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March 28, 2006
Army days
I attended the Basic Orientation Course for members of the California State Military Reserve this past week; it's a four-day series of lectures and military drill, designed to reinforce the mission, as well as inculcate a sense of pride and military esprit d'-corps.
Camp Parks is in Dublin, California, not too far from San Francisco as the crow flies, but worlds away when it comes to red-state American patriotism and values.
The soldiers began arriving Thursday morning, some flying in and taking the BART trains from Oakland, others (like me), driving. I got my base pass and drove to the barracks, where I found my colleague, Colonel D, in his half of a two-man, open-bay cubicle. I'd brought his sleeping bag up with me, so we went out the the car to fetch it, along with my gear, too.
Barracks 391 is a two-story structure, with day rooms in the center dividing it into two wings. The head is entered from the day room, and has eight toilets, eight sinks (four on either side of a wall, and eight individual fiberglass shower stalls with glass doors.
In the berthing areas are eight two-man cubicles -- four on either side of the corridor -- each containing two lockers, two steel-frame beds, one desk, a lamp, and a chair. The beds all have fluorescent lights mounted on the wall above them, and there are two windows, covered with heavy, light-blocking curtains on steel-pipe rods, in-between the beds. There are no doors, and the walls stop a good three feet shy of the ceiling.
Arriving as I had just a few minutes before we were scheduled to muster in formation, I quickly put on my BDUs, bloused them above my boots, made sure my pockets were buttoned, and headed out to the area between the two barracks.
A couple of sergeants were standing in front of us, and they instructed the company to form four squads, facing our barrack. Sgt. W walked along the front row, calling out, "One, two! One, two!" then told all the "Twos" to fall out and form a platoon to the left of the original group. I was one of the Twos, and quickly found myself in the fourth squad of Bravo Company -- soon to become the "Killer Bees," always shouted out while at attention.
Forming up after breakfast, outside Building 391.
My squad leader, Captain C, is a superior-court judge in civilian life, with this being his first exposure to the esoteric joys of drill. The other three squad leaders, Sgt. S-1, Sgt. S-2, and Sgt. L, all had prior military experience, and were born leaders, guiding their troops with precision and military polish. Capt. C did a good job, despite his inexperience with the commands and the moves, and the rest of the company helped him -- and anyone else having trouble -- master moving a group of soldiers from Point A to Point B with a pretty good approximation of parade-ground precision.
Keep an eye on this one, Chaplain; he looks like trouble. No, the fellow on your left; I think he's one of those ex-Air Force types . . . .
Sgt. W faced us and said, "This platoon has everything from corporals to bird colonels, so I apologize in advance if I don't observe military courtesies while we're in formation."
One of the colonels said, "No apologies necessary, sergeant." The sergeant smiled and said, "At-ten-HUT! Parade, REST!"
Master Sergeant Depp strode to the front of the Company, did a smart left face, the heels of her spit-shined boots smacking together as she popped to attention, then called out, "Platoon leaders, take your reports!"
The two sergeants did an about face, and yelled, "Platoon, At-ten-Hut!"
We came to positions of attention, heels together, toes at a 45-degree angle, knees slightly flexed, shoulders back; I stared at the back of the neck of the soldier standing in front of me, trying not to sway.
Sgt. W said, "Dress right (pause) DRESS!"
Everyone raised their left arms at a 90-degree angle from their bodies, palms down, fingers extended, and pushed the soldier to their left away until we had an arms length between us. Every soldier looked to his right, except for the squad leaders; we moved slightly forward or back until we were aligned with our squad leaders, who were on the right edge of the platoon.
Sgt. W said, "Ready, FRONT!"
We dropped our arms smartly and whipped our heads around to the front, then moved slightly left or right, to "cover," i.e., line up with the soldier standing in front of us.
When we were done, the platoon looked like this:
x x x x x x x 1
x x x x x x x 2
x x x x x x x 3
x x x x A x x 4
I'm the "A" in the fourth squad.
Sgt. W said, "Report!"
Sgt. S-1 saluted and said, "Seven assigned, seven present, sergeant!"
Sgt. W returned his salute.
Sgt. S-2 repeated the drill, as did the other squad leaders. When they were done, Sgt. W did an about face and saluted MSG Depp and said, "Twenty-nine assigned, twenty-nine present, M'am!"
MSG Depp took the report from the other platoon leader, then called out, "Company, right --"
Both platoon leaders turned their heads to the right and called out over their shoulders, "Right --!"
MSG Depp yelled, "FACE!", and more than 60 soldiers pivoted in place 90 degrees and formed a column.
Our drill instructor yelled, "FORWARD -- !"
Both platoon leaders echoed, "Forward -- !"
"MARCH!"
And we began moving out, Depp calling cadence. "Left, left, left, right, left.
"Column left -- MARCH!"
The first squad pivoted 90 degrees, while second, third and fourth squads took mores steps, then executed their turns. The fourth squad, being on the outside, pivoted twice, about 45 degrees, taking bigger strides to catch up the the first squad, who had less distance to travel. The soldiers then "guided right" on the march, glancing out of the corners of their eyes at the marcher to the right for alignment; everyone lined up on the men in the fourth squad.
