Whatever Happened to Jody?

            Iraqis do not hurry. I suppose a culture that reaches back over four millennia discarded urgency long ago; perhaps when they embraced generational thinking. The meeting, replete with Samoons, Dolmas and endless cups of syrupy sweet tea, stretched late into the afternoon. So, after promises, farewells and collecting security forces while the sun dropped toward the tent of evening, two HMMWVs snarled down the elevated stretch of the Qidisaya Expressway heading toward BIAP (Baghdad International Airport). Light drained from the sky, leaving behind a purple burka where early stars winked on in the spreading blackness. Urged by nervous drivers, engines and tires roared. Crouched behind dully gleaming SAWs (light machine guns) armored men resolutely scanned the dark houses flicking past. The thin sheet steel of the turret provides scant protection. Ignoring safe speeds the small convoy raced toward the FOB (Forward Operating Base) and perceived safety. Without warning emerald tracers reached out from the hulking mass of houses, hoping to greet, to touch the men sweating in their heavy burden.

            “Sir! They’re shooting at us!” bellows a driver.

            “I see.” the figure replies out of the grim darkness, “Just drive fast. They can’t hit us from this angle.” Dun HMMWVs and flaring bullets race together in a meeting engagement of peril, perspiration, panting, and pounding heart. At the last moment razor green lines arc past, disappearing into another shadowy mass of homes, as the thrumming fades into the darkness.

            Inside the FOB, relieved men gather around vehicles as engines softly ping in the night. Evaporating sweat cools them as they chat. Helmets hang from canteens as they start to account for comrades and equipment. Some rattle belted ammunition back into metal cans, Tupperware for soldiers, to wait the next round. Perhaps then they will burst out in that burning ecstasy of purpose fulfilled, racing out to their destiny accompanied by the strange pops of atmospheric applause.

            “Sergeant, thanks for the use of your vehicles.”

            “Sure thing Sir. Just try to get back before dark next time. I heard you ran into some fireworks coming back.”

            “Yes, but it was nothing serious. Just some harassing fire from the houses along the route.” Another bulky figure in full-battle-rattle resolves out of the darkness, shuffling past the now quiet HMMWV.

            “Hey Sarge, did you have an extra antenna kit on this vehicle? ‘Cause I don’t remember those holes in the side of this hummer.”

            “Has anyone seen Jody?” Confidence evaporates as the men nervously glance around. Unnoticed, dark liquid slowly drips from the floor of the HMMWV, disappearing into the thirsty sand.

The Ruck

            Basic Training equalizes all participants. It does not care about wealth, birth, race, religion, or any of the other common human discriminators. Millions of men have endured this right of passage. Basic Training transforms ill-disciplined civilians into trained soldiers. Exercise and drill scuffs off the slouching rough edges of raw recruits, leaving behind an olive-drab component of a larger entity, ready for use by the state. Basic Training introduces trainees to a myriad of skills only useful inside the military; rolling your socks, t-shirts, and underwear to proscribed forms and dimensions, how to ride a buffer, spit-shining boots to a mirror-like finish, and enduring spittle laced coffee breath from an apoplectic Drill Sergeant a scant inch from your nose. Other skills; such as Basic Rifle Marksmanship (BRM), how to navigate at night using a map and compass, throwing a grenade without killing yourself, and many others, prove useful in other venues, military and civilian. It also provides trainees an intimate look into the reality of who they are. Under the intense, baleful glare of Drill Sergeants, the sun slowly sets on their civilian life as a new, more disciplined, age dawns.

            The retreating sun slipped into the cover of the scraggly pines of Missouri as the starched Drill-Sergeant crisply delivered the instructions to the weary ranks of A-5-3. It had been a long day full of physical training (PT), road-marching to training events, low-crawling through the sandy fire and maneuver range. The challenges met and skills mastered left the assembled mass drained, but pleased with their performance. The Drill Sergeants seemed to rant less during training now. Five weeks into the cycle, the trainees sensed their mastery of fundamental soldiering skills growing. Marching seemed easy now. Equipped with muscles that five weeks ago they did not realize were there, they no longer dreaded the daily round of, “Drop and give me twenty!” Standing in straight lines at parade rest, they listened to the final instructions of the day.

