I am writing a book. I know. I’ve been saying that for years. And the progress on it has been extremely slow. I wish I could explain away my glacial pacing on my writing, but it really comes down to balancing life as a dad, husband, writer, and all of the many other hats that I wear.
Outlanders, the book I’m currently writing, is some fact, some fiction, and some creative license with reality, all blended into a pulpy sci-fi western set on Mars. It doesn’t just tell Griff’s story, but also relays some of my story from my two trips to Iraq, as well as my time as an infantryman in the US Army. Many of Griff’s flashbacks are either re-workings of my experiences, or representations of the experiences some of the soldiers I worked with had. (Clearly, I was not the sole survivor of a suicide bomber, but one of the men I served with was)
I am currently editing and revising so that I can better prepare to move the story forward, and decided to share an excerpt from the book. This story is true to the best of my memory. It was over 20 years ago, so I may not have every detail correct, but it is a great summation of my time in the Army.
One foot in front of the other…
He continued on, forcing his eyes to look up at the horizon instead of down at his feet.
There’s nothing down there for me anyway.
“All right, third platoon, Listen up,” Marvel had already started yelling and it was only 4:30 am.
“Today we are going to the claymore range, third platoon. Today we are going to learn how to use a classic piece of weaponry”.
Thirty men stood at attention on a concrete slab, the weight of their packs forcing them all to lean forward slightly to counterbalance the pulling of their rucks. This would be their longest march to date. Twelve miles with forty pound packs.
“Today we learn who the men are, third platoon.” Marvel was pacing back and forth in front of the formation while Fitzke stood nearby, his drill hat pushed down and forward and his arms crossed.
Griff stood in the front rank. He was weeks into his cycle, and the newness of basic had worn off. Now he was on automatic. He understood that if he kept his mouth shut and his ears open he could learn and would be left alone. So he decided to do just that.
All of the men were silent. The only noise, outside of Marvel’s bellowing voice, was the creaking of metal framed rucksacks under the weight of their contents. All of the soldiers stood in a trance staring forward blankly as Marvel continued to talk. It isn’t that they weren’t interested, everyone was just so exhausted. Griff zoned out for a moment, the words from Marvel’s mouth pouring into his ear only to have them cascade out of the other with no dam or filter to stop the flow.
“Third Platoon! Attention!” His voice carried through the formation area and echoed into the dark sky. The sun hadn’t even come up yet.
The men were still at attention from stepping into the formation, though many had relaxed a little. Most snapped with a jerk as they straightened themselves out.
The formation was given the order to right face, and then forward march. And thus began the longest walk to date. The men walked. No one knew for how long. It didn’t matter. One foot in front of the other. It didn’t matter how far, it didn’t matter how long.
A soldier began to fall out. As he stumbled behind the formation Fitzke was immediately on him. The man was a shark, hungry for blood.
“It hurts, Drill Sergeant,” he said.
“Of course it does, freak. If it didn’t, everyone would do it.”
He leaned in close to the soldier so that the brim of his round hat was touching him, “Now get back in my formation. I’d hate to have to leave you out here, miles from anything, especially since you’re too much of a bitch to go on.”
And then they walked. One foot in front of the other.
“Okay, third platoon. One foot in front of the other. You do it every day. Too easy.” Marvel’s voice would break the silence occasionally.
At some point the sun had come up, though no one really noticed. At least not until the temperature jumped up. At night time it was almost freezing temperatures, but once that sun started its glide across the sky those temperatures would climb. By mid morning the whole platoon was sweating, and they left trails of salty water behind them as they marched.
The road would fade in and out of focus. No one had mentioned that you can get highway hypnosis while walking, so it was a new experience for the soldiers. Men were sleeping standing up, even while they were walking. Snapping back into reality just long enough to make sure they weren’t falling behind. Soon they were turning off of the main road and walking onto a gravel trail. The Drills corralled them into a small holding area and put them into formation.
“At ease. Rest. Keep the ruck sacks on.” Fitzke turned to Marvel and they spoke briefly. Marvel then turned to address the platoon, his voice booming.
“Drink water, third platoon. You have 15 minutes to rest and drink water. Keep your rucks on, we are moving in 15. You have 15 minutes to finish 1 canteen of water!”
He turned his back and began talking with Fitzke again.
Immediately everyone started chatting and drinking. The water was ice cold, the frigid morning air had sucked any warmth from it, and there hadn’t been enough sunshine to keep the canteens at a reasonable temperature. The men all stood around in a gaggle, chattering like geese and trying to drink a quart of water comfortably.
It was in these moments that basic training didn’t seem so bad. A group of men all sharing the same experience, forming bonds and building that sense of camaraderie. These small moments made the suck worth it. That’s what they had called the shitty parts of life then. The suck. It was a phrase that Griff would carry into his drunken stupor later in life.
