Ft. Jackson and reception

So, I am 17 years old. My father signed me into the U.S. Army Reserves and I was assigned to a separate infantry brigade out of Bristol, Pennsylvania as a mortarman. At that time, units in the PA Reserve were a part of the 79th Infantry Division. So I went to a few drills (that my father had to drive me to) and my date for Basic and AIT (called "OSUT" for One Station Unit Training) at Ft. Benning, Ga., finally came in June, 1983.

I had a friend from my hometown named Frank Hines, back in Howell, NJ. He was in the National Guard and he came back with his blue infantry cord as a graduate. And, Frank wasn't exactly SGT York, so I thought it should work out fine. And it did, but there were some big surprises along the way.

After being cloistered like a prisoner in a rundown Newark, NJ hotel room by the recruiters for a night, there was a plane ride from Newark to Columbia, South Carolina. At that time, the reception station was not built at Benning, so the Infantry School was using the reception assets at Ft. Jackson to welcome its recruits into the Army.

At the time I was probably 5'8" (I grew 2 more inches in the next few years), did not grow any hair on my face (unless you call peach fuzz hair) and weighed about 150 pounds. Oh, and I was scared as all hell.

Anyway, so the flight arrives to Columbia and, in the airport there, was a section measured off for incoming recruits. Tough-looking drill sergeants, men and women, tersely told recruits to be quiet and move into that area and remain quiet or they would be severely punished, without exception. OK, didn't need to tell me twice, I was absolutely aware I was a dumbass teen-ager who knew absolutely nothing about really anything (a perfect infantry recruit).

After 50 or 60 of us arrived, we are all herded onto a few buses and then off we went to glorious Ft. Jackson, South Carolina, which I came to learn was, at the time, the Uniform Code of Military Justice-dispensing leader in the Free World, as well as the Army's unofficial cockfighting Mecca. Actually, while at reception, I had no idea what cockfighting was or that it involved roosters and would have probably thought that was a dirty word someone made up with in Los Angeles.

They dispensed bag lunches like the old YMCA lunches used to be: bologna and cheese, an apple and a generic soda. A guy next to me, let's call him Smith, tried to make a joke to me about something and his opening his mouth was met with a torrent of screaming from a male and female drill who got up from their places at the front of the bus and barraged both he and I with derogatory profanities, which involved (but was not limited to) descriptions of our heads and our mothers. I went blank as they screamed and lost expression and stopped chewing. All told, a wise move.

We get to the front of the Ft. Jackson Reception Station and we were screamed off the bus and were told to form lines. We did it as fast as we could because slow people got extra rations of screaming and threatening. This "unit" was joined by like 15 other trainees (they had uniforms and everything. lol) and we stood there absolutely quiet (what moron would talk after that?).

Two new drill sergeants appeared theatrically through the front, glass double doors of the reception center: a man and woman. This blobulous unit we were in was hastily cut in half by one of the bus drills and then split like a big, teen-aged amoeba into two smaller amoebas. My amoeba/unit was assigned a diminutive black female sergeant with the last name of "Loving" (an irony). At 5'1" or so, SGT Loving made quick, no-nonsense work about explaining the following things, sprinkled with profanities: She was in-charge of us and our entire time at Ft. Jackson, if we did anything dumb like disobeying her or anyone at the fort she would make sure we got our very first Article 15 there and that no one had any authority in the group except for her and if anyone -- anyone -- tried to think they did then they would be "made an example of" and would regret it. She then stated this group (I think we were collectively given a number, let's say 325) would process into the Army for three days and then be transported to Ft. Benning, Ga. "...where we would be trained as infantrymen to serve the United States Army." Well, she did have a way of putting things. All in all, I was scared shitless of the woman.

After being placed in an old barracks bay and grabbing bunks we would start the ball rolling with haircuts and uniforms. I placed my stuff on a lower bunk near the door and a young black man, a little older and wider than me, told me I made a mistake and it was his bunk. His name was Sibley, he was from Chicago, and we bitched about the bunk for like 10 minutes before I moved off it. Later on, Sibley would become a good friend. But, for right now, he was just the guy that took my bunk.

In the meantime, I found a bunk near Smith and, two scared suburban teens, we tried to find some strength in propping ourselves up with acting both worldly and unafraid. We were horrible at it.

At reception, we were issued uniforms, boots, covers, belts, clothing bags, waterproof clothing bags, ID cards, filled out insurance forms, administered every shot they had back then, and given quick physicals to make sure that nothing changed from wherever we joined the Army until here. Platoon 325 was assigned a Basic Training Soldier's Book (think it was called a "Blue Book") to read, like everyone else was, and we sat upright with our mouths shut or there were many push-ups that would happen to the offender -- and let's not forget the profane screaming, folks.

Well, everything was going on schedule. The afternoon before we were supposed to leave, SGT Loving instructed us to clean the barracks for the next group coming through the following day. We were given every kind of cleaning agent, towels and rags, a buffer with several head and gloves (for the latrines). No one knew how to clean anything but there was furious activity everywhere. We were some cleaning like madmen people -- I think I polished bedframes and even dusted mattresses too.

Anyway, by the time we were collectively done, maybe 2 hours later, there was a call of alarm from one of the platoon's bald teen-agers at the far side of the bay. All of us, similarly bald and sweating from the heat, came over immediately in our new, uncomfortable BDUs and un-shined boots (which hurt). As it turns out, someone operating the buffer had used bleach to strip the floor. Yeah, it stripped the floor alright, and the fake green marble coloring off the floor's tiles leaving a large white circle about 6 feet by 3 feet. Oh, by the way, SGT Loving was going to check on us before she went home at 5 p.m. to make sure everything was OK. There was, rightfully, this feeling we were going to get screwed. No one liked it.

My first moment of military leadership happened. I almost immediately had a plan and needed a little cooperation and, if I got that, I knew we would be out of this: well, hoped. Here was the risk: SGT Loving had not, as yet, come up to the barracks since showing us in. Rather, she told us when to be out front and would send someone in to get whomever was late. She had showed us what to clean, but it was necessary for her to do that. This thing could fall to pieces if she made us snap to parade rest when she entered the room: a qualified risk given the number of men that would be standing in front of the white mark. Alright, here was the plan...nah...not yet.

OK, I tell Smith and he agrees, so between Smith and I we gather the biggest guys in the platoon and tell them the idea. They agree to help us make this happen: Two of them were really, really big.

At 5 p.m. (1700...whatever), SGT Loving comes through the bay door and there we were, every single man gathered, sitting in a semi circle, while I was reading from a King James Bible. She comes through the door and I called the fellas to parade rest but (THANK GOD), SGT Loving takes off her hat and says, "No! You boys stay right there. You go on with what you were doing. You just keep on doing that right there." She then turns and leaves. There was no laughter, only this feeling we had dodged an enormous bullet. No one wanted to start their military careers with more pain than necessary, or more delay than they had to experience naturally.

The next morning, while it was still dark and at a suitably insane time, the two in-processing platoons became one again and we were all herded onto new buses, with what seemed tons of our brand-new Army gear in duffel bags and waterproof bags. The buses were headed for the Home of the Infantry, Fort Benning, Georgia. And, something told me it wasn't going to get easier there. Still, a bunch of dumb-ass, teen-aged and early 20-something recruits were able to come together for one moment to get something important done (albeit a bit devious) to make sure everyone made it out at Jackson clean and without an Article 15. So I was encouraged. Maybe things were going to suck at Benning -- whatever. If we worked as a team and didn't bitch at one another then maybe this thing would be OK; might even be better than OK. And, with minor exception, it turned out that way. But, that's another story.