Lowery Far From a Soldier

How I Signed Up for the US Army to Save My Life and It Almost Killed Me. A Memoir
1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-3-7325-1554-7
Verlag: Bastei Lübbe
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 240 Seiten

Reihe: Lübbe

At some stage, Wilson Lowery's life took a wrong turn. When he finds himself in the hospital after an alcohol and drug-fueled binge, the doctor gives him an ultimatum to either turn his life around, or die.
Depressed and without a safety net, he signs up to become a Green Beret in the U.S. Army. Soon after he enters basic training, he realizes that he isn't cut out for the army and tries to quit, but he isn't allowed to leave. The especially demanding first weeks of training put him over the edge. Constant ridicule, lack of sleep, and excruciating group exercises at any hour of the day become his dark reality. Wilson's outlook worsens when his basic marksmanship training begins. When he shoots at targets, he knows that in his heart he could never kill someone. Wilson refuses to train again, but is still kept on base without an end in sight. His punishment for trying to quit is so intense that he attempts suicide. However, even that doesn't allow him to be immediately discharged from the army and the road is long and full of obstacles until he finally finds his freedom.

About the author

Wilson F. Lowery is a freelance writer and a first-time novelist specializing in creative nonfiction. Wilson's work has appeared on blogs and in independent online magazines. His creativity and passion for writing comes from his personal observations, successes, and failures that he experienced while growing up in Jacksonville, IL, through his formative years after graduating from college. Wilson obtained a B.A. in English from the University of Illinois in Urbana-Champaign, where he currently resides.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Lowery, Wilson F.

Leseproben

Chapter Three
The Phone Call

I slung my bag over my shoulder, this time without any pain. Retracing my steps back to Charlie Company’s courtyard, I arrived to find it empty. The rest of the platoons were still upstairs. I could hear a lot of yelling, the building shaking occasionally. I could tell they were doing some type of exercise, but it just sounded like hundreds of thuds.

I crossed over to the desk outside of the captain’s office and sat down. My eyes were on the tree line, but my thoughts were of home. It seemed distant to me and not just because physically I was hundreds of miles away from it. Part of me wanted to be back there and part of me felt like it was what had pushed me into this mess.

But I knew I couldn’t really blame my town, or my parents, the way I wanted to. I thought back on a lot of what my life was like, wishing I had grown up somewhere else, somewhere less patriotic.

My hometown was full of simple people who felt wars were justified if a President told them there was a good enough reason to fight for their country. All of the residents took great pride in the local Veterans of Foreign Wars and American Legion groups. They also constructed and maintained multiple war memorials—their effort to let all of the town’s veterans know they were supported. Where I grew up, it wasn’t a place for traitors, communists, draft-dodgers, and pacifists. I also started wondering what was going to happen to me. I assumed that the yelling was far from over, but I was prepared for it. I also thought about getting a court martial. I knew I wouldn’t have a case, because I had volunteered for the army, but I still thought it was a possibility. I was determined not to train now, willing to face whatever punishment they gave me in the wake of my decision—even if it meant jail time.

For the first time in a long time, I was proud of myself. I had never made such a monumental decision on my own before. Or at least, I had never stood up for myself the way I did with Sanchez in my face. Up to this point in my life, I’d been told I was a leader, yet I’d never had to make any crucial decisions. Simple choices, sure, but mostly the wrong ones. I almost couldn’t believe I’d done what I just did.

Within minutes of sitting down, Duqoin walked past me, entering the captain’s office. I heard a muffled, one-minute conversation before the door opened. A short black man with jaundiced eyes came out. He wasn’t wearing a hat and the lines on his skeletal face were testament to his age.

“Private Lowery.” His voice sounded like he smoked five packs a day.

“Yes, sir.”

“Private Lowery … I heard you want to quit. Is that true?” His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture relaxed. He looked worn down by life, unable to stand up straight. I noticed quite a few arrows pointing down on his sleeve.

“Yes, sir …it is true.”

“Son, do you know what you’re doing?” He tilted his head, encouraging me to answer.

“Not really, sir. I just know I want to quit.”

“Do you really think it’s that easy?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Walk with me, son.”

I walked around the desk and we strode out into the yard. The sun was still out, yet sinking into the horizon, and the rain had stopped. Everything seemed peaceful and somewhat normal for a change. I didn’t feel threatened by him. There was no yelling, just calm.

“Son, I’m First Sergeant Davis. What’s your first name?”

“Wilson, sir.”

He took a few steps and I followed. “All right, Private Lowery, now tell me why you want to quit.”

