35 Years Experience Started Here

Thirty-five years ago today, I left for U.S. Army basic training. I remember my mother taking me at zero-dark-thirty to the square in Wilkes-Barre, where the recruiter's office was at the time. We loaded up on a bus and were off to New Jersey. You see, my recruiter promised that I wouldn't have to fly because I never had and was nervous about it. Those that know me well are probably laughing by now.?

When the bus rolled into Fort Dix, NJ, my first recollection was the drill sergeant yelling "get off my bus"! And so, we did. We were ushered into the barracks and marched over to the supply building where we were issued brown and green fatigues, matching socks and underwear, and two pairs of combat boots. As memory fades, this process was all in the same day—but it might have been two days. We stood in a line. Always a line. For shaved heads; for shots in the arm with air guns instead of needles; for chow.?

Push-ups in the sand; in the dirt; the mud; the rain. Side-straddle hops! We wore Vietnam-era steel pots. It was common for an angry drill sergeant to pull one off of someone's head—I don't think the head was still in it—and launch the helmet as far as he could across the parking lot. Back gate runs were common and forced road marches were grueling, but good for you.?

And so it continued.?

We grew stronger and worked better together despite coming from all over and with different backgrounds. There were natural leaders and quiet followers. This was the job of the drill sergeant in the first place: to break us down and build us back up. Sunday we would prepare most of the afternoon for Monday morning inspection. Boots would be shining from all of the spit and polish. The floors too---just polish, no spit. One Monday the boots were either not shiny enough or just a part of the program, but we returned from a run to find the windows on all floors open with our boots laying in a community pile in the grass. They weren't good enough. Best you could do was find two pairs of the right size.?

There were two main places that we did things. First was in formation in the front of our barracks. Pushups until the gravel was part of our hands. Crab-walks all the way around the building, and then more push-ups. And second, was inside the activity room which was cement block on three walls and windows that could be opened on one wall. One of the drill sergeant's favorite things was to start us on push-ups and side straddle hops for what felt like hours. He would leave the room and close the door. We didn't stop because just as every drill sergeant's middle name is Timex they absolutely have eyes everywhere.? The goal was to fill the room with thick salty air from the sweat and heavy breathing of thirty men in an enclosed room.?

In the gas chamber, we were taught about chemical agents and what "gas" smelled like. We heard "GAS, Gas, gas!" and instinctively, by now, donned our gas masks with hearts pounding out of our chests. We stood in the stone shack as we watched gas pour into the building. The drill sergeant yelled "the side straddle hop!" and we began no longer able to see others around us. The door opened, and in the door frame stood the largest drill sergeant in the battalion—who we could only see because he caused a gas-filled eclipse with the sun behind him. Our other drill sergeant had us one by one remove our gas masks to recite our names and unit before running out of the building with all manner of tears and snot oozing from our bodies.

With some honor, we completed the last 20-mile forced road march wearing our full ruck sacks and checking for blisters as we went. I have never forgotten the last night before graduation. Drill sergeant Hernandez (yeah, I still remember his name) said "privates, you have made it and I am proud of you". The next morning, we graduated in a formal ceremony where family had come to share the day.?

By 1990, I was in occupational specialty school, where I learned things like soldering with a drill sergeant inspecting for bad solder joints with more push-ups if they were bad. I also learned a lot about the early 8088 and 8086 processors and assembly language. I worked on TACCS computers and artillery targeting systems. Early in August of 1990, I remember checking out the computers available at the Post Exchange. The computers were right next to the televisions—the news had come on, and the Persian Gulf War had started.?

Once we had finished school, most of my platoon had received orders to Germany with the Persian Gulf as an ultimate destination. For some reason, my friend Street and I were given orders to Panama. That's a story for another day, but a good one.?

This experience taught me what perseverance is about. I would not trade my military time for "the easy way". This was my way, and I'm damn proud of it.

Having a camera, must less one thousand songs, in my pocket was not a thing back then. I have very few pictures that aren't in my head from that time. But, here is one that was taken of me minutes after graduation hopping on the back of a truck destined for the next bus to the next place. This would be the last bus before planes took over.?

While the point of this article, for me, was nostalgia--for others I hope this is just a reminder that experience starts somewhere at sometime. It's what we build on top of it year after year that tells the real story of our lives and careers.

Thank you for reading,

James Garringer, former SGT, U.S. Army