I experienced a strong sense of deja vu; I was 17 again, in bootcamp, marching across the grinder at Recruit Training Command, San Diego, Company 167 moving like a deadly human-centipede chymera, the thudding sound of boots striking asphalt setting a rhythm that guided us wherever our commanders pointed, unstoppable -- or so it seemed.
"Left, left, left-right-left! Don't bounce, heels down, roll through, left, left, left-right-left!"
My reverie didn't last long. We hadn't marched for more than five minutes on our way to the classroom when there was a commotion in Alpha Platoon; I saw a man falling like a sack of potatoes, clearly unconscious. Medics rushed to his side as the drill instructor called out for us to keep moving, the fourth squad guiding around the stricken man.
We marched in the chill twilight, taken aback by the casualty, unsure what had happened, each soldier engaging in silent speculation as our boots pounded out a thudding accompaniment to our thoughts.
We arrived at the lecture hall and filed in silently, our drill instructor and the cadre assisting pointing out where we were to sit -- at attention, of course.
The drill instructor began teaching us immediately, peppering us with questions, insisting on a raised hand; if chosen to answer, standing at attention while speaking.
MSG Depp points out the proper way to stand at attention, as the class pays close attention. Most members have prior military service -- sometimes several decades -- but some have no military experience, so it's all new to them. Our most senior member of the class entered the military in 1962, and we have many Vietnam veterans qualified to wear the Combat Infantryman's Badge.
We were lectured on the intricacies of moving a company of soldiers from one place to another in an orderly fashion, as well as stationary drill; executing a proper About-Face on carpeting is a bitch when you're wearing sticky-soled combat boots.
A number of soldiers were told to fall out and speak with the medics; the incident with the injured soldier, who, it turned out, was Lieutenant T., a chaplain, had the cadre spooked. They wanted to make sure that the troops were fit for physical activity.
I noticed a uniformed federal police officer come into the room with reports in hand; it appeared that Chaplain T hadn't made it, although no official word had been issued.
One of the sergeants assigned as training cadre asked if I'd drive the van back to the barracks behind the formation as it marched, in case anyone needed medical assistance, and I slowly trailed the men in the darkness, my headlights casting long shadows into which the troops marched, never quite escaping into the darkness.
Lights out was at 2200 hours (10 p.m.), and it seemed I'd just crawled into my sleeping bag before the drill instructor turned on the lights, calling out "Good morning!"
Silence greeted her as we squinted and looked at our watches. Five o'clock. "Gawd," I thought, "it's far too dark, cold and early for this."
"I said 'Good morning!' Do you read me?" our drill instructor said.
From within the cubicles came a half-hearted, "Hoo-ah!" the all-purpose response of the 21st century Army.
"Formation at oh-six-hundred," she said, which I knew meant 0550. I had set me cell phone alarm for 0520, so I closed my eyes. A few minutes later it started playing the Mormon Tabernacle Choir's version of "Over There," and Col. D started laughing.
It had rained throughout the night, and it was still pouring out as we stumbled into the dayroom. Col. T, my platoon leader for the day said we'd wait inside until just before the appointed time, then muster outside.
Thankfully, the rain let up, although a biting, cold wind would last throughout the day, numbing fingers, ears and noses as we practiced more marching in the occasional passing rain shower.
Standing at parade-rest, waiting to get into the chow hall. It's chilly out, and coffee is much needed. Chief Warrant Officer Persad served in the British Army as a young man; he now teaches linguistics when he's not on active duty.
The troops are told to come to attention, move forward, then go to parade-rest. Lather, rinse, repeat, until inside.
It was cold out as we formed up, then marched to the chow hall for breakfast. The food was good, better than I'd had in bootcamp a quarter-century before. Then I realized that this was an active base, with soldiers and civilians who wouldn't stand for the kind of swill boots had to eat. Eggs, bacon and sausage, wheat toast and coffee, as Fox News Channel played on the TVs mounted in the corners of the mess hall's ceiling.
We marched to the classroom (are you noticing a marching motif?) and began a long day of instruction, one that would run from 0700 to 2000. Col. G greeted us and gave the official word that Chaplain T, 48 and a father of two, had in fact died. No known medical conditions existed, he appeared to be in fine health, and he was gone. One medic who'd tried to revive him said they never got a pulse during compressions; he was gone before he hit the ground.
By Sunday, we'd received more than 20 hours of classroom instruction, as well as many more hours -- and miles -- of drill. With a few rhythm-challenged exceptions, we were moving pretty smartly, a credit to the persistence and skill of our drill instructor.
SGT. Villafrench, a five-year veteran of the National Guard, waits to turn in her final exam. The sergeant was impressive on the march, moving with precision and loudly answering the drill instructor's cadence-calls in a voice that carried a hint of her childhood in Haiti.
