ISBN: 9781483550305
This Book is dedicated to the memory of George J. Howell who was killed in action while conducting operations in northern Iraq near the village of Riyadh. Howell is survived by his wife Kristen Howell and their three children. May you rest in peace and enjoy fair skies and following winds.
Table of Contents
Boot Camp
Graduation
10th Mountain Division
Into Baghdad
Abu Ghraib
Amariyah
A Warrior’s Welcome
A Warrior’s Leader
Dejavu
Austere Warfighting
Taming K-Mart
Changing Horses and Houses
E.T.S
A Warrior’s Reflections
Boot Camp
“You have five minutes to find your bags and get back in formation” yelled the senior Drill Sergeant, motioning towards a small mountain of military duffle bags. It was my first day of Basic Combat Training at Fort Benning Georgia, the home of the infantry, and the feat he had ordered was impossible to accomplish in the given time standard. Nevertheless, the formation of brand-new uniforms scattered instantaneously in hopes to find their bags quickly. I was nineteen years old and scared to death of failure or inadequacy. With this as my motivation, I tore into the pile of bags with all I had thinking of nobody but myself and the reputation I wanted to achieve with the Drill Sergeants. The countdown that was being yelled by the Drill Sergeant only served to compound the panic that was already pervading the atmosphere. Four minutes, three minutes, two minutes….. All too soon, the time standard came to a close and many trainees had not found their bags. I had found mine, and was proudly standing in formation at the position of attention behind my pile of olive drab gear bags. “Front leaning rest position, move” Yelled the Drill Sergeant. I dropped and began performing the first of countless push-ups, flutter kicks, mountain climbers, side-straddle hops, grass drills and many other creative exercises that the Drill Sergeants invented through the course of Basic Combat Training. Welcome to Sand Hill!
Following a grueling routine of attempting to quickly locate our bags and the subsequent vigorous exercise, we stood motionless in a tight formation breathing heavily and sweating while the Drill Sergeant called off names. “Norman, Jones, Duffy, McKinney”. The names provoked a motivating “here Drill Sergeant” from the soldier it belonged to and, one by one, they fell out with their bags and gathered near their assigned Drill Sergeants. This was the forming of the platoons in Foxtrot Company 2/19th Battalion, 1st Infantry Training Brigade. With these men, I was destined to face a physical and mental battering throughout the next fourteen weeks as well as the heat, exhaustion, and combat stress of the middle-eastern theatre of operations.
After the first platoon had been formed, I became dreadfully aware that the names were being called off in alphabetical order. Since my last name started with a “W”, I was going to be standing there for a while. Finally, I heard my name followed by the last four digits of my social security number echo through my overheated brain and I forced my sore body to quickly transport my inconceivable amount of luggage into the specified formation.
The newly formed group of soon-to-be soldiers was led to a tan and white pre-fabricated tin building belonging to a group of similarly cheap out-buildings. This was to be my home for the next fourteen weeks and, to make us feel completely at ease in our new place of residence, we were assigned two white sheets, one scratchy wool blanket, one granite-like mattress and a large grey wall locker. The bunks and wall lockers lined the outside walls with a small walking space behind them. The middle of the room served as a common area and, as we learned very quickly, a place for physical disciplinary measures referred to by the Drill Sergeants as “coming to Jesus”.
As we quickly filed into our new home, the senior Drill Sergeant called off numbers angrily for each soldier, and we were instructed to “fall in” in front of the corresponding numbered bunk. Since my name started with a “W”, I was nearly the last person in line as the camouflaged snake of humans circled the entire room, claiming bunks as they went. My name was finally called and I took up a position in front of bunk number 443. Luckily, I had landed a lower bunk.
Since the day was still young, the Drill Sergeants wasted no time in preparing us for the upcoming days of training. We sat on the floor within a sea of newly issued equipment hurriedly sorting out the pieces of gear that were being called off by the senior Drill Sergeant. Chronic idiocy seemed to pervade the atmosphere and manifested itself in frequent and indiscriminating brain farts. The bone-head attacks resulted in frequent unwanted sessions of physical training. “Patience seems to be at a premium here” I thought as I fell behind in the process of attaching my magazine pouches to my outdated Load Bearing Equipment. But soon a much larger problem would embarrass me and attract unwanted attention.
