It was only a 1.5 hour bus ride from ATL to Ft. Benning, Georgia, the butthole of the United States. Ordinarily riding in such a luxurious Grey Hound I would be taking a quick nap, especially through Georgia. I love Georgia and all, I've just driven through the state enough to know what pine trees and state troopers look like. I wasn't alone either, nobody was sleeping, we knew right where we were going. That's one thing we all had in common and I think we all knew it. Everyone of us future grunts, warriors, killers, 11 fuckin bang bang Infantrymen.

 

Nobody was thinking about sleep. If we weren't bull shitting we were thinking hard about all of the decisions that led us here. There's fuckin war happening and we all decided to up and enlist in the U.S. Army Infantry, good call. After looking around and hearing some conversations it didn't seem like there were too many people there for the GI Bill either. No, I think we were all there to serve our country, and get back at the dirty mother fuckers that attacked us by kicking down their doors and shooting them in their fucking faces. Yeah that sounds good, well that or get out of jail apparently, oh shit right, I'm about to have my balls smoked off for the next 14 weeks of my life, and not in a good way.

 

I started eaves dropping on this kid running his mouth. Apparently he was a delayed entry which meant he went to Basic the summer before, and was coming back for AIT. So needless to say this dude already knew everything there was to know about the Army. He did offer some good insight though for what we were about to go through. Mostly what everyone talks about, the gas chamber, the night infiltration course and of course the smokings. He also kept saying the bush when referring to training. I figured it was because he was from Michigan but also wasn't sure if "the bush" was what Army lingo was these days. It sounded Australian to me and therefore not American so I didn't find it likely that big bad Drill Sergeants were running around all like "round up your stuff mate, we're headed for the bush". No, it had to be because he was from Michigan. 

 

The sun was setting behind the trees as we got closer to our destiny. The longer this trip went on the more anxious I became. So far though the Army was a pretty good deal. I mean all of this was being paid for by the Army. Let's think about it; Bus ticket- $20, Plane ticket - $150, Jimmy Dean - $0.65, Enlistment Bonus-$15,000. All of these are estimates except for the last one of course. I mean seriously what are they thinking? fifteen grand for a 3 year enlistment after letting me in on a moral waiver? Shit I would've done it for no bonus but I sure as hell wasn't going to turn it down either. Just gotta make it through the next 14 weeks and cha ching. Imma get paid. 

 

Fuck, we're here. It was literally dusk when we pulled in. Dark enough for all of the outside automatic lights to be on but enough left over sunlight to see the Drill Sergeants patiently waiting for our arrival. It wasn't like the movies either, they weren't standing there at parade rest in their Class A's frozen in time. The only way we knew they were even drill sergeants was because of the hats they were wearing. The round and brown, absolutely not a park ranger hat. Guys were already unloading other buses and getting into a formation while a Drill Sergeant casually ensured they fell in correctly. We came to a stop and a Drill Sergeant was already on his way to end our fucking lives. A complete wave of nervous excitement went through my entire body. This wasn't like running out onto the football field before a game, an important test or even asking a girl for her number. This shit actually mattered. This is my life now and it's not even mine any more, it belongs to Uncle Sam. Ah fuck hes at the door. I got my shit I'm gonna be the first one outta here watch me. "Leeroy Jenkins mother fuckers here I come"

 

It was absolutely silent as this Drill Sergeant stood at the front of the bus. I've never been on a bus where everyone shut the fuck up just at the mere pressence of an authority figure. The fat shit bus driver was silent, didn't even squeak out a fart. 

 

"Everyone sit back down" he said in a fairly calm but annoyed tone. 

 

"You're gonna get your shit, file out to Drill Sergeant Miller and form up."

 

After he walked off everyone got up and started to exit the bus. People were talking now and the obvious question for most of us was why are we not being screamed at right now? Of course the Michigander knew, I bet hes a fuckin Lions fan I thought. "They're not allowed to yell and smoke us because we're in civis." We were still in civis but this was typical barracks lawyer nonsense. We got yelled at plenty over the next week, we didnt really get smoked but it sure as fuck had nothing to do with what we were wearing. It wasn't their job to make us strong, it was their job to make sure we stay alive for the next week or two, and that we know the basic shit of being a private in this Man's Army. You know, standing at parade rest, dressing right, drinking water and keeping your cock holster shut. 

