I wish people would quit hitting me in the head!

20 Sept 2011

Finally!  Something to write about!  Yesterday we stared Combatives (think MMA if they actually wanted you to kill your opponent), had a Pugil Stick competition (I kicked my Battle Buddy's butt, thank you very much, though he got in tow or three face shots), did the Grenade Range today (I got to throw an additional two thanks to an awesome Drill Sergeant), AND got punched in the face by a platoon mate who didn't like hearing that he couldn't have seconds.  Of cake.

All in all, an eventful couple of days.  My jaw is sore, my body exhausted and my hear pumped back up from four huge explosions.

Standing in the shower later this evening, this line from Quigley Down Under rolled through my head as I massaged my jaw:  "I wish people would quit hitting me in the head."

The rest of the scene flashed through my head and I started giggling.  Just then, Reineking walked by, saw me and shook his head.  Apparently, standing naked in the middle of a shower room, snickering into a towel looks...weird?

I don't care.  The quote made my night.

Now, two hours later, the guy who socked me is still getting smoked by the Drill Sergeants, who say they're going to "keep him up all night".

I'm gonna sleep well tonight.

Rock & Mischief

TJ

I got in my first fight today...

I got in my first fight today, and it wasn't even a fight! I was handing out cake at the end of chow, and the goddam company was acting a fool. Most of my platoon didn't get any cake, while others got third & fourths because they forced their way back in line. Long story short, on the last tray of cake, on the last three pieces, I was trying to get those of us who had not got any to get the last of it, when someone reached on to the tray & grabbed one of the last pieces. Naturally, I cracked his hand with the spatula, so he'd drop the piece. The guy who i hit turned out to be the guy in the platoon who picks fights with everyone. He looked at me, furious. 
"I'm gonna punch you," he said.
My first thought was 'Well, that's an overreaction.'
CRACK! Suddenly I was looking the other way with a sore jaw and a bemused expression. I turned back to the guy, straightened my glasses, looked down at the cake and then back at the asshole. All I could think was, "Really, dude?"
The drill sergeants called us over and asked what happened, at which point ten or twelve guys stepped up and defended me. The guy who hit me, is getting smoked now, and has been for hours. He might even get paperwork; ie black marks on his record. Me? I got a sore jaw. And Cake. Yup, the drill sergeants let me crack into a new thing of cake simply because I got hit. He he he...suckers. 

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

18 September 2011

0912hrs

As Family Day approaches (12 days now) my mind starts fixating on what it is that I miss about the free life.  As self-guided day, chow of choice, operated on my clock, at my pace. Today we waited out front of the DFAC (Dining Facility) for an hour & 45 minutes while four other companies circled through.  Long morning.

However, on the upside we DID transition to Blue Phase last night.  ARM, U.S. Weapons Week & our first two FTX's (Field Training Exercise) are behind us, along with our 2K, 5K & 9K ruck marches and the easier early morning PT.  Next up:  Combatives, Pugil Sticks, Eagle Tower, Grenades, M9 Qualification, 16K ruck march, 3-day FTX & Family Day.

Then Tanks.

The tempo is increasing rapidly.  Now that we are two weeks from Family Day (the approaching end of our OSUT's BCT portion) the standards we are held to are even higher, and the punishments are more severe.  By now, they say, you should know better.

Mail drop is becoming more infrequent, so we hear from home maybe once a week.  Some Drill Sergeants say that it is because the Mail Room is FUBAR, but the honest to God truth of the matter is that the Drill Sergeants are too lazy to separate the Company's mail every day, so they let it pile up.

As much as I would like to blame them for my slow response time, however, THAT one is entirely my fault.  The last two weeks have seen some of the longest, most exhausting days, and my desire AND ability to write have both been smothered beneath a blanket of...hmm..(case in point:  my metaphor escaped me as soon as I tried to write it.)  This place leaves one frazzled, distracted and a little sleepy.

Hmmm....what else?

Last week we rocked the Obstacle Course, and with the exception of two soldiers who are flat out terrified of heights, we FLEW through each station cheering & laughing.  It was a kick in the pants, even though we showed up before dawn and got flat out smoked until sundown.

