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"Reception" by Jeff Circle
Not even simple responses like, "Yes, drill sergeant" or "No, drill sergeant" kept me out of trouble in basic training, but it was better than attempting dialogue with the formidable figures called drill sergeants. I concluded the best thing to do was plead the "I don't know" defense to tricky questions that could drive me to my hands and knees faster than a mess hall all-you-can-eat smorgasbord. It was quick, less embarrassing, and bypassed the catch-22 situations that never seem to have the right answer. Although the "I don't know" defense shows no potential for leadership, no personal conviction, and a mere passive willingness to stick it out there with all you've got, it does show a drill sergeant that you will do exactly what he wants.
Here is every drill sergeant's goal: break a soldier's natural will, get him to understand who is in charge, and convince him that there is nothing in the world he can do to get out of it. The drill sergeant must make recruits understand that basic training is not the place to show natural leadership skills - it is the place to show that you know how to follow orders without question. Tony Robbins and his "Personal Power" mantra would not survive a 15-minute infomercial at basic training because a recruit's job is not to explain how much he knows but to demonstrate how much he does not know.
Besides push-ups, scrubbing linoleum, and peeling potatoes, there isn't much more to it.
All drill sergeants are severely dedicated to the task of molding recruits into soldiers, and they take their jobs so seriously you would think they received their mission statement directly from the commander in chief. In a cult society of small brains and large ego's, they chant their creed in unison.
The
Official Drill Sergeant's Creed: I
am the Drill Sergeant. I welcome the task of training the guardians of our
country with enthusiasm. I will train many men and women who may someday
be great leaders in our army. My only request is that they remember me as
a leader. I am proud of my past and even more proud of my future. I
am the Drill Sergeant.
This was the official Creed of the Drill Sergeant in 1987. They gave it to us to read and posted it on our barracks wall to remind us. Let's break it down for naïve civilians, anyone who did not see the movie Full Metal Jacket, and those living in Utah or the Dakota's.
Creed: "I am the drill sergeant."
Translation: You are nothing.
Creed: "I welcome the task of training the guardians of our country with enthusiasm."
Translation: I own you, freak.
Creed: "I will train many men and women who may some day be great leaders in our army."
Translation: But you are shit now, so shut up.
Creed: "My only request is that they remember me as a leader."
Translation:
You will be completely brainwashed when you leave here.
Creed:
"I am proud of my past and even more proud of my future."
Translation
I needed this hellhole assignment to get promoted, and I can't wait to get the fuck out of New Jersey.
SO SHUT UP AND KEEP DOING PUSH-UPS, GUANO!
“Barracks Rampage” by Jeff Circle
Responding
to rumors that our barracks were in a horrendous condition, Senior Drill
Sergeant Keehn looked prepared to commit mass murder while taking roll call,
but that was his normal look. Drill
Sergeant Grayling arrived at our formation, and after a short conference with
Keehn, he walked away in disgust. We
hoped he was being ordered to report to an anger management seminar on Fiji or
chastised for being late for work. Neither was the case.
That’s
when we heard his screams from somewhere inside the barracks.
“I
do not understand why you group of sorry-ass individuals are completely
incapable of doing the simple things you are told!” he exclaimed. With every other word alternating between
deafening volume and profound enunciation, he punched the important words and
articulated the critical ones. His
angry tirade replayed in my mind when he went silent: “I do not understand
why you group of sorry-ass individuals are completely
incapable of doing the simple things you are told!” He leaned out of a window and shook his
white-knuckled fists at us for dramatic effect. For a moment I thought he was going to do a world wrestling move
and jump down spread eagle, using us to break his fall. Instead, he glared at us with rage and
silence. He hadn’t actually asked a
question so there was nothing specific to say back to him. We acknowledged his presence by snapping to
attention, and with pathetic looks laden with guilt, we conceded to his point
that we were “messy little piggies!”
“I
cannot believe how you losers choose to live up here!” Getting no response, he aimed his
conversation toward Senior Drill Sergeant Keehn, “Have you seen what a goddamn
mess this place is, senior drill sergeant?” he asked.
With
a rehearsed response that late-night talk shows try not to reveal, he responded
in awe and bewilderment. “No, I have
not seen it Drill Sergeant Grayling. What seems to be the problem?”