 

It was imperative that we stay combat ready so that we can go down range, knock out OSUT in the minimum time, get to our units and deploy to Iraq. I honestly had my heart set on Afghanistan but a Haj is a Haj. This wasn't gonna be that bad, a nice little vacation before Basic. Three meals a day, a bed, new clothes, getting paid and no PT, hell yeah. NOT. This place sucked ass, it wasn't an OP in Afghanistan or some COP in Iraq it was 30th AG, Sand Hill. I don't know how they did it but the Army somehow made a reception unit the most miserably depressing place in the Military without pain, a psychological destruction of one's dignity and sense of self-purpose.

 

Seven days is 168 hours  or 10,080 minutes. Subtract 8 hours a night for sleep and you get 112 hours or 6720 minutes. Add back in an hour every other night for fireguard and we get 115 hours, add in another 10 minutes of allotted time to eat per meal and we end up with 118.5 hours. Now lets say approximately 1 hour of everyday, and 1 hour is a generous estimate, is spent doing the necessary bureaucratic bullshit we are in this hell ridden place for anyway. Shots, GI Bill stuff, SGLI paperwork you know something that should take a day but gets dragged out to seven because there's about 3000 of us. So we are left with 111.5 hours, or 6690 minutes or to put it in perspective for you 15.9 hours a day. Lets just call it an even 16 hours a day. Sixteen hours a day for seven days standing in formation, standing in line, sitting in line, praying to God you don't do something you don't know you're not supposed to do, no tv no magazines, just a blue book.

Wah wah wah right, "oh you poor thing, you had to stand in a line". The entire place just had a dark atmosphere about it, the feeling sorry for ourselves mentality that seemed to form a depressing energy throughout the halls and barracks resonated from everyone of us it seemed. The mostly out of shape Drill Sergeants all seemed to just hate their lives, probably tricked by their wives into volunteering for this hardship just so they wouldn't have to go back to Iraq. Now their working some 80 to 100+ hours a week with no weekends, should’ve stayed on the fucking line. The Goddamn civilians that we had to deal with on a daily basis weren't exactly sitcom dad material either. These pathetic fucks seemed to hate their lives more than the DSs and they took it out on us, you know the guys that just left everything behind to fight a war for their country that these assholes let happen. Yeah fuck those fatbodies.

 

So, no shit there I am standing in a formation waiting for my last 4 to be called off so I can be assigned a number, this number will be my name for the next 7 days until I get down range and get a new and exciting number. As this DS is going alphabetically name by name of what has to be at least 300 of us we are getting things passed down the ranks to us. Some light reading material, a pistol belt, two canteen pouches, and two canteens.

 

"8243", "8243" "Jones, David" The Drill Sergeant yelled progressively louder.

 

"Here Drill Sergeant" 

 

"Fuckin Christ Jones, you don't know your last four, are you fucking retarded?" "Your recruiter must be a real shitbag to enlist your ass in my Army" "I swear to God the next one of you faggots that doesnt sound the fuck off the first time Its gonna be a long fucking night"

 

Then back to silence, other than numbers being yelled out. All I was thinking about was my last four, I just kept saying it over and over in my head trying like hell not to zone out and look like fuckin Jones. The sun has completely set and there is no more natural light, the moisture in the air is so thick it's almost hard to breathe. I can't tell if I'm sweating or if it's the humidity in the air that is beading down my face and neck. That along with the nats swarming around it was near impossible to do anything other than swat or wipe, let alone listen to this fuckin guy yell out numbers for an hour. I start noticing some high speeds attaching their canteen pouches to their pistol belts. Monkey see monkey do is one of the best practices in this place, so I start fidgeting with this Vietnam era shit, wool lined canteen pouches and belt clip slides. "Why can I not get this slide down, what the fuck" 

 

"4056"

 

"This piece of shits bent, I guess this is what they mean by lowest bidder"

 

"4056"

 

Oh fuck me! "Here Drill Sergeant"

He pauses and doesnt say shit. Im looking straight ahead waiting to get my number and I can feel this guy staring right at me. I can't really see him other than out my peripheral but I know he isn't smiling. Oh please God make this better. "245" he says in a less than pleased tone and continues shouting out socials. Whew, thank God that wasn't worse. Shit what'd he say, 244, no fuck, what was it? 245. "246" the DS yells out, ok it had to be 245, fuck it Im going with it. 245 is my new name. 

