It was only a 24 hour delay, and on January 8, 1991, my parents dropped me off at the bus station, where my recruiter was waiting with my orders for the Kansas City MEPS. We stopped in every little town from Springfield to Kansas City on that bus, and a two and a half hour bus trip became a five hour long bore. We got to Kansas City where someone was waiting for all of us who were going Army. He drove us the Travel Lodge in downtown KC, and then he took us to Chubby's on Broadway for dinner. We would head back to the hotel, where a short night was promised before breakfast at Chubby's and the final part of in processing before taking off to the Kansas City airport for Chicago O'Hare to catch an American puddle jumper to Louisville.
We met up with those who would be my brothers for the next ten weeks at the Louisville Airport. The guys who flew in from the Los Angeles MEPS talked about Evander Holyfield being on their airplane. Our flight to Louisville was bumpy. This is where the reality of basic training began. There were NCOs from Fort Knox waiting for us at the airport, ready to direct us to chartered buses that would drop us off in this strange place late at night into the Fort Knox reception station.
Our reception station was unique. Because we were getting ready to go to war against Iraq, the Army prioritized all infantry and combat important MOS recruits first, which meant those of us who were in the Army's medical field (trained to save) had to wait another week to get in our reception battalion before crossing the road into basic training.
In reception, we were issued our uniforms, read our Smart Books, lots of paperwork, and medical, but that could only last so long. Since another basic training unit wasn't ready for the medical MOS recruits, we spent an extra week in reception doing odd jobs. One day, we were asked to move the huge wall lockers from one barracks to another. A group of four recruits dropped one of the lockers smashing a recruits hand and ending his time in the army. No one ever saw that kid again. All we knew is he was going home.
The night before we shipped to our basic training units, many soldiers bought small radios at the PX, which were going to be confiscated once we got across the road, but it passed time until then. We listened as the Gulf War started to free Kuwait. It was strange going into basic training as the war was starting not knowing what it all meant. I was only 19 years old. We all just hoped it would be over soon as we listened to the early successes of the United States military.
I was assigned a battle buddy who I was never supposed to leave his side. His name was Brian Such. I believed he was from Ohio. He took the top bunk, and I took the lower bunk in the very back of the barracks, which was good because it gave us a little more time to get away with whatever we were doing that we shouldn't be doing whether it was writing letters home or taking a small nap.
We just needed to get past the first three weeks. Nothing we did during those first two weeks seemed to be right. Even the smallest mistake on making a bunk caused great agony for anyone who didn't get the corners right or the placements measured to a point. I thought it was silly at first, and I paid the price. As well, I paid the price for listening to my recruiter tell me what I needed to bring. He set me up, as I was quickly picked out for bringing too much stuff to boot camp.
I survived the first two weeks by being prepared but not in the traditional sense. My buddy Jeremy went a few months before, and I had bought post cards with the basic information filled out. PVT Bowler, xxxxx, Fort Knox, KY XXXXX. All I needed to know is what basic training unit I would be in, and I could quickly fill out the xxxxx and let everyone know where to keep me entertained at night with mail call. I found out in reception, sent the post cards out, and the first letters came to me. Everyone was so jealous. Then there was the story of the two Amys (Aimee). One Aimee wanted me to go to her Christian version of the prom when I got back, and the other sent a care package that caused me some grief. It all helped me get through the eight weeks.
The third week did come, but it was slow getting there. Finally the stress did start to go away as we entered the rifle range to learn how to use our M-16 rifles. It was the one of the most enjoyable weeks of basic, but it started with a trip to gas chamber. My platoon included the most messed up kid in our unit, a kid from Hawaii named Boyd. Boyd would get recycled for not getting his stuff together, but we all paid the price. I had to enter the gas chamber with Boyd. The instructions were clear--enter with your gas mask on, take the gas mask off when told, don't drop the gas mask, and you will leave.
