Bravo Company Days

Chapter 5: Inspection & the obstacle course

Five minutes before the inspection, I stood in front of my tightly-made bunk appeasing my leaden eyes with quick blinks.

I had woken up twenty minutes earlier, coated in an unpleasant stickiness from last nights’ pushups that made the sheets stick to me like shrink wrap. My first instinct was to run for the shower before all the hot water was used up, but the thought of the crowded spaces deterred me. I freshened up in the sink, made my bunk, and proceeded to change into the proper uniform for inspection.

While slipping on my left boot, my foot recoiled from the touch of something moist and foreign. I put my hand inside and pulled back a cool glob of shaving cream. I cast a venomous glare around the room, but saw no clues as to the culprit. That had to be put that on the back burner. There was the inspection to worry about.

The fact that the inspection would be conducted by the first sergeant instead of a drill sergeant did nothing to ease my nerves. Though First Sergeant Norman was no taller than five feet and as many inches, he was compensated by his keg-like biceps and bulldoggish disposition in such a way that each of us snapped to parade rest as he entered room 218, leaving Drill Sergeants K and C to observe from the doorway.
He stopped at Floss’s bunk.

“Locker is fine. Soldier’s appearance is okay,” he said after a moment of close examination. “Bunk needs some work. Not bad overall, Private Floss, Hooah.”

He went to each soldier, stating his evaluations in terse, impersonal sentences. Riley needed to stop smiling. Macintyre needed to tuck his trousers into his boots with more care. Finally First Sergeant Norman reached me. As he stood less than a foot away from me my eyes were drawn to the wad of chew in his mouth that was too large to be completely concealed by his lower lip.

“Did you shave, Private?”

“Yes, First Sergeant.”

“With what, a brick?”

It sounded to me like he had said a ‘Bic,’ as in the brand of razor that I did happen to use that morning. “Yes, First Sergeant,” I replied, “One of the disposable ones that come in twelve-packs at the PX.”

I thought I had given a very direct answer to the first sergeant’s question, so I was a bit puzzled to hear Macintyre gasp and Allen suppress a snicker.

“Oh, a wise guy, huh? Go ahead and knock out fifty, smartass.”

Befuddled, I obeyed, mindful of the drill sergeants’ menacing glares. I didn’t hear what First Sergeant Norman told Allen while I was pushing, but he must told him to make his bunk tighter because it looked about as flat as a terrain model of Colorado.

Just First Sergeant Norman stepped out and I felt ready to exhale, Drill Sergeant C stepped in.

“I need two soldiers from this room who are willing to come with me,” he said. Ritalin Riley, who had started to rock slightly on his feet to keep from standing totally still, raised his hand. I hesitated. Anyone who was willing to do some random task by a drill sergeant was asking for trouble. On the other hand, it might be wise to show a bit of incentive. Besides, Drill Sergeant C was using a tone that sounded more business-like than sadistic. With that in mind, I raised my hand, too.

Riley and I followed Drill Sergeant C to the chapel across the street. From the outside it was identical to every other building except that it was adorned by a large, politically incorrect cross on the lawn. Inside were rows of benches facing a mahogany pulpit and an assortment of musical instruments including an organ, a drum set and an electric guitar.

“These floors need to be swept clean for services tomorrow,” said Drill Sergeant C. “There are brooms in the closet. Now get on it.”

Riley and I started at the front of the chapel and brushed toward the entrance. The floor was certainly in need of being swept—every stroke against the bluish carpet churned up clots of dried mud and dust that had been shed from the boots of countless soldiers. Drill Sergeant C watched us for a bit, then sat at the drum set and began playing. At first he just tapped shyly on the cymbal, but it soon evolved into a standard rock beat. Within five minutes he was rocking out with such fury that the brown round hat flew off his head.

That’s when the first revelation came to me. For the first time, I looked at Drill Sergeant Chambers and saw a person instead of a machine. A person who liked a certain type of music, had certain hobbies, and put on a mask when he went to work just like anybody else. I’d seen a glimpse of depth in him on the first day, but now I was staring at it, as plain as day. It was comforting and unnerving at the same time.

