hooah, and black lions to you all.
Before I send this, here's something funny. DS Lara always tells people to "beat your face" when they've done something wrong, meaning pushups. I love that phrase in context. It's hilarious.
I didn't write all last week because I discovered the importance of sleep - and I was miserably homesick. Because I had not - still haven't even today - received any mail for near a month, I was discouraged by the tardiness of my own letters. I just thought it took over a week for anything to arrive. Anyway, I quit. "Warriors never quit," ah me. At least I haven't started falling out on road marches.
We did unarmed combat, bayonet, and the Victory Tower (with road march, MREs, rappelling, one-rope, two-rope bridges and other such fun stuff) last week. Victory Tower is like a big tree house, or that's what I told myself as I climbed up it and down it, full five stories, with only cushions below (I would have bounced a lot on the way down if I fell, but I didn't).
Combat and bayonet training - mm. I don't like bayonet, but I can do it. And if I have a gentle opponent like Martinez, of course I can hold him down and break his face, but I think assuming the excellent and peculiar positions we were taught will be very difficult in combat. Once there, however, I know how to kill you. Such lovely things. In contrast, yesterday I learned field first aid as a first responder; assessing a patient, performing mouth-to-mouth resusitation and the heimlich correctly, bandaging wounds correctly, applying pressure dressings and tourniquets, and I know how to respond for shock and how to splint someone up. In other words, I know how to save a life now. That makes me happy. Today we had another road march and compass/map reading so we don't end up like Jessica Lynch - who is harped upon a lot. She and her company did so many basic things wrong it isn't funny, and so when maintaining arms, reading maps, using a bayonet or bashing someone over the head with my M16, she is brought up as a bad example: Don't do this. Take this seriously, learn it well, it may be the last training you get before shipping. If you ask me, that is terrifying. We are all afraid of war, I think; we are unprepared and homesick. Maybe in a month's time here it will settle out, but the remaining time until I can go home and rest seems eternity. By the time I leave here, standing at attention will be more natural than anything else. We even ate chow twice today in formation, standing. Since they gave us more time to eat, and I cleaned my plate thrice today, I didn't mind. I don't like throwing out what I long to eat, but given the command to stand, you stand, and from there you may not eat another crumb from your tray. Doing so could mean court martial for disobedience of orders. I, however, am tired of being constantly hungry. I'm learning the sweet agony of self-control and discipline, but oh! Offer me anything to eat at any time, and I'll bolt it. We're allowed to have nothing edible of our own but cough drops.
I'm on JSIDS again and probably not allowed to be writing but oh well. I crave sleep, all the time. And food, during a meal I can eat slowly. For a really really long time. I'm going to send this today, but since I have no other stamps, it may be awhile before the next one. People things, if you write to me after I get stamps, I will write back. I promise. It may not be long, but I'll devote my free time for at least one night to you (and probably sleeping time, because boots need polishing, bodies washed, lockers tidied, the floor washed, during free time.) I want to hear what else exists, moves, and breathes in this wide world. I'll tell you about hand-to-hand next week, if I get stamps.
(from sarah: hey guys, I was just thinking - if you want her to write you back as soon as possible, send her a stamp or two in your letter. That's what I'm going to do)
I am exhausted. I dream of getting to sleep; how nusty is that. But today a captain winked at me as we were being smoked gently for disobedience in a military justice class. I was standing by the desk, where I had control over the computer slide show for her presentation, with my Smart Book over my head. And she winked, and I grinned, and held it higher.
We got smoked today because DS Vasquez didn't have anything else for us to do before chow. I like him very much. He is from Puerto Rico and so reminds me of my first violin teacher. Both the accent and the gentleness of manner make me trust him. DS's Carter and Waller are hard but very fair, and they all three want us to be the best, most disciplined platoon in the regiment, let alone B-company. Often we are. We sound off the loudest, stay the stillest and most silent to and from chow, but physically we seem to lag a bit. We double-timed it (jog) all the way back from our running area this morning after getting soaked doing PT in the drenching rain, and I couldn't do it. I fell out of formation and walked a few steps three times.
Tomorrow we are going to start learning hand-to-hand combat. I'm excited.
DS Carter says that Army Basic Training and Boot Camp for Marines are not enough different to mention. He should know; he was a marine for 17 years, teaching hand-to-hand and doing reconnaisasance. He praises us when we get something right, and that makes me happy.
I'm learning the impossibility of (human) perfect obedience. We cannot fulfill the DS's expectations, let alone a Holy God. If we get one thing right, another slides by us and we founder. And are smoked. A soldier's life is hard; rigorous and impersonal. The most peaceful I have felt in days was at church on Sunday, in a gym crammmed with other soldiers. I felt at home. I miss the feeling of belonging to a place, with a bed I can sit on and socks I can fold my own way. I miss being valued for myself, and not as blank "soldier" in a platoon or bay. If I had any sense I'd be praying constantly, but it's so hard to remember. I did get to encourage Christine, a.k.a. Bowden, my battlebuddy, in her faith a few days ago. She's not sure what precisely she believes, other than that God is real and present in believers lives, our salvation is from Christ, and the basics. She just doesn't know about Protestant, Mormon, Baptist differences and why. She's a dance major, half a year younger, and also a sophmore at college this past semester. I'm really glad I didn't get the happy young Wiccan in the next bunk. I like her, but Christine and I can talk of doctrine. That is good.
I am tired of being tired. I am homesick for free time right now, the longing for familiar faces won't be long in coming. I made my bunk perfect today, and my shoes were lined up correctly. I learned how to polish my boots and they gleam delightfully, and we were issued our M16/A2's today. I learned how to handle standing at attention, parade rest, carrying (at the low ready) and how to disassemble and reassemble it quickly and easily, and how to present it for inspection. She's a sweet weapon, lighter than I expected - though she doesn't feel that way held at straight arms' length - and she's well-oiled and smooth in action. We can't use more than the fingertip to pull the trigger because the accuracy is so great, and we need to control our breathing for the same reason. Everything we do has a reason, DS Valquez told us tonight. The purpose of standing still at attention is selfcontrol in the battlefield and accuracy with our weapons. Discipline is everyting. And I came to learn it, to see how strong I can be in tension. I had guard duty today, will have it tonight, and starting Monday, all of us will probably have it each night at some point. Herein is the tension. Not to mention they expect to tell us something once and never again, but they add to the list each hour. But I want some time to rest, to withdraw a little. I like my own space and time to do as I like. What little I have of time grows ever smaller, but ah well.
We had a PT test this morning, and unless I am mistaken, I'm one of the fifteen in my platoon to pass. I was the first female runner of twenty-nine, and most of my pushups and all my situps qualified. Some girls got a score of zero for one or the other. But this means more smokings because we weren't up to snuff. Blackhorse traditionally gets the platoon fitness banner, and our DS's are not pleased. Category 5 today; BDU's and marching in the hot sunlight. I would swear the meals are now five minutes long. I'm exhausted; I'm going to bed.
Well. I need to get back to explaining my life here. I arrived with several hundred others on a bus, yelled at, harried by swarms of drill instructors, made to carry and pick up and put down some 100 lbs. of issued gear. We were frightened and in suspense. But I think we all have discovered a secret - they are human. Sure, we get smoked several times a day, possibly every few hours, and the rules are stricter. Ten minute meals, and 20 pushups, 20 situps after each. Unless in the latrine or in the hours of free time, I cannot scratch an itch, stretch my limbs, look anywhere but straight ahead, or at the drill sergeant (to whom I will refer to henceforth as DS). The bay where 57 girls sleep has to be cleaned fanatically every night during the guard shifts. We have to stand at attention all the time unless commanded otherwise, or standing at parade rest while addressing a DS. The ban on speech isn't really a problem anymore.
I enjoy this, even the smokings. I feel more lively already, and I know I'm stronger. I'll explain about the DS's tomorrow.
We are shipping today, unless they pull some of us for one reason or another.
There are a lot of rules for this game. Most of the girls still haven't decided to play "silence"; I figure the smokings we will get as a result will get me strong. But it bothers me that they have so little respect for each other - and me. I've asked nicely, I've asked loudly, and the only response is anger for messing with their business. That is frustrating.
