Civilian To Soldier
It’s 2am in South Carolina, where I’m sitting in a brightly lit room, too bright for this hour. The room, at the U.S. Army Military Entrance Processing Station (MEPS), looks like a university auditorium, filled with nice, cushioned benches, but no chairs or tables. Seated here with about 200 other women, we are all tired, legs crossed and clucking like hens about the fact there are no seats with backs that we can lean on, or when we can go to bed, and whatever else we could complain about.
After what seemed like an eternity, a man walks in dressed like how I have only seen in movies: a drill sergeant, with the unmistakable Smokey the Bear hat and a serious demeanor. The room suddenly becomes silent and the drill sergeant says in a loud voice, “From this point forward, you will no longer cross your legs.” Then he leaves.
You can imagine the looks on our faces, as we had no idea why he told us this.
We later found out in Army Basic Combat Training why: enemies may target cross legged soldiers first because there’s a likelihood they are women, so looking and behaving in uniform fashion is safer for the soldier and the unit. This was one of those moments when I muttered to myself, “Damn LDub, you’re in it now!”
I raised my right hand to swear my oath of enlistment in March 1986, shipping out in October that year to Fort Jackson, South Carolina for basic and advanced training, enlisting as a Private E-2, MOS 71L (military occupational specialty-meaning the job you have in the service) Administrative Specialist, which meant I was a REMF (rear echelon mother fucker-and yes that’s what we all call it!), but in MOS only, as anyone I served with will tell you I’m a warrior through and through.
I chose this job as I figured it would give me skills so I could get a job when I got out, rather than choosing something sexy like bomb disposal! I’ll never forget how excited, honored and anxious I was during my swearing in ceremony, declaring my oath:
“I, Laurie Lynn Whetstone, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.”
After a few days in civilian clothes at MEPS, a couple drill sergeants stopped me and asked me where I got the concert t-shirt I was wearing. I told them I went to the concert and they both looked at each other and told me no I did not. My t-shirt was emblazoned on the front with RUN DMC and on the back said,
I shot back, “Yea, I actually did, in Oakland CA, or as we locals call it, Oaktown.” The drill sergeants told me I couldn’t wear it, so needed to change. Given we were not actually in training yet, they walked off laughing, wondering how an innocent looking kid like me, went to that concert in Oakland.
Part of our weeklong MEPS in processing was prepping for basic. We got our uniforms and MEPS unit assignments to become familiar with Army unit structures. We practiced beginning to fall into formation and marching with accompanying commands and cadence calling. I still fondly remember my MEPS unit motto we had to shout every morning in formation:
“Highly motivated! Super dedicated! Ready to rock drill sergeant, ready to rock! Smoke me! Hoo-ah, can’t be done!”
At last we were finally heading to off to basic, geared up with two massive green duffle bags, stamped on the sides with our last name, first name and social security number and newly outfitted in what is considered everyday wear: woodland camouflage BDU’s (Battle Dress Uniform).
Our BDU’s consisted of a cotton hat with rank sewn on, a long-sleeved, collared button-down shirt with four pockets, an olive drab (OD) green
cotton t-shirt, button-up pants with cargo pockets on both sides and ties at the bottom (to better tuck into your boots) and black leather lace up combat boots.
Dragging my two massive bags, at age 18 weighing in at 105 pounds, we approached what looked to me like something that would transport prisoners: it was an 18 wheeler truck, with a modified trailer that had tiny window portals and long benches on both sides inside. Somehow I got on almost last, throwing my bags on the pile in the back, but landing in the only seat left – directly next to the standing drill sergeant.
I tried to shrink and pretend I was invisible, when he bellowed out with his thick Kentucky accent, telling us we were going to Tank Hill (legendary OLD WWII barracks that had no heat or AC, affectionately referred to as drag ass hill). Drill Sergeant then yelled out the names of each of us and the leaders selected for the few leadership positions:
- Our company consisted of about 200 recruits, divided into four platoons – so he named four platoon leaders
- Our platoon consisted of four squads, so he named four squad leaders, “…First Squad, Whetstone…”
I thought to myself, “OMG LDub, how is your 18 year old ass supposed to lead a squad of 13 other women?”
Not daring to look at anything but the floor of the truck, we stopped and Drill Sergeant shouted, “Get your asses out! You no longer are allowed to walk while on Tank Hill!”
Scrambling for my bags, slightly terrified, it finally started to sink in – that I was now part of the United States military, tasked with defending and protecting our nation, citizens and way of life!
I was stunned and had no words to say to myself in a moment like this. I ran struggling with my duffel bags to my new home for the next nine weeks, the Tank Hill barracks.
