A Tale of Two Boot Camps

About June 30, 1989, I was one of several hundred newly-shaved Army recruits suffering through Day 0 of Basic Training in the sticky, summer heat of Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri.* Sometime shortly after lunch, we rode in sardine-packed silence in the “cattle truck,” (which was rated to hold 50 of us with gear but held 80) from the Reception Center to our new home for the next 8 weeks. With Drill Sergeants barking orders and telling us we have “5 seconds and the first three are gone” to do the duffle-bag drag from bus to formation to barracks, those that failed to comply with said orders earned the privilege to perform some random exercise like pushups, flutter kicks, jumping jacks, or whatever in the boiling Midwestern sun.

Although I was quite used to Florida humidity, my last uniform consisted of a whistle and swim trunks, not boots and long pants. As recruits buckled and fell to the ground like flour sacks from the heat, medics would rush water to them while the Drills continued to bark. After the shake-down inspection to ensure everyone had every necessary t-shirt, sock, bootlace, helmet cover, and canteen, we were herded to our barracks rooms for more barking, where I distinctly remember doing pushups in a puddle of my own sweat and determining that inside was not much cooler than out. The shock of it all was, to say the least, overwhelming.

Fast-forward to last week. Our younger son is now carrying the torch as a trainee in Air Force Basic Training at Lackland AFB, Texas. His first call to us was all of three minutes, to give us his address – and he was uncharacteristically emotional, cracking up as soon as he heard our voices. The past weekend was a longer call and a much more cheerful voice on the line as he explained that although the weather is very hot, they do not march or even stand at attention if outside conditions are “red flag” or “black flag,” the two most severe Wet Bulb Globe Temperature categories that reflect heat and humidity.  I was not surprised, but I’m sure on my Day 0 none of my Drills paid much attention to the heat, let alone flag colors.

But I also will never forget the way my shaved head felt on the green-wool blanket on that first lonesome night, as I tried vainly to sleep at the position of attention to avoid my Drill’s wrath.  Or, even more vividly, marching  and signing in cadence -- which has to be one of the funnest parts of Boot Camp -- to "B-6-10, B-6-10! Late at night when I'm sleeping there's a Drill Sergeant creeping all around..."

Our son appears to have overcome the initial shock of “what the hell did I get myself into” that I knew all too well – and is beginning the adventure of his life as he trains to be a Pararescueman. Raise a glass for him tonight.


*a.ka. "Fort Lost-in-the-Woods, Misery"