by: Dewayne Gore
Upon our arrival at the United States Army Training and Doctrine Command in Fort McClellan, Alabama in March of 1984, new trainees were sorted, processed, and assigned to Basic Training Companies.
The first several days consisted of arriving at The Reception Station, a gathering place of sorts, and being processed. At the Reception Station, we packed up anything of a civilian nature we had brought to Fort McClellan, sent it home, and the male trainees got “on the floor” haircuts.
We were given shots, issued uniforms and anything the Army thought necessary for us to have during our basic training cycle. We were not, I found out later, issued a Brain.
The Reception Station was a sneaky place, luring us into a false sense of security, a feeling of, “Hey, this ain’t all that bad after all!” Turns out that it was not only a place for new trainees to be in-processed, but a place where long-time Drill Sergeants were sent to chill out before going back to regular Army units.
During our stay at The Reception Station, we were under the care and supervision of these out-going Drill Sergeants learning to chill out again. They were laid-back for the most part, although I did see an occasional trainee doing “good natured” pushups here and there.
Once we finished several days of in-processing, we were packed like sardines into buses (cattle trucks) and driven to our Basic Training unit, our new home for the next 16 weeks.
Having always been a “people watcher”, I watched people that day, observing their actions and reactions to various situations. Several people were crying, some were laughing nervously and speculating on what was about to happen, while others simply stared out the window absorbed in their own private moment of solace before being turned over to our new Drill Sergeants.
Not me, though. As usual, I was watching people, taking mental notes so that if the chance ever arose, I could write it all down in living color.
As our bus pulled to the curb, I observed a single squad of Drill Sergeants standing at Parade Rest on the sidewalk, all rigid as statues. The only Drill Sergreant moving was the one standing alone in front of the others. He was carrying a clipboard, smoking a cigarette, and pacing back and forth as if annoyed that we were late. He looked hard at his watch as the door of the bus opened. He then stepped into the doorway of the bus.
The clipboard-carrying Drill Sergeant’s name, he informed us civilian types, was Sergeant First Class Andrews, the Senior Drill Sergeant of C-Company, 11th Military Police Battalion, or “Charlie 11”. He congratulated us on joining the Army and choosing to become part of the “Cream of the Crop”, the Military Police Corps.
Our new Senior Drill Sergeant informed us that he had an open door policy, and told us that if, at any time, we had a problem our Drill Sergeant couldn’t handle, we should feel free to come into his office so that we could get the problem resolved in what he referred to as “Post Haste”.
He then informed us we had 30 seconds to get off HIS BUS and that 25 OF THEM WERE ALREADY GONE!!!
The other Drill Sergeants converged on our bus with the vengeance of pit bulls, rocking the heavily crammed vehicle and making it hard to stand, walk, or move forward. All I knew was that I wanted off that bus, and I did everything in my power to get out of there as fast as possible. The problem was that everybody else had the same idea. What I didn’t know was that there were more Drill Sergeants waiting for us around the corner in an area known as the Quadrangle.
I, hearing screaming and yelling before I turned the corner of the building, didn’t know what to expect but had a fairly good idea; some voices were obviously coming from Drill Sergeants, but most of the screaming and yelling was coming from Trainees.
As I rounded the corner and caught the first glimpse of what was happening on the Quadrangle, I failed to understand how so few Drill Sergeants could yell at so many Trainees at the same time, but they turned it into a work of art. There were about 15 Drill Sergeants to 284 Trainees in all. Three Drill Sergeants saw me coming around the corner and lit my ass up.
“DROP YOUR BAGS!!! STOP MOVING, PRIVATE!!! ARE YOU DRUNK OR JUST STUPID??? I TOLD YOU TO STOP MOVING!!! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU????” the first Drill Sergeant yelled to me.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, PRIVATE??? WHO TOLD YOU TO DROP YOUR BAGS???? GET YOUR GOAT STINKING BUTT IN THAT LINE OVER THERE!!!“, yelled the second Drill Sergeant.
“GET OVER HERE!!! WHAT’S YOUR NAME, PRIVATE??” Yelled a third.
“WHY ARE YOU PICKING UP YOUR BAGS, PRIVATE, I TOLD YOU TO DROP THEM!!! WHO’S MAKING THE DECISIONS AROUND HERE, YOU OR ME???? DID THE ARMY ISSUE YOU A BRAIN???” GET ON THE GROUND AND START POUNDING YOUR FACE!!!!, yelled the first.
The third yelled, “ANSWER ME!!!! I DON”T HAVE ALL STINKING DAY! WHAT IS YOUR NAME, PRIVATE??? I HAVE A JOB TO DO AND YOU ARE WASTING MY TIME!!!!”
“YOU ARE JUST ABOUT THIS CLOSE (the first drill sergeant yells, while holding his index finger and thumb about half an inch apart and approximately three inches in front of my face) FROM PISSING ME OFF, PRIVATE!!!“
The second, angered because I hadn’t gotten on the line but was, instead, on the ground doing pushups, came over to me and yelled, “WHAT ON GOD’S GREEN EARTH ARE YOU DOING DOWN THERE, PRIVATE? ARE YOU TRYING TO PUSH FORT MCCLELLAN DOWN BELOW SEA LEVEL OR SOMETHING???? I TOLD YOU TO LINE UP OVER THERE!!!!”
