Reception was the place I stayed at
while waiting for my number to be called to officially start basic training; a holding
facility, if you will. My number
was 060 and it was at that moment I realized I was just a number in the
masses of soldiers our country has produced. I’d have to work hard to become more than just a number or
even worse, a dead statistic that the average ignorant American wouldn’t give a shit about.
Reception
was every man for himself and we had absolutely nothing to do except stand in
formations for hours waiting for something to happen or for our number to be
called. I remember being called to
a formation at midnight and we got to see the sun rise together while some guys
fell on their faces as they fell asleep standing up. How romantic. This went on for over a week. If we weren’t in formation or in line for chow, we would be
in the barracks. People wouldn’t
hesitate to steal from one another.
I wasn’t surprised when I later found out how many men joined the army
to avoid jail. I found a couple of
guys that could be trusted and we watched each other’s backs.
One soldier, Nguyen, was a
soft-spoken Vietnamese man who had a lot of pain in his past that he didn’t
want to reveal. He looked like a
smaller version of the Asian bad guy in all the 80’s movies, especially the ones
with Jean Claude Van Dam. It’s
always nice to have a diesel-looking guy on your side. Nguyen left the barracks room one day
and this guy, Crapp, started rummaging thru his locker. I screamed at Crapp to get out and
hoped that we wouldn’t have our numbers called to be in the same basic training
platoon. I wasn’t so lucky. What a dirt bag. He claimed he wasn’t going to take
anything. So why go into another
person’s locker? Now he can add
shameful liar to his resume.
The other was a former marine, Reece. Reece was white, thin, light haired and confident
in his knowledge of how the military worked. He could tell if someone was legitimately allowed to bark
orders at us or not. Some guys at
reception had been their longer and would yell at newer guys like myself to get
out of the way or do push ups since they knew we’d listen to anyone with balls
at that point. Reece protected us
from that. My team was set. Picking a good team was something I did well.
Reception was also a place where
guys can decide to make a run for it or not. A lot of people get to reception and realize they made a
huge mistake or realized they were clean and sober enough to see they signed a
contract. Reece came up to me in
formation one day.
“Vance, did you hear about last
night?” he asked.
“Nah, what happened?”
“Two dudes wanted to get out of
their contract so they arranged to get caught blowing each other in the
cleaning closet.”
“No way, that’s too extreme man!”
“Shhhhh!” an annoyed soldier hissed
as we spoke in a formation where speaking wasn’t allowed.
“Oh fuck off, ya narc. Nobody’s going to check on us for
hours,” Reece said forcefully.
“Did you actually see it go down?”
I asked
“No, but I definitely heard a drill
screaming while dragging both of them off down the hall.”
It was the summer of 2004, when
‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ was still in full effect. I was shocked two heterosexuals would go that far though. Reece loved telling stories like
that. He told me about the jokes
his buddies in the marines played on each other. Reece said one of his buddies sent him a package with
homoerotic messages on the box so when he went for mail call everyone would see
the false evidence. I found this
hilarious. There's nothing wrong with being gay, but when you're surrounded by a bunch of brutes during that sad time in the military... you became the outcast. I wish I found it a red
flag when he asked for my address. Not my smartest moment.
Eventually I was in basic and a
drill summoned me down to the front of the barracks.
“If you want this mail, private,
you gonna have to earn it,” said the size large black drill with a Pepe Le Pew
mustache and Louis Armstrong voice.
“Yes, drill sergeant,” and the
push-ups commenced.
“Private, is your name Vance?”
“Yes, drill sergeant.”
“Get the fuck up.”
I got back to my feet, as the
letter was mid-flight en route to a desk and the drill had already turned to
walk away. It was as if he didn’t
want anything to do with the letter nor me for that matter. I took that as a hint to grab my letter
and go back to my platoon’s floor.
I looked down at the envelope and my face turned beet red. I grabbed the letter and left as I
noticed the two privates standing close to the drill were working real hard not
to laugh. The letter was from
Reece and he was kind enough to put heart’s with X’s and O’s all over the
envelope addressed from a manly name, like 'Big Chuck' and little notes reading 'I miss my main squeeze.' The letter inside simply
read, “Gotchya Vance!” That son of
a bitch.
Well played, sir, welllllll played indeed.
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