by Scott Roellchen
The Decision
People inevitably approach a fork in the road of life. Marriage, having children, taking a job; each one of these decisions can be a momentous event. They are decisions that shape who we become, and where we ultimately end up in life. Joining the U. S. Army was one of the most important decisions I ever made in my life, and it one decision I never regretted making.
Like many young men, I wanted to get away from home; I wanted to take charge of my life. At the time of my decision, I was a college student – and not at all sure that college was what I wanted, or needed at that particular time. I was antsy to travel, wanted variety in my life, and more than anything else, wanted to escape the mundane. So, after several months of thinking about it, I enlisted as an Army reservist, opting to become a medic. Looking back, it was one of my better decisions; what I learned in the Army would guide me through some of the toughest and darkest moments of my life – but of course, I wouldn’t know this until much later.
Arrival
Who can forget their first moments at Fort Sill, Oklahoma? I arrived on one enchanted evening in the autumn of 1976. A bus waiting for us at Lawton field transported us to the base; it was during this intermediate journey when each of us began to feel increased anxiety. Of course, waiting for us down the road was a reception center where Army officials processed recruits, issued uniforms, and equipment needed for Basic Combat Training. These first couple of days gave all of us plenty of opportunity to reflect on our recent decision.
We first met Drill Sergeant Harmon in the early morning hours; being tired and nervous is not the best time to meet a monster . . . but the Army had a different view. After the handlers took us off the bus and organized us into some semblance of a military formation, Harmon positioned himself in the front of the formation. Who could help but notice his crisp, snappy uniform, high gloss boots, or that he was frowning. I looked around and noticed that we were all in civilian clothing, most of us with long hair, some had a beard; one of two had their hands stuffed deeply in their pockets. A few were chattering among themselves, but Harmon’s icy stare soon quieted everyone down. After what seemed an eternity, Harmon informed us that we were not to talk in ranks unless he gave us the order to stand “at ease.” As events unfolded, standing “at ease” didn’t happen very often.
One can imagine the Reception Center is a 24/7 facility. Trainees filtered in at all hours, and many operations took place around the clock. A few hours after meeting Drill Sergeant Harmon and some (but not all) processing was complete, troop handlers herded us along to the mess hall. It was 2:00 in the morning, and we were about to be introduced to Army food. While standing in line to receive our chow, a chaplain circulated among us giving words of encouragement, speaking to those who were obviously already homesick. From this experience, I learned that from the outside, the military may not appear to care about the feelings or apprehensions of its recruits, but they did. It wasn’t often an emotional display of caring, but it was there when it needed to be. I recall someone asking how late they would let us sleep in the morning, since we arrived so late at night, and the chaplain assured us we could sleep until about 8 a.m. I’m not sure anyone took much comfort from that, though.
After the early morning meal, we again herded to our sleeping quarters; we made up our assigned bunks and collapsed. Two hours later the lights came on and a loud gruff voice instructed us to get our “goat smellin’ asses” out of bed. I mentioned to the sergeant that the Chaplain told us we could sleep until 8 a.m. He told me for all intents and purposes of Army life, it was 0800 and to “get my ass out of the bunk". Formation in five minutes, people!” Many of us were confused; these people were rude and not at all like the Army recruiter who had become “my friend.” My confusion was about to change.
Greetings and Salutations
Each of us had adjusted to the processing and had settled into a routine of sorts; life was becoming a bit boring. When informed that our drill instructors would pick us up and take us to our new barrack, anxiety returned as suddenly as it had on the night of our arrival. Actually, I was looking forward to “something else” besides processing. On the one hand, I wouldn’t be sitting around waiting for something to happen. A rumor started to the effect that the Army needed recruits so badly, we might by-pass basic and go straight to advance training. I seem to recall giving little credence to the rumor, which only demonstrates how astute I was at the time.
In the final Reception Station formation awaiting our drill sergeant’s arrival, there was chatter along with ruminations and suppositions. The sergeant responsible for our processing caught one trainee with his hands in his pocket, for about the fifth time. Since the trainee apparently needed something to do with his hands, the sergeant ordered him to carry a football-sized rock around for several hours with the distinct hope that it would remind him not to put his hands in his pockets. I think it worked.
In front of each trainee was a pile of bags containing our uniforms and equipment; at the time, I stood a little under six-foot tall and weighed 125 pounds; I suspected my bag of gear weighed at least as much as I did; I wondered how far I’d have to carry that damn bag. In the distance of about two football fields, we watched two cattle cars pull to a stop. My first thought was there had to be a parking place closer to where we were standing. Then I imagined we could make a couple of trips if necessary.
Three drill instructors soon appeared. The oldest sergeant reminded me of everyone’s favorite uncle. He had that mellow look and demonstrated a calm demeanor. The other two DIs were younger, more energetic, and well – meaner; suggesting (to me, anyway) they were not to be trusted. The older DI was a Sergeant First Class (E-7). He was our platoon sergeant. He spoke briefly with Drill Sergeant Harmon; from what I heard of the discussion, it didn’t sound very encouraging.