At this point the men had all gotten to know each other fairly well, so most of the chatter was just about plans after basic, improvements in life, and things of that nature.
“What the fuck?” Marvel’s voice pierced the air like an icy dagger. Every man in the formation immediately fell silent, their stomachs all heavy with the weight of anxiety.
“Third Platoon, how much water did I say to drink?” Marvel’s booming voice echoed in the cold morning air and the whole platoon stood in awkward silence as Marvel paced around behind them.
“Okay, Third. I said one canteen of water. And Private Tate decided it was too much, and he poured it on the ground. Now you can all remove your second canteen and start drinking. It better be empty in five minutes.”
Angry chattering began to sweep over the formation. The men struggled and groaned as they tried to push their way through another canteen. Griff kept quiet. No complaining, no cursing, just quietly plowing through his second quart of water in twenty minutes. The last five minutes were excruciating. Everyone’s stomachs were bloated and full with water, and it was almost painful to move. Soon, though, 30 men stood in formation with their outstretched arm holding a canteen upside down in front of them to show the Drills that they had finished their second water. The torture was over.
Marvel paced around the platoon some more, muttering obscenities to himself as he paced around the young men. Griff had often found himself wondering if there was something wrong with the man, or if it was all just part of the facade of basic training. Griff understood he was being indoctrinated, but he felt powerless to stop it, even if he wanted to.
“Half-Right, Face!” There was a pause between the preparatory command of Half-Right and face. Long enough for a collective groan of pain and frustration to escape the entirety of the platoon. Every man in the formation turned 45 degrees to his right, rucksacks still hanging heavily off of their backs. No one said a word after that. They just stood there in silence. The pause was intentionally placed there to increase the tension.
“Front-Leaning Rest Position, Move.”
The men slowly lowered themselves into the push up position, the water in their bellies sliding and sloshing just like the packs on their backs. Griff did his best to stay quiet. He wouldn’t scream, grunt, or complain. Only soldier on. He knew he wasn’t the best soldier, but he also knew he wasn’t the worst. But what he lacked in athleticism at the time, he decided to make up for it with heart and determination. So he got down, pack on his back, stomach stretched with liquid, and he pushed.
He looked to his right as he lowered himself to the cadence of Marvel’s voice. A row of men all struggling under the weight of their rucks, bellies crying for help. Basic Training had been a fairly miserable experience so far, but this had been the worst thing he had to endure. Echoes of groaning and the sounds of men swallowing back their full stomachs filled the air. They hadn’t been pushing for more than a minute, but time was glacial in the front-leaning rest. The drills were masters of space and time. They had the ability to pause existence whenever they were punishing the platoon with physical training.
Another moment went by, and Robbins, a wiry young man in the front of the formation, began heaving. Seconds later Robbins was emptying his stomach on the ground in front of his face. He dared not get up, nor say anything, so the young man continued to push, small ropes of spit and vomit hanging from his lips into the pool beneath him. Marvel continued to drone in the background. An angry bee buzzing around an already agitated platoon. No one heard at this point, and now that the first one popped, the rest would follow suit. As the sounds and smells of Robbins’ stomach contents carried through the formation, one by one more men began throwing up until there were thirty men all doing push-ups with their faces staring into puddles of their own vomit.
“Okay, Third Platoon, get up.” Marvel said.
The formation all rose to their feet, staggering under the weight of their rucks.
“Fill your canteens. You have five minutes. Go.”
Third Platoon rushed over to the large mobile water tank, or water buffalo, and began filling their canteens. Within moments the men were standing back in formation, careful to avoid the puddles of vomit they had left there previously.
“You have five minutes to drink another canteen of water. You puked your water up and wasted it, and now we have to rehydrate.”
Curses and groans escaped everyone’s lips.
“Remember, Private Tate, when I say drink water that means what?” Marvel was standing about ten feet in front of the formation, yelling at Tate, who stood in the back.
“Drink water,” Tate replied.
“Drink water, Drill Sergeant.” Marvel responded, looking visibly agitated.
“Drink water, Drill Sergeant.” Tate parroted.
“Now. Third Platoon. I want you to thank Private Tate”.
The platoon was confused by this, and they all just murmured thank you to Private Tate as they shuffled around trying to force more water down their throat.
“Bullshit. I want you to thank Private Tate!” Marvel was starting to yell.
So once again the platoon thanked Tate, this time a bit louder, more agitated, and impatiently.
“God Damn it, Third Platoon. I want you to say thank you Private Tate for Fucking us!” He was starting to get so agitated he was stammering. Words ebbed into noise, only to flow into words again as he yelled.
“Thank you, Private Tate, for fucking us” the platoon chorused.