The US Army - A Refining Fire
It was snowing, big white fluffy crystals at least as large as a quarter in diameter. This is the kind of snow that falls in the Spring in Utah; it piles up quickly, but melts away even more so. The sound of flakes colliding with the windshield at freeway speed was almost audible; little explosions decimating each snow-puff at the moment of impact.
I focused on one of the larger flakes as it began to instantly melt on the warmed glass before the wiper swiped it away, leaving a clean, pristine surface behind. I was grateful for this small distraction as Dad and I made our way along the recently plowed Salt Lake City streets to the MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station) at Fort Douglas, Utah. I’d be lying if I denied the palpable anxiety I felt, expressed by my stomach doing flip-flops. He didn’t say, but I think Dad felt anxious as well, making small talk that didn’t require much effort to stay engaged in.
The last year of my existence in Hermosa Beach, CA had been filled with ups and downs. A series of tickets, including a speeding ticket issued for going 82 mph in a 25 mph had certainly not helped my situation. I wasn’t focused at school either and my sub-par grades proved it. In fact, I’ve often said that I hit rock bottom at this point in my life; a 36 hour stint in the LA County Jail was further evidence of this. I was definitely ready for a change.
After three and a half years in Los Angeles, I was heading back to Utah. I was certainly unsure about what my future had in store for me, but it felt right. I vividly remember driving across the Nevada Desert, on the 16th of January of 1991. It was late at night and I had an AM radio station on which blared news of the conflict in Iraq. The first air attack had been launched against Hussein’s Republican Guard (incidentally shortly after I began my drive) and the bombing had continued into the night. My drive was accompanied by live coverage from network reporters and faint but unmistakable thudding sounds which manifested US missiles exploding in Baghdad.
My appearance in Utah sparked a short, but logical soul-searching session of “What next?” I wanted and needed to continue my college studies, but was faced with the question of how to pay for it. The GI Bill and SLRP (Student Loan Repayment Program) seemed to be the right answer to the question. Before the month was even out, I had enlisted, taken the ASVABS (Armed Services Vocational/Aptitude Boards), and qualified for my chosen MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) of Combat/Still Photography with a score of 98.
From Fort Douglas, I traveled via a short bus ride to the SLC International Airport and boarded a flight to St Louis. In St. Louis, another bus took me approximately 135 miles southwest straight into the jaws of hell, Fort Leonard Wood (aka, Little Vietnam). Just like the oft-disguised temptations of Satan, it wasn’t immediately apparent that I had arrived in hell. The weather in mid-April was pleasant enough. Upon our arrival, we were ushered into somewhat shabby, but ammonia clean barracks. This was our holding company. It was necessary to wait for three days for the rest of our company to arrive before we could begin our 10 weeks of training. We cleaned, raked leaves, pulled weeds, and picked up garbage 12 hours a day, but it was certainly bearable. Having been gainfully employed and cut off from financial support since the age of 13, I was accustomed to this kind of work. This kind of hell was familiar to me - I used to have to rake the forest!
After the three days had expired, we were transported on cattle trucks to another part of the base and ordered to exit when the transporter had rolled to a stop. We were greeted by no less than a dozen screaming drill sergeants barking orders which couldn’t be heard above the din of their own combined voices. In vain, I decided reading lips was my best option and finally determined that they wanted me to hold my duffel above my head for some reason. I complied and others in my company quickly followed. Before long, we were all high-stepping in place with our army duffels high above our heads. Ultimately, our effort was futile and, like a fine cigar, we were “smoked” by our drill sergeants; this was physical discipline that utilized a combination of up/downs, pushups, and sit-ups done at a feverish pace until muscle failure. Little did we know, this would become at least a daily ritual.
I was in hell. I was Shadrach being tossed into an Industrial Grade Electric Arc Furnace and there was NO ministering angel to deliver me.