As the process of gear assembly wore on, I found that I needed access to the duffle bag that I had previously locked with a padlock. Dread suddenly kidnapped my senses as I realized that I had lost the key and would have to tell the Drill Sergeants of my mistake. “How could I be so stupid?” “How could I possibly forget my key?” I asked myself with amazement. But asking such critical questions would do little good now, and I was quickly falling further behind in the process of assembling my personal equipment. Sheepishly, I raised my hand and informed the Drill Sergeant that I could not obtain access to the much needed gear due to my incredible bone-head attack. After the most incredulous glare and a hollow threat to drop-kick my ass back home to Kansas, a pair of bolt cutters was produced and my lock was destroyed. “Whew”, I thought, “at least that is over with, but now I am probably branded as a moron to everybody with two eyes”.
After the long and stressful event of organizing our personal gear and getting situated in our barracks, it was time for chow, but first, we were to be introduced to the rules of chow time. “Everybody outside now!” yelled Senior Drill Sergeant Mann. “You have five minutes to be in formation in front of the building!” The time standard given was almost impossible with gear strewn everywhere across the bay floor, nevertheless, the order provoked a panic-induced rush towards the only outlet in the building in fervent hopes of achieving the time standard. Once outside, we stood at the position of attention on the road that circled the barracks like frightened statues while the Drill Sergeant paced back and forth. A bitter looking expression adorned his face as if searching for the right words befitting the scum he was presented with. Finally, he spoke in a lowered tone that matched the distasteful expression on his face. “Before you enter the chow hall you will sound off with the soldier’s creed. After you have finished with the creed, you will file from the left side of the formation into the chow hall where you will show your ID card to the lady at the desk and sound off with your last name and the last four digits of your social security number.” With practiced ease, the weathered Staff Sergeant gave us further directions on how to eat, when to get up, and how to return to our platoon barracks. Chow that night seemed to taste better just because it was the only time the Drill Sergeants weren’t harassing us. Little did I know of what was in store.
A feeling of cold reality set in as I stood in formation after chow. I was a nineteen year old kid from a sheltered upbringing on a Texas ranch with little work experience. I had expected pure physical hell, but getting through the first layer of icy ignorance and creating a circle of friends was proving to be the hardest part. Home seemed like a lifetime away but just the thought of my brother and parents back home gave me motivation to excel at my chosen profession.
With the ending of the first day came an uneasy rest on my rock-like mattress covered by my scratchy wool blanket. But before bedtime, the Drill Sergeants afforded the sweaty platoon of privates a generous five minutes to shower and conduct personal hygiene. A fire guard roster was hurriedly scribbled per direction from the Drill Sergeant detailing every member of the platoon to serve one hour per night on guard at the front of the building adjacent to the door. If the appointed fire guard was caught sleeping at his post, we were told, the entire platoon would be awakened to pull guard for the hour of his assigned shift. Tired though we were, nobody dared sleep on fire guard.
Morning came before the sun was up at 0400 and we were awakened to the screaming of Drill Sergeants as they stalked into the bay with creased uniforms you could have cut paper with and Smokey-the-bear hats pulled low. The Drill Sergeant patch was immaculately sewn in the center of the left breast pocket of their BDU shirts and boots were polished to a high sheen. “The example for every infantry soldier” I thought to myself despite the early-morning grogginess. Once again, a narrow window for personal hygiene was given at a high decibel level by the exuberant senior Drill Sergeant and the open bathroom overflowed with uniformed civilians bearing shaving cream, straight razors and deodorant. In record time, the entire platoon was standing at attention in the designated area outside the barracks and everyone waited silent and motionless for the arrival of the Drill Sergeants for further directives.
