Day Of The Round Brown

The cattle truck rattled along the rutted road tossing us about like shaken dice in a Yahtzee cup. I was standing in a sea of crew cuts and camouflage wondering what in the hell I had gotten myself into. There were no poles or guard rails for us to hold on to so we swayed back and forth like wheat blowing in the fields. We were strangers crammed airtight into the back of a cattle truck like pigs being led off to slaughter, and that’s exactly what it felt like. A sense of doom hung like storm clouds over us.

“What in the hell was I thinking,” I thought as I looked around at the scared young faces, their nervous hands fidgeting, restless feet shuffling, anxious twitching grins, and racing minds. I was scared too, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t.

It’s the not knowing that scares you, the not knowing what to expect or what is expected of you. We didn’t know where we were going or who would be waiting for us when we got there. For five days the military experience had been nothing more than doing a little police call(Standing in a straight line and walking shoulder to shoulder picking up trash), I still don’t know why they call it that, but that’s what it’s called for whatever reason. We had our pictures taken for our military IDs, received our dog tags, learned to march, and filled out paperwork, and for the most part that was about it. I remember thinking,

“If this is the Army, I should have done this a long time ago.” Of course, that wasn’t the real Army. We were at the wait station being processed into the real Army. Unbeknownst to us, they were breaking us down into groups and deciding what battery (An artillery unit is called a battery), each man would belong to and who the Drill Sargeant of that unit would be. We had been treated fairly well and had basically been left alone for five days aside for police calls, morning, noon, and evening formations, and chow time. We had been lulled into complacency. Reality finally caught up to us on a cool autumn afternoon. The sky was tropical water blue, with just a few wispy clouds floating aimlessly overhead. I remember it like it was yesterday. We were called to formation, and I remembered thinking,

“I wonder what Alan is up to right now?” I smiled a little and thought how wrong Alan had been for not joining up with me, we could have come in together on the buddy system because as far as I could tell the Army was going to be great.

Corporal Thigpen, a lean, dark-skinned young man in his mid-twenties stepped to the front of the formation and told us to fall in, and we all snapped to attention. I don’t remember the short speech he gave, but the jest of it was that we would be moving on to where we would be starting our basic training. Playtime was over. He marched us around the squat puke green buildings to the parade field where the cattle truck sat, blinding silver and shining under that pale Oklahoma sky. We stood there with our jaws unhinged and mouths gaping not fully understanding what was happening. I turned and looked at Corporal Thigpen, his face was a blank slate, he looked through me, he had already mentally moved on to the incoming recruits that would arrive after we were gone. I felt alone, scared, and trapped.

An overwhelming urge to run swept over me. I looked around at the mosaic of young faces surrounding me and saw the same desperate and confused looks In many of their eyes. I thought of my father and what he would have thought. He must have felt the same when he was young and in the Air Force and he had more than managed to have gotten through it and so would I. I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths, then opened them and prepared myself for whatever would come.

We were marched the two hundred feet to the cattle truck, a shimmering block up on a small hill about one hundred yards away. The trailer had twelve-inch rectangle slots cut out on both sides for air and a swinging double door in the rear. One way in and one way out. Although we were standing in front of it, it still hadn’t dawned on us that this was our transport. Most of us had never seen a cattle truck let alone ridden in one. This would be the first of many. As we stepped timidly aboard our cattle truck the man sitting with his legs crossed and hat down over his brow went almost unnoticed. He never peeked up from under his brow to witness the commotion going on around him or uttered a sound. He was there while not being there.

I didn’t notice him until I was standing near the back squished between a trembling fat kid we would later call Pillsbury because he reminded us of the Pillsbury doughboy and a slightly older Spanish dude who looked like he might have been a former gangbanger. I forget his name now, but I do remember him being tough, but one of the nicest guys I had ever met. I wish I could remember his name, but I guess it’s just one of those things time steals away from you along with faces and certain places, taking away the whole leaving only an imprint of what was.

To my right, I could hear Pillsbury muttering something under his breath, a prayer, his mother’s name, I don’t know. I turned and looked at him and could see tears filling his lower lids. I quickly turned away not wanting to embarrass him and met the gaze of the Spanish guy, his eyes were wide with alarm, but I didn’t see fear. He gave me a slight shrug, I shrugged back then we both retreated into our own little worlds.