I wish there was more to tell, but frankly there is so much about this place that has to be experienced in its most base repetitive sameness.  How do I communicate Fireguard, 0430 wakeup, marching, waiting for hours at parade rest, discussing each place we've lived in gruesome detail, the women we've loved, the family we miss, the lives we want, our fears about deployment and false bravado towards the terrifying fact that we are learning to be killers.  How do I teach you my new culture through pen, ink and thousands of miles?

I can't, and that is why you all feel so far away.  I replay every memory I can find in the dusty old files, seeing you, hearing your voice, laughing with you one more time.  I imagine how I'd like to spend another day with you, where we'd go and what we would do, but I always return to the dull ache in the center of my heart where your company used to be.

I miss you all.  I'll be home mid-November and I will be looking for you.

Rock & mischief

TJ

Sitrep

0721 Hours.

Malone 16 Range

Today we learn & shoot the M240 & the M249 “SAW” (Squad Automatic Weapon).

When we got out here the full moon, just a couple inches above the horizon, was a giant golden orb.  By the time we had formed up & grounded our gear, only a hazy ring was left on top of the tree line.

Fog filled the low ground out past the 200 meter marker, just this side of the berm.  If no for the 160 chattering soldiers, this would be a peaceful morning.

Days like today make me want to go camping.  Solitude and silence with the unchanging landscape, watching the night sky spin then burn away into the bright blue daylight.  Covering ground at your own pace, moving silently with the wind.

It has been over a month since I could look around and see nothing but trees.  Here there are always People. Noise. Equipment. Drill Sergeants.  I enjoy the training, but I am anticipating graduation more and more every day.

We are finding out about our duty stations this week or next, which means that fairly soon I will know where I will  spend the next few years.  I have a small list of places I’d prefer, but the Army doesn’t generally give a flying hoot about what the privates want.  In the words of Drill Sergeant Ard, “Some days you’re the baseball, some day’s you’re the bat.”

I hate sports.

Rock & Mischief

T

Life, Liberty & the Pursuit of Answers

9-11-11

Today is a big day for this country, that is a given.  In the Army, it is monumental.  Patriot’s Day.  9/11/  The flag propped at the very start that signified the beginning of ten year’s continuous war.  Thousands upon thousands of lives lost, billions wasted on some heady of reconstruction, assassinations and murder and lies, and the Army goes rolling along.

Today of all days, I’m not sure what it means to be a soldier.  To bear arms in the name of Revenge?  To establish & defend the American Empire?  To protect the right of the fat to be fat, the ignorant to be ignorant, the corrupt to be corrupt?  What is this once great nation truly built on?  Is it the idea of “by & for the People” or am I simply defending my American Dream?

And if that is the case, what is my dream?  After all, shouldn’t I know what it is that I am taking up arms for?  Was this decision purely an economical one, or is there some of that ‘Old Glory’ left in the tattered Stars and Stripes?  Am I fighting for fair prices at Freddies, or is the assertion that “all men are created equal” worth fighting...and dying to defend?  I have no more answers.  Just questions.  Now, the real work begins.

“Shakedown on 9th St.”

So tired.  We got put back on red phase last night thanks to a few bad apples.  So the Drill Sergeants destroyed our bays searching for contraband (which, I must add, they found) until 12:00AM, then my platoon was up until 1:30 putting everything back to standard.  Then, we woke up at 5:30, and cleaned.

Here’s the issue:  Yesterday our Quitter, let’s call him Hotel, was shaken down after coming back from the crazy hospital, and got caught with candy bars, Pop Tarts and more.  That simply started the carnival.

One bay had an iPod, on had a cell phone and nudie pictures, but 3rd Platoon, MY platoon took the cake in the Running For Most Bullshit Contraband.  One of our guys sneaked a live round off the range.  Yup.  A bullet in a room full of assault rifles.  Made me feel safe.  That guy is getting an Article 15 (Non-Judicial Punishment) and getting Recycled to Day Zero with another Company.  The Drill Sergeants wanted to send him to jail.

The kid’s rationale was something along the lines of, “My sister likes military stuff so I was going to mail it to her.”  I talked to him later and got the feeling that he understood the magnitude of what he’d done.  But, by that point the axe had fallen.  The next week is going to be rough.