When Drill Sergeant Mann finally stalked down the side-walk, I could see the penetrating glare projected upon the group of newbies by the weathered bastard. He stalked up and down the front rank with his hands clasped behind his back and the ever-present bitter expression adorning his face. Someone moved to swat a fly. “Half-right, FACE! He shouted as if he had been waiting for the inevitable. “Front-leaning rest position, MOVE!” Came a second directive putting us in the all-familiar push-up position. “Why are we moving around at the position of attention privates?! I was certain I briefed you on this yesterday!” The shiny pair of jungle combat boots paced in front of my face as the crusty Drill crowed about the importance of discipline while we expelled the proper amount of sweat. Once he was satisfied with the amount of suffering for the offence, he barked: “position of attention….MOVE!” The exhausted group of hopefuls sprang to their feet. This time, nobody dared twitch.
After a grueling PT session, the platoon marched to the chow hall where I shoveled fruit, pancakes and orange juice down my throat like a miniature trash compactor on crack. The platoon was silent except for the occasional grating sound of a chair scraping the tile floor as another soldier hurried to dump his tray and rejoin the formation outside, and for the most part, the group resembled a series of West-Texas pump jacks working at triple speed. I wasn’t exceptionally hungry after the vigorous exercise but I knew I would be hungry later if I didn’t eat a hearty breakfast. After all, somebody was bound to have a bonehead attack and make the rest of us pay for it.
Classes on military customs and courtesies composed the remainder of the day spiced with intermittent Physical Training when we failed to meet a deadline or generally displayed a lack of discipline. Lunch and Supper were executed in the same ritualistic fashion as breakfast, with the platoon thunderously reciting the soldier’s creed before mechanically peeling off from the left of the formation into the chow hall. The only thing certain was that I would be sore the next day.
The next morning, I rolled out of bed at the first beam of the painfully bright florescent lights. It was 0400 in the morning and not only was I still extremely tired but every move I made revealed a new and very irritable muscle. I found myself wishing I had spent more time working out and less time drinking beer at home before I came to Sand Hill. Maybe if I had I wouldn’t feel as if my chest was going to rip at every movement of my arms. I was dreading the inevitable pushups. A duplicate of the previous day composed day three and I found myself wishing we could hurry up and do some shooting instead of sitting in a class room all day trying not to fall asleep and screw the whole platoon into unwanted physical training.
The days wore on in the stifling Georgia heat and the busy pace made the time fly by. Our first field exercise was first aid. After an almost humorously arduous ride to the range packed into a “cattle car”, I learned how to apply field dressings, pressure dressings, tourniquets and a variety of other life-saving skills. I was finally getting adjusted to the new atmosphere and I had begun making friends — and enemies — within the platoon. Red Phase turned into white phase, then blue phase, then pink…hell I couldn’t keep track of the colors. All I knew was time was passing at an incredible rate of speed. Mail had begun flowing in from wives, parents, brothers and sisters. I wrote letters at least once a week giving updates and staying connected with my parents back in South-Central Nebraska and I looked forward to their reply more than anything in the day.
By week four, I was feeling like pure crap. Apparently my body had adopted one of the myriad of virus germs floating around the stuffy bay barracks and now I was paying the price with some of the weirdest symptoms I had ever experienced. The persistent cough and congestion was the least of my worries. My legs would tingle and, of all things, my scalp felt as though it was growing needles instead of hair. “Just my luck” I mused to myself as I lay on my slab that passed for a bed. “I’ve probably contracted some rare version of lethal African gonorrhea and when I die I’ll make the headlines”. Every morning when I woke up, as if generated by some perverted internal alarm clock, I would release toxic gasses into the air sending my bunk-mate into hiding until the air had cleared. Finally, after enough pleading by my Bunkie and those suffering from inhalation of the toxic fumes, I attended sick call only to have a generic diagnosis of the “Fort Benning crap” and some pills I knew wouldn’t help in the slightest. Guess I would have to suck it up this time and ignore the symptoms.