 

We were currently formed up on a very wide sidewalk in front of what turned out to be the main building we would be doing all of our in-processing at. We had all finished putting our gear together by the time DS finished calling off numbers. It had to be after 2000 by now. These fucking gnats were driving me crazy, but at least it felt a little cooler. 

 

"GROUP ATTENTION" roared out of the Drill Sergeants mouth with such commanding authority and echoed off the brick walls behind us. Everyone of us snapped to the position of attention just like our recruiters taught us. Yeah right. It was fucking sloppy and our recruiters didnt teach us shit. 

 

"RIGHT FACE", another thunderous command, and another sloppy, sloppy performance by our cherry asses. We were now facing our home for the next un-for-told future. This was an enormous building. It was three stories high and from the side we were facing all the way to the other end must've been at least 3 football fields long. Down both sides were the barracks, down the center was a huge open corridor probably around fifty feet wide, this is where the majority of our formations would take place. And way on the other side was the DFAC. Walking into the corridor about 50 feet down you get to the first first set of entryways to the barracks. Facing to the right was an open breezeway, on both sides were single brown fire rated steel doors. In the breezeway between the two sets of barracks were five payphones on the right side, some wall lockers organized in rows,and a concrete staircase that led up to the other floors with the exact same set up. On the far side of the breezeway were big grimy dingy windows, but to be honest this was about the brightest place to be in the entire building.

 

The barracks were always dark, literally the lights didn't work. The only possible reason i could come up with why the lights didnt work in any of the barracks was just to add to the psychological torture. It's not like the power was out, the lights in the latrines never shut off. These people are sick. Walking into the dark ass barracks, there were bunks everywhere, and some more wall lockers. Along the top of the outside wall were  rectangular windows that must've been tinted because it hardly let in any light. At the far side was an entryway, no door, to the latrines. The walls inside the latrines were all one inch harvest gold tile with white grout. On the grout throughout much of the latrines was graffiti written in pen. Nothing stupid, mostly just the hometowns of all the men that have come through here. 

 

Heading out of the barracks, continuing down the corridor were two more sets of barracks and about two thirds of the way down towards the DFAC was a wall, about eight feet high, that ran almost the full width of the corridor until it met a staircase on the right side. Going up the staircase led to a higher level, where there were no more barracks, and on the opposite end was the DFAC.

 

To the right of the formation were about a dozen boxes. In them were our brand new PT uniforms. Small, Medium, and Large. There were no XLs, this wasn't the police academy. This was the infantry. If you needed an XL your recruiter was about to get fucked by the big green weenie. Seriously, recruiters were offing themselves because their careers were being ruined by those USAREC POGs. All because they were having a hard time talking spoiled ass American men into going to the desert to get blown up by an IED, or on the flip side trying to convince some young black kid from the ghetto that his country really does love him. Get the fuck outta her with that bullshit. Nothing's absolute and I'm not trying to be racist but looking around the crowd of probably around 3000 new Infantry recruits, there were about 7 black dudes, 600 varying hispanics, and the rest white. 

 

"2 PT shirts, 2 PT shorts and move out" DS instructed us. Move out to where? I thought. We just got here, 2 fucking hours ago. I had already counted every car in the parking lot and tree in the woodline. 972 pine needles fell to the ground in the time it took for all our names to be issued and now we were on our next rendezvous. Another formation, approximately 50 feet north of our current position in the corridor facing the opposite direction we had been facing, so that was exciting. 

 

The next morning the first call was 0330. Same formation, same place, different uniform. We were instructed to leave our civis in our wall lockers and report to formation in our PTs. The funny thing is, we hadn't gotten our running shoes yet. Luckily I chose to wear some casual Adidas so I didn't look too retarded in the very fashionable and always comfy PTs. I couldn't say the same for this kid from Texas, at least I assumed he had to be from Texas. 

 

I recognized him from the bus ride the day before. He was tall and lanky, maybe 6'2" or 6'3" with his cowboy boots on. Probably weighed less than me at a scrawny 150 lbs. A flannel tucked into blue jeans with a nice big shiny belt buckle. Did I mention it was June. And of course a giant cowboy hat. He looked like he popped out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Red hair, big rosy bony freckled cheeks and his ears so big he required an LZ. His recruiter clearly set him up for failure. I say this because when the dude walked out into the corridor of what must've been at least 3000 young smartass men the place erupted in laughter. Guys were practically climbing over each other to get a glimpse of this nerd in PTs and cowboy boots. Short sleeve gray shirt tucked into black shorts that are slightly lower than mid thigh and cowboy boots. 

 

Absolutely zero military bearing, to be fair though, none had been issued yet. I don't know who the DS' were more pissed at, all of us acting like a bunch of high schoolers or this big eared freckled face fuck who is causing it all. 

 

"Hey Satelite why don't you hurry up and fly your ass to formation before I double time over there and skull fuck you" this black DS yells out. 

Another one yells, "maybe you should've rode your horse faggot" while pretending to ride a horse and slapping his ass. "You look just like one of those Brokeback Mountain queers".

 

"Nah, he was just a fluffer on set" another one yells down from the second floor balcony. 

 

Oh shit I almost lost it. This was by far the funniest shit I had ever seen but also terrifying at the same time. I just gotta stay under the radar for the next fifteen weeks and all will be good. This is the hardest part then the Army will be smooth sailing or marching I guess. Nothing about 30th AG seemed like the Army though. Our formations were ate the fuck up and every facing movement was hot garbage. But what are you gonna do? There were around over 3000 of us there. The formations weren't forty inches all around, they were nut to butt. Which can lead to some shenanigans. 

 

Our pistol belts were olive green and had a quick release plastic black buckle on the front. I don't know what comes over young men, or even grown men, when they get thrown into a group setting like this, they become little boys. The fuck-fuck games began immediately. While standing at parade rest in a nut-to-butt formation like this your hands are basically on your buddy's junk behind you. Right above that is none other than that quick release plastic belt buckle on the pistol belt, that is supporting two 1 qt canteens. 

 

You don't need to be special forces to pull this black op off either. You just need to be slow, steady and situationally aware. I know this dick behind me is about 2 inches taller than me. Therefore I'm gonna need to adjust fire up about an inch or I'm getting a handful of...SMACK. Shit I've been had. The asshole in front of me got me. Now I'm standing here naked with my pistol belt and canteens on the ground and Drill Sergeants are losing their fucking minds. 

 

There's no way I'm not gonna be seen if I bend over and pick this up. I'll probably knock over the entire formation like dominos. Luckily I wasn't the only one, but I was the only one smart enough not to break ranks and bend over to pick up my shit, which is what led us to…

 

"GROUP ATTENTION", "HALF RIGHT FACE". "FRONT LEANING REST POSITION MOVE". Rattled off the DSs tounge like they were his first words and mommy was so fucking proud. 

 

Feet on my fingers and man asses in my face, it was turning out to be a pretty good summer. I feel sorry for the poor soul who's got Slim Pickens big goofy cowboy boots on his fingers. Dudes start busting ass and everyone starts giggling like little school girls except the ones who are getting it in the face. The Drill Sergeants are completely outraged by now but they aren't really doing anything except walking around screaming homosexual slurs at us. 

 

At some point they're gonna call us back to attention, I quickly mountain climb my pistol belt up to my hand and secure it. I can't put it on yet. That'll be too obvious. I gotta wait until we are back at parade rest. It shouldn't take too long. Wrong! We just stood there at attention while the DSs roamed back and forth waiting for some poor soul to wipe the sweat off of his cheek so they could pounce and begin berating everyone for moving at attention.

 

This lasted for about the next four hours. After about an hour and a half I think is when I realized that this was no formation at all, this was the fucking chow line and we were at the very end. As we closed in on the DFAC for the next four hours, there was a near constant flow of recruits walking briskly back to their barracks in no less than two man teams. The day before we were instructed to never be anywhere alone, this was serious. We always had to be with a battle buddy for our "safety". DSs claimed if they caught one of us alone it was our word against theirs. Wink wink. 