There is such an abysmal lack of integrity here.  Kids (most of them really can’t be called ‘men’) sneaking food into the bay after multiple platoons got scuffed up for doing just that.  People making playing cards out of cardboard, even though they are prohibited, then gambling with them.  People selling their guard shifts ... and the list goes on.

We had literally everything we owned thrown around the bay.  Our bunks were flipped, our lockers gutted, our rucksacks and duffle bags emptied on the floor...

To cap it off, Senior Drill Sergeant Cook was in a particularly foul mood, and took every opportunity to smoke us before chow.  Two minutes into my meal, he walked up to my table, looks around and yells, “You all look full, you’ve got two minutes.  One minute!  GETTHEMOTHERFUCKOUTOFHEREYOU! That means NOW!”

With a full tray of uneaten chow, I left the table and went to form up.

We’ve been cleaning since chow, and we’re headed back to chow here in a sec.  I hope I actually get a full meal this time, because tonight is another nightfire, so we’re going to be out late again.

They haven’t done mail in a while and I’d bet after this it’ll be even longer until they let us hear from home.  We are basically on lockdown until we earn back he Drill Sergeant’s trust.  Which could be weeks, if it ever happens.

I’ll try to write any time I have a free moment, but this next week is going to be hell.

I miss you all.

Love T

“Locked, Loaded & Ready to Sleep”

Saturday 0624 hrs

Just got in from our first real ruck march:  An 8K with full ruck sacks.  We were up this morning by 310, and by 0400 the entire company was formed up out front, ready to roll.  Minutes later we split, marching our way in the cool Georgia pre-dawn black.

There is something peaceful, almost serene, about trudging down old tank trails with 160 other guys, moving in complete silence.

Then, (some hours later) Complete Chaos.

We went from the ruck march, straight to an FTX (field training exercise) that crushed our platoon.  If sprinting around a half-mile track in 60lbs of full battle rattle (IBA, Kevlar & weapon) every twenty minutes & low crawling at least a mile through Georgia sand wasn’t enough, it came to light that some of my guys had been buying meds off of one of the vamps.

The vamps, or “vampires”, are the company dropouts, quitters, crazies and medical discharges who are waiting to be chaptered out of the Army.

While they wait, they live with the rest of the platoon’s, eating chow with us (though always last in line), cleaning our trash up, and bearing a seemingly endless supply of insults from the Drill Sergeants.

Some of them have medication.  One, in particular, has been selling his meds to other soldiers, actually the trainers.  Being that this is a federal facility, taking, buying or selling medication that is meant for someone else is a federal offense.  I.e., jail time.

Sooo, some of our guys might be going away.  Each time we get peeled back, though, 3rd Platoon comes back sronger, at least for awhile.  Who knows what’ll happen tomorrow?  Rumor is Wednesday we start Blue Phase...but...the rule is “never trust the grapevine, privates don’t know shit.”

We’ll see how this tuns out.

I’m gonna chance a nap.

Rock ‘n mischief

T.

I Got...Steam Heat!

29 Aug 2011

The weird thing in all of this is having nothing really important to say, nothing to write home about, and still finding myself picking up the pen.  Something about the act of writing home makes you all feel closer.  An entire month has flown by but I am still barely one third of the way through....and I am slowly getting homesick.  I read and reread the letters I’ve received, soaking up every drop of life that I can, and still I am thirsty for some good old Oregon rain.

This new life is a huge change, and is constantly reminding me of just how many freedoms and opportunities I had & squandered on the outside.  Heck, the sheer volume of crap I get done before eight A.M. these days outweighs my weekly output from before I shipped.  Tracking?

My point is, stop wasting time.  I know so many of you have dreams that are scratching at the back corners of your hearts.  But if you leave them sitting there, they’re going to collect dust and disappear like...crap that vanishes.  Yeah.  Get ON that stuff and make it happen, then list me in the credits as your inspiration and send me royalty checks.  Seriously.

On a more serious note, why haven’t you sent me pictures yet?  I swear, I am in danger of forgetting what you look like.  Which is not only bad, it is slightly disconcerting.  I may be getting old & rugged, but not THAT old  & rugged.