So, learning my first lesson in Basic Training (Never Make Assumptions) I jumped up to my feet, and all three Drill Sergeants swarmed me, yelling in unison in a unholy trinity around my face, “WHO TOLD YOU TO GET UP???? YOU HAD BETTER GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR FOUR POINT OF CONTACT AND START PAYING ATTENTION, PRIVATE!!! GET YOUR GOAT-STINKING SELF BACK ON THE GROUND!!!”.
Needless to say, it was a memorable occasion, and lasted for the next couple of hours. It was like someone had stirred up a hornet’s nest.
Thus far, I was only a blur in the crowd, a link in a chain, a piece of corn in a pot of soup. Thus far, I had not really, REALLY, been singled out by any Drill Sergeants other than what I lovingly refer to as “group sessions” which everyone else was getting.
My Drill Sergeant, Staff Sergeant Powell, kept banging the brim of his Drill Sergeant’s hat, or as he referred to it, his “Round Brown”, across the bridge of my nose, which was annoying enough by itself. To make that experience worse, he had apparently eaten an entire raw onion, and chain smoked a pack of menthol non-filter Camel cigarettes immediately prior to our arrival.
While trying not to “Eyeball” DS Powell, which would have been a Cardinal Sin, in the recesses of my peripheral consciousness I noticed one Drill Sergeant, obviously of Oriental descent (Korean, actually), who was not saying a word to anyone and looked oddly out-of-place.
Enter Sergeant First Class Glade, Drill Sergeant Extraordinaire. Former Korean Army Special Forces Soldier during Vietnam, who switched over to the US Army after the war was over. I would find out later that this was his second tour of duty as a Drill Sergeant.
While the other Drill Sergeants were busy yelling and screaming and dropping privates for pushups and threatening to send them home to mama, Drill Sergeant Glade was quitely walking thru the ranks with a look on his face like he smelled dog crap somewhere, but couldn’t locate it.
His hands clasped behind his back, a frown on his face, he wasn’t saying a word to anyone. That fact should have rang out in my brain like the shot heard around the world. I should have taken notice but given the many other distractions, it quickly fled from my mind.
DS Powell, having made his rounds, found me again and was busying himself by making my life miserable and generally screaming, yelling, and telling me to sound off like like I had a pair (which, I found out, was very important to the drill sergeants for whatever reason).
During his screaming fit, DS Powell asked me where I was from. I screamed to the top of my lungs, “WILMINGTON, NORTH CAROLINA, DRILL SERGEANT!!!!”. He screamed back at me, “WHERE???? YOU HAD BETTER SOUND OFF LIKE YOU HAVE GOT A PAIR, OR I AM GOING TO MAKE YOUR LIFE A LIVING HELL, NOW YOU CAN BELIEVE THAT!!!”. So, I screamed it even louder. “WILMINGTON, NORTH CAROLINA, DRILL SERGEANT!!!!”
He finally left me alone for a moment so that I could catch my breath (hey, I like to believe it was for that reason), and commenced shock treatment on the guy to my left for a second or third time. All I could think was, “Lord Jesus help me… What on EARTH am I doing here and what time is dinner???”.
Like clockwork, the ONE DRILL SERGEANT who had yet to say a single word to anybody eased up behind my right shoulder, leaned close towards my right ear, and whispered, “Uh, eexcuse me, Pry-veet… Deed jew say jou’re from Weelmington, North Cad-o-lina?”
And, like clockwork, I turned my head slightly to the right, thankful to hear a friendly voice, and whispered, “Yes, Drill Sergeant”.
He went off like a hand grenade, his Korean accent making it even harder to understand.
“WHAD ARE YOU WHEEESPERING TO ME, PRIVEEET????? DO YOU DINK I AM JOUR GIRL-FEEEEND????? DO YOU WANNA TO KEEESS ME? EEES DAT WHAT YOU WANT, PRIVEEETTT???? MAYBE WE COULD GO ON A DATE AND MAYBE I COULD LET YOU DRIBE MY CAR!!! EEEES DEES WHA YOU WANT, PRIVEEETT????”
“NO, DRILL SERGEANT!!!!!”, I screamed to the top of my lungs, feeling as if I had stepped in that pile of crap he had been searching for.
“DEN DON YOU EBBER WHEEEESPER TO ME AGEEEN? DO YOU UNNER-STAIN????”
“YES, DRILL SERGEANT!!!!”.
“JEEZES CHRIST, YOU MUST HAFF ONE UGLY GIRL-FEEEND EEF SHE LOOOKS LIKE ME!!! NO WUNNER YOU JOIN DE ARMY, YOU WERE TRYING TO GEET AWAY FROM DAT UGLY GIRL-FEEEND, WUZZENT YOU??? NOW LOOK AT YOU!!! WHO LOOKS BETTER, PRIVEET??? ME OR HER???? DOES SHE LOOK BEDDUH DAN ME, PRIVEET???? AM I AS PRETTY AS SHE IS????”
There is no “CORRECT” answer to those questions. Trust me.
I spent the next half hour or so getting to know DS Glade almost intimately.
So, the morale of the story, if there is one, is Do Not Whisper To Your Drill Sergeant, no matter how appropriate it seems at the moment…
SFC Glade turned out to be the coolest Drill Sergeant in our Company, and the toughest. He was the first person I ever heard say the words, “Muay Thai”. He was a Mauy Thai fighter before it was “cool” to be involved in mixed martial arts.
By the end of Basic Training and MP School, I would have low-crawled across a mine field with him just because he told me we could make it to the other side. He was a Drill Sergeant among Drill Sergeants. I will never forget him and will ever hold him in the highest regard.
Thanks for reading,
~Dewayne Gore.
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