The air was dense and silent and smelled of sweat and nervous farts that hung like cigarette smoke over us. The cattle truck was cramped and stuffed neck-deep with nervous jittery young men with shaved heads and wearing crisp new BDUs (Battle Dress Uniform), with armpits damp and foreheads shining from anxious sweat. Our eyes were wild and darting about like we had been dropped into total darkness in unfamiliar surroundings. But there was light, which in my opinion only served to make the trip more ominous. In the dark, you may hear but you never see the dread that sneaks up and attacks you, then devours you, and finally claims you. Our collective dread sat near the front, and he was plain to see. He was a silent nodding man none of us had ever seen before.

He sat as silent as time with his head lowered, his eyes shielded by the brim of his drill sergeant’s hat, the fabled Round Brown as they were called. He sat like an old western gunfighter napping in front of some long-forgotten saloon with names like Sally’s, or Miss Calamity. Round brown’s legs were kicked out in front of him and crossed at the ankles the tips of his jump boots glistened in the dim light like patent leather. His arms were folded across his barrel chest and his head bobbed loosely on his neck as we passed over rough and bumpy terrain. He wanted us to believe that he was asleep, but he wasn’t, and we knew it, and I believe he knew we knew it. The cattle truck rambled on.

The trip lasted about ten minutes then we crossed some railroad tracks, and for the first time, the nodding man seemed to take notice of us. He looked out over the sea of young faces staring anxiously back at him. He stood up and straighten his round brown on his head and as he did the cattle truck rolled to a stop. We had arrived at Fort Sill, and this was the very first day of Basic Training.

“Well,” round brown said with a sinister smile, “Welcome to hell ladies.” He opened the side door of the cattle truck and stepped off.

The back double doors of the cattle car flung open and as far as you could see there was nothing but Drill Sergeants, screaming at the top of their lungs for us to get our useless, lazy asses off their cattle truck.

“You have five seconds to get your useless asses off my truck and four of them are already gone,” I will never forget hearing that, or the chaos that ensued after that.

Duffle bags being flung in every direction, Drill Sargeant's inches from your face screaming at the top of their lungs calling you things I wouldn’t dare repeat in this piece. It was a harrowing experience that seemed to last forever. Although I was experiencing it I was able to step out of myself to observe what was going on around me. Things go quiet for me and I can watch without the distraction of sound. It’s always been my way of dealing with overly stressful situations.

As I hurried about gathering my thrown things I observed the reaction of some of the other young men I arrived with. Pillsbury just froze. He was surrounded by three or maybe four drill instructors who were all up in his face screaming obscenities at him about his weight, his face, you name it, if it was hurtful they screamed it at him.

“You fat sonofabitch,” One yelled.

“Your fat ass looks like the Pillsbury doughboy,” the Round brown that rode over with us yelled at him.

“You got more meat on your ass than my wife,” Another drill instructor patted him on the behind and laughed.

“Mine too,” another drill instructor laughed.

Pillsbury stood there trembling on the verge of tears unable to function which only served to spur them on. Scenes like this were playing out all around me.

The Spanish guy I saw on the cattle car moved about ignoring the insults being hurled at him.

“Where you from cholo,” the drill sergeant demanded.

“L.A.,” he answered as he picked his duffle bag up.

“You think you talking to one of your gangbanging ass friends,”

“L.A. Sargeant,” he said unfazed.

“Drill Sergeant,” the drill sergeant screamed pointing at his round brown, “You’ve got to be a bad motherfucker to get one of these, you a bad motherfucker Cholo?”The Spanish guy shook his head.

“Speak,” the drill sergeant screamed as he took a step closer to the Spanish guy.

A drill sergeant stepped in front of me blocking my line of sight. It was drill sergeant Kelly, a young black man of about twenty-five. His skin was coal-black, and his eyes were the color of good bourbon. His lips were drawn tight almost into a pucker and his jawline was as sharp as a barbers razor. He was tall and lean with a uniform as clean and crisp as any I’ve ever seen. The tips of his jump boots shone like glass. His Round brown drill sergeant’s hat sat tilted forward with the brim resting just above his eyebrows. He stood there with his hands on his hips sizing me up.

“What the hell you looking at son,” he asked in a raspy smoker's voice.

“Nothing,” I answered.

“Where you from Private,” he asked.

“Michigan sir,” I answered stiffly

“ I work for a living son,” he exploded, “ Don’t ever call me sir. I’m a Drill Sargeant, you understand me?”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

“What part of Michigan… wait, let me guess,” he stepped back and looked me over for a second,

“I bet dollars to doughnuts your dope selling ass is from Detroit, you from the “D”, he asked mockingly.

“Yes, Drill Sergeant,”

“Well I’ll be a sissy without a fur coat,” he turned to a few nearby drill sergeants, “We’ve got us a real-life Detroit gangster here.”

The other Drill Sergeants swarmed and I found myself standing in the middle of four Drill Sergeants hurling insults at me. I remember thinking,

“Alan was right. I’ve made a huge mistake. There is no way I will be able to deal with this for thirteen weeks.”

After a few weeks of starting basic training, I begin to see a pattern. There was a method to the Drill Sargeant’s madness. The badgering and insults aren’t personal. First, they have to see how mentally tough you are, second, it’s part of the stripping down process. The process of stripping away the civilian in you so that they could build you back up as a soldier. The insults were targeted I noticed, an example, If you were from the south they hurled incest insults at you.

If you were from a big city like Detroit, New York, or Chicago, you must have been a gang member. If you were overweight, fat insults were coming your way, overly handsome, homosexual insults. When you read this you have to remember that these events happened in the eighties and things that might be unacceptable today were quite acceptable back then.

Basic Training

They call it culture shock. The transformation from civilian to soldier. The process isn’t always a smooth one. For some, the transformation happens almost overnight, for others, the process can be bumpy almost to the end of the training. On the first day we were broken down into the units we would be in for our basic training. I was in Bravo Battery along with the Spanish guy and a few other guys I had arrived with. Drill Sargeant Kelly and his team would be Bravo Battery’s drill instructors.

Pillsbury ended up in Alpha Battery, and the Drill Sargeant from the cattle truck would be their drill instructor. Throughout our training Alpha and Bravo competed for the top spots in our training exercises. To my surprise and the surprise of many, even to himself, I think, Pillsbury over the weeks blossomed into one of the best soldiers in his unit. He was losing weight, his confidence was on the rise, it was an amazing thing to see.

The first few weeks of basic training were pretty tough, tougher than I would have ever imagined. It wasn’t the physical aspect of the training that made it difficult for me. I was a former football player and at the time I was in the best shape of my life. The psychological aspect of basic training was the hardest for me. The never-ending shouting and beratement, the isolation, the not knowing what to expect from one moment to the next, being away from family and friends.

These were the things that weighed heavily on me. It had been weeks since I last talked to Alan and I would wonder what he was up to? What was going on in the neighborhood? I thought of my parents, how I was unable to say goodbye to my mother, and how badly my leaving must have hurt her and my father although my father would never say so. I was thinking of my girlfriend and being away from her, would she wait? She did, but at the time I couldn’t worry about that. I was thinking of all the things that made being away from home harder than it needed to be. Finally, I decided that the best way to get through basic was to not think about home and what I was missing by not being there. No one had forced me to join the Army,

I had to remind myself that I did it for the opportunity serving would afford me and my girlfriend when I got out and we got married. So, I forced all thoughts of home to the back of my mind and focused on becoming the best soldier I could be. Change never comes easy and being transformed from one thing into something else is no easy task. Residual resistance to the past makes changing for the future hard.

But, the change did come. As the weeks rolled by we began to gel as a unit and before we knew it a ragtag bunch of young men from across the country and from many different cultures and backgrounds was standing shoulder to shoulder becoming a cog in the awesome machinery that is the United States Military. We were Thirteen Bravo’s, a field artillery unit and we trained on an M110 8-inch (203 mm) Self-Propelled Howitzer which was responsible for firing long-range HE( High Explosive) rounds downrange. During this time I was appointed Platoon Guide(PG) by Drill Sargeant Kelly. The PG answers the drill instructors directly. In each unit, you have a PG, an assistant PG, and five or six-section chiefs all recruits.

The Drill Sergeant tells the PG what needs to be done and the PG relays the instructions down to the assistant PG and section chiefs. Each section chief is responsible for five or six recruits. If any of the orders relayed by the drill instructors are not done or are done incorrectly the PG is held responsible. It was not a responsibility I wanted but I accepted it.

I’ve never seen myself as a person that needs to be a leader, or who needs to be out front giving orders. It doesn’t bother me either way, but if I had my choice I would rather ease into the background and let someone else take up the mantle, that’s why I find it so incredible that I’ve always been put into leadership positions.

David McFarlene was a problem. He was this big, not muscular guy from the upper peninsula in Michigan who was simply not cut out for soldiering. When he moved it was like watching someone whose pieces were not quite put together right. His movements were loose and jerky, and when he walked he leaned forward like he would tip over and fall at any moment, his thick neck was extended in some funny uncomfortable-looking position holding up his oddly undersized head.

Before I became PG I had barely noticed the large clumsy guy with the slack jaw and dull hazel eyes. Why would I, he wasn’t my problem. The only time I took note of McFarlene was when he was being chewed out for doing something wrong that he should have learned how to do right weeks before. This guy had no coordination, for whatever reason he couldn’t get marching down. Marching is basically walking. You start with the left foot and if you’re turning left you planted your right foot and if your turning right you do the opposite, simple I thought.