 

They looked so happy and fat as they moved with a purpose to their next place of duty. Occasionally, maybe a little more than occasionally, a buddy team would be walking by talking under their breath and giggling. This was not allowed and the DSs reminded them by letting them know how gay they look in a not so subtle way. "What's so funny faggots?", "Cum-dumbsters don't talk!", "Why don't you fags just hold hands while you're at it?", "Make your gay butt-sex plans on your own time cum-buckets!" 

 

We weren't supposed to talk either. Damn I could smell that chow. We just filed up the stairs that took us up to the higher level. We had passed all the barracks and looking back down the corridor, it was now empty. We were the last group to arrive and therefore the last formation in the chow line. This was somewhat of a relief. Everyday we got to form up a little closer to the DFAC. Which was also a nice reminder first thing every morning that we were a little closer to going down range. Everyday a new group of fresh young bodies showed up with the same destiny as us... four hour chow line.

 

We had been side stepping our formation this entire movement until now. We began to snake the formation into the DFAC. It was after 0700 and the sun had been up for about 30 minutes. I had finally made it inside when a guy a few ahead of me in line grabbed a tray from a stack and when he flipped it over there was some crusted on pieces of food. He went to put it back and grab another one when the civilian cook standing there snapped at him telling him to keep moving. He tried to explain the tray was dirty but this civilian just got angrier threatening to go get a DS. This is how 30th AG was. Everyone treated you like shit. Whether it was some paroled cook or pervert doctor, they didn't give two shits about you. All they cared about was getting off on time, and with a record number of men enlisting in 2006 their job had only gotten harder in recent months. 

 

Needless to say the kid shut his mouth and moved out. The trays had compartments kind of like in school. One big and four smaller ones. We had to hold our trays with both hands along with our silverware. There were bars to slide the trays along but we weren't allowed to use them, instead we had to hold our trays directly in front of us as we sidestepped. As we approached each different food we had to extend our trays out to this cook who would then angrily slap a spoon full on our trays. Scrambled eggs, bacon or sausage links (you don't get to choose), mixed fruit, two slices of bread. Same thing every morning and it was delicious. Delicious until the ex-con decides to "accidentally" toss the mixed fruit into your eggs, or smash the bread into the fruit leaving it all soggy. We were supposed to get two sausage links but sometimes one would slip out of the tongs and there just wasn't enough time to pick it up. I'm pretty sure these guys earned commission on fuck-ups. 

 

Now to get our drinks. It was milk in the morning and boner kill juice for lunch. Rumors were rampant that the Army was using drugs in the power aide drink mix to kill our sex drives. Some guys would say it was actually added to the eggs on account of the fact they were serving us powdered eggs, and it was easier to mix in the drugs. It was all bullshit. Sex drive was non-existent for two reasons: One, nothing but dudes and, two, some of those dudes are constantly yelling at you or looking for a reason to. If you were thinking about sex it was because you were one of the many faggots the DSs were going on about the entire time. 

 

It was the middle of summer in Georgia. If BOB wasn't making you sweat the humidity was. The power aide drink mix had electrolytes to help us hydrate. That's the only reason they required it, to keep all the midwesterners from dropping dead. The real shitty part was there was no place to put our drinks except on our food trays. We weren't allowed to set the trays down to fill up our drinks and we had to keep two hands on the tray while moving. I would estimate about 50% of all meals consumed in that DFAC were soggy. Cups were constantly falling over on trays. 

 

When I finally sat down to eat my chow a wave of relief fell over my entire body. Moving through the chow line for the first time trying like hell not to be noticed by a DS or drop something I forgot how exhausted I was from barely sleeping and standing for the last 4 hours. I don't think I have ever been on my feet for that long without being able to sit at some point. In fact I know I haven't. That breakfast was probably the best tasting and most satisfying meal I've ever ate in my life to that point. The 4 minutes I would spend at a time eating in this DFAC was the only enjoyable time I spent in this miserable shithole. Except for the day we got our uniforms and got introduced to Uncle Drill Sergeant. 

