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: