Oh good Lord, the waiting. Tom Petty has no idea how right he was. Every movement in the military is a lesson in extremes. Move as fast as you can to get to a location. Wait an interminable amount of time for something to happen then move post haste to your next point. Then do this for 10 or so days straight. All day. All the while knowing full well you have yet to even start anything.

This is Reception. Or more accurately, Reception Battalion. Here you are introduced to some elements of the military experience. Here you march, albeit out of step and still in civilian clothes. Here you learn to say “Drill Sergeant, yes, Drill Sergeant” but with none of the fear, respect or second nature reflex. In Reception, you get shots, in both arms, from medics with hydraulic nail guns who, on some level it seems, take pleasure in inflicting a small amount of pain in these new ‘cruits. You are Privates or Privates First Class. You are the bottom rung. You are a grabastic piece of amphibian shit. The only thing on your level (at least in the eyes of an NCO) is a Lieutenant, but you’re pulling away.

Some newbies, like me, are pulled out of ranks first thing some morning and escorted to a testing facility where, for the next six hours, we are subjected to made up languages and the dots and dashes of Morse Code ad nauseum. Apparently, we have an aptitude for languages the military wanted to exploit nurture. This only served to extend my stay in the Eighth Circle of Hell known as Reception for another four days, which also intensifies the false sense of security that begins to set in. “Shit, this isn’t so bad.”

Reception is where ‘cruits are herded into a barbershop and shorn like sheep. Each haircut takes approximately 45 seconds – maybe less – as the “barber” of Seville carves out row after row using a 0 blade. Down to the skin. Look! Penises on Parade. In Reception, you learn to spit out the last four numbers of your SSN as easily as saying your name. In Reception, you are issued uniforms, with your name on them, and it’s all made real. But you are, in no way, shape or form prepared for what’s to come. You have been successfully lulled.

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The morning of that day of days, the day you finally leave Reception, is really no different than any other. You’re still hurrying up and waiting. You strip the bed you’ve been using; do the duffle bag drag downstairs; and then wait to join whatever group you’ve been assigned to. You move to that group and wait some more. Waiting for what you have no idea. Until, that is, the cattle tucks arrive. Olive drab trucks pulling silver trailers. Each one identical. And each one equally menacing yet somehow benign. Drill Sergeants emerge from the trailers. They are pressed and spit-shined and command a level of respect nary uttering a word. “Grab your bags and get on the truck,” says the large African-American DS with an equally large and booming voice. You think that basso profundo voice might be soothing in a Barry White sorta way. You soon will be disabused of that notion. The other DS, a mustachioed fire hydrant, only glares at the recruits getting on his truck.

Neither DS says a word for most of the ride. There is a stop halfway through where each new soldier has his picture taken in non-descript Class A (dress greens) jackets and caps nicknamed after a derogatory slang term for female nether regions. Yeah, you figure it out; you’re smart like that. “Get off the truck…get on the truck.” All the while, the fire hydrant never says a word. And that makes you nervous. The lull has started to wear off.

You look at other privates standing in the truck, each one a camouflaged straphanger. No one makes eye contact. Eyes are fixed on the floor or at imaginary spots on the truck walls. But each new soldier on this truck is very well aware that things are going to change soon and in a very profound way.

The truck slows down. Railroad tracks. Did it just get dark outside? Was that thunder? This is so not good.

“WELCOME TO THE MOTHERFUCKIN’ TWILIGHT ZONE YOU PUNK MOTHERFUCKERS,” bellows the fire hydrant – why couldn’t it have been basso profundo? “YOU WILL NOT KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS. YOU WILL NOT KNOW WHAT DAY IT IS. YOUR MOTHER IS NOT HERE TO HELP YOU. YOU BELONG TO ME AND THE UNITