Bravo Company Days

Chapter 3: the epiphany

My second day of army life began with the cacophony of Drill Sergeant Brown banging pots and pans together in the hallway to summon us to morning formation.

I glanced at my glow-in-the-dark watch. 5:03 a.m. Groaning, I wrapped my pillow around my head. It was no use. Army issued pillows are designed to conduct annoying sounds.

By 5:04 a.m., the dishware had bested me. I found myself standing in front of the latrine mirror, wondering what happened to the college journalist named Spencer I thought I was two weeks ago. It was then that I realized Spencer had died and I had been unluckily reincarnated into Private Case.

The contrast between my old life and my new one could not have been more staggering: Spencer’s hair was casually un-kempt, Private Case’s was sheered completely off; Spencer wore normal-looking wire-framed glasses, Private Case wore hideous army-issued birth control goggles; Spencer confidently turned in features to the school newspaper, Private Case trembled at the mere sight of an approaching drill sergeant. What terrible sin had I committed in my former life to merit such drastic setbacks in this one?

After I shaved, brushed my teeth and took a hasty “shower” with a washrag in the sink, I made my bunk and hurried downstairs to the drill pad. Each platoon of Bravo Company was assembled in its designated area, presided by at least one drill sergeant and a soldier holding his or her platoon banner. I had just reached my place in second platoon when First Sergeant Norman, a stout, perpetually stern-faced man who had been in the Army since the War of 1812, took his place on top a wooden stand at the front of the formation and called the company to attention.

“Good morning, Bravo Company,” he bellowed.

“Good morning, first sergeant,” echoed Bravo Company.

“Drill sergeants, take accountability,” said the first
sergeant.

The drill sergeants saluted, faced their soldiers and called out their names from a roster. When every soldier had answered with ‘here, drill sergeant,’ the drill sergeants faced the first sergeant and, one at a time, saluted and said “All accounted for, first sergeant.” Finally, the first sergeant said, “Drill Sergeants, take control of your platoon.”

Drill Sergeant K faced us again. For a moment, he stood, arms folded, apparently taking pleasure in the amount of control his mere presence had exerted over the platoon. Like the rest of us, he was wearing the Physical Training uniform, or PT’s as we called them, which consisted of a T-shirt stamped with the word “Army,” a pair of unnecessarily short nylon shorts, and a bright green safety vest.

It became clear, as second platoon stood rigidly at attention, that the absence of the round hat had not made him any less intimidating. Finally, he said “at ease” and we assumed the more comfortable position of parade rest, spreading our legs to shoulder width and placed our hands in the small of our back.

“Since this is our first physical training session together, we’ll be doing something… special.”

“Hooah,” replied second platoon, hesitantly because of Drill Sergeant K’s suspect emphasis on the word “special.”

With the commands “right, face” and “forward march,” second platoon stepped off the drill pad onto Macarthur Street where Drill Sergeant K brought us into a double time. Drill Sergeant K ran beside us, calling the steps; Drill Sergeant C ran behind us to discourage any stragglers.

As we ran, Drill Sergeant K called out a loud, boisterous cadence and we called back each line:

Airborne ranger, airborne ranger where have ya been?

Around the world and back again,

Airborne ranger, airborne ranger how did ya go?

In a C-130 flyin’ low,

Airborne ranger, airborne ranger, what did you do?

I killed a Tal-i-ban or two!

We continued at this pace for some time, passing a parade field, a motor pool, umpteen decaying barracks and another motor pool—unless it was the same one as before. Every structure was monotonous, conforming, depressing.

For a while, the formation was tight. But as we passed the second mile marker—a water tower mockingly plastered with the word “victory”—it was evident that the platoon comprised soldiers of varying degrees of fitness. Slower soldiers at the front of the formation gradually fell back while the faster soldiers in the rear, myself included, seized the open places they had left.

Before we reached three miles, the five orderly columns of ten had disintegrated into two gaggles, fast and slow. Every once and a while, Drill Sergeant K’s anger at the disorder would outweigh his anger at the slow pace and he would demand that the faster of the two gaggles ease up enough for the other to merge into something like a formation.

The air around me was permeated with the salty smell of sweat and the sound of out of shape privates’ panting. The formation slowed again, this time to absorb four or five who had could not keep up or who had stopped altogether. Among them I saw the soldier with the French accent who had helped me with my duffle bag yesterday.

“Oh, hell no!” clamored Drill Sergeant K, “You’ve got one mile left. Keep the pace or stay out during chow time.”

I gradually slowed down my pace until I was at the rear of the formation, then broke free and started running in the opposite direction toward the soldier who now stood bent over in the middle of the street bracing her hands on her knees. Having gotten into the habit of running two miles a day at Idaho elevation, I was just starting to feel the familiar ache in my calves and the pinch in my lungs that let me know I was approaching my limits. I calculated that I had just enough strength in reserve to catch up with the rest of the platoon.

As she stood up pulled back her red hair, I saw a face that was older than I had thought with eyes that seemed to have quietly accepted hardship before. She stood as tall as me—about 5 11’—and had more prominent cheekbones than most women. I would not say she was beautiful, exactly, and certainly not “cute” though there was a subtle kind of beauty in her.
She shook her head and said, “I’m too old for this crap.” I waited for her to catch her breath. Then she added, “You’d better go back, Case, or you’ll have to do it again, too.”