We marched over to headquarters for an inspection by Brigadier General Hagan, the commander of the California SMR. Gen. Hagan, who was a Marine frogman before he retired and was subsequently recruited by the governor, is a lean man of indeterminate years. Brimming with energy and enthusiasm, he's a warrior's warrior, and the troops appear to respond to his leadership.
He moves from soldier to soldier, inspecting each one closely, shadowed by the platoon leaders, pausing to ask a question of each, offering corrections when needed, praise when deserved.
Sergeant Major Delaney: We're depending on you! And you, too! What are you smiling at? Get some polish on those boots, Capt. Lief.
He stops in front of me, and looks me over from head to toe. Having made sure to get a close haircut and a good shave, removed all dangling threads and checking that all the buttons on the myriad pockets of my BDUs are fastened, he finds nothing amiss, although the Sergeant Major, a grizzled fellow who's been in the infantry since Moses was a buck private, tells me later that I need some polish on my boots.
The general says, "Capt. Lief, where are you assigned?"
"146th Air Wing, JAG, general," I answer.
He looks at my dolphins, sewn on my BDUs above my breast pocket. "Submarine sailor, eh? Boomer or fast attack?"
"Neither, sir; diesel boat."
He appears surprised; most military men assume the last of the pigboat sailors are long gone.
"Which one?" he asks.
"USS Blueback, SS-581, general."
He asks how I'm enjoying life in the SMR. I'm not lying when I tell him that it's an outstanding experience, but I'm also thinking there aren't many men who would tell this general that his military is anything other than out-frickin'-standing.
Then he moves on, and I stand and listen to him speaking to the man to my left. When the inspection is done, we march inside for a speech by the general. He tells us of the valuable service we provide, to the security of the state -- and the nation. Gen. Hagan speaks of his desire for the California SMR to become the benchmark for the entire country, and says that the National Guard has told him that we've provided invaluable service, during Hurricane Katrina relief; in the run up to Operation Iraqi Freedom, and in the continuing fight against the terrorists and insurgents.
He reminds us that our mission is to support the National Guard in every way we can, to take over their duties stateside, freeing up more National Guardsman to fight overseas, and I think back to the soldiers I've helped prepare for their deployments, assisting them with planning for the possibility that they won't come home.
The general speaks for a moment of Lieut. T's death, reminds us that casualties -- while regrettable -- cannot and will not prevent us from doing our duty. He then asks for a moment of silence in honor of the lieutenant.
Soon, it's time for the graduation ceremony. We're each called to the front to receive our certificates, presented by Gen. Hagan with a salute and a handshake, then back to our seats, as awards are presented.
For some unknown reason, I find myself taking the long way 'round and, feeling like I'm taking w-a-y too long to get to the front, start jogging around the seats and up the center aisle, coming to a halt in front of Gen. Hagan, where I manage to pop to attention and render a snappy salute. Certificate, handshake, 'nother exchange of salutes and I'm on my way back to my seat.
MSG Depp in a contemplative moment, before she resumes teaching the finer points of military drill, customs and courtesies.
Our drill instructor, MSG Depp receives a decoration and gets a standing ovation from the troops; I find myself moved by her dedication and the affection we've developed for this consummate professional in a mere four days, and find myself cheering along with the men and women of our company.
All too soon, it's handshakes and salutes as the troops head for the shuttles to the airport, and I begin my drive home.
Posted by Mike Lief at March 28, 2006 12:38 AM
Comments
Good times. Nice pictures. Thanks for the report.
Posted by: Lieutenant T at March 28, 2006 06:13 AM
I should have signed my last comment "Lieutenant T-2" to distinguish myself from our chaplain who was a casualty.
Posted by: Lieutanant T-2 at March 28, 2006 08:24 AM
Great story, and it was a pleasure to spend BOC with you and the other soldiers (especially the other JAGs).
Please give Col. D. my regards; he is one of the best story tellers I've met. Hoo-Ah!
Posted by: Captain AP at March 28, 2006 09:20 AM
You army guys are so cute. Are you going to sing Kum-Bah-Yah now?
When you finish up with your adorable little circle jerk, please go back to work.
Or do you need a Marine to help you do that?
Posted by: Marshall McLuhan at March 28, 2006 04:38 PM
Marshall --
Interesting comment. Why are you so hostile? And what's with the gay sex reference?
Careful, laddie, your issues are showing.
Posted by: Mike at March 28, 2006 04:46 PM
Well written shipmate - Bravo Zulu!
Posted by: LTC W at March 28, 2006 09:46 PM
You guys should all be thanked for your service to our great nation. In Desert Storm I served in the 3rd Armored Calvary Regiment. (Oh how I miss Fort Bliss baby).
Please don't take offense to this but the guys in the photos look a little "dated," sort of like a bunch of escapees from a geriatric ward.
Posted by: Red Stater at March 29, 2006 06:23 AM
Nice pics! Good reading your thoughts on the course.
CSM Sebby
Ctr for Mil Hist
Posted by: Daniel M. Sebby at March 29, 2006 09:54 PM