            The Senior Drill paced back and forth in front of the formation issuing orders with machined precision. “Aww-right Alpha compnee. Tomorrow is the ten-mile road-march for record. You must pass this to pass cycle. Squad leaders see me after formation for the packing list. Any questions?” No one ever had questions any more.

            “Aww-right! Compnee…ten-SHUN!” Almost as a man the company snapped to attention. “NO! NO! NO! You’re still anticipating the command! How many times do I have to tell you, wait for the command of execution! Half-right, face! Front leaning rest position, move! Give me twenty and let’s try it again!” The formation fell-to pushing Fort Leonard-Wood even deeper into the sands of Missouri. Task completed they waited, backs mostly straight. “Re…cover! Half-left face, move! Parade rest.” As a man the company executed the quick sequence of orders and waited.

            “Compnee, aten----shun!”

            They snapped to and roared in one voice, “Taught be the best! We ARE the best! Drive on Drill Sergeant, DRIVE ON!”

            “Much better,” the Drill grudgingly admitted, “Much Better. Squad leaders remember to see me after formation. Fall Out!” The final feeble rays of the sinking sun fled the sky as the dark forms broke ranks, scurried into the barracks, and set about the final tasks of the day.

            Inside the barracks, under the harsh green fluorescent lighting in air heavy with the scent of Pine-Sol, Simonize, Brasso, and wool, squad leaders passed the packing list to their squads. Amid the banter, complaining, and competing smells soldiers reviewed the packing list. Heavy hearts started packing heavy rucks. Almost all their field gear, TA-50, would go into their backpacks. Tomorrow would be a long, hard, day. In small groups trainees struggled to make everything fit. Somehow they must accomplish the seemingly impossible task of finding room for a sleeping-bag, extra uniforms, shelter-half, poles, stakes, entrenching tool (small shovel), wet-weather gear, poncho, poncho-liner, extra socks and underwear (finally the rolling paid off), field jacket, wool-sweater, extra boots, gloves, shower-shoes, toilet articles, and a towel. On top of this they would need to fit in ammunition and rations for the day. Fully loaded this ruck would top thirty-five pounds. Yet, one soldier seemed nonplussed by this task.

            Stretched out on his rack, he watched the shoving, squeezing, and sweating with mild amusement. Next to him, on the floor, his ruck reclined, much like its owner, ready for the next day. He crossed sock-clad feet in still bloused BDUs resting the on his helmet. A silvery ashtray balanced on his stomach rose and fell to the rhythm of his breathing. Periodically he jetted a thin column of smoke toward the bunk above him. “MacElroy! What’re you doing,” barked a squad leader.

            “Watching you work.” His languid reply oddly incongruous with the exhaled jets of cigarette smoke.

            “Well, get it in gear! We’ve got to be ready at oh-five-hundred tomorrow.”

            “I am ready.”

            “How can you be ready? We’ve got a lot to pack.”

            “I’m ready.”

            “Let me see your ruck,” the squad leader stepped over and picked up the ruck. “Hey, this is light!”

            “Yep.”

            Eyes narrowed, the squad leader leaned down over his recumbent comrade, “You didn’t pack everything, did you?”

            “Nope, I didn’t. Don’t plan on it either. I’m not carrying all that junk for ten miles. Not me.”

            “What did you do?”

            “I just fluffed up my sleeping bag, included all of my drawers without rolling them, and now my ruck looks full.”

            “You have to carry everything. They’ll catch you.”

            “Why, I’m in the middle of the formation. They’ll never notice. And, if they do, what will they do, make me do push-ups. I can do that.”

            “You’ll get the squad in trouble.”

            “Your problem, not mine.”