We took our masks off. I was doing just fine. It burned to breath the gas and my eyes were irritated. I just breathed slowly and didn't panic. Unfortunately Boyd did panic. He dropped his mask and the rest of us paid the price as only Boyd could pick it up. It seemed to take forever and by the time he did find it, the gas was finally getting to me as long strings of snot left my nose. For others, the site was worse--including nausea.
Drill Sergeant Kirkland was a funny man who was mischievous. He encouraged recruits to drink milk before the we went to the gas chamber. I did not figuring the worst. I don't know if it helped or hurt, but I have a feeling Kirkland liked to see recruits throw up as they left the gas chamber.
At the end of the third week, a baptist church in Louisville had a weekly fellowship for soldiers as the finished their BMR training. I don't recall much about this but how nice it was to get away and eat real food. You don't know how good a Coca-Cola tastes until you can't have one.
Over the next five weeks, Fourth Platoon Greyhounds under the direction of Drill Sergeant Wilson swept every contest held between all four platoons at E-2-46. We were simply the best in everything we did, whether it be cleaning our barracks, marching, PT, grenades, or whatever. It was something we were very proud of, and it seems to have paid off when it came to the commanding officer as well.
Most of the drill sergeants gave nicknames to the recruits. My nickname was Uncle Fester. Sometimes during a meal, one of the drill sergeants would call me out in the mess hall and tell me to lead E-2-46 in singing the Adams Family song--snaps and all. The drill sergeant from third platoon challenged my own drill sergeants and called me Phil Collins asking me to sing Sussudio.
I think two memories really stand out. One night, I was on CQ duty, which means I was there to assist the NCOIC who stayed overnight to ensure everything was okay in the barracks. Usually that mean sitting at a desk longing to be in your bunk, but on this night Drill Sergeant Holman was on duty. He became Danny and I became Clay. For two hours, we talked like buddies with the agreement it was back to business after it was all over. It was nice to be treated and looked upon as something different than just a recruit.
Of course there was family weekend leading into the last week or so of basic training. My entire family came up including my grandpa and both grandmas. I remember seeing their car drive in front of the barracks as I stood in formation, that Ford Escort GT never looked better followed by my grandfather's blue Ford Taurus. It would be a couple more hours before I got to see them, but just knowing they had made it was a good feeling.
I got to leave the base and stay with them at their hotel in Elizabethtown (E-town). We went to the Patton Museum and just relaxed. Unfortunately, I noticed a change in my grandfather. He didn't have the energy he once had, and you could tell the travel caught up with him. He never complained.
During the last week of basic training, they took us to use the phones. I called home and got the news my parents had been trying to contact me. My grandfather had been diagnosed with lung cancer. Years of working in the old lime plant at Galloway caught up with him. Drill Sergeant Holman ended our phone calls, but I couldn't get off the phone needing to know as many details as possible. I told him I couldn't get off the phone. He got upset, but I quickly explained there was a family crisis and he backed off.
During that last week, in appreciation of our three drill sergeants, we worked with the civilians that were employed in our barracks. We collected a fund and threw a party to say thanks for the professionalism offered by Wilson, Kirkland, and Holman. They wanted to know how we managed to get all that food up to the baracks without them knowing about it. We couldn't do it without the friendly staff in the mess hall that made sure we had hot meals everyday. They weren't that bad either, although government sausage really isn't that good.
So graduation came, and most of us from E-2-46 packed up our duffles, were given back all of our contraband, and boarded a bus to Fort Sam Houston, Texas. Normally, they would have flown us, but there was just too many so they put us on two or three chartered buses. It was a long bus ride, and I think most of us slept. I remember being in the Little Rock bus station late at night, and I remember those who managed not smoking for a few weeks were quick to return to their habit. I think we were all relieved it was over.
So to my brothers of E-2-46 4th Platoon Greyhounds, here's to the memories we have kept for now 20 years. Hard to believe! Such, Lurch, Ice, Gillespie, and all the others, hope you are doing well.