By week nine I was looking forward to the promised thirty-six hour pass marking the graduation of Basic Training and the start of Advanced Individual Training (AIT). Columbus, Georgia was the town adjacent to the base and, from all reports I had heard, it was a class A dump. Nevertheless, almost everyone who didn’t have family or friends coming for the menial mid-training ceremony had plans for a good ole’ time on the town. As for me, myself and a few of my newly acquired friends had visions of a motel room with a fridge full of beer, Domino’s pizza and a good TV show.
The day couldn’t come soon enough. We stood in formation while the Foxtrot Company First Sergeant briefed us on the rules of the mini-vacation.
“Contrary to popular belief, alcohol is not allowed during your pass soldiers”. The burly Non-Commissioned Officer brayed from his perch on the porch. “Remember, you are representing the United States Army whenever and wherever you go in uniform!” An equally noble warning regarding abstinence from sex and drugs was issued by the commander as well as a lengthy safety brief inherent to virtually every action the Army takes.
Then we were released. Sweet freedom! My group of musketeers gaggled slowly towards the Post Exchange where we hailed a cab and paid the extortionist for a ride to our motel. A beer run was in order and with high spirits those of us twenty one or older picked up a rather large quantity of adult beverages at the corner convenience store, ignoring our First Sergeants forbiddance of the liquid. My recollections of the events following that are hazy, but I can say with certainty that we all had a well-deserved good time.
The pass ended all too soon and it was a hung-over crowd that returned to the barracks on Sand Hill to resume training. A small ceremony was held inside a modest classroom setting signifying the beginning of AIT. We stood in a company sized formation while the Drill Sergeants paraded before us in class A uniform and the First Sergeant called the company to attention, then parade -rest. “Men of Foxtrot company 2nd Battalion 19th Infantry Regiment, you have achieved the noble goal each one of you set out to achieve nine weeks ago” he began. He proceeded to embellish the statistics of the week’s prior marksmanship ranges and acknowledged the best soldiers in each event with awards and commendations. Then it was the long-awaited moment: “Company, attention!” Bellowed the commander. “About, face! Welcome to Advanced Individual Training!” With a sense of accomplishment we were released to the Drill Sergeants for the rest of the day.
The following five weeks of AIT seemed to fly by faster than the first nine weeks had. Maybe it was the routine we had fallen into with a newfound sense of camaraderie and team-work beginning to take the place of awkward ignorance. The road marches were stretched farther than we had ever walked and at a faster pace. My right knee had conveniently swollen into a knob from contact with a poison ivy plant and rubbed on my BDU pants making the lengthy road marches of utmost misery.
On once such road march, while stopped to rest, a cry broke the silence of the early morning and a soldier who had taken a knee to drink from his canteen began writhing on the ground frantically trying to shed every stitch of clothes. Nearby soldiers and Drill Sergeants responded to the perplexing emergency and discovered the reason for his apparent loss of sanity. The soldier hadn’t looked where he was kneeling and found himself on top of a mound of Georgia Fire Ants. The merciless insects now covered his lower extremities and legs and his genitals threatened to be their next conquest.
Spirits soared as the final Field Training Exercise came to a close. The twelve mile march following produced blisters on the feet of almost every soldier, but however exhausted I was, the ending finale at Honor Hill signifying completion of training gave me a second wind. Although graduation was still to come, there were no more hurtles to climb in the arduous journey towards an Infantry line soldier. I had done it!
Well after nightfall, the tactical formation turned off the road and followed a dusty jeep trail to a clearing with a small outdoor stage. A roaring fire lit the wooded hill as we stood in formation like a group of sweaty zombies around the stage. The infantry grog, usually alcoholic, was made from fruit punch and Gatorade and felt amazing to my taste buds despite the symbolic Infantry cross rifles being pounded into my collar bone. The short march back to the barracks felt like I was walking on clouds. I was finally an Infantry soldier!
Graduation
There were only a few days left before September 4th ,2004, our scheduled graduation day. Privileges were granted such as a radio inside the barracks and frequent trips to the Post Exchange and telephone booths. Preparations for the graduation ceremony required numerous small details for such tasks as erecting canopies, placing flag holders, cleaning weapons and returning them to the arms room. Rehearsing was paramount. We were organized by height in the formation and practiced drill and ceremony until I thought we couldn’t possibly get any better at it. Then we practiced some more.