A psychotic training cycle of at least 18 hours a day ensued. If you pulled Guard or KP (Kitchen Patrol) duty, that would require an additional 3-4 hours, leaving only a couple of hours for sleep. We spent our days learning how to march, identifying wounds, learning first aid, physical training, memorizing our chain of command, reciting general orders, how to properly wear our uniform, cleaning the barracks, conquering obstacle courses, BRM training (Basic Rifle Marksmenship), map reading, communications, bayonet training, preparing ourselves for NBC (Nuclear, Biological, Chemical) warfare, cleaning our weapons, throwing grenades, firing Anti-Tank weapons (AT4s), braving the gas chamber, hand-to-hand combat, night fire exercises, tactical strategy, squad movement, uniform inspection, and everywhere we went we RAN; and when we ran, we yelled cadence.
During the first week of training, I couldn’t even begin to finish my meal. We were fed enormous quantities of food three times a day at the mess hall. Not finishing your meal was punishable by extra pushups, so we resorted to stuffing uneaten rolls and potatoes into our “empty” milk cartons. However, after 3 weeks, I was asking fellow soldiers for their extra food. Even considering this huge caloric intake, I was losing weight at the rate of 2-3 pounds per week.
With only two weeks remaining, the climax of our training was an FTX (Field Training Exercise) that dragged on for 6 days. During this period, we would live in the “field” (aka, The Jungle) and conditions would simulate combat as closely as they safely could. We slept on the ground and used our Kevlar helmets for pillows. Sleep was rationed in small doses; we would be dismissed at 2:00 a.m. and be awakened by 3:00 – 3:30 a.m. Showers weren’t available and relief could only be had by changing into clean socks and underwear. To make matters worse, it was 90 degrees every day and close to 100% humidity. One example of “training” we experienced during this time was to march through the jungle in the heat wearing all the layers of our chemical suits until one of us puked in their gas mask.
All good things must come to an end and we were told one early morning that our FTX was over; we had passed and would be returning that day. Furthermore, we learned First Sergeant McCutchen, a tough old Vietnam Vet, would be leading us in a 10 mile forced road march back to the barracks. Even though this wasn’t good news, most of us were excited at the prospect of finally taking a shower.
First Sergeant McCutchen set a brutal pace that was only possible at a run. All of us were carrying full packs and weapons at ready. The poorly maintained gravel road was felt through the non-cushioned, thin soles of our combat boots. At the 3 mile mark, I could feel large blisters developing on both my heels. I compensated for this pain by attempting to land each footfall on the balls of my feet. At 5 miles, the pain was unbearable; my blisters had burst, lending to a sticky wet feeling in my boots.
I was desperate and began to plead silently in my mind, “God, please help me,” over and over. After earnestly repeating this phrase about 20 times, a wave came over my body. Starting at my head, it coursed through my body, bringing relief. My body was completely renewed; I no longer felt any pain, I wasn’t sweaty or hot, my breathing was normal and not labored! My attention turned immediately to those of my platoon suffering around me. I grabbed two of their arms and dragged them along, encouraging them to continue.
Five miles later, we arrived at the barracks. Most of us were in ragged shape and the First Sergeant knew he’d put us through a serious pace. Taking pity on us, he gave us the order, “At ease!” Next, he commanded us to lay down on the ground and put our feet on our packs in front of us, elevating our legs. I felt fine, but followed the order anyway. After about 5 minutes of elevating our legs, he ordered us to put on clean, dry socks. As I unlaced my boots and pulled them off, I was shocked to see that my socks were soaked with blood to the top of my boots. At that moment, my pain, my weariness, and all my suffering returned to me.
It was then that I recognized I had the Spirit of the Lord with me. He had protected me, strengthened me, and buoyed me up when I needed Him most. My prayer had been answered! Later, I considered my worthiness to have His Spirit with me. I had not attended church in years and had many unresolved sins. In no way was I worthy of this blessing.
However, I know that He knew my heart at that moment. Since then, He has blessed me to know that when we are physically weak, we can best receive guidance from Him. I have a strong testimony of this.
Furthermore, along with other experiences during this time, I learned to identify when I felt His Spirit with me. This was monumentally important to me because I could remember this familiar feeling in my childhood and in my early teenage years. Like a bamboo plant that takes 3 years to develop its root system before growing shoots, my own testimony had developed similarly and was ready to grow.
I couldn’t deny that I had felt His Spirit and slowly began to take steps to repent and return to church; I was converted! Most people that don’t know me well assume I went on an LDS mission. When they ask me where I went, I just reply, “Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri.”