I am not sure what that meant, but it is 115 degrees out here and I have to use the Little Boy’s Room BAD but the only facilities we have are giant, putrid, stinking holes in the ground with no amenities for hygiene, so I’m hot’n’bothered and trying not to think about it.

Later, on the bus home:

It hit 120 degrees.  I’m hot, headed home for a heat dump listening to Elton John & Michael Jackson on the radio.  Epic Military Win.

Rock & Mischief

Tristan

Passing Time - the Army way.

Pennock sits with his back to my locker, humming snatches of anything and everything musical that flits though his mind.  To my left, Carol, Jackson, Collins and Wahlburg talk in muted tones, debating bug spray vs. dryer sheets as repellent for the upcoming FTX.  Bryon is fixing his bunk, Rodriguez, Dahl, Caputo and Rehn are sleeping in hidden corners.  Snodgras moves from group to group, recounting details of his latest prank.  Baraskis is wandering around the bay with Needham and Schmidt, talking over their cars and the planned upgrades.  No-Speed just recently decided to tell some guys about using random people's laundry soap on bags that didn't have any, and is getting his ass chewed.


Slowly, the conversation turns to the typical point:  Family Day and what food we are going to buy.  Ice cream cakes, chicken bacon ranch sandwiches, rodeo burgers, Reeces Pieces, apple pie...


Personally, I am craving a Reuben from Dot's Cafe with tater tots and a Dr Pepper.


When the room gets quiet again, you can see home in our eyes.  The women we love, the mothers, fathers and brothers or sisters we miss, the friends who held us up through every low point we've ever been through.  We think of all of you in silence.  Wondering where you are, how you are, what fills your days while we march, run, drill, call cadence, shoot, train, train, train...


We live, I live, to see you again.  Standing tall, standing proud.


It is raining now, the outer arm of this most recent hurricane, reminds me of Oregon.


Until later.


Tristan

"What to draw on a Friday night."

We are lying on the floor of the 4th platoon's latrine hallway "practicing" point of aim.  We all grouped and zeroed two days ago, so today we sit around and clean our weapons for hours on end.  We get smoked occasionally when a DS wanders in and sees us bullshitting, but for the most part, we just sit, and clean, and wait.

The other half of the company is out trying to master the basic principles of rifle operation, sweating in the 100+ degree weather.  Here in the bay it is in the low 60's, we got MRE's (meals ready to eat), weapons, sandbags and no tasks to focus on.

I miss the friends that have made up my world for the last ten years, especially surrounded by guys 5+ years younger than myself.  There is a very definite break in wave length between the things I like & care about, and the general topics around the barracks.

Still . . . for the most part I've got good company here; highly motivated, mostly intelligent and extremely passionate young men with training & graduation as their ultimate goals.

I remembered another story I forgot to tell y'all;

The calendar here is pretty simple:  Our first day was Day Zero.  Today is day . . . ahh. . . twenty-something.  Thirty seven days to Family Day.  Day ONE, our second day here (made my head hurt too) saw one of the most awkward moments of my life . . . so far.

We had heeled the rail and were "preparing for the shower drill," when Drill Sergeant Johnson decided that at that particular moment 3rd platoon was not moving fast enough.

THE PUSH UUUP!"

Swathed only in towels, we froze.

"FRONTLEANINGRESTPOSITION MOVE!"

Terrified, confused and just a little shy, each one of us cautiously tried to find our way to the ground and into the pushup stance while keeping our towels and modesty in place.  We were all doubly un-successful.

Now, arms akimbo, heels together, we held our nude bodies aloft and stared hard at the floor in front of our faces.

If you have never performed a naked pushup in a room full of (naked) strangers, let me save you some time and trauma, and explain some fundamentals:

ONE:  The floor is always closer . . . than you think

TWO:  You WILL lock eyes with at least one other person.

THREE: There is no good way to cover yourself.

FOUR:  You will never be the same.

"ONE," Drill Sergeant shouted.  

We dropped. hit the tile and did our best to shield our shrieks of pain behind nervous laughter.  