Starting
to sound a little staged, it was obvious that the senior drill sergeant was in
on the whole ordeal and would not serve as the neutral protector between us
helpless refugees and the vicious warlord who was our emotionally unbalanced
drill sergeant. I glanced back up to
the window, and Grayling disappeared. Senior Drill Sergeant Keehn began to move forward with the day’s
business and explain our training schedule, when we heard a sound like a
rhinoceros had been let loose in our room. Amid the sounds of metal banging together and furniture scraping across
the floor, Grayling’s muffled curses became more and more disturbing. Our eyes were fixed on a second floor room –
our room! The other drill
sergeants slithered their way close up against the building while we stared
upward. Waiting to see what would
happen next, it sounded as if Grayling was rearranging our floor plan, but he
wasn’t skilled in interior designer. Breaking the rumbling, with no notice or sign of the source, a mop
handle flew out the window toward the center of our attentive formation. A bucket followed soon afterward, as another
example of a cleaning tool, which we had no apparent skill in using.
There
was a moment of silence as Grayling reloaded, then came boots, pillows, and
blankets. He came to the window and
tossed them all out like a scorned girlfriend who just found out that her
platoon of boyfriends had cheated on her. Who was she to talk? She’s the one with a
whole platoon of boyfriends! Grayling was going nuts and there was no
getting around it. As items fell short
of the first row, I was sure that the little Tasmanian devil tearing our room
apart had reached a point of exhaustion – until he started pushing a mattress
out the window. I had never seen
bedding materials bend and flex in that sort of way before, and in addition to
being traumatized by his display, I was mesmerized to see how he would
actually get it to fit. The drill
sergeants who were still on the ground had been wise to move close to the
building’s edge before the boots started flying, but when a mattress cast a
shadow over their shelter, they scattered out of the way as the single-coiled
bed pad popped out the window and bounced onto the ground.
With no pithy words to finish his point,
Grayling glared at us, enjoying the aerial view of his destruction. It seemed like he hated us all, and the only
reason he was even there was because of our sacrifice. Because we had enlisted, he had a job.
So, I guess in some way, he enjoyed having
us around. Where else could he yell at
mammals, provide substandard living conditions, and experiment with
manipulation and intimidation? Sea
World? No, that was out of the question
because he didn’t have a bachelor’s degree and three honest references.
“Gas
Chamber” by Jeff Circle
The
weather outside looked like it might shape up to be a nice day, but then I
heard, “My name is Staff Sergeant Carmony. Welcome to the Nuclear,
Biological and Chemical evaluation site. Today we will test your N.B.C.
skills by going through the gas chamber in the building behind me. The
purpose of this exercise is to give you confidence in the proficient use of your
M-17 gas mask in a contaminated environment. Once you are a ‘go,’ you
will be able to operate under any kind of battlefield conditions.”
Drill Sergeant Grayling took over. “Alright, this is what you will do.
You will walk to the door of the building and file into the room ten at a time.
Staff Sergeant Carmony and I will be inside when you enter, so listen to our
instructions. When you get inside pay attention to me, and watch what I
do. I will go down the line one-by-one and tell you to break the seal on
your mask. I will then watch as you put your mask back on, and then clear
and seal it so you can start breathing again. The gas inside is not
dangerous and will not kill you. Any questions?”
“No, drill sergeant!”
Was this guy absolutely certifiable or what? How was I going to develop
confidence in my protective mask if I was forced to abandon it in my hour of
need? Taking it off made no sense, and I had little doubt that the gas was
intended to kill us all. Left, right, left, we marched into the building,
and since it was early into the exercise, the C.S. was still going good and
strong when we entered the chamber. Inside, the room was dark and lit only
by one bare bulb that jutted out from a wall. The floor was a silver
concrete slab, and the cinder block walls longed for a day when olive drab paint
had concealed their cracks. Gas had evidently peeled it right off.
We lined up in front of a small wooden table with a large metal can on it.
Smoke billowed out of the can that had probably come from the mess hall. I
could still see part of the label that read “Beans, Lima.”
“Welcome to a live, C.S. gas environment,” the training sergeant announced.