Our unit spent many a day after the regular day of training was over on the parade field being hammered by drill sergeant Kelly and his guys because McFarlene who for whatever reason couldn’t catch on to walking in time with the rest of us. This did not make McFarlene popular with the other guys in the unit. It wasn’t long before I began to hear guys talking about giving old McFarlene a blanket party(A beating). I would have felt bad for the guy, but I didn’t. McFarlene was a huge jerk and undercover racist. He didn’t care that because of his lack of effort the rest of us were suffering. When he should have been practicing McFarlene would be on his bunk sleeping or walking around telling off-colored or racist jokes.

It didn’t take long before the rest of the guys black and white had felt that they had waited long enough and it was time to give “Baby Huey", as some of the guys called him the beat down he had coming his way. We stood around in the laundry room which was around the back of the barracks and took a vote. One by one the guys raised their hands in favor of giving McFarlene a blanket party. J.D. Kidder, was a small womanish man with a squeaky bird-like voice was another guy that simply couldn’t get his act together and was causing the unit extra heartache and they wanted to vote on giving him a blanket party as well. For McFarlene I voted yes. In hindsight, I’m not proud of it, but I was eighteen and the guy was a racist and at the time I thought he had it coming.

Kidder, on the other hand, I voted no. He wasn’t a good soldier, but he worked hard and was getting better. So, it was a go-on baby Huey and a no go on Kidder. Neither of them received blanket parties that night because almost as if he could sense that something was going on Drill Sargeant Kelly called me into his office and appointed me PG.

“You understand that you are responsible for these guys now. They will be looking to you for leadership and I believe you can give it to them. You up to the task Private?” He asked as his eyes bored through me searching for signs of weakness. I fought to keep my expression flat, but this was the absolute last thing I wanted. Hell basic training was no picnic for me, now I’m responsible for the rest of these guys, responsible for McFarlene and Kidder.

“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” I answered. He rocked forward on his chair.

“Good, I’m counting on you son,” he said and handed me a red sleeve armband with sergeant stripes painted in yellow on it. I slid it on.

“Thank you,” I said as I adjusted the armband on my arm.

“ I’m counting on you to get those boys whipped into shape.”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant I will.”

“ I know you will,” he stood up and offered me his hand. I shook it.

“ You’ll do fine don’t worry. I’ve got all the faith in the world in you.”

“Thank you drill Sargeant.”

******

“Holy shit, he made you the PG,” Holly, a babyface monster of a man grinned. Holly was from somewhere in Alabama, I don’t remember where. We bonded almost immediately. We were two former football stars forced to face the realization that the NFL was not going to be in the future. I played tailback and I was built like one at the time. Holly was Six- three and built like an NFL linebacker and was as strong as a mother’s love. Holly was still clinging to his NFL aspirations. Hanging on was too painful for me so I let my aspirations go.

“You ready for tonight,” Holly asked with his eyes glowing with excitement.

“Can’t be no blanket party tonight,” I said in a low serious voice. I was expecting trouble, hell I might receive a blanket party myself for this.

“Why not,” a voice came from the back of the room.

“Because I can’t have that shit happening on my first day on the gig”

“That’s your problem,” another unseen voice drifted in.

“Shit rolls downhill and now that I’m up on a ledge, well, you understand gravity right?”

“So what, we got to let him off the hook,” Holly asked.

“No, just for tonight. Trust me, he’ll get what he’s got coming to him, just not tonight.”

“What if we beat his ass anyway,” another voice asked.

“You could do that and I’ll personally make sure that you are on shit duty until the end of basic and A.I.T. If you like cleaning toilets have at him.”

“This ain’t cool, you coming In here laying down the law like this,” Holly said to me in a voice that was just above a whisper.

“He knew something was up. Drill Sargeant Kelly knew that something was going down,” I answered him in the same low voice.

Holly was a popular guy, almost as popular as I was and if he decided on his own that come hell or high water McFarlene was going to get that blanket party that would be a major problem for me. First I would have to deal with Holly because I couldn’t let something like that stand unanswered, and that would be no small task. Secondly, Drill Sargeant Kelly might decide that maybe I wasn’t the man for the job if I couldn’t handle the guys any better than this. Quitting and being fired are not the same thing. I didn’t want the job, but I had no intention of being fired from it in the first week. No, I couldn’t let that happen.