“Welch! You got any family coming for graduation?” Brayed a familiar voice from a few bunks down. It was Daniel McKinley, a crack soldier from New York City and a friend I would have by my side through two combat deployments. “Yeah”, I replied, “My Dad is coming down from Nebraska for the Turning Blue Ceremony and graduation.” During the course of training, I had notified my parents and older brother of my graduation date and was hoping for them to show up in the stands. So far, only my Dad could make it due to the rigid college schedules imposed on my Brother and Mom. “That’s OK,” I thought, “Dad will take plenty of pictures.” Hell, I was just glad to see somebody from home.
Within the ranks of the Army, only one Military Occupational Specialty (MOS) has a braided blue chord adorning the left shoulder signifying a special field of expertise. Anyone wearing this chord on their class A uniform was held in high respect by the conventional military. This was the Infantry Blue Chord and we were informed that we could, if we wanted, have a family member attending the ceremony pin it on our shoulders. A separate ceremony would be held the next day for official graduation. Finally, after countless hours of rehearsals, it was time for the Turning Blue Ceremony.
My heart rate increased slightly as I stood in formation outside the area where the ceremony was to be held. The stands were packed but I wasn’t at a good position to see where my Dad was sitting. I checked the class B uniform I wore one last time and straightened my lop-sided beret. Then it was time.
“Company, ATTENTION! “ came the command. Two hundred boots clapped together as one. “Forward, MARCH!” As the formation breached the corner and came within sight of the families and friends that packed the stands, a roar filled the air drowning out the Drill Sergeant’s bull-horn voice calling cadence. Though I dare not look side to side, I could see flags waving and signs flying as the crowd clapped and cheered our entrance. Each platoon peeled off at the guidance of their respective Drill Sergeants and were soon placed strategically within close proximity to their families. I could see my Dad now. He was at the top of the stands to my left studying the Drill Sergeant and hadn’t seemed to spot me yet. As the national anthem blasted through the speakers by the podium, I could see tears in the eyes of many mothers in the audience and a flicker of pride overtook me when the commander embellished the statistics of the training cycle.
Triggered by a dramatic command, the families were released to pin their soldiers with the coveted blue chord. As the mob of civilians rushed the orderly rows of soldiers, I lost sight of my Father in what seemed like complete chaos in contrast to the strict structure and organization of the past fourteen weeks. “Hey there soldier!” A familiar voice called from behind me. I turned around to see my Dad and felt relieved I had finally found him. After some menial greetings and congratulations were exchanged, I handed him the blue chord I had kept in my pocket till this time and he buttoned it onto my left shoulder. Of course, pictures were taken to capture the moment before we were released for a pass on the town. “What a great day!” I thought. ”One more day to go and I get ten days of leave!”
Although I had to stay in uniform the duration of the pass, it was great to be with my Dad again. We ate that evening at a delicious Georgia restaurant. I was sure that the food tasted particularly good just because I could take my time eating it. I leisurely relayed the details of training and Dad caught me up on the happenings at home while we ate Mac-N-Cheese, baked spuds, fried okra and pizza from the buffet. Southern cooking at its best! Sleep on the motel mattress that night was blissful and I awoke rested and psyched for graduation.
September 3th, 2004 dawned clear and bright. The rising of the sun found me ironing my BDU uniform for graduation and packing my meager belongings for the flight back home. The civilian clothes and personal effects that had been confiscated at the 30th AG Reception Battalion were returned to us from the storage room and now an epidemic of laziness had seeped into the platoon. Work was largely replaced with phone calls home and show and tell to the other soldiers. The camaraderie and friendship that the group of men now shared was in stark contrast to the atmosphere of week one and the overall moral of the platoon had slowly peaked in the days preceding graduation.
