The yelling began just after I stepped off the bus at Fort Jackson.
I was greeted by special "inprocessing drill sergeants". Their job was
to get us expeditiously processed with haircuts, uniforms, vaccinations,
and stacks of other paperwork. Only later would I recognize the beauty
of this organization. I received a PFC stripe (one up and one down), because
I was a college graduate. Inprocessing was over in 4 days.
When I stepped into trainee barracks I was in for a shock. I discovered
that not only was the army trolling for lieutenants, but it was also scrounging
12:36 PM 2/25/2016the bottom of the barrel for privates. The 30 or so trainees who
shared my space were at once alike and not alike. All seemed to be between
18 and 22. At 26 I was the oldest. All had an attitude of some type. Most
seemed just out of high school, or the drop-out equivalent. But I had never
encountered such a diverse group. I remember one time counting the ethnic
makeup of my platoon. Besides myself, only 3 others were of European descent.
About 15 were Black, a dozen or more were Hispanic of some sort, and there
was an Asian or two. I felt both the both threat and appeal
of diversity.
The days and weeks went by fast. The thing I remember most about
basic was the lack of personal / unstructured time. From the moment I hopped
out of the bunk in the morning until the lights out at night, I kept a
schedule; and my schedule was enforced by over-bearing drill sergeants.
If a bus were late at picking us up, we broke into pairs and asked each
other questions about the Code of Conduct. Once my platoon found itself
ahead of schedule. Word was out "when your weapons are clean, you can break".
I must have cleaned by M16 spotless for two hours straight. The inspecting
drill sergeant told me time and again "clean it again. It's dirty". He
pointed to some imaginary spot on the bolt. Suddenly, ten minutes before
dinner, the drill sergeant inspected weapons and amazingly, they were all
clean.
I grasped the concept of basic training: "break down the individual
and build the team". An attempt was made to extinguish every vestage of
individualism. We all wore the same uniform, ate the same food, ran the
same track, and shouted in unison "More PT drill sergeant. More PT. We
like it. We love it. We want more of it". July 4th of 1976 was the bi-centennial
year and we all had a day off of regular training. However, we practiced
marching all morning and in the afternoon marched for the big pass and
review. Eyes right!
My age, personality, and religious persuasion conspired to keep me an
outsider in my platoon. My fellow trainees also knew that I was an "officer-to-be".
I went with the flow, cooperated and after 53 days graduated. By that time,
several of my fellow trainees warmed up to me and wished me luck at OCS.
I have heard it said that "the high point of morale in any soldier's career
in upon graduation from basic training". After watching the transformation
of trainees in my platoon, I believe it.
The saluting picture is from a poloroid that I mailed to Kim for Fort Jackson
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Fort Benning, Georgia
and Officer Candidate School
I bussed from Fort Jackson to Fort Benning and was inprocessed again.
I was issued 8 sets of OD fatigues with a rank of specalist five on the
sholder. There were about 80 men in my company, which was designated "1-7
Tango". It was the last OCS class to be all-male. My platoon (the first)
had about 20 in it. Most folks were prior service enlisted. Graduating
from OCS would place them into officer ranks.
These were my two room mates, Dave and Chuck)
The crossed pencils indicate our branch
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The three of us Graduating
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getting into formation
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My graduation platoon at OCS
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Sitting on the front law of the billets on visiting day
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When Kim came she moved into these quarters. When I was commissioned I moved in too; and held Zac a lot.
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