When he saw that we were done, he stopped playing and walked over to the place on the floor where his hat lay. Without touching the brim, he grabbed with an enormous palm and set it perfectly level on his forehead, now gleaming with a sweat that he had worked up. The trace of humanity vanished as suddenly as it had arrived.

He stood akimbo a moment, inspecting the room without moving. “Good work, warriors,” He said.

Drill Sergeant Chambers escorted us to the chow hall where the three of us downed a five-minute breakfast. I was feeling hungrier than usual, so I indulged in a whole plate full of chewable food, including scrambled eggs, bacon and French toast. Drill Sergeant Chambers seemed to be in an exceptionally good mood because he even asked Riley and me if we wished to have more time when we finished. Not wanting to use up all the goodwill at once, we told him that we had had enough.
Once we had disposed of our cardboard breakfast trays, Drill Sergeant Chambers led us to a government-issued van parked in a lot behind the chow hall. He drove us past several featureless blocks to a fenced area with sign that said “vertical confidence building course.” Behind the fence was a wooden platform that rose forty-five feet off the ground. One side had a net and a series of rope bridges slanting down to the ground. It looked like a blown-up piece of playground equipment, complete with a sandbox.

For the next forty five minutes, Drill Sergeant Chambers put Riley and me to work. We filled up coolers of water and placing them around the structure and combed the ground for leaves and garbage. Riley never stopped talking.

“Hey, ya wanna play a game?”

“Is it a game that involves talking?”

“No.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’ll set the timer on my watch and we’ll see who can pick up the most trash in one minute.”

“Riley, you dork. Honestly, man, my parents used to tell me that to try to get me to clean my room.”

“Did it work?”

“Well… yeah,” I conceded.

“Okay, then.”

“I’m not playing,” I said, trying to sound adamant.

“I’ll set the timer… ready…”

“I mean it.”

“Go.”

I made no attempt to outpace Riley as he ran furiously to every scrap of trash like there was a thousand dollar prize if he beat the clock. He was so oblivious, so absurdly happy that after thirty seconds I joined in. I laughed as I pushed Riley out of the way before he could deposit the last piece of trash.

“See,” he told me when we were finished. “I told you
we could have fun.”

It was about 8 a.m. when I heard the rhythm of cadence and boots stepping on gravel. The rest of Bravo Company had arrived in four platoon formations. Drill Sergeant K was leading second platoon. Unlike Drill Sergeant Chambers, who had been, in a sense, demystified, Drill Sergeant K still gave me the creeps.

At the drill sergeant’s behest, the troops took seats at some bleachers in front of the tower. Drill Sergeant B of third platoon gave an orientation about the course. Meanwhile, Drill Sergeant Chambers and Drill Sergeant A demonstrated each exercise.

“First you will go to the rope bridges in teams of two.”

Drill Sergeant Chambers tested the first bridge with his foot, displaying an exaggerated look of fear. As he slowly made his way to the top, he turned to Drill Sergeant A and said “I’m scared drill sergeant, don’t make me go up there.”

The privates laughed at the spectacle of the whimpering drill sergeant. He came back down on a single rope that went down diagonally from the tower to the platform. He straddled one leg over it and carefully shimmied his way to the ground. Then he climbed the netting to the top of the tower.

The privates moved from the bleachers to a sand area on the other side of the tower to see the drill sergeant’s final feat—repelling down the 30 foot wall. Drill Sergeant Chambers entertained us with another bout of feigned nervousness. Drill Sergeant A played along.

“If you don’t repel off, I’ll throw you off,” Drill Sergeant A said.

The two men pretended to struggle until they were out of sight. A couple of seconds later, Drill Sergeant A emerged holding over his head a dummy dressed in BDUs and a brown round hat. He hurled it off the tower. The dummy hit the ground on the pavement, bounced with flailing limbs, and landed face first in the gravel. The privates erupted with laughter.

Following the lighthearted demonstration, second and forth platoons went to the repelling wall while first and third platoons formed two lines front of the rope bridges. First and fourth platoons lined up in front of the stairs. When it was my turn, I climbed to the top and Drill Sergeant K fixed me with a harness, a rope and carabineer. He told me again the proper technique.