Individual To Team
A big metal trash can was our morning alarm clock, thrown down the middle of the first floor of our two story World War II barracks, along with Drill Sergeants yelling at the top of their lungs.
With seven bunk beds on each side, squad leaders got the bunks closest to the door because we had to ensure our entire squad was squared away.
Quickly learning that wake up time was zero dark thirty, which was 0430 or 4:30am, we had 15 minutes to be in uniform standing at the position of attention outside! Wearing sneakers for PT (physical training) instead of boots, our beds had to be made so you could actually bounce a quarter off it, hair up, teeth brushed – can you imagine yourself doing this?!
I had long hair when I joined and found braiding it every night after showers, as there was no time in the morning, was not enough to keep it from becoming visible as we ran around, rolled around and crawled around in the dirt all day. Keep in mind, this was back in the day, before the current relaxed standards. Bottom-line, remember the point I made above, when we were told to not cross our legs again and the reason for that was protection of the soldier and the unit? Well the same reason surrounds uniform and grooming, meaning hair requirements – the military, especially Basic Combat Training, is not a freakin fashion show! Anyway, one morning Drill Sergeant explained in his booming voice, with a massive pair of scissors in his hand for emphasis, that if they saw one strand of our hair fall beneath our collar, they would cut it off themselves!
As soon as haircut day came, I happily chopped all of mine off into a short bob. When I returned, everyone, including the Drill Sergeants, who are always stoic, looked at me like I was crazy. I thought it amazing that I actually witnessed even the slightest emotion from the Drill Sergeants! Luckily my hair grows fast, so if I didn’t want this short ‘do, it wouldn’t last for long!
As mentioned, all enlisted soldiers have Basic Combat Training, given that in warfare, sabotaging the rear would render those on the front lines inoperative, without “beans and bullets”, although combat soldiers and elite units have a more grueling and lengthier basic. Consisting of three phases, I vividly recall my fascination as my individuality was slowly stripped away as we were molded into a cohesive team in phase one, phase two made us into marksmen and phase three tested our new knowledge and skills on our first FTX (field training exercise).
During phase 1, each morning after zero dark thirty wake up, PT and chow (mealtime), we began with classroom training, then to the field for hands-on combat training. Let me tell you, that getting up at that hour, exercising, eating and then going into a warm room sitting at a desk, was damn hard, because all my body wanted to do was sleep!
Drill Sergeants reminded us, if we felt like we were going to nod-off, to get up and stand at parade rest, because if they caught us we would be doing pushups until THEY got tired!
The method of getting from one place to another was marching or marching double time (jogging) as a unit. Each of us had a buddy at all times and we were never alone, which I found provided comfort, someone to rely on and ingrained in us, that we have each others six, or back as y’all say.
As we say in the military, there’s a lot of hurry up and wait, which means standing in line. Since I was so scrawny and I could complete only one regular pushup when I began, I was afraid of not being able to complete the 20 required to graduate, so in every line I dropped myself for pushups.
Again, everyone else looked at me like I was nuts. Drill Sergeant helped with my pushup efforts, nicknaming me SlickRock (after my last name Whetstone) and declaring, “SlickRock, every time I call out that name you drop and gimme 10!” I yelled back the only response you give to Drill Sergeants, “Yes Drill Sergeant!”
Midday chow was followed by more outdoor training, then evening chow, followed by mail call, a two minute shower – no joke – and lights out at 2100 or 9pm.
Every night before our luxurious two minute showers, the four squad leaders and platoon guide were called in to report on our recruits to Drill Sergeant. Standing at parade rest, I was relieved most days hearing how difficult some of the other squads recruits were to manage. Any mishaps our recruits made anywhere anytime, the leaders and sometimes the whole squad or platoon were smoked, further instilling the team dynamic.
Now you know the hours, 0430 to 2100 – long ass day right? I marveled at the Drill Sergeants, who arrived before we got up, crisp, energetic and gung-ho and left after we were all safely in our bunks. Their unwavering endurance, discipline and professionalism inspired me to want to be like them, clearly part of the training too, right?
It seemed I was kicking ass in most of basic, so I was named guidon bearer, a prestigious position in front of the company holding our company flag, which I continued to do in AIT. I also got called in one day for reasons unknown, when it was explained to me I was invited to apply to WestPoint – yes, THE WestPoint United States Military Academy. My heart soared and I wondered, “how the hell did this kid, raised on welfare, living in 20 different places by the time I was 18, do so well here…”. The long and short of WestPoint, was that I would be two months too old by their strict graduation requirements. I was pretty gutted at this news and tried to figure out a way around it, to no avail…even so, it was still an honor to be considered.
