Welch Term of Service

Life on the Front Lines of a Modern Viet Nam
1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-1-4835-5030-5
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 220 Seiten

Dedicated to a fallen comrade, Term of Service paints a picture with first-hand clarity of life from the beginnings of a modern warrior's journey, through over two years of continuous combat operations, and the final discharge. Humor, adrenaline, and sadness riddle the 220 page memoire. Finally, a chapter entitled 'A Warrior's Reflections' takes a hard look at right and wrong in the grand scheme of America's future and begs the reader not to let the American Veteran's service be in vain.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Welch, Brian

Leseproben

Boot Camp

“You have five minutes to find your bags and get back in formation” yelled the senior Drill Sergeant, motioning towards a small mountain of military duffle bags. It was my first day of Basic Combat Training at Fort Benning Georgia, the home of the infantry, and the feat he had ordered was impossible to accomplish in the given time standard. Nevertheless, the formation of brand-new uniforms scattered instantaneously in hopes to find their bags quickly. I was nineteen years old and scared to death of failure or inadequacy. With this as my motivation, I tore into the pile of bags with all I had thinking of nobody but myself and the reputation I wanted to achieve with the Drill Sergeants. The countdown that was being yelled by the Drill Sergeant only served to compound the panic that was already pervading the atmosphere. Four minutes, three minutes, two minutes….. All too soon, the time standard came to a close and many trainees had not found their bags. I had found mine, and was proudly standing in formation at the position of attention behind my pile of olive drab gear bags. “Front leaning rest position, move” Yelled the Drill Sergeant. I dropped and began performing the first of countless push-ups, flutter kicks, mountain climbers, side-straddle hops, grass drills and many other creative exercises that the Drill Sergeants invented through the course of Basic Combat Training. Welcome to Sand Hill!

Following a grueling routine of attempting to quickly locate our bags and the subsequent vigorous exercise, we stood motionless in a tight formation breathing heavily and sweating while the Drill Sergeant called off names. “Norman, Jones, Duffy, McKinney”. The names provoked a motivating “here Drill Sergeant” from the soldier it belonged to and, one by one, they fell out with their bags and gathered near their assigned Drill Sergeants. This was the forming of the platoons in Foxtrot Company 2/19th Battalion, 1st Infantry Training Brigade. With these men, I was destined to face a physical and mental battering throughout the next fourteen weeks as well as the heat, exhaustion, and combat stress of the middle-eastern theatre of operations.

After the first platoon had been formed, I became dreadfully aware that the names were being called off in alphabetical order. Since my last name started with a “W”, I was going to be standing there for a while. Finally, I heard my name followed by the last four digits of my social security number echo through my overheated brain and I forced my sore body to quickly transport my inconceivable amount of luggage into the specified formation.

The newly formed group of soon-to-be soldiers was led to a tan and white pre-fabricated tin building belonging to a group of similarly cheap out-buildings. This was to be my home for the next fourteen weeks and, to make us feel completely at ease in our new place of residence, we were assigned two white sheets, one scratchy wool blanket, one granite-like mattress and a large grey wall locker. The bunks and wall lockers lined the outside walls with a small walking space behind them. The middle of the room served as a common area and, as we learned very quickly, a place for physical disciplinary measures referred to by the Drill Sergeants as “coming to Jesus”.

As we quickly filed into our new home, the senior Drill Sergeant called off numbers angrily for each soldier, and we were instructed to “fall in” in front of the corresponding numbered bunk. Since my name started with a “W”, I was nearly the last person in line as the camouflaged snake of humans circled the entire room, claiming bunks as they went. My name was finally called and I took up a position in front of bunk number 443. Luckily, I had landed a lower bunk.

Since the day was still young, the Drill Sergeants wasted no time in preparing us for the upcoming days of training. We sat on the floor within a sea of newly issued equipment hurriedly sorting out the pieces of gear that were being called off by the senior Drill Sergeant. Chronic idiocy seemed to pervade the atmosphere and manifested itself in frequent and indiscriminating brain farts. The bone-head attacks resulted in frequent unwanted sessions of physical training. “Patience seems to be at a premium here” I thought as I fell behind in the process of attaching my magazine pouches to my outdated Load Bearing Equipment. But soon a much larger problem would embarrass me and attract unwanted attention.