“Do you understand, Private?

“Roger, drill sergeant,” I replied.

Standing with my feet against the repelling wall so that my body was in the shape of a sideways “L,” I hesitated for two reasons. The first was that thirty feet seemed a lot more from the top of the tower than it had from the bottom. The second was that the harness I was wearing threatened to bisect my scrotum as soon as I placed any weight on it.

“You better move your ass, Case, unless you want to take the fast way down,” Drill Sergeant K said, nodding his head toward the dummy on the ground.
After adjusting the harness to spare my future progeny, I leaned back over the ledge. At first I remained stationary, but as I repositioned my hand with the rope I began sliding backwards at a moderate pace.

“Okay, good,” said Drill Sergeant K. “Now make three big jumps to the ground.”

I pushed against the wall and left with too much momentum. I had aimed for three bounds, but my feet hit the ground after only two. On impact, my knees collapsed and I fell backward on to my rear end so hard that my brain seemed to jolt inside my head.
Johnson, who had been belaying, rushed over to me. “Oh, Case, I’m sorry. You just came too fast. Are you all right, man?”

“Sure,” I grumbled.

“Easy does it. Are you okay?” said Drill Sergeant K.
I stood up, nodded emphatically enough for Drill Sergeant K to see me from the top of the tower, and patted billowing clouds of dust from my trousers.
“Nice going, Case. That oughta teach you to pay attention next time.”

At lunch, Riley and I unloaded several brown boxes from the back of the van. We placed them in a shaded area before a preassembled line of privates who were likely appetized just at the sight of the box. Drill Sergeant K produced a pocket knife and cut open the boxes. The hungry troops streamed forward, each reaching into the box and grabbing a brown square package.

Mine was labeled Meal #1: beef and mushrooms. That didn’t sound so bad. I tried to pull the outer plastic wrapping apart with my fingers, but they kept slipping. Next I attempted to make a small incision with my teeth. The plastic was tough, so I placed the corner of the plastic between my molars and pulled fiercely with both hands in a final assault. Something was going to give—either the MRE packet or my jawbone.

“You know,” said the soldier sitting next to me, “There’s a tab on the other side that says ‘tear here.’”

My death grip relaxed. “Oh.”

Inside the packed, I found several smaller packets. Two of them were cardboard boxes, one was a thin square labeled “wheat snack bread.” The last thing to fall out was a package of Skittles. I put those in my cargo pocket, knowing they would appreciate on the black market.

I tore open the packet of Wheat Snack Bread and nibbled off a corner. The taste was as bland as the name. I looked around for something to add flavor and came upon a packet similar to the mustard and ketchup packets found in the finest restaurants, only this packet was bigger. It was labeled “Cheese Spread, Plain.” Hopefully not as plain as the bread, I thought.

I tore open the packet and put it on the bread. The cheese came out still shaped like the packet, resembling something I would have expected to find in my little brother’s diaper a few years earlier. I fished around in the bag until I found a plastic set of silverware. I started to spread the cheese with a plastic knife but the bread suddenly started to crumble under the pressure of the knife and I quickly shoved the whole mess into my mouth at once.

“I see you’re enjoying your MRE,” Allen said, who was sitting next to me.

My mouth was too full of food to facilitate a verbal response, so I gave him a “thumbs up” sign.

I looked over at Allen a few minutes later and saw that he was looking intently at a three by five photo.

“Whatcha got there Allen?” I said once my mouth was clear.

“The only thing I have to live for.” He turned the picture so I could see it, and I took it in my hands to study it, wiping my hands on my trousers to avoid smearing it with cheese spread grease. It was a picture of a girl toddler on a tricycle. She held a red sucker in one of her hands and had red stains smeared across her hands and cheeks. She was craning her head backward to face the camera, with a look of curiosity and suspicion.

“She’s five now. She was three in the picture.”

“What’s her name?”

“Madeline.”

“She’s adorable.”

“Yeah,” Allen said almost sadly.

I went back to eating my MRE. I dug into the main dish, beef with mushrooms, which was cold because I wasn’t sure how to get the green bag that was supposed to be a heater working.