The platoon sergeant introduced himself and asked if anyone had been having second thoughts about the Army – whether they wished to remain at the Processing Center. After a few moments, when no one raised a hand, he proceeded to explain some of the rules and guidelines that were certain to be of interest. While this introduction was taking place, the two younger DIs paced behind him like caged lions waiting for the meat wagon.
Basic Training
Once the platoon sergeant concluded his remarks, he instructed us to pick up their bags and head toward the cattle cars parked and waiting the farthest distance possible from where we were standing. It was at this time when the two young DIs unleashed a torrent of pent-up energy that might have powered a large city for a month. No one moved fast enough, no one looked sharp enough, and it was obvious that our standards were much too low. The command “move,” was to be our constant companion.
Once we arrived at our new barracks, it was time for us to introduce ourselves to the drill instructor. We accomplished this by saying “here” in a loud voice once the DI called our names. Unfortunately, the drill instructor slaughtered my name and I didn’t acknowledge it because I wasn’t sure he called my name. He finally spelled my name out, and I answered, “Here, Drill Sergeant.” Naturally, he had to ask why I hadn’t answered up, and I was foolish enough to tell him he hadn’t pronounced my name correctly. “Well, how do you pronounce it?” he inquired. I told him and he just stared at me for a moment and then said, “That's close enough, but now you will be known as Scumbag.”
Suddenly, there were between sixteen and twenty maniacs wearing Smoky Bear hats running around, screaming, pulling people out of formation telling them they were fat. I should also mention they didn’t like us to “eyeball” them. In fact, I had the distinct impression it would have been okay with them if we all suddenly disappeared from sight. It was at this stage of training that I decided to assume the lowest possible profile. This was probably not a good plan, since we had entered “motivation phase.”
Toward the end of Motivation Phase, a female sergeant singled me out to one of the drill instructors; she apparently had seen me move with some precision through processing lines. My father, a retired Air Force officer, had previously given me some pointers on “drill and ceremony” before I left for basic training. The drill instructor asked if I had experience with drill and I replied accordingly. He then told me to move out, and as I did that, he stepped in front of me and I ran into him; that didn’t set too well of course so he introduced me to what the Army calls “push-ups.” I must have done two or three million of them, but he still wanted more. I did as many as I could and was found wanting, so the next day found me on KP duty. After 15-hour days and a lot of heavy lifting, I had to conclude KP was not my favorite assignment.
I recall my drill instructors were as equally unimpressed with my physical training scores as they were with my inability to complete fifteen or so million push-ups. They definitely widened my horizons, though. They introduced me to many other exercises, such as the inverted crawl and things that really do belong in the Marine Corps.
The Aftermath
Eventually, my sore arms healed and I went from 40 to 21-second in the inverted crawl. I passed my final PT test and all of the other tests required for graduation. After that first encounter, I kept such a low profile that my DIs forgot my name; two weeks into the cycle, everyone had become “Scumbag.”
I remember on one occasion, the drill instructor summoned me to the orderly room; since all movements in that direction were “double time,” I blew past a lieutenant without saluting. This is a capital offense in the Army – or at least, I thought it was at the time. After performing a few million more push-ups, I learned there was a problem with my identity and lawful location. Apparently, the DI had denied he even had me in his platoon, and this was the reason he had sent for me. The lieutenant wasn’t happy that the DI didn’t even know one of his own recruits, and the DI wasn’t happy that my name was other than Scumbag. Afterwards, however, he remembered my name.
I’d like to say that my brush with the lieutenant was the last time I screwed up in the Army, but that would be akin to one of those fairy-tales the Marines call “Sea Stories.” Essentially, basic training is for people who need basic training. The operative word is “training.” No one is born with the innate ability to perform well in a military environment. I needed it. We all did.
I never once ran into any of my drill instructors after graduation from basic training, but I never forgot anything I learned from that experience. Once I returned to my reserve unit, I contacted the Army recruiter and signed a four-year enlistment in the Regular Army. During my hitch, I served at Fort Riley Kansas, in Germany, and at Fort Rucker Alabama. While in Europe, I took advantage of my earlier desire to “see the world.” I was always going places in Europe, and it may have been the most fun I’ve ever had in my life.
But I was fortunate, I think. No one was shooting at me, and we only had to be aware of spies from the Soviet Bloc. Yes, my life was complicated at times; that’s part of growing up, but when I think back to those (younger) days and compare them with some experiences in my later life, they really were a piece of cake. And looking back, I have no doubt that the principles I learned in basic training definitely saved me from myself. I learned integrity, accepting responsibility, taking care of others, the importance of doing one’s duty, and how to hang-tough. What I learned in the Army remains with me today; all in all, serving my country in uniform was a pretty-good deal.
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