shark attacks and folklore from Fort Lost in the Woods.
I went to Army basic combat training at Ft. Leonard Wood, in Missouri, in the dead of summer.
While waiting for the charter bus to pick me up from the St. Louis Airport, I overheard others bound for “Fort Lost in the Woods” gossiping about tales they’ve heard about “Basic” passed down from their brother’s friend’s girlfriend’s cousin.
(It is important to note that I did not go to basic training out of high school like most, but had already completed 4 years of college and a stint living out West before I enlisted, making me roughly 6-8 years older than the majority of the people I was reporting there with.)
“I heard the female drill sergeants are the worst! I heard one time, a drill sergeant got caught having sex with a private. Oh, I heard…”
The conversation continued as I put my headphones in and pressed play on my iPod. I’d been binging Fleetwood Mac nonstop since leaving MEPS, the only thing that kept me from spiraling into complete panic over what lay ahead of me. After a few minutes, a large charter bus arrived, headed South towards the Ozarks.
The loud pssssst of the air brakes was startling as the bus lurched to a stop in front of the basic training reception center on the Army base. The door swung open and the thud of heavy boots coming up the steps put everyone on high alert.
“GET THE FUCK OFF MY BUS!!! she barked, as I nervously grabbed the backpack between my feet and flung it onto my back. A female drill sergeant. Maybe those kids were onto something…
We filtered off the bus one by one and formed a line outside the reception center.
“YOU SMELL LIKE FUCKING DOG SHIT!!!” she screamed at us as she led us into the beginning of a three month long nightmare. Little did I know then just how much drill sergeants loved using the words, “dog shit”.
The reception process at basic training was the place your internal light went to die before being shipped off to actual basic training. I suppose it was a necessary way to numb someone before entering them into one of the most exhausting and mind fucking experiences they were about to go through.
After a week of moving us through cattle chutes for our immunizations, timing our meals, depriving our sleep, waterboarding* us with canteens of water, and holding us at parade arrest for hours on end in the Missouri heat without being able to move, talk, sneeze, drink water, or use the bathroom, we were finally ready to ship “down the road”.
We were packed side by side into old school busses until the large rusted vehicle resembled a can of busted biscuits. There was a giant Army green duffel bag as big as my body resting on my lap. It was our first experience with our “real” drill sergeants and there was definitely something much more terrifying about their aura.
The old school bus slowly screeched forward. I looked straight ahead without moving. My nose pressed into the stiff, canvas material of my duffel bag. I see nothing but thick, dense forest from the side of my eye as we gain speed and shouts from the back of the bus grow more intense.
“LOOK OUT THE FUCKING WINDOW, I FUCKING DARE YOU, PRIVATE! I WILL SMOKE THE LIVING DOG SHIT OUT OF YOU I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD. IS SOMETHING FUNNY, PRIVATE?! LAUGH, GODDAMN IT, MAKE MY FUCKING DAY AND LAUGH, I SWEAR TO GOD PRIVATE GIVE ME A REASON TO SMOKE THE LIVING PISS OUT OF YOU! WHO THE FUCK IS READY TO CALL THEIR MOM?! I BET YOU, PRIVATE! YOU GONNA CRY?! GO AHEAD, CRY, PRIVATE, GO AHEAD CRY FOR YOUR MOMMY! I SWEAR TO GOD, I AM GOING TO LIGHT YOU THE FUCK UP, YOU JUST WAIT PRIVATE. YOUR LIFE IS FUCKING OVER PRIVATE, ITS MINE NOW! I FUCKING OWN YOU, PRIVATE! I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DON’T KEEP YOUR EYES SHOVED INTO THE BACK OF THAT DAMN BAG I’M GOING TO SMOKE THE FUCKING DOG SHIT OUT OF YOU!!!!”
All the screams overlapped one another without any indication of who was screaming and who was being screamed at, creating an environment of utter and complete chaos. I remember feeling the fear growing, moving from the pit of my stomach upwards and lodging itself in my throat, followed by the hot sting of tears beginning to gather at the rim of my lower of eyelids. Blinking hard, I reminded myself I had been here before. It really hit me then how much of my life had actually prepared me for something like this.
It was just a year earlier, my mother had me bent backwards over a hot burner on the kitchen stove, her nose nearly pressed into mine as she screamed in my face, hot spit and breath causing me to recoil even further. My friend Sara had left a bag of shredded cheese open on the counter the night before, and I was of course to pay the penance.
The bus came to a stop, but I refused to divert my eyes, and did my best to listen and pick out any words other than “fuck” or “dog shit”. The bus doors flew open, followed by the chaos of more shouting. Seated at the front of the bus I wasn’t sure how being one of the first fed to the sharks was going to play out for me. I didn’t have much time to think about it though because it was time to run.