Discipline, Grit and Joy of Hard Work
Don’t get me wrong, basic was one tough ass experience, but you know, these memories will stay with me forever. The camaraderie I miss most and knowing what needed to be done and doing it well was another thing I never had in my chaotic childhood.
The Drill Sergeants, while always tough, were also protective, given basic was not co-ed. I loved the physical and mental challenges and the attention and accolades for doing a good job. And being the smart ass I am, I thought a lot of things we did were downright comical!
I recall one day something our platoon was doing was ate up, (meaning we sucked), so our punishment was TV. I thought to myself, “oh no, this is going to be some serious ass-whooping!” We were called into formation, “Atten-HUH. Half right face! Front leaning rest position-move!”
If you can’t picture this, it means we were in four rows, then we each had to quarter turn to get into pushup position to not hit the person behind us. Any time we heard, “half right, face!” we knew it was due to someone doing some ate up shit and that remedial training was coming next!
In pushup position, Drill Sergeant would yell at us, making up all kinds of stuff that I thought was hilarious, but no laughing or smiling or I would get something even more ridiculous to do.
Drill Sergeant roared, “So y’all wanna be back on the block, sittin’ yer lazy asses on your couch, watching the boob tube, eating bon bons, doncha? It’s time to change the channel! Reach up with your left hand and change it until I decide it’s the channel I wanna watch!” (For those born after remote control is the only way to change a channel, in the old days the TVs had knobs to turn!)
There we were, in one-handed pushup position, then Drill Sergeant switched us to the other hand and back and forth.
I found the layers of lessons within everything we did intriguing – drills when a member or part of the team didn’t do well, so we would help strengthen our weakest links, the physicality of everyday activities, making us stronger and more confident.
One last beloved story I’ll leave you with, is when I was awarded the Expert Rifle Marksmanship Badge – me, a kid who never held a gun before, firing expert on the M16A1 rifle!
Phase 2 of training was marksmanship. For three weeks we schlepped our happy asses daily to the range. We learned strict safety and shooting protocols, which are ingrained in me to this day. Learning to shoot prone (lying on the ground) and in old fashioned fox holes, we fired 20 round magazines at silhouette pop-up targets 50, 100, 150, 200, 250 and 300 meters away, with iron (meaning no scope) sights. I cannot explain to you how heavy a six and a half pound rifle can get, when you carry it at port arms (meaning in front of you with both hands diagonal from each other) for the miles and miles and miles we marched daily, with my skinny ass chicken arms!
Once back, we took every piece of our weapon apart and cleaned it diligently, putting it back together. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Since we were allowed an earth shattering five minute phone call on Sundays, I laughed at how my hands looked like I fixed cars for a living, when my brother asked me if basic was like the movie, Private Benjamin, to which I cracked up, “Not even close Bro!” It was clear he had some idea that I was at camp or something when he asked me if I was still getting my nails done – hahaha!
“The primary job of the rifleman is not to gain fire superiority over the enemy, but to kill with accurate, aimed fire.”
– GEN J. Lawton Collins-Army Chief of Staff
I’ll never forget qualification day, as we humped out to the range, after becoming as close to our rifles as you can to an inanimate object, which was the point.
That day Drill Sergeant decided to rip off my steel pot (the old helmets) and declared, “Red hair is good luck, so git yer asses over here and rub SlickRocks head!” Did you know the old steel pots were used to not only protect your head, but were used as a wash basin in the field?!
In addition to the bragging rights and military badge to sport on my dress uniform, the four of us experts on qualification day got to ride back to the barracks on a UH-1 Huey helicopter, doors wide open, as we banked and cheered, while the rest of the platoon had to hump back! Definitely my first time in a helicopter and qualifying expert made me feel like a total badass!
I could go on for days with the stories…These memories of so long ago and the camaderie I cherish. To this day I still have Army pals from way back when and when we connect, we reminisce about our time in service.
Being trained to trust that your fellow soldier will have your back in life and death situations, is a feeling I will never forget. I have a lot of military Veteran and first responder friends, who get it. Although I never saw war and had a job in the rear, I am grateful, honored and privileged to have served.
“It’s the camaraderie and shared purpose, as much as the milestones we set, that give our life meaning.” – Author Unknown
What gives your life meaning? Are you doing what you want in life? If not, what are you waiting for – the time is NOW to LIVE LIFE FULL OUT!
Wanna Be A Healthy Badass?