The whole idea of shouting "at ease" and going to parade rest when a cadre member (i.e., over an E-3 and commanding troops) comes around is hard to get, especially when you don't do it if another is already around - but you do if it's the first sergeant. For an officer you call for attnetion and the person who saw him or her and gave the call first salutes. And then when whoever it is says "carry one" the response is "warrirors from the start, (rank name)" answered by "warriors never quit," which we say. "Hooah!" All at the top of our lungs, of course. Not doing it at the right time will get us smoked. So will doing it at the wrong time.
We were smoked five times yesterday: twice in the sun. In full uniform, at heat category 5. That's over 90 degrees. They filled us full of water, a quart and a half probably. The guys of the 63rd won't shut up. They know that they'll probably get smoked but they don't care. Even on our account, but they keep bothering some of us for names, age, and present state of romantic attatchment. Not me, of course, but they get more and more nosey and rude.
Oh. Just found out that we are going to be smoked for two hours because of them once we get to BCT. This will be interesting. But at least it is only cat III, thus far.
One of the funniest things I've seen thus far is the chaos of putting our bags in roster order by platoon number, roster number with all alpha males and females trying to find their place and chattering till the ceiling rings - and one private wanders down our line where we sit on our bags saying, "Duck, duck, duck..." and patting heads.
We went to bed early last night, someone didn't wake me up for guard duty, and we didn't have roster until after six - so I slept a full eight hours for the first time in weeks. Whatever else I do today, Sunday has begun with rest. Because we were late to roster (we were cleaning up our barracks - yesterday we were taught bunk making by First Sergeant, and apparently polishing all brass in drains and on doors is expected for the bathroom most of the time) we are sitting in formation. Again, the time spent waiting... But we've been taught a lot about what to expect at Basic, considering the delay. I would think we are partially prepared if it were not for continued slackness in discipline. There is still a lot of talking though we are supposed to be silent in chow, in formation, and generally all the time. Apparently females find muteness difficult, if not impossible. Someone just laughed, and the drill sergeant is onto it immediately, of course. Latrine break means that half the platoon leaves at once if possible. Though Friday some people wiating in agony for three hours because of mandatory briefing.
Our PG is sitting in front of me; I think she called herself "of mixed race" being lighter of skin that most blacks but still having the hair and facial structure. She has two broken toes she has kept concealed because she doesn't want to be held back from Basic. She ran faster than I did during assessment. She calls me - this platoon seems to refer to each other as - "homie" (homie?) which is delightful. We get used to passing jokes with few or no words, and so amuse each other when we are sitting for hours - the only time during the day we can talk except in the latrine.
I had forgotten that today is D-day until the chaplain mentioned it. We all came to the "warrior worship," the Protestant service (that is, those who wanted to go, which was probably 1000 soldiers). The sermon was fairly good, but a little funny because the Presbyterian chaplain had a lot of assumptions he wanted us to have but couldn't assume we were Christians. So it was geared toward evangelism and we all are so exhausted we are dozing off left and right. But the Bible study afterwards was refreshing. There are so many more Christians that I expeted, standing up and giving encouragement in the faith. It was a good reminder that though I said I don't belong to anyone, there is someone who will be with me and to whom I am obligated, belong, and love - and He's not the type to be halted by death.
Okay, so now it's later in the day. We have been smoked until some of us wept, made to pick grass in the sun in full uniform, wait until last for supper - the whole round. But we still get showers, even if our other priviledges are removed. And maybe early bedtime (It's odd, I only dream of Army life at night; I guess there's nothing else weighing on my mind).
We needed to be smoked: I was hoping we would be soon, because we have babblers who never do be quiet. We are in serious danger of not being shipped to Basic tomorrow as a result. Disrespect is insubordinance, and therefore cannot be tolerated. Right now we are playing a game to see how long we can remain absolutely silent when no sergeant is around. I have no problem with this: I've held my tongue for a week (smoking is physical punishment, fyi). We did 200 overhead claps, and enough pushups one girl passed out. I cried because I thought it might encourage pity. And because I hate being blamed for something I didn't do. That bothered me more than my physical pain and ineptness - because it hurt, and my arms and body couldn't seem to hold taught.
Yet the sergeant was surprisingly kind afterwards - she said that she only did pushups together with the platoons she respected, and it was those who showed no sight of pain that really pleased her. So I messed up. Oh well. I can do strong-silent stuff too, I think. because I'm going to be punished for others misdeeds over and over if we can only get out of here Tuesday like we are supposed to.