"TWO"

We pushed, lifting our frigid parts from the floor and desperately hoping we weren't the ones on mop duty that night.

"THREE"

We dropped.

"ONE!"  We yelled.  First rep of five.

We walked away from that changed men.

This is Pennock, one of the six people in my platoon that I don't regularly want to choke.  Sounds terrible, but if you spent a day as a fly on the wall here, you'd understand.

"Carry on, naked man in the corner."


Our third haircut, our second trip to the PX (Post Exchange).  Another meal rocketed through at breakneck speed, another two hours spent standing at attention in the Georgia sun, then left right left back home to personal time and writing letters on the can.  That's right, I am writing this on the crapper.  What of it?


No-Speed, one of the slow-as-mud digbats who bunks ext to me, just asked if anyone else felt like getting home from the PX was like Christmas morning.


"I never get my hair shaved for Christmas, No-Speed," Bryon snapped, glowering at his waxen complexion in the mirror.  The thing that has most of us on edge about the PX is simple; we go through the front door, PAST the beer, candy & snacks, to the back, and have two to three minutes to find every hygene/clothing/letter writing item we may possibly need for the next three weeks,  Then it is BING BANG BOOM through the checkout counter and out into the sunlight, where we sat for a couple hours.  Fun, yeah?


There is an uncomfortable amount of nakedness up in this joint.  The other day I was at my locker, changing out of my ACU's for a shower, when Drill Sergeant Perez walked into the bay.


"At ease," Reineking yelled, snapping to the position of ease.  The rest of the bay, myself included, snapped to as well.  My towel fell to the floor and I stared straight forward into my locker.


Perez was silent for a moment, staring around the bay.  Spotting my albino ass in the corner, he snorted, shook his head and turned to leave.


"Carry on, naked man in the corner," he called over his shoulder.


Laughing sheepishly, I snatched up my towel & sprinted to the shower.


I am ready to be done showering with fifteen other men, speaking of the showers.


More later,  Tristan

“I have an uncle named Mel Gibson, and HE is a cowboy” - Pennock

August 20, 2011

Hello, all!

First off, I apologize for how sparse the letters home have been. The last two weeks have seen a steady increase in tempo that my platoon is doing their darnedest to keep up with. Each day begins dark & early at 0430, and rolls through PT (Physical Training), chow, classes or coursework (road marches, land nav, obstacle courses, etc...), lunch, more coursework, dinner, evening coursework, drill sergeant time (a love part of the night hours wherein our DS correctively trains out any mistakes we may or may not have made throughout the day) and, if we’re really lucky, personal time from 2000 to 2100. From 2100 - 0430 we pull fireguard (one hour, two-man shifts where you count weapons, personnel, and mop, sweep, bleach and buff any damn thing that may or may not need it).

Lather, rinse (if we are lucky), repeat.

I love this place. My platoon is, for the most part, highly motivated and squared away. Our bay is the cleanest and straightest, the most “to standard.” We work hard and play hard, argue like an old married couple (times 4), pass gas as frequently as we breath, talk about food, TV, beer, cars, football (I zone a lot), and music a lot. Like always.

I earned the nick name ‘Buddha’ early on during a pretty intense religious conversation, and it has stuck. I actually am starting to get to the point that I don’t recognize my first name. ONE person uses it and usually has to say it a few times before I respond.

People here lack certain social graces. Namely; talking while I try to write. It’s pretty obnoxious, but I’m learning to focus in the middle of a maelstrom. I actually was writing a letter earlier while talking to two different people and thinking about a movie. I was going to ride a unicycle too, but that just seemed a little excessive.

Ok, so I did reserve one specifically;

The Gas Chamber

The night before we went, the Drill Sergeants pumped us full of horror stories; mucus for miles, the end to our respiratory problems, contacts melting to our eyes - if we were dumb enough to sneak them in, masks malfunctioning . . . . Some of us barely slept.

I was lucky. I couldn’t wear my BCG’s with the mask, so I knew I’d be going in totally blind. I had accepted my fate and stepped onto the buse that morning with a full stomach and a bright red sunburn seared across my scalp. I was ready.