 

It was day 3 and after standing in lines all morning, going from parade rest to attention, 30 inch step forward, back to attention and ending at parade rest, we were issued our ACUs, PCs and tan combat boots. After receiving our uniforms we were directed to go to our respective barracks, change and form up for inspection. The ACUs may not be much to look at and suck for providing any type of camouflage but donning it for the first time was the proudest day in many of our lives. Our nametapes and rank would come later, but the uniform, U.S. Army nametape and American Flag on our shoulders was more than enough to finally feel like real Soldiers. 

 

We formed up where we normally do for chow in the corridor and I assumed we would be going to the DFAC after inspection, seeing as how it was about 1230 and we hadn't eaten lunch chow yet. Then I saw them. Boxes of Jimmy fuckin Deen meals. I don't know why we called them Jimmy Deans. I don't think there was anything made by them in these clear plastic wrapped boxes of shit. They consisted of different items but a typical one had a Brisk lemon tea, can of vienna sausages, a sesame seed hoagie bun, TGI Fridays potato skins, applesauce, some jelly packs, an oatmeal peanut butter bar and an accessory pack containing a spork, napkin, salt, pepper and a wet nap. You know the shit champions are made of.

 

As I stood relaxed in formation, we were lightly talking under our breaths and goofing around a little bit as guys trickled out of the barracks to the formation. The DSs didn't seem to mind there were three of them standing in a gaggle by our gourmet meals doing the same thing we were doing. Once we were all in formation we received a quick down and dirty of how to execute an Open Ranks March. This is really confusing. The first rank takes two steps forward, the second rank takes one, the third rank takes none and the fourth rank takes two half steps backwards. Seems pretty simple but it is not. Someone in the third rank will always step forward, the first rank will forget to take the second step, and someone in the forth rank will just fall the fuck out. It was ridiculous. We must've tried about fourteen times before the DSs lost their patience, gave up on us and went ahead and had us dress right.

 

The inspection was anything but by the book. This was just a quick up and down to make sure we were wearing our uniforms properly, patches in the right places, boots bloused, PCs placed and of course always a good time to make sure we had all shaved that morning. There were at least a dozen privates that hadn't shaved. They were told to fall out and form up over against the wall facing us, after being accused that the reason they didn't shave mustv'e been because their faggot boyfriends preferred a little stubble. 

 

Once all the shitbags were rounded up we closed the formation and filed out following one of the DSs and collecting our lunch on the way. He led us to a grassy area in between the parking lots out in front of the reception building. We formed a giant circle around him. Once we were all there the DS directed us to sit and eat our meals. He took off his hat and ACU top. He folded his top, placed it on an upside down five gallon bucket he had brought with him and took a seat on it while lightly tossing his hat up in between his hands and catching it like a frisbee. 

 

He must've been taking his top off because it was hot, it certainly wasn't to show off his Army body. He looked like he had been chasing wild turkey with bud fatty for the better part of his twenties. His arms weren't bulging, just covered in tattoos, and he had dark bags under his eyes. It had probably been just over two weeks since his last haircut and he already had a five o' clock shadow in the middle of the day. He tossed his hat on the ground a foot to his right. And opened up the circle for questions, pertaining to Basic Training only. He was very clear about this and it was only a matter of time before one of these retards asked some shit like "Did you ever kill anyone in Iraq?" 

 

The only off topic question that came up was one that the DS was happy to answer believe it or not. HOOAH. 

 

"What does Hooah mean?"

The answer was one of the most complex and simple answers you could get.

 

"Everything."

 

"It can mean yes and it can mean no. The word stays the same but the context in which it is used can change. Now as to how the word Hooah originated. This is the Army, we train hard, and PT harder.  Because of that, we drink. We drink a lot. So sometimes on the PT route you may see a Soldier spewing last night's whiskey all over the pavement going... HOOOOOOAAAAAAAHHHHH. And that's why we say Hooah."

 

That afternoon, myself and two others were on our way back to the barracks to put some more paperwork in our wall lockers. On the way we witnessed 30th AG taking its toll on someone in real time. On the pavement under the balconies was this Soldier who made a very weak attempt at suicide. I only know this because the DS' were joking with him about it. There was blood everywhere, the kid's tibia was sticking out of the side of his calf and the DS's were questioning his motives.