As the process of gear assembly wore on, I found that I needed access to the duffle bag that I had previously locked with a padlock. Dread suddenly kidnapped my senses as I realized that I had lost the key and would have to tell the Drill Sergeants of my mistake. “How could I be so stupid?” “How could I possibly forget my key?” I asked myself with amazement. But asking such critical questions would do little good now, and I was quickly falling further behind in the process of assembling my personal equipment. Sheepishly, I raised my hand and informed the Drill Sergeant that I could not obtain access to the much needed gear due to my incredible bone-head attack. After the most incredulous glare and a hollow threat to drop-kick my ass back home to Kansas, a pair of bolt cutters was produced and my lock was destroyed. “Whew”, I thought, “at least that is over with, but now I am probably branded as a moron to everybody with two eyes”.

After the long and stressful event of organizing our personal gear and getting situated in our barracks, it was time for chow, but first, we were to be introduced to the rules of chow time. “Everybody outside now!” yelled Senior Drill Sergeant Mann. “You have five minutes to be in formation in front of the building!” The time standard given was almost impossible with gear strewn everywhere across the bay floor, nevertheless, the order provoked a panic-induced rush towards the only outlet in the building in fervent hopes of achieving the time standard. Once outside, we stood at the position of attention on the road that circled the barracks like frightened statues while the Drill Sergeant paced back and forth. A bitter looking expression adorned his face as if searching for the right words befitting the scum he was presented with. Finally, he spoke in a lowered tone that matched the distasteful expression on his face. “Before you enter the chow hall you will sound off with the soldier’s creed. After you have finished with the creed, you will file from the left side of the formation into the chow hall where you will show your ID card to the lady at the desk and sound off with your last name and the last four digits of your social security number.” With practiced ease, the weathered Staff Sergeant gave us further directions on how to eat, when to get up, and how to return to our platoon barracks. Chow that night seemed to taste better just because it was the only time the Drill Sergeants weren’t harassing us. Little did I know of what was in store.

A feeling of cold reality set in as I stood in formation after chow. I was a nineteen year old kid from a sheltered upbringing on a Texas ranch with little work experience. I had expected pure physical hell, but getting through the first layer of icy ignorance and creating a circle of friends was proving to be the hardest part. Home seemed like a lifetime away but just the thought of my brother and parents back home gave me motivation to excel at my chosen profession.

With the ending of the first day came an uneasy rest on my rock-like mattress covered by my scratchy wool blanket. But before bedtime, the Drill Sergeants afforded the sweaty platoon of privates a generous five minutes to shower and conduct personal hygiene. A fire guard roster was hurriedly scribbled per direction from the Drill Sergeant detailing every member of the platoon to serve one hour per night on guard at the front of the building adjacent to the door. If the appointed fire guard was caught sleeping at his post, we were told, the entire platoon would be awakened to pull guard for the hour of his assigned shift. Tired though we were, nobody dared sleep on fire guard.

Morning came before the sun was up at 0400 and we were awakened to the screaming of Drill Sergeants as they stalked into the bay with creased uniforms you could have cut paper with and Smokey-the-bear hats pulled low. The Drill Sergeant patch was immaculately sewn in the center of the left breast pocket of their BDU shirts and boots were polished to a high sheen. “The example for every infantry soldier” I thought to myself despite the early-morning grogginess. Once again, a narrow window for personal hygiene was given at a high decibel level by the exuberant senior Drill Sergeant and the open bathroom overflowed with uniformed civilians bearing shaving cream, straight razors and deodorant. In record time, the entire platoon was standing at attention in the designated area outside the barracks and everyone waited silent and motionless for the arrival of the Drill Sergeants for further directives.

When Drill Sergeant Mann finally stalked down the side-walk, I could see the penetrating glare projected upon the group of newbies by the weathered bastard. He stalked up and down the front rank with his hands clasped behind his back and the ever-present bitter expression adorning his face. Someone moved to swat a fly. “Half-right, FACE! He shouted as if he had been waiting for the inevitable. “Front-leaning rest position, MOVE!” Came a second directive putting us in the all-familiar push-up position. “Why are we moving around at the position of attention privates?! I was certain I briefed you on this yesterday!” The shiny pair of jungle combat boots paced in front of my face as the crusty Drill crowed...