Our brief was short & to the point; Go in, prove that your stuff works, take it off, put it back on, clear it, take it off again and stand there. And stand there. Then, put your mask back in the bag it came in, close it, and with your hand on your buddy’s shoulder, exit the building, shouting, “My eyes are open, my arms are flapping.”

No big deal, right?

Right.

I walked into the cinderblock room with a tinge of apprehension, expecting swirling yellow smoke or melting skin. Anything.

Nothing.

I took my spot, facing into the middle of the room (I think . . . remember, my glasses were off), and went through the clearing motions. Nada.

Then my hands started to tingle. Just a little at first, but soon it felt like someone was scrubbing my skin with fine steel wool. Then it found my fresh-shaved neck, and it was game on.

I took off my mask and started to breathe.

The best and only family appropriate way to describe the feeling of tear gas seeping into your body is this;

Imagine being eaten by a habanero.

I came out the door happy, coughing and dripping from the face . . . and immediately got sent to the back of the line. I had left my bag partially open.

The second time was much the same . . . except that I had to sound off with the soldier’s creed. That was fun.

I miss you all. Write to me. I will write back.

Love Ellingsworth

August 6, 2011

1414 hrs

BCT Letter 1

Day 3 . . . I think. The last seventy-some hours have been an unending blur of pushups, PT, "corrective training," sweat, sweat and more sweat. There are 41 of us here in 3rd Platoon, "Dogpound." Five, at the very least, have already been identified as (pardon my french) 'buddyf***ers'; basically they are the kind of people who don't listen, do things at their own speed (which is damn slow), give maybe 60% of their energy to our PT and ALWAYS seem to be the reason we wind up hearing, "STARTING POSITION . . . MOVE! IN CADENCE!"

We help them, for now. Pretty soon we will not be so patient. Hopefully by week 3, they have either recycled or quit.

It doesn't feel very compassionate, but here, compassion is not the law. No, our law is different:

This is the house of pain

We are not men, we are beasts

And you have made us beasts

We will not walk

We will not talk

We will not go crying into the night.

Dress ready front

The last resort is the cold hard steel jab

between the second and third ribs.

Twist.

Withdraw.

Ahhh!

So, obviously, things are different here than I have ever known. I still relish every minute of it . . . but in each minute the seconds get harder. More difficult. More rewarding.

I miss my family, my friends. I miss long showers (as in more than one minute long), relishing food instead of racing the quickest eater at the table in upchuck-stifling silence, speaking freely, pissing when I feel like it, and all other manner if independent activity.

But . . .

I love the standards. Drill Sargent Johnson, a thrice deployed tanker, has stated his clear intentions to raise 3rd Platoon up to the top; to make us the best of the best. He's got his work cut out for him, and sometimes I would swear I can see him salivate when he talks about "tossing our racks" (throwing our beds into the middle of the room and giving us mere minutes to remake them.)

"DOWN!"

"WE NEED!"

"UP!"

"DISCIPLINE!"

"DOWN!"

"WE NEED!"

"UP!"

"DISCIPLINE!"

Ad infinitum, ad nausium.

We crave his sparse praise. We strive and strain and scream out the weakness in us to make him happy. Or at least less mad. I think, with much excitement, of the man I will be when D.S. Johnson & D.S. Ard are done with me. I hope he will be the friend, son, or brother you have all deserved from me for so long. Everybody is writing, silent. In the background we can hear the 4th Platoon getting smoked downstairs, which somehow adds to our peace: at least it's not us, right? The only sound is the scratch of pens and the 'crack!' 'click!' of people clearing and checking their weapons, yet this, too, is soothing. We quickly run out of personal time.

OK; Writing to me;

#1 - PLEASE do! Send pictures, tell me what your lives hold these

days, KEEP ME INFORMED!

#2 - Please don't send me things I can get in trouble for: food,

candy, energy drinks and the like. If that stuff comes, I'll

get my platoon a crapload of "corrective training," and

it'll get eaten by the D.S.'s,

probably in front of me,

while I do pushups.

No bueno.

