On graduation day, the rain clouds dispersed just a little too late, and I was shocked to find the ceremony moved from the parade field to the community center. It was strange; ever since Reception Day the weather here has always been — rather suspiciously, in fact — right on cue. (Ever see "The Truman Show"?) Frosty for morning PT, warm and crisp for the training day. Clear and sunny often and whenever it had to be, inclement only for special occasions. For our days out on the rifle range, reliable sun. For the road march out to Victory Forge, merciless rain the whole six miles — then clear skies again just in time for our arrival. And since the local brass was on hand, of course the nights were mild and the days clear from that moment on. The coldest night of the year, down in the low teens? Our very first night in the woods, back in December. Yet now, for our last and most public act as Basic Trainees, the Big Drill Sergeant in the Sky was hiding us away inside, where hardly any display of marching — of training — was required. Weren't we sharp enough by now?
Maybe not. Certainly, this was an Army that hadn't done much weeding out. Our platoon had lost only 9 out of 49, mostly due to injury or illness, and everyone who'd worked on themselves even a little was still around for the end. None of the portentous threats we'd heard all along, like the one about the drill sergeants axing some unsuspecting soul the day before graduation, were ever carried out, and our PT sluggards never lacked for second chances (or third or fourth or fifth ones) to clear the bar. Oh, the toothlessness of it all! I'd heard drill sergeants, nostalgic for the hard old days, chalk it up alternately to gender-combined training, those end-of-cycle customer-satisfaction surveys, and of course the desperation of today's recruitment-challenged Army to keep as many butts in the seats as possible.
Such frustrations apart, familiarity with the Army has not bred contempt, or at least not much. All the answers were not, as it turned out, to be found among the heaps of rules and procedures and training manuals that we waded through every day. Nor in the distant and anonymous warrior-bureaucracy. Rather, the virtuous were nearby and all had faces. Recruiters take note: It is a powerful selling point, to get to know these drill sergeants and lieutenant colonels and soldiers who patrol this encased little corner of the world. I bade them all farewell with real fondness, and I even hope to see some of them again, on some transport plane somewhere, bound for what here they always call "bigger and better things."
Either that, or I've been brainwashed, but good.
PAST DISPATCHES
He's in the Army Now. Well, Almost...
Sgt. Bilko Was Much More Fun Than These Guys
Hey! These Sweat Suits Aren't Camouflaged!
Yes, Sergeant It Is Night and I Am Jogging
These Boots Weren't Made for Marching
Learning to Swallow the Big D Discipline
Just in Case You Run Out of Bullets...
When Private Is the Last Thing You Can Be
Ah, the Smell of Tear Gas in the Morning...
Wrestling a Little With My Conscience
Sorry, Sergeant, But I Backslid a Little...
Learning a Soldier's Core Competency: How to Kill
No $500 Toilet Seats at This Old Boot Camp
Preparing to Get the Boot From Boot Camp