Basic training: thusfar

Mom and my brother Nic greet me at the airport

UPDATE: My address on base is:

Spc. Michael Farr
1st Platoon Delta Company
3-60th Inf. Reg.
Bldg. 5482 Jackson Blvd.
Ft. Jackson, S.C. 29207-5022

–

I imagined this post would come easier. Yet, here I am, a week into my Christmas break, forcing myself to write on what has probably been the strangest month of my life. It’s not that I don’t have a lot to say — I have plenty. In fact, I’ve been a ceaseless source of entertaining stories for my family since I’ve been here.

Still, writing about it has been an intimidating endeavor. Perhaps I’m scared of sounding cliché. I do have a tendency of lining my circumstances in silver, and I don’t want my grandiose stoicism to give a false gleam to what really has been a miserable affair.

But I’ll give it a go.

Basic training, more than anything so far, has taught me to appreciate a good meal. Of course I’ve learned to march, when and when not to salute, and how to break down a rifle, but a month of five- to seven-minute meals accompanied by yelling drill sergeants has made the greater impression.

My fellow recruits and I often spoke dreamily about how we’d savor our first meal once we got home for Christmas; how we’d take all the time we damn well felt like to clean our plate. And I did. Just ask my mother, who witnessed my long liaison with the tender flank steak she prepared last week.

As I expected, boot camp has been more of a mental challenge than a physical one. Don’t get me wrong, my body has taken a beating. We have been pushed hard, and I have felt pain. But frankly, the very wide range of physical abilities among my fellow recruits has kept our training to a manageable level for me.

But how I’ve screamed for my freedom this past month. I’ve seen more clearly than ever how I love my independence and individuality; how I’d really just prefer to do things on my own. But the Army doesn’t train its people to be individuals; it trains them to be a team.

And to learn as a team, you have to suffer as a team.

No better was that theory demonstrated to me than when, two weeks ago, the lot of us spent 30 minutes running up and down a hill while our negligent battle buddy tried in vain to reassemble the rifle she had left behind unattended. We were to keep running until she figured it out. We had learned this skill weeks ago, but for some reason she hadn’t. So we all sweated and cursed every time we returned to the top to find her rifle in the same state as it was when we left.

200 of us punished for the failings of one. That’s how the Army teaches accountability.

Aside from the agony of suffering for others’ incompetence, I’ve also struggled internally with feelings of self-doubt and worthlessness. At least once a day I ask myself, “What am I doing here?” and feel deep longings for the easy, comfortable life I had back in Los Angeles, with my enviable job and nice, solid friends.

“Why didn’t I just stay where I belong,” I’ll ask myself, remembering all the rewards and accolades I’ve received for my journalism work. “Why can’t I just settle down?”

I’ll wonder whether all the time, money and effort I’ve poured into my former career was all for naught. Because, really, at boot camp, no one cares who you were and what you’ve done. At boot camp, you’re just a mangy, untrained recruit like all the others.

And the feelings of worthlessness come: “I really don’t know what I’m doing. I suck at setting up tents. I’ve never been in a fight. Look at how fast these other guys are at assembling their rifles.”

I feel obligated to lead, but I don’t feel like I’m able while so much of this soldiering business is foreign to me. I feel shame as I shirk from volunteering for fear of screwing up.

Despite this, however (and this is where that stoicism I mentioned comes into play), I still have a strong resolve to finish what I’ve started. Beneath the flood of emotion lies the conviction that got me in the Army in the first place. And this Christmas break, while probably an unhealthy interruption to my training, has actually served to remind me of this. Here at home, away from the noise, I’m able to hear that voice of conviction clearly once again.

~~

So I return to training in a week. More out of shape than when I left, thanks to the Christmas sweets and lack of drill sergeants at home, but with a renewed drive and at least somewhat better health (I’ve been sick since starting basic).

Four weeks down, six more to go. Not a long time in the scheme of the things. But each day is a hill, and I’ll need all the prayers you can send up on my behalf.

Thanks for everything you all have done thusfar. I’ll post my address soon so you can send me letters if you wish. Outside contact is very helpful for my morale.

Happy New Year!

-mf