            Unable to come up with an appropriate response the Squad Leader turned away to deal with other issues. Future experiences would teach him a variety of tactics to deal with such self-centeredness; however, at this moment MacElroy stymied him. Finally, rucks packed, silence owned the night. A lone fire-guard walked his lonely post, reading and rereading Soviet Armor Identification posters and other administrivia posted on the platoon bulletin board as his fellow trainees slumbered. Eventually the Eastern sky lightened with the first traces of a new day.

            Just as the sun considered getting up, A-5-3 formed up on the pad behind the barracks. In the dim early morning light the pines loomed, ancient sentinels, over the assembled ranks. The heavy packs and weapons made all the trainees lean slightly forward. Canted, dark, and indistinguishable they looked like giant beetles. Drill Sergeants took role. All troops accounted for they issued commands and in two columns they headed off into the dark training area. The long dark line passed the barracks and motor pools and entered the training area. The sun, finally up and shining, beat down on the company. Barely past the half-mile point the senior Drill Sergeant called the company to a halt, “Take a knee. Smoke ‘em if yah got ‘em. Private MacElroy FRONT AND CENER!”

            Down the line, from deep inside the company one of the beetles stepped out, field-stripped their smoke, dropped the but into their pocket, and shuffled up the line stopping in front of the Drill Sergeant. Every eye in the company followed his slumping walk to the Senior Drill. We watched with a mixture of horror and amusement.

            For most of us the words were indistinct. But MacElroy’s actions told the story. He snapped to attention as the Drill Sergeant spoke to him. Knowing what was to come, we winced as MacElroy dropped his pack to the ground. Slowly and with great ceremony the Drill Sergeant opened the ruck and started pulling things out. Soon, socks, t-shirts, underwear, and other sundries flew in wild arcs around them. As the scene ran the Drill Sergeant grew more and more animated. But then something changed. We anticipated a long round of push-ups that never came. Those of us in MacElroy’s squad waited in dreadful anticipation. We knew that his infraction would ensnare us.  Eventually, the Drill Sergeant threw the now empty ruck at MacElroy. Then the Sergeant recovered the E-Tool from the sand.

            Astonished we watched as the Drill unfolded the compacted E-Tool and started shoveling sand into the ruck as MacElroy franticly repacked his pack. Soon the ruck bulged with sand and gear. In an oddly tender moment the Drill Sergeant helped the struggling trainee shoulder his now substantial ruck. MacElroy, bent nearly double, trudged back to his place in the line as we all watched. A few barked orders and we resumed our march.

            Later, after a Meal Ready to Eat (MRE) lunch we resumed the march, putting one foot in front of the other under the baleful sun. My Drill Sergeant, SFC IO, sidled up to me. I knew a conversation was coming. SFC Io often issued instructions in these odd moments of near solitude during road-marches. I wasn’t sure if I liked SFC Io. He was a Drill Sergeant after all, but he was funny at times and I suspected that down deep beneath the starch, skills, and regulations he really liked us and wanted us to succeed.

            “PVT.”

            “Yes Drill Sergeant”

            “I consider MacElroy your failure.”

            “What!” Carrying my ruck I barely had enough wind to fully answer. Yet, SFC Io, obviously an old man strode along with his ruck, barely breaking a sweat. He had enough energy to walk up and down the line, issuing instructions and encouragement.

            “You’re the squad leader and you let one of your team come out unprepared. That was your failure. You were supposed to make sure he was ready.”

            “But, he didn’t want to.”

            “I know, but that’s what leadership is all about. You lead your people to success. You don’t just stand by and watch them fail.”

            “What was I supposed to do? You weren’t there and he refused.”

            “That’s when you have to be smart and figure things out. You have more tools in your toolbox than you know. Don’t let it happen again. Don’t prove me wrong about who you are.” And with that final admonishment he accelerated away from me to work on someone else, leaving me to chew on what he’d said. And so, my training in Army leadership began.

            The next day, as I watched MacElroy tug at his sandy drawers, I made a mental note to make sure he washed all his gear that night. He’d have to go first since he had so much. Not an easy sell to the rest of the squad, but necessary.