“You know,” Allen said to me after a few minutes of silence. “I was thinking about Madeline because she is the reason I’m here.”

I ventured a guess. “You want to protect her from the evils of the world?”

“No. Well… yes. But that’s not why I joined. You see, when I married my wife, Shannon, I was a good guy. I even taught a Sunday school class. Can you believe that shit—me teaching a fucking Sunday school class? Anyway, I kinda went astray and Shannon and I got divorced. I lost custody of my little girl.

"I begged the judge, ‘take all the money I have, but please let me see my girl’ but that prick wouldn’t hear it. He said I was just trying to tug his heart strings. But I kept pleading with him and six months ago he agreed that if I can show a lifestyle change in two years that I can have visitation rights, maybe even joint custody. Shannon thought it was a good idea. So I quit smoking, quit drinking and joined the Army Reserve.”

“Well, I hope it all works out well for you,” I said.

“You and me both, brother,” Allen said.

We sat there eating our MRE’s for a moment until Drill Sergeant Brown’s voice interrupted. “Everyone needs to be in line for the next exercise in two minutes, so wrap it up.”

Soon second and forth platoons had lined up in front of the rope bridges.

“Since nobody looks motivated, we are going to add a little incentive,” said Drill Sergeant K. “The troops in the winning platoon will each get a five minute phone call home tomorrow.” This possibility of getting a phone call home, however brief, beckoned a murmur of approval from both platoons. But warm feelings were quickly tempered with the announcement of a negative incentive. “On the other hand, the troops on the loosing platoon will be responsible for cleaning the barracks while the winning platoon is busy on the phone.”

If the point of this arrangement was to encourage team spirit, it worked shamelessly with second platoon. No sooner did Drill Sergeant K blow a whistle and the first two competitors take off up the rope bridge than second platoon erupted with cheering for our own.
Cateau was the first on our team. She did surprisingly well, winning against a much younger male after a spirited fight. Forth platoon gained the advantage for a while, then lost it with a couple of overweight soldiers. From that point on, it was neck-and-neck. I suddenly realized that I was the last one in line and that victory or failure would be on my shoulders.
I was paired up against Private Duncan, a tall, athletic-looking African American from forth platoon.
A whistle was blown and the two of us made our way up the bridge consisting of three ropes, which wobbled back and forth with each step. I heard shouts from Riley, Macintyre and Cateau, but the shouts for Duncan were loudest as he pulled ahead of me.

By the time I was two-thirds of the way up, Duncan had already started his descent. Finally I reached the top and went to the rope. I took a moment to get in the position that Drill Sergeant Chambers had demonstrated, straddling the rope so that one leg hung and the other was flat against the rope.

I found it took surprisingly little exertion to pull myself forward with my arms. Duncan, on the other hand was having trouble steadying himself. This was a game of balance, not strength, I realized, and redoubled my efforts. Duncan, who was hanging by his arms, saw I was advancing and struggled to get back into position.

I pulled harder, so that the frayed rope bit into my hands. The shouts for me were picking up volume again.
The platform was only about fifteen feet away now. I did not look at Duncan but I know he must have been getting closer because the shouts for him were getting louder, too. Just before I reached the platform, I heard a sudden burst of cheers for me, followed by
silence. I knew Duncan had passed me.

No one in second platoon expressed any anger at me and in fact most patted me on the back and comforted me. At least I gave him an unexpected run for his money. Nevertheless, the incident put a damper on the rest of the afternoon.

In the last few minutes before lights out, I sprawled out on my bunk with my black notebook.

“…In retrospect my third day at Bravo Company wasn’t such a bad day,” I concluded after rehashing the day’s events on paper. “There was some obscure Greek philosopher who said don’t lay down to rest until you have thrice recounted the day’s events. That’s good advice. Had I not followed it, I might have forgotten the whole episode with Riley and the game picking up the trash. There is a lesson to be learned there: how many times have I chosen not to enjoy myself simply for fear of looking a little silly in front of someone else? There is a lesson to be learned with Allen, too, but I’m not sure what it is just yet. Maybe tomorrow I’ll figure it out.”