So, send your letters here:

#337, PV2 Ellingsworth

194th AR BDE 1-81 AR

B Company 3rd Platoon

Fort Benning, GA 31905

Now, here is the important part: Bravo Company, 3rd Platoon is BLUE so you have to mark the corners of the envelope in blue like this:

July 30, 2011

Reception Battalion Letter

I am 12081DO050; at least until Thursday.

Three days in, five left in reception; each day is a whirlwind moving in slow motion. We line up, (or try to), then stand for hours, sweating our butts off in silence. March, line up, sit down, stand up, parade rest, 'atten' hut!'

Then wait.

And wait.

And wait.

We have our PT gear, hygiene items, rank insignias, running shoes, BCG's ('birth control goggles' = army issue glasses), ACU's (advanced combat uniform), laundry items, camelback and duffel bag. On Monday we get the rest of our gear, from combat boots to dress uniforms.

Honestly, the most interesting part has been chow. We line up and all 160 of us (all tankers, by the way) file into the chow line in groups of 10; 2 lines, side-by-side. You grab your tray, state your preference to the servers, "Green, Ma'am," or "Red, Ma'am," then file out through the fruit & bread line. Then out and to our tables, past the privates handing out silverware and our two required liquids. A Drill Sgt yells directions; "OVER THERE, TO THE BACK, PUT YOUR DUFFEL UNDER YOUR SEAT, SIT DOWN, FEET FLAT ON THE FLOOR, HEELS TOGETHER, ELBOWS OFF THE TABLE, NO TALKING!"

We shovel down chow in four minutes, line up in the queue to off-load our trays and jog back out for formation (no small feat, with a suddenly full stomach), where we either stand for half an hour, or get dismissed to the latrines.

Lather, rinse (sometimes), repeat.

Today, actually, we had religious services (apparently it's Sunday), and joined a number of my guys at a Buddhist meditation. The service was slightly disappointing, involving some frantic chanting and soldiers reading essays the service leader had downloaded off the internet. Though an hour spent sitting down was a kick in the pants compared to a day on hard concrete in the Georgia heat, the content was ultimately unsatisfying.

Thankfully, our reception battalion drill sergeants are just as interested in teaching classes today as we are in taking them, so besides chow, all we have today is letter writing.

Funny side-note; today somebody stole my pillow. A few of the boys from the other side of the bay are pissed at me because I took the lead on getting the DS involved in an ongoing issue we've been having with PFC Latte, a particularly clueless, socially inept and soft-spoken Nevada boy. He is always late, never listens and so always has to be told things at least twice, and asks the most dumb-assed questions we have ever heard; asking a private, "do you have a watch?," shortly after the private checked the time on his wrist, and by shortly after, I mean right after.

Long story short, after myself and three others tried to help him get his crap together, he freaked out and ran off. We looked for him in a panic (here in basic, you never go anywhere without a battle buddy and your full uniform; he left without both).

When we found him, he and I went to the DS, who heard both of us out. I told the DS about the flack Latte had been catching. But also detailed the major problems we had been having with him. Latte, in turn, expressed that he felt threatened in the bay & was being physically intimidated by other privates. DS Hernandes listened quietly, told him to man-up and engage, then returned to the bay and chewed us out for half an hour. He ended saying that whoever kept that stuff up would find themselves kicked out of the army. Immediately.

Making Latte off Limits.

As we were heading to bed tonight, the far side of the bay started.

"Snitches get stitches."

"Don't talk too loud, the guys over there will report you!"

Flat-out high school shit.

I laughed and passed out.

And woke up without my pillow.

This place teaches you to lock up your stuff. The kids here have not yet realized they are in the army. All of that will change, come Thursday. Shark attack: the first time we meet our official Drill Sergeants and they scream, scream, scream. It is coming and though the very thought makes me feel guilty, sometimes I hope that a few of these guys aren't here when we head down range.

Perceive the world as a bubble

Perceive the world as a mirage.

If you see the world in this way

You render the Lord of Death powerless

Dhammadada ch13 v4

Being mindful, compassionate, or even tolerant of people who piss me off is easy when I can avoid them or walk away; when I spend every minute of every day around them, it is actually a challenge. The upside to the wide variety of people seems to be finding an awesome smattering of opinions, humors and drives.

