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