The last bags were packed. The final rehearsals had been conducted. We stood in formation behind the parade grounds partially concealed by a line of scrappy trees and a Bradley Fighting Vehicle on the field for demonstrations. The colors of the seething mob in the stands were a welcome reminder of civilization as I had once known it and of the upcoming reprieve from military camouflage. It seemed like eternity that we stood there. I could hear the sounds of the much practiced tactical demonstration on the parade grounds and could see the green plume of smoke from the grenades covering the mock attack’s approach to the stands. The tinny voice of the commander narrated the sequence of events to the spell-bound audience as the combat-gear laden soldiers moved toward them cheek-to-charging handle, ready to engage and destroy the wide-eyed spectators should they become a threat to the freedom of America. Upon reaching a pre-designated phase line, the formation broke and ran towards the clogged stands until each member of the detail posted in line with the other, weapon held in display to the audience across the chest. With gusto, each soldier shouted the basic responsibilities of his position within the fire team and assumed the position of parade–rest. “I am the Team Leader” Private Paul began, “I am the senior soldier within the team.” He expounded, “I control my soldiers in cooperation with the other elements for the accomplishment of the mission!” Likewise, each soldier ranted briefly ending in a motivated ”HOOAH!” until the audience had been given a vignette on the purpose and function of every soldier within the team.
When the band began playing, the command: “forward, MARCH!” was issued for the last time by Drill Sergeant Mann. In perfect step with the rhythmic pounding of the drums, we marched past the audience as they once more raised the roof with cheers and clapping. “Eyes, RIGHT” Bellowed the Drill Sergeant above the din of the crowd as we passed the brigade commander. In unison, fifty heads turned to acknowledge the presence of the infantry colonel standing in the gazebo between the throngs of families. The hair on the back of my neck bristled and I felt goose bumps forming from the impressive military display I was privileged to participate in and the significance of the event.
As the final notes played from the gleaming brass bells of the band, the formation came to a halt in near-perfect symmetry with the pre-designated lines on the pavement facing the stands. “Present, ARMS!” the right arms of an entire company of soldiers shot horizontal in a crisp mass salute. The National Anthem blared from loud speakers in front of the podium while the hushed audience stood motionless, hands over their hearts. After a few brief remarks from various officers welcoming VIP guests to the ceremony, it was time for the commander’s remarks. More like a speech, the colonel wore on and on until I thought for sure I would pass out and crack my melon on the scalding hot asphalt. Finally, the bureaucratic nitwit ended his pointless tirade and released the families for their inevitable assault on the soldiers positioned neatly in front of them. While standing in formation, I had visually located my Father sitting on one of the uppermost rows in the bleachers. As the commander’s speech dragged on, I could tell even from a considerable distance that he was getting agitated. The signature grimace on his face and disinterested demeanor spoke volumes about the content of the oration forced upon his ears.
After the colorful array of civilians had mingled with the camouflaged ranks and greetings and congratulations had been exhausted, we were called back to an organized formation and, for one last time, put in the all-familiar push-up position while families, Dad included, took full advantage of the embarrassing moment with dozens of exposures. Then it was back to the barracks to make a mad grab for the gear bags we had packed the day before. As I threw the olive drab duffle bags in the trunk of the economy car my Dad had rented, I could almost taste the food that was to come after we got situated in the motel room. We had been told by the Drill Sergeants that graduation would be the best day of their lives. Today I realized, it wasn’t a lie. The soldiers of Foxtrot Company, 2/19 Infantry had graduated.
10th Mountain Division
The ten days of leave flew by like greased lightning. I felt like a celebrity at my home town church. My parents were typically enamored with my military status and would take every opportunity to introduce me as such to friends and strangers alike. My older Brother was only interested in any new shooting or ass-whooping skills I had acquired while in the peach state and had every intention of testing them to the max.
All too soon the ten days of leave came to a close and I found myself on a plane for a small upstate New York town dubbed Watertown. “Why would anybody name a town Watertown?” I mused to myself as I waited for the plane to depart the Lincoln, Nebraska airport. Was there some hidden fact about this place that it derived such a flaky name from?