 

"If you were trying to kill yourself why did you land on your feet."

 

The other one chimed in,

 

"He didn't even jump from the third floor, he went from the second."

 

"What a shitbag. I guess you were missing your boyfriend back home."

 

There was a Captain standing there and what he said was like a dagger to this kid's soul. I swear I don't know what hurt more at this point, his leg or knowing this wasn't gonna get him out of the Army.

 

"Luckily it just looks like a broken leg. The Army is gonna get that all fixed up for ya, send you home for probably 2 months to recover, and then you'll come right back here to try again. We'll see you around September."

 

And then he just walked off. Twenty two veteran suicides a day? Can't imagine why.

​

This was the second time that this happened since I got there, and it had only been three days. Somebody else jumped the day after I got there, I heard that one was more serious though. This other shitbag drank some simple green or tried to. I'm not sure, it's hard to decipher who's real and who's full of shit. Some people I swear you think their MOS was to fucking lie, like they were actually Army intelligence, in some psyop attempt to constantly keep you in a state of suspicion. 

 

It also wasn't hard to believe that dudes were trying to kill themselves, every other day in this place, or at least trying to convince people you're suicidal. Every eighteen hour day just dragged on and my TP supply kept getting lower and lower. By the sixth day I wasn't sure what was going to run out first, my TP or my morale. Getting treated like shit everyday can take its toll on a man, especially when that man is still trying to become one. Tomorrow we would find out if we were going down range, or if we would be there another week. I don't think I could bear another week in that place. We were told that shortly after arriving we would be there for one week or two and the way we were told was harsh to put it lightly, bluntly it was a straight kick to the dick. 

 

The next morning we were allowed to sleep in until about 0600 which meant we didn't have to stand in the chow line for 4 hours. After breakfast we had to go back to the barracks, grab our two duffle bags and form up. Which is where we would be sitting on our duffles for about the next 3 hours waiting to find out if today was our day. Around 0900 is when the cattle cars showed up. These weren't actually cattle cars but we still called them that. They looked more like a trolley at a theme park. They were some sort of articulated bus with plastic seats. More importantly though, they had A/C. As we waited we talked quietly amongst ourselves. Everyone was nervous and anxious. Some guys were even getting the bubble guts. Luckily we were able to use the latrines while we waited. 

 

Finally it was time, we stayed seated on our duffles while a Drill Sergeant came up and gave us very clear instructions. 

 

"I'm gonna call off your last four, when you hear yours you will assume the position of attention and sound off with moving Drill Sergeant secure your gear and move to the bus. HOOAH."

 

"HOOAH!" Every one of us sounded off with more excitement and motivation than what we had a week ago when we arrived. We knew the day was about to suck but there was no way it could be worse than sitting around 30th AG for another seven days, no fucking way. 

 

Everyone of us were sitting there intently listening, hoping, praying our last four were called. Especially me. Sweat dripping off of our faces in the Georgia heat, hearts pounding, something was telling me no one was gonna not hear their number this time. And I was right, not a single one of us hesitated when our last four were called, if anything we had to be told to quiet down and not run. I could tell when mine was getting close. Everything in the Army is alphabetical and after 7 days of standing in line after line next to the same people you start to learn some names. Mine starting with S always meant that I would be in the last two thirds of soldiers called for the next three years. It was getting close. This guy Rodriguez just got called. I was hoping I would be in his platoon down range, he seemed tough and possibly was in a gang back home. 

"4056". 

 

Fuck yeah I thought, thank God. I jumped up so fast I'm pretty sure both feet were off the ground when I shouted "Moving Drill Sergeant." I secured my duffles and moved to the cattle cars as fast as I was allowed. Before I even got to my seat the nervous excitement was gone. I was now filled with fear. This was it, the day had finally come. The day so many of us had been thinking about long before we ever signed any paperwork, long before we talked to a recruiter or took the ASVAB. This day had been something many of us hesitantly yearned for since childhood. It's hard to explain why men would want to put themselves through this kind of experience for others, but we did and we do.