There are sixty of us girls in 11th, but there are probably eight platoons in all. We were just allowed to use the phones today, after five days of being here. Things are very confused with out processing; we have been shifted from barracks to barracks three times, called to formation after being dismissed for the night, and had to scramble for clothing just to sit in silence for over two hours while other platoons were shifted and counted. We all have a roster number, and know our place in the platoon by that number (I am #621). We are commonly referred to as warriors, females, or soldiers, or a combination. This morning we did pushups four times (most painfully, I assure you) for doing the wrong thing at the wrong time, yet we were just commended for the knowledge we now have, and for being the first company to know the national anthem. First Sergeant Rodriguez told us we were the first whole platoon to be wearing the flag on our right shoulder. It is a symbol that we are at war because it looks like it is being carried forward. Never retreat.
And now we are in trouble again. Someone mushed on the phones, so now we have had all our priviledges revoked for today and are to sit in formation and read our Smart Books for the afternoon. I'm just glad we don't have to stand any more. Every meal we stand in formation, march up, stand some more, stand in line (as ease when still, not when moving), eat in around seven minutes, stand in formation until everyone has finished, march back wherever, whenever a sergeant decides. The whole process takes over an hour and a half, and only eating do we sit. Additionally, we keep getting back barely in time for lights out, let alone showers, and we rise at four every morning without guard duty - which I have taken again tonight for lack of enough people - so we haven't had much sleep. It's just the fatigue headaches that bother me about that, and that I cannot close my eyes or become so sleepy in formation (after being there for some time) that I lose my balance.
The majority of my platoon are either married or engaged, which belies my thoughts that unattached is optimum. Certainly, I would not have come in their position. We are too much at risk in a war to belong to anyone. But they are tough girls, mothers, wives, and girlfriends, and I not only like them but respect them. I should also add that we have mixed races to such an extent that whites are not a majority - if anyone, blacks would be (I think). But I enjoy the difference in relations as a result. They are funny and feisty. But they do swear more than I have ever heard.
We are all wishing to be at Basic. Enough waiting.
I didn't write yesterday night, because we were told we were going to be shipped to Basic today and consequently we had preparations to make. As of twelve this morning we had everything - physical training and BDUs, dogtags and immunizations (six shots at once; our arms are still sore) and most of us passed the physical assesment this morning. Much to my surprise, I am among the fastest ten girls - which means I am going to be held accountable for highest fitness throughout Basic, as I found out later. We were not shipped, however. They took another platoon to fill up a company, not a whole regiment.
I am, right at this moment, standing guard. At 0300-0500, which means I have gotten less than four hours of sleep. On a positive side, this means I won't have to do it again for a while.
We were informed the first night we got here of certain things we would have to memorize, but interestingly enough, the various things are posted everywhere; particularly the three general orders.
We all look the same, with our new shoes and new black and gray physical training outfits - which we have worn constantly since we arrived and gave up our civilian attire completely. I am learning not to cross my legs when sitting. This is more difficult than it sounds, when waiting for hours. I have also figured out that when the sergeants yell at us for making mistakes, not only are they letting us off for some they might really take us apart for, but also making their anger great on the other points for discipline's sake more than anything else. Nobody drops into a hot fury that instantly and their briskness often guards our comfort. They do what they do for us, even foul-mouthed drill sergeants.
Yesterday I had no chance to write. Jessia and Usher were placed in the 10th Platoon of Alpha C - something, while I am in the 11th. There are over sixty women in the 11th; some very bad at following orders. Probably myself included. But even though I spent today being yelled at, standing in formation until my knees ached, and sitting for hours in a skewed kind of balance to the hours standing - even though I had to spend two hundred dollars on supplies at the PX - I feel somewhat at home. Civilian life seems as far away as this once did; an alternate reality for another time, but not now. I am surprisingly content.
Hello everybody,
As you should already know, I will be Elsbeth's webmaster while she's off being brave and dealing with blood and guts. I just thought I should formally introduce myself. HI! *grin* i'm sarah, and those of you that go to Covenant can look up my pic on greatscots (my last name is thomas). If you know elsbeth well you probably saw me with her last semester at some point.
Anyway, she left on monday around 4:30 pm. There is not a snail mail address to be had as of yet - she'll tell it to me (and probably some of you) as soon as she finds it out.
have a good day :)