As my puddle-jumper plane touched down at the modest air strip like a car coming off a jump, I was taken aback by the quaint size of the airport. Hell, the desk clerk was guiding the plane into position at the gate! I walked down the steps and across the tarmac into what passed for a terminal and found my bag in a heap with others on the floor. A large van emblazoned with the words “Yellow Cab” was stationed outside in the circle drive as if it had been expecting me and the other few soldiers who had disembarked the pipe with wings.
Nestled in the farmlands a few miles east of the Lake Ontario shoreline, Watertown proved a typical military-driven town. Teeming with rude Yankees and weird specimens of humanity, it was a new and distasteful experience compared to the rural Texas upbringing and Midwestern states I had come to know as a teen. The base was just east of the town and was surrounded by suburbs filled with bars, strip clubs, and car dealerships with greedily inflated prices.
Originally organized as an elite mountain ski unit in 1943 at Camp Hale, Colorado, Fort Drum was allegedly home to the only true Light Infantry division in the Army and one of the most combat hardened. Boasting a long and elaborate history of involvement in every major war and conflict in U.S. History, 10th Mountain Division’s resume included the Aleutian Islands conflict, World War Two, Vietnam, Operation Desert Storm, Bosnia and Kosovo. The division also played a major role in the success of the Mogadishu, Somalia mission officially known as Operation Gothic Serpent and made famous in the movie Blackhawk Down. The mountain division could also be found on numerous humanitarian aid missions around the globe. The crossed swards of the unit patch crowned with the mountain tab commanded instant respect Army-wide.
After a wild ride through town and risking a hit-and-run at the Fort Drum gate, the cab driver delivered me to the welcome center for brief in-processing before whisking me away to the 10th Replacement Company where I would spend the next two weeks being familiarized with Fort Drum and processing in. Since it was Friday, we were assigned rooms in the temporary barracks and released for the weekend after an informal safety brief by the Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge. With such little knowledge of the base or the surrounding populations, I did little the first weekend besides visit the internet café and chow halls across the rail road tracks.
With the first of many weekends at Fort Drum in my rear-view mirror, the cadre of the 10th Replacement Company shuttled me and the other newbies by bus back and forth from Clark Hall at the center of the base where we endured hours of sleep-inspiring classes on everything from military insurance policies to on-post housing and standards of conduct. New identification cards were manufactured for soldiers like me who had just graduated basic training and medical dockets were started to track injuries and illnesses throughout our enlistments.
It was mid-September, but the infamous cold of the North Country would come soon enough, we were told, and with it mountains of snow and ice to make field training exercises a challenge for even the most dedicated warrior. Warnings of the merciless weather seemed to follow me everywhere I went and by the time I had finally completed the two weeks of in-processing and was assigned to 1st Battalion 87th Infantry, I was thoroughly worried. As I went through the process of signing for my cold weather gear, much of it looked to me as if it was better befitting an Eskimo than an infantry soldier. Mittens with one finger cut out to fit inside the trigger guard of an M4 Carbine, white jump boots so overstuffed with insulation they could probably incubate an egg in Antarctica, and white camouflage to replace the standard woodland design on my gear were some of the indicators I was in for a frigid tenure with my new unit.
As my luck usually runs, I was one of only a few privates assigned to a unit who had recently returned from nine long months of combat in Afghanistan. The soldiers were hardened, drank heavily, and had little use for the batch of newbies that now threatened the unit’s cohesiveness. I stood at the position of parade rest in the hallway of the barracks as I waited to be assigned a platoon and a team leader.
“Welch!”
“Yes Sergeant” I answered without hesitation to the boyish looking Non-Commissioned Officer who had barked my name.
“I am SGT Barnet. I will be your team leader.” He continued. I now noticed the Combat Infantry Badge sewed above his right breast pocket.
“You will report to me every morning before formation and will keep me informed of any problems or concerns you have.”
“Roger that Sergeant!” I quipped, attempting to appear squared away.
“Be in formation at 0600 in the company area. Don’t be late!”
“Roger that Sergeant!” I echoed.