“It’s just not for me.”

“Shhhhiiiitttt,” he said with a laugh, shaking his head. “This isn’t for everybody. Look at me. You think this is a place for a guy like me?”

“I’m not sure, sir.” To me, he looked and sounded like he was meant for an anti-smoking campaign.

“Where do you come from, Private Lowery?”

“Jacksonville, Illinois.”

“Never been there myself. Nice place?”

“Not really.”

“Hmm. It’s probably not like this place.”

“No, sir.”

“Son, this place isn’t meant for anyone. It’s supposed to be that way. We have to break you down and bring you back up. It’s ok to be scared. Shit, I get scared here every day and I’ve been here for two and a half years. I don’t like hearing all this yelling either. It’s hard on me, you know? But I put up with it. Now tell me, why can’t you do this?”

“This isn’t what I signed up for and I don’t think I can do it.”

“What do you think you signed up for exactly?”

“I don’t know, but …but …”

My voice started to crack, tears forming in my eyes. I thought about all I had been through, why I decided to join, why I didn’t feel connected to my family anymore. I thought about pouring my heart out to him, telling him how bad I had fucked up towards the end of high school, in college, and especially right after college. I knew he wouldn’t give a shit about my middle-class upbringing, all the yelling, all the fighting, all the drinking, and other bad decisions I’d made. This wasn’t the place or time to tell him I just wanted to feel like I had some sort of direction in life, but that ultimately I had chosen the wrong path. I decided to wait for him to start the conversation again.

“But what, son?”

“Ever since I was at the reception station I knew I couldn’t go through with this.”

“Then why the hell didn’t you quit when you were up there? Why the hell did you come all the way down here, suffer through all this shit today, just to quit now, when you could have quit up there?”

I knew I had fucked up when I first went to the recruiting station. When I convinced myself I could become a Green Beret, a killer. Regret filled my soul. “They said it was easier to get out of here if we went Down Range.”

“Who said that?”

“Some of the drill sergeants.”

The first sergeant started to laugh. He shook his head a couple of times. “Of course they told you that. It’s their job to get you down here. Shit, son, you were taken.”

I knew this without him telling me. “Do you know what’ll happen if you quit?”

I shook my head.

“You know you can end up in the Brig, don’t you?”

I shrugged, unable to speak.

“Son, if you go through with this I’ll be forced to court martial you. You can end up in the Brig for up to two years. What would your parents think then?”

“I’m not sure, sir. I don’t think they care much for me anyway.”

“Do you think this is going to make them feel any better? Come on.”

“Probably not, but I’ll feel better about myself. This isn’t for me, don’t you understand?”

He shook his head in disbelief, staring me down. I could see his lips start to move, but no words came out. I think he thought I would change my mind, head back out and rejoin my platoon, but that wasn’t going to happen. Maybe he realized this and gave up. He asked once more if I really wanted to quit, regardless of the consequences, and I told him my mind was made up. I couldn’t turn back; it would have killed me.

He ushered me out to the lawn, past the chin-up bars, and into the courtyard of Charlie Company. He had me sit down behind the desk outside the captain’s office then went inside. I felt incredibly alone and unsafe, unsure what would happen next. I tried taking deep breaths to calm myself down.

The solitude I was experiencing didn’t last long. Within seconds, a cacophony of trampling footsteps rang through my ears as the entire first floor of Charlie Company was filled with new recruits. They lined up in neat rows, nearly fifteen wide by ten long, on each side of the path to the lawn. Facing the direction of the captain’s office, most kept their eyes on me. My platoon stood directly in front of the desk. They knew what I had done, while the other platoons and their drill sergeants had not. Two of them approached.

“What the fuck you think you’re doing, private?” the one asked.

“I was told to sit here.”

“Why?” His face bore a look of hateful confusion.

“Because I’m not training.”

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“I said I’m not training.”

Immediately he lunged across the top of the desk. I jumped back, my chair hitting the wall. The second drill instructor held him back as he yelled, “You fucking piece of shit! You don’t deserve to be in my fucking army you fucking pussy!”

He managed to grab a pen off the top of the desk, throwing it at my head. It flew past my face and ricocheted off the wall, hitting me in the back.

As I stared back at him, trying not to convey how intimidated I felt, I saw his veins pulsing near his temples, a bit of spit dangling from his mouth. I should have feared for my life, but the other drill sergeant held him back until Downs came to my assistance.

Downs looked like the type of guy who was tired of being a drill sergeant, tired of yelling at people. He had a...