I am truly lucky. Good friends, laughs and mental strain.

Love it.

I will write later.

If I can.

Rock and mischief

Tristan

TANKER TOUGH!

Hooah!

First Letter!

The first shock hit when I saw downtown Portland fading away to my left. Leaping up to an ear-popping 1500 feet, we banked hard and scooted away past Mt. St. Helens. In seconds, my life, my family and friends, were miles away, and I was on my way to a new beginning.

Oregon is an ocean of clouds, reaching out to form a curved white blanket past the edges of my sight. Mountains rise up occasionally, though from this altitude they just look like little lumps of snow on a flat field.

Climbing on the airplane this morning was the most hilarious couple of hours I"ve had in a long time. The innuendo was flat out flying around, although somehow we all managed to keep the people around us in stitches, which is a significantly better option than we expected.

My travel buddies are four guys from Washington and Oregon, ages 18 - 21. Gobel hails from Kelso, Hoffman grew up near The Dalles, Barlow comes from Oakridge, and Tiego, "Junior" (the only non-tanker of the group) is from Vancouver. They are hilarious, nervous, and just as excited as I am, though our humor currently hovers over the obscene side of juvenile. I feel right at home.

My ears keep popping as we ascend. Moments ago we rocketed past Mt. Hood, and Hoffman, leaning over from hise windowseat, commented, "Man, that looks so much easier to climb from up here."

This is aa good-natured group of guys, and I can only hope that the rest of the men I will train with are of a similar make. I know we will all get a bit broken up these next few weeks, but if the comraderie of the last few hous is any indicatior, I think we will make it through strong.

Funny thing: I'm apparently the only one who knows the creed or the general orders. This will be interesting.

Quote of the day:

Barlow; "I'm thirsty; I want a cookie."

More later.

Pvt 2 T. J. Ellingsworth

P.S. the game

Sun Buddah, Moon Buddah

Tristan's mom, Deb, here. Tristan asked me to post this to his blog, Letters Home. He'll be unable log on or read any comments for about 17 weeks, but has asked me to transcribe any letters he sends. Once he finds out what his address is, I'll post that, and then ( he has asked), please write to him. Letters will be like water on a parched ground. Thank you all for the love you poured out onto him over the last couple of weeks. We just left him at the hotel, and he flies out, I'm told, on Wed. So here's his last post;

This is how it is. The sun is up, but falling. The hotel room is a little humid, the elevator quiet. Not waiting, not tense or nervous any more.

Tomorrow I take an oath, swear to have this new breath as mine. No fear any more. Simply being. Nothing is out of place as I step to the ledge.

'Don't be afraid,' I keep being told. 'Have faith,' I tell myself. Wait, wait, wait and see, be patient like a redwood tree.

Be where you are unreservedly, completely.

Build a wind as solid as a fortified city.

Then confront the Tempter with the weapon of insight.

And (proceeding without attachment)

Guard what you have already conquered.

The Dhammapada, ch3 vs8

Spectacles, Testicles, Wallet, Watch

Here we go. Hours, minutes, seconds and then, I'm on an airplane, hurling over the mountains and down to a new life.

Check the bank, grab the phone charger, remember what book i'm reading on the flight, double check wallet for ID and SS card, sweep the floor, breathe breathe breathe. Everything is moving like it's immersed in honey, but my heart races anyway. It's almost there, just within my grasp, and I'm expecting the floor to fall out from underneath me somehow.

So I leave, frantic and thrilled and not entirely sure what's ahead, but I'm going anyway. I leave you with something that will be on my heart a lot these next few weeks.

Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him, all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

Ends as Beginnings and Stuff

This week saw the official end to my regular musical performances in Portland, at least for a few years. Two-plus hours of tunes with Steph Infection and the Heebie Geebies, with so many good friends around that even the dull roar of diners didn't dampen our spirits one bit. Some shots and a couple Jack and Cokes later, we all wound up at Lady McNab's place, sitting around the porch talking about anything and everything we could think of. Each face I saw was significant, special to me and vital to my happiness. I love those people and will carry the tastes and smells of that night with me for a long time.

To each one of my ladies, I love you, I miss you already, and I can't wait to do it all again.