“In contaminated battlefield conditions, you can expect…” blah, blah,
blah, I thought. This was incredible. Here we were in a small, dimly
lit room at the far end of Ft Dix, with people who looked like terrorists trying
to explain N.B.C. doctrine. The next thing I expected was to hear their
manifesto as to why they believed we infidels should die and that the only true
form for headgear was the Smokey the Bear Hat. It only got worse when one
of them approached the first guy in our squad and ordered the removal of his
mask.
“Take it off soldier!” he barked. Then, in some obscure Asian dialect,
the details of their conversation became clear to me as I faded in and out of
reality. Imagining what Viet Cong torture might have been like, I heard:
“What is your unit’s call sign? When is the attack coming? What
are your coordinates?!” After suffering great pain, a laborious answer
would trickle from my parched, swollen lips. “Circle, Private, U.S. Army
248-47-6292.” The interrogation would be horrific and after extracting
their information, they would shoot us in the head, execution style.
“Take it off soldier!” Grayling ordered when he stepped in front of me.
I closed my eyes, took one last fresh breath, lifted my hands underneath the
hood, and cracked the seal of my mask. “Gimme your name,” he demanded.
“Circle, drill sergeant,” came my gasped reply.
“Gimme your rank, soldier?”
“Private, drill sergeant.” I was already out of breath.
“Clear and seal,” came his second order. Quickly, I dropped my mask
back down in search of filtered air.
The training sergeant and Grayling tag-teamed the rest of the squad, and the
rest of us tried to regain our composure, rejoicing in our apparent victory.
It almost looked like we made it when they finished harassing the last guy in
line. Grayling walked to the front of the group and stood at attention.
Ready to hear a “left, face…forward march,” we anticipated our victorious
exit when Grayling began to speak.
“When I tell you, you will all remove your masks completely, and look directly
at me. You will then quote the Pledge of Allegiance together. You
will finish the Pledge, and then I will dismiss you. Any questions?”
“Nooo Drewl Sergentph!” we replied through tears, coughs, and an eighth of
an inch of rubber.
“Alright, let’s go, take them off!” he commanded.
As I lifted off the only piece of equipment I cared about, the gas burned my
throat and lungs with haste. My eyes felt pierced by tiny needles pulling
out every ounce of saline from my tear ducts, and I lost all sight.
Breathing in enough air to speak was almost impossible as we tried to quote all
thirty-one words of the Pledge as quickly as possible.
“Ipledgeallegiance,
(gasp) totheflag (gasp) of the UnitedStatesofAmerica and to the Republic, for
which it stands, onenationunderGod, indivisible, with libertyandjusticeforall.”
Did that Pledge embody what our enlistment in the United States Armed Forces was
all about? I wondered, was liberty and justice dependent on my ability to
consume twelve liters of toxic fumes and live to tell about it? The Pledge
seemed too noble to be used in such an abusive setting, and our tormentors used
the situation to their own personal enjoyment as they laughed at us trying to
breathe and stand straight. If they had their way they would have changed
the words of our exit mantra to something that dignified their own personal
existence. They would have rather heard:
“I
pledge allegiance, to my drill sergeant, of E Company, 26th Infantry.
And to their valor, under which I am subservient, one master, drill sergeant’s
are God, with pain and suffering for all.”
It was blasphemy as far as I was concerned, but I elected not to stay and debate
the finer points of the U.S. Constitution after Grayling dismissed us. On
his order, we scrambled out of the building and through the door to our freedom.
Expecting to be shot in the back as we made our escape, we headed toward a clump
of trees. Flapping our arms and hoping to take flight like a mass of
drunken moths, we aired out the C.S. residue from our uniforms and breathed in
fresh air once again. It didn’t come easy for the first few breaths, but
it felt cool and wonderful, and the breeze chilled the tears covering my cheeks.
The coughs lasted a few minutes, and we still detected the smell of the gas
around us. That smell would never be a mysterious odor to me for the rest
of my military life, as I proudly pursued “liberty and justice for all.”
Available
for purchase now!
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After
basic training, Jeff Circle graduated from the U.S. Army
Intelligence School and was promoted to Sergeant in only
eighteen months. Before completing a tour of duty in the Gulf War of 1990-1991, Jeff spent
one year with an infantry unit, located sixteen miles from South
Korea’s demilitarized zone. He
is married and lives on the coast in South Carolina. YES,
DRILL SERGEANT! is his first book. |
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