“At least I’ll be away from Satan,” I said. She
laughed. Then I said, “They’ve slowed the pace quite a bit and we’ve got almost a mile to catch them. If we push hard we won’t have to do it again.”

Soon, the two of us were closing the gap between us and the formation. I bestowed what little athletic knowledge I had gleaned from high school track. Keep your arms tucked in. Breathe evenly. We passed a few other stragglers and we seemed pretty confident we would catch up when, abruptly, they started running at full speed again.

“We can still catch them! Don’t stop!” This time it was her encouraging me.

The pains in my legs and chest were beginning to worsen. I accelerated until my legs were no longer responsive to my brain’s demands for more speed. My heart pounded in my chest like a sludge hammer. My beleaguered lungs strained for oxygen. With a quarter mile left, the formation was some two hundred meters away. The French soldier was only a few meters behind me.

I could see the barracks ahead. Keep it up! Keep it up! I told myself if only I could maintain my pace until I reached that tree or that parked car or that telephone pole I would be free to give in to my body’s demands, but each time I denied myself. Finally, I slipped into the formation. Ten seconds later, the French soldier did, too.

Just then, Drill Sergeant K called, “Quick time, march!” and the formation slowed to a walking pace. Oxygen returned to my legs with a strange tingling sensation. My heart, apparently missing the memo, continued to thud.

“You have five minutes to stretch on your own,” said Drill Sergeant K when we reached the barracks, “Fall out!”

The formation dissembled. I started stretching my calves when the French soldier approached me.

“Thanks for helping me back there, Case,” she said.

“Yeah, right, you were helping me most of the time.”

“Well, you were encouraging—hey are you feeling
alright? You look a little pale.”

“I guess I’m a little worn out,” I said. In truth, I also felt a little queasy. “What did you say your name was?”

“Cateau. Specialist Cateau.”

We shook hands and said “nice to meet you.” When she was gone I went behind a tree and when I was sure no one was looking, I threw up.

Ten minutes later, we were again filing into the chow hall. This time I was smarter in my choice of meal. I skipped the omelet, the hash browns—everything that required chewing—and went for the cottage cheese, mixed fruit, and yogurt. I was very pleased with myself when the last slimy grape slipped down my throat and I still had a minute to spare.

Following chow, the drill sergeants marched Bravo Company to a building next to the chow hall with the words “Our standard is excellence” painted on one side. We filed into room that looked like it was once a cafeteria but now there were rows of desks instead of tables. A projector was flashing random army images on a screen at the front of the room, showing tanks rumbling through Baghdad, soldiers repelling from a helicopter and the like. We waited at attention beside our desks until the last of the two hundred soldiers in Bravo Company was inside.

“Take seats!” said Drill Sergeant Burns of fourth platoon and we obeyed.

The screen suddenly went blank, than showed the words “The Warrior Spirit.” There was a picture of American soldiers giving water to a famished Iraqi from a canteen. Another showed soldiers unloading bags of grain from vehicles to a crowd of civilians. It looked like the scene of some disaster because there was debris everywhere.

I looked around to see the reaction of my peers. Arms propped heads on desks, bored eyes vainly scanned the room for something interesting. Two female soldiers exchanged folder pieces of paper beneath their desks with muted giggles.

As I turned back to the screen, something strange happened. A tear came. I tried to wipe it away with my thumb but another came in its place. Hot tears trickled down my face as I sat sobbing. I can’t say what happened, exactly, but in that moment an overwhelming feeling came over me. I believed—more passionately than I had ever believed in anything in my life—that there were things in the world worth fighting for and I was willing to fight for them. Perhaps it was just a glorified mental breakdown facilitated by government propaganda. But in that moment, it seemed real.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. We watched several more slide presentations but I can’t recall any of their topics. Even the highlight of the day, the battalion commander’s speech, seemed vague afterward. He entered and one of the drill sergeants yelled, “On your feet!” we all shot to attention. The commander immediately put us at ease and warmly welcomed us into the battalion—which was a pleasant contrast to the drill sergeants welcome. He spoke for half an hour, but I couldn’t remember any of it the next day. To be honest, I doubt I could have singled him out of a crowd if he wasn’t wearing his name tag.
When all the briefings were finished, we had lunch at the chow hall again and the drill sergeants marched us back to our platoon-sized classrooms at the barracks.
Drill Sergeant C entered the room and we all shot to parade rest.

“Joining the Army is a big decision, and I know there may be some of you here who have had second thoughts about your decision to enlist. You were all told before you came here that you’d get one last chance to walk away. This is it. If you want to back down, this is the time to do it.”

No one answered.

“Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Two soldiers shyly raised their hands. Drill Sergeant
C nodded and said, “We’ll talk afterward. Is there anyone else who’s having trouble?” It was no accident that he was looking directly at me. I remained resolutely silent.

“Very well. You are all released until final formation. Room inspections begin tomorrow at zero five thirty, so I suggest you use your time wisely.”