From Paradise to Purgatory

Preconceived notions are so often clueless. I thought I was going to jump school to learn how to jump out of airplanes. I learned more about myself than anything. Upon arrival, I surveyed the Spartan facilities for clues of the days to come. I felt like I could endure anything for three short weeks.

Purgatory is a place of cleansing and finding yourself. If the relaxed medical culture of Ft. Sam provided an important MOS (military occupational specialty), the experience of jump school instilled resolve under pressure. In my mind, most of my military surprises were behind me.  But when Monday came, it was pure shock.

Morning one, day one, week one we put our toes to the line. Like Fort Sam, formation served as a head count. In contrast, jump school formation was the place to quit or agree to endure more. From the first moment, these instructors were like buzzards looking for dead meat; they could smell quit a mile away.  Waiver and the instructors would apply more pressure. Our bodies were healthy and could adapt to extremes. The battle was and always is won first in the mind.

All branches of military have their volunteer units. However, the Ft. Benning jump school serves all the armed forces well. We had a team of Navy Seals who loved running their web feet up our flag pole. The Seals were long seasoned in physical endurance and all the head games. They were primarily here to learn the unique skills of plane exit, parachute landing falls, and take the required jumps.  They Air Academy cadets trained separately, in my experience.

On our first formation, we were quickly informed of the easy ticket out. All we had to do was break ranks, ring the bell and say I quit in front of the entire training team. For the first week, that damn bell rang incessantly. The bell tolled far into the second week, just a bit less with each passing day. One evening I looked up to see a Marine ringing that bell. He was as tough as any; he lost the battle between the ears. It was hard to forget that gleam in the instructors eyes.

A confidence came upon me in the second week. Then something struck my eye while we were dutifully watching others on the towers. I had to go to the dispensary, have it removed, with a dressing applied to cover the eye. I offered to finish the week out, but the training sergeant wouldn’t have it. He asked, “Do you want to quit, or repeat second week? Your choice soldier.” Floored, I managed one more full week of purgatory with the next training cycle.

The  bell didn’t get me in those three vulnerable weeks.  Final Week was strictly jumping out of air planes, one jump per day. My dad always allowed me a collect call. On that last Sunday night, the empty pay phone beckoned me. “Hey Dad, I have some news for you. I am at Ft. Benning and I am going to jump out of an airplane tomorrow.” Dad was a cool guy, always an enthusiastic  supporter. At the close of the conversation, he said, “Call me back tomorrow night and tell me how that jump goes.” Dropping the receiver in the cradle,  I wanted to pinch my face for a reality check. I WAS going to jump out of an airplane tomorrow!

Respite of Innocence

We rarely welcomed an unknown  face in the barracks. Strangers were always challenged. Things seemed to disappear with uninvited guests. Don’t come in, if you don’t belong! The Army perfected the concept of Neighborhood Watch. However, desperate circumstances require desperate means.

Colston was indeed desperate. He had met some girls at the base bowling ally. They agreed to a group date on the condition that Colston brought some guys. This was our first payday weekend and everyone anticipated a wild time in San Antonio. Colston had pitched his story to three full barracks. The option of a picnic versus a wild time fired blanks into most military minds.

Yet, something in this guy’s demeanor impressed me. We all  had enough money for one good weekend. Yet, even if the picnic was a dud, I could always go to town the next weekend. So, I told Colston that I was in. Then we BOTH pitched his story until we mustered three more guys.

Sure enough a car load of girls waited for us in the park. Colston fired up the hotdogs; I helped while surveying the slim possibilities. His girl owned the car. Of the remaining three, only one looked interesting and one GI already had engaged her attention. Doing the math, the ratio was five guys to four girls. My backup plan was sadly a wild time by myself the next weekend.

We all sauntered over to the nearby art gallery. The museum held  some impressionistic art and to the untrained eye it was a mess. Drawing closer to that preoccupied young lady of interest, I could see boredom growing by the minute. Her escort was so enamored in art appreciation, that he totally missed me asking her to walk. When she said yes, I put some quick distance between us and the remaining competition.

Her name was Jill. Our future was a stretch, because she was junior in high school and now I assumed the duties of an army man. We held two things in common; we were both 17 and our dads were Army sergeants. I would have to get her dad’s approval, and waited a few days with fear and trepidation. When the call came, I nervously arrived at her home, to be immediately escorted to the back patio for ice tea. Eventually Jill’s dad invited me to the living room. He told how impressed Jill had been.  He thanked me being respectful to see her parents. Expecting the worst, what followed was a complete shock.

Jill’s dad looked me squarely in the eyes to tell me, in detail,  how much he loved his only daughter. He made a commitment to trust me on my word, that I would always do right and honor his trust. In the light of a beautiful family experience, I solemnly agreed. Returning to the patio, we shared some joyful moments. We were now official; I had passed muster. It was then I realized that Jill’s mom had disappeared. “Where’s your mom Jill?” She said, “They took off to the movies about ten minutes ago!”

Saturday seemed lazy, with a barracks filled with bored men. Someone hollered for Thompson. They said somebody outside was looking for me. Then I saw the red convertible, with Colston puffed up in the front passenger seat. But my focus went to that gal in the back, pushing the door open for me. My own chest popped as I felt the stares of envy coming from the front steps, and the men hanging out the windows. For a few short weeks I held tightly to a respite of innocence.

