“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