Holly and his guys wouldn’t wait forever. I had to do something to blunt their efforts. That night I didn’t get much sleep. I knew I had a day or two at the most before McFarlene was going to end up beaten within an inch of his life. A beating I thought he had earned, with his nigger jokes, his refusing to work to get better at his job, the crude homosexual jokes he liked to tell. With his constant masturbating, the guy had it coming, but not yet.

The next day I asked Drill Sargeant Kelly if Holly could be my assistant PG, and he agreed. I liked Holly and thought he would be a good assistant PG, but I also needed to make him partly responsible if things went sideways with the guys. If he had skin in the game he would do whatever was necessary to make sure the guys stayed in line and no one would move on McFarlene until I gave the word. My problem was no longer just my problem, it was now our problem, and since I was able to make Holly assistant PG he liked the power and would do what he needed to do to keep it.

Holly now felt indebted to me not that I would ever throw it in his face, there was no need to. There came a point where Holly was telling the guys without any prompting from me that they could not go after McFarlene or Kidder. It was also now in his best interest that they didn’t. It was a cynical move pulling Holly in like that, but for me, it was a necessary one. I believe Drill Sergeant Kelly understood what I had done and I think he liked it.

One day shortly after I asked if Holly could be my assistant PG I noticed Drill sergeant Kelly watching me. He walked over to me after training and said,

“That was a very clever thing you did with Holly, you’re smart,” he then turned and walked away.

Although McFarlene’s blanket party had been furloughed for a few weeks it was not by any means canceled. McFarlene’s dance with destiny came out of the blue. We had been doing bayonet training (yes bayonet training), running, and slashing at hanging dummies it was all quite ridiculous but we had to do it, so we were. Of course, the usual suspects were having trouble with the training, Kidder, McFarlene, and a few other guys that were always one step behind the rest of the class. The guys were having a bit of good-natured fun laughing and joking with them.

Most of the runts took the ribbing in stride and laughed and joked with the rest of us all except McFarlene. Today was the day McFarlene had decided that he had had enough of me and wanted to go one-on-one with the Pugil Sticks ( a stick with huge cushions on the ends, that look like a big Q-tip). I agreed and Drill Sargeant Kelly told us to have at it.

McFarlene is a big graceless man who can barely walk without stumbling over his own feet. He charged me like I knew he would. Bigger guys always try and use their weight against you. Instead, I used speed and after a few minutes I had him huffing and puffing and gasping for air, his arms and chest were bruised and I’m sure his head was hurting from all the head blows he received. He cursed and kept coming and I kept pummeling him then he did something he had been careful not to do in the presence of too many others and certainly not in the presence of any of the Drill Sargeants, he let his temper get the better of him.

At this point, I had stopped hitting him and was just dodging him laughing and joking which only made him madder. He lunged at me and I stepped aside and he went face down in the sand.

“All right McFarlene, you had enough,” I asked still laughing. McFarlane slowly got to his feet spitting sand out of his mouth and brushing his uniform off. He took a few unsteady steps in my direction and spit a huge glob of yellowish-green phlegm at me.

“That’s for your mother you fuckin nigger,” he said as he marched in my direction.

“What,” my blood was boiling. I took off to meet him. “ My mother,” I screamed at him, “You bring my mother into this?”

Drill Sargeant Kelly and several other drill instructors marched over to McFarlene and surrounded him.

“What the fuck did you just say private,” The brim of Drill Sargeant Kelly’s round brown was bumping against McFarlene’s forehead. McFarlane blinked stupidly.

“Huh,” he muttered looking around like he was seeing them and the sand dunes for the first time. I was going to kill that stupid bastard. Holly and a few other guys had managed to keep me back.

“ At ease private,” a drill instructor yelled at me as I struggled to get free of Holly.

“Did you hear what I said private,” he asked in a sharp authoritative voice. The wind went out of my sails and I began to calm down.

“Yes, Drill Sargeant,” I answered still huffing and puffing.

“Good, fall in,” he said as he turned his focus back to the swarm of drill instructors gathering around Mcfarlane.

The rest of us fell into formation and were marched back to the barracks. McFarlene was taken over to the administration building and didn't return to the barracks until later that evening. By nine that night things had settled down. McFarlene was sound asleep in his bunk, and Drill Sargeant Kelly was gone for the night. I looked down at McFarlene, he was sleeping like a baby. Kidder slid off his top bunk and took his place among the gathering boys surrounding McFarlene’s bunk.

They were all holding socks with bars of soap in them. Holly looked at me and then threw the blanket over McFarlene’s head. I walked to the front of the barracks and sat down at the fireguard desk and began to write a letter to the girl that would later become my wife.