Many a soldier advised me of my opportunities. However, they were speaking in the barracks alone and broke. I did hug, kiss and hold hands with Jill. But whenever I looked into those sweet eyes, I remembered her dad’s loving voice and his trust in me. Our relationship held it’s innocence intact.

As a father, I now see life from a far different perspective. Some of my very best times were innocent; you wish the same for your children and your children’s children. Some times I think of Jill…and the thoughts are always…good.

Fall In

As the days of May grew warmer, my thirst increased. I absolutely love chocolate milk. Chocolate always ran out first and was rarely refilled until the next meal. On this particular day, I lifted the dispenser handle for my second full glass, watching that strong steady stream reaching the brim. The third time repeated itself to my great personal fortune. I thought to myself, “Does it get any better in this man’s Army?” Forecasting a pleasant afternoon in class, staying alert on a full stomach would be the rigor of the remaining day.

Twice daily we stood in formation at Fort Sam Houston. We dutifully assembled before breakfast and then immediately after lunch. Dulled by the routine of countless formations, my pleasant afternoon came to an abrupt end.  “All you soldiers who volunteered for airborne training, fall in over here! You’re going to take a qualifying PT test.”

Eyeing John, in this far smaller formation, jogged the memory of his earlier pact. John promised me his father’s prized wings, if I beat him on the mile run. My bloated stomach dispelled any danger to those silver wings.  Dang, that was such a sharp silver bracelet.

Arriving, we were given a choice. One group would give up the push ups, sit ups, chin ups etc. The second group would knock out the mile run. My stomach advised me to start with the push ups. My mind told me that we hadn’t done those since basic training. But, the push ups won by a unanimous vote. Clearing those hurdles brought me to the final task.

Four times around the track would get my orders for jump school! John used the same strategy to run last. On signal, every man engaged the track to beat the allotted time. I actually made one full lap before my  milk reminded me that we needed a break.  Pulling off track, I said my good byes to three full glasses of chocolate milk and whatever else that decided to hit the grass. One of the sergeants came to inquire of medical help. I weakly stood to wipe my mouth, to proceed to the track. Double timing one more lap, I realized that most troops were running their third. John was no where to be seen. I ran the third lap in pace with the fastest runners. On the final go, I reared my head to run wildly. If I didn’t qualify, I would at least give it a good show.

Whether I beat that stopwatch or not, I will never know. Would you disqualify a raging maniac, with dried vomit on his clothes? At least I looked airborne! Well, we marched triumphantly back to those air conditioned classes. I can tell you that I proceeded to run every day thereafter, until shipping out.

John sheepishly surrendered his silver wings bracelet. He didn’t make the cut. I wore my first wings that night for an hour. Quietly returning to his bunk, I coughed up the bracelet. Asking John to never put that treasure to risk, I thanked him for the short lived honor. We loved our dads. I told him to be the best medic possible. His dad would be proud.

I don’t know what it takes for a man to make the cut. What I do know is that something inside me drove me to a new personal best. The Currahee Trail would push my limits relentlessly.

Where the Trail Begins

You never know when a small event will change the course of  your life. Saturdays at the barracks meant that you were flat broke and completely out of options. Fortunately for me this was a rare event, but very true this particular day. Fort Sam produced the bulk of the Army’s medics. In contrast to basic training, we spent most of our time in an air conditioned classroom. The atmosphere on this base was relaxed, even for us lowly advanced trainees.  We had minimal constraints. You could actually come and go as you pleased after the day’s training; the weekends were wide open. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. Where do I re-enlist?

A half dozen guys gathered around a bunk, as I reluctantly entered the door. My eyes glanced to see the possibility of a card game. A man had to do something to break the boredom.  Couldn’t see the first card or dice. What I did see was a slick magazine, gluing everyone’s attention. Expecting a pin up, I couldn’t believe these guys were spellbound by army recruiting materials. Monday through Friday provided all that I needed to know about my military opportunities.

John surprised me as the  ringleader. Normally a quiet guy, I never heard him talk with such confidence. John’s voice of authority came from the fact that his father was a paratrooper. John planned to be just like his dad. That sucked me into the conversation, My dad distinguished himself as a soldier, leaving his son some pretty big boots to fill. Anything that would impress my dad was worth a look.

John talked at length about the glider patch head gear and the jump boots worn, even with the dress uniform. We looked at all the unit patches, past and present. That 101st Screaming Eagle patch looked mighty good. But I didn’t breath a word, knowing Old Man Army relished in denying any personal preferences. The silver wings drew me closer. In fact, John wore his father’s pair on a silver bracelet. He lifted his wrist to let each of us feel the heft of those wings.

There is a point where option becomes a passion. When John looked up and said there was a special name for us, I leaned headfirst into the conversation.  John said there was the name given to medics with those silver wings…paramedics! It was then that I asked John eye to eye, “Are you really in?” and he nodded yes. That’s when I heard myself say, “I’m in with you too, John!”

Since we all volunteered, I know that we all had a similar story, the point of no return, where an option becomes a passion.  That was the beginning of my own journey…on the Currahee Trail.