“GET THE FUCK OFF THE BUS! GET THE FUCK OFF THE BUS, GODDAMN IT!!! FASTER! MOVE YOUR FUCKING ASS, GODDAMN IT! MOOOOOOVE!!!
Hobbling my 100 lb body with my 100 lb bag strapped to my chest, I flung myself off the bus and just started running as fast as I could. Without lifting my head from the back of my duffel, I looked down at my feet. Scattered across the pavement were a series of red dots. Through the mass of bodies and incessant screams, I somehow heard a calm, steady voice repeating a series of instructions.
“Find a red dot. Set your duffel down. Stand at attention.”
I stopped hard on the next dot I saw, dropped my bag, and turned my body into a statue. As my body found stillness, my nervous system went into over drive. I was gasping for breath. I felt the knot in my stomach shoot back into my throat. Tears welled as I did my best to swallow hard and push them back down. Nothing makes you a target more than tears. Next to me, a boy had wet himself.
Ugh, thank fucking god, I thought. I was invisible next to him.
It wasn’t until we were out of “red phase” and didn’t spend every waking moment of our existence getting smoked near to death in the “pits” that we were able to share something personal about ourselves with our platoon. We were able to give our full name, what our military job would be, and where we were from.
Bouncing to my feet when it was my turn, I popped into parade rest as if I had been a seasoned cheerleader. After weeks of social repression, I was so ready to get some words in.
“Hi!!! My name is Katieeee, I’m a thirty-five foxxxx, and I’m from Graaan-”
I was immediately cut off.
“SIT THE FUCK DOWN, PRIVATE! THIS AIN’T NO FUCKING BEAUTY PAGEANT! HOW ABOUT YOU DON’T OPEN YOUR FUCKING MOUTH AGAIN UNTIL AFTER YOU STEP YOUR ASS ON THE BUS ON OUTTA HERE!”
Her name was, Drill Sergeant Boyd. Yup. I ended up with a female drill sergeant.
From then on, I was deemed “Prom Queen” and was the source of humiliation for our Company as my nickname picked up the attention of the head Drill Sergeant from 1st platoon. Back then, I had two tattoos on my arm, which for females still wasn’t too popular.
“HOLY SHIT, LOOK HERE, EVERYONE. WE HAVE A FUCKING GANGSTER IN 3RD PLATOON. ARE YOU A GANGSTER, PRIVATE?! ARE YOU IN A GANG?! ARE THOSE GANG TATTOOS, PRIVATE??! YOU THINK YOU’RE A FUCKING BADASS, HUH? OH NOOOO, YOU’RE JUST A PROM QUEEN, RIIIIGHT? YOU JUST THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN EVERYONE, THAT’S RIGHT!”
I remember standing in line at parade rest with my platoon, lined up one in front of the other like little toy soldiers. He was at my side, screaming for the entire Company to hear. I didn’t know humiliation was part of the basic training regimen, but luckily again, I had a life that prepared me most for moments like this.
The summer before I went to college, I remember my mom roasting me in front of my family after one too many beers. It was a late Sunday afternoon and at that time we’d still get together for dinner every weekend, including my Dad, even though my parents had long been divorced.
“Katie doesn’t even have her period yet! Eighteeeeeen and still doesn’t get her period! Can you believe that?! Fuck, you’d think she’d at least have tits by nowww, but nope.”
What’s bittersweet about this story is that it was without a doubt my mom’s influence that got me through the entirety of basic training. Just not in the way you may think after making it this far in the story. All I wanted still, after all that time, was to make her proud.
I remember our very last ruck march of basic training; the longest and undeniably most difficult of all our training. Early on, so much doubt set in. I had only covered a few miles and the weight of my rucksack was causing unrelenting pain in my shoulders and back. My feet ached and burned. The miles seemed to drag on with no end in sight. The monotonous lull of a hundred combat boots marching on pavement simultaneously played hard on my already mounting exhaustion.
I wanted to sit down and just sob. I had made it all this way, endured everything I did, and all I wanted to do was stop. The only thing that kept me stepping one foot in front of the other was the thought of just finally making her happy.
Two weeks later I walked across the stage at basic training graduation. I was named the “Selfless Soldier” of my Company, with my mom seated in the audience. She cried, I think…
And staying true to the folklore, I fucked the Drill Sergeant from 1st platoon. I guess those kids really were right after all.
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*For clarification purposes, no we were not actually waterboarded. However, we were made to chug canteens of water without stopping, regardless if you puked it back up or not, soooo…yeah, analogy made.