What do I remember about basic training? I can answer in two words: Pure Hell!
I was drafted in the largest draft call in U.S. history, July 1966. From reporting day at the Mart Building in downtown St. Louis, the late-night trip by bus to Fort Leonard Wood (which included the worst meal I ever ate at a contracted greasy-spoon restaurant in Cuba, Mo.), till our arrival at the reception station. I knew this wasn’t going to be anything I would “enjoy."
Assigned to a BCT unit know as A-2-3, we were immediately thrown in the rigors of training that would make us soldiers. The only problem here was most of us didn’t want to be soldiers. Vietnam was going full tilt and personally, that’s the last place I wanted to wind up in.
The drill sergeants, true to their mission, were hell-bent on turning us into “killing machines.” From learning how to march, all the facing movements, how to wear the uniform, etc., they moved us through the first week and then came things like PT, road marches, gas chambers, target detection, range fire, close order drill, assault courses and the like. All this stuff was for real and it wasn’t the “backyard John Wayne version of playing Army” that we did as kids.
Daily inspections, be it ourselves, our living space, our rifle or other equipment, it took me a while to get the hang of it all. As a result, I was emphatically told how “intelligent” I was, or the number of human parents I had or didn’t have, how high my IQ was on a scale of zero and below, etc. When any one of us screwed up, everybody paid the price.
Our SDI (Senior Drill Instructor) was a piece of work himself. All I remember was he was big (in both directions), had done a couple of tours in Vietnam and couldn’t go two sentences without the phrase, “God D***!”
Case in point, we marched back to the barracks after training and in formation he addressed the entire company ( and I quote), “all night, you troops, the old man (common reference to company commanders) will be coming by in 30 minutes, so I want you to get your “God D**” gear cleaned and stored away, and have this “God D**” barracks standing tall, “God D** it”, or there will be Hell to pay, “God D** it!”
This was the standard rant we heard every day, different topics/subject of course but every day for sure. It probably wasn’t till mid-week of our training (then basic was an eight-week ordeal), that we actually found out any of the DIs could even smile and say a kind word.
All in all as I’m older (69) and retired Army (2 years active, 4 years inactive Army Reserve, 6 years active Army Reserve and 14 years National Guard), I understand fully what it was all about and why. But back then as a shy 20-year-old, it was pure Hell to me! I don't remember being close to any one of my fellow soldiers at this time but then again if nothing else that O.D. uniform gave us all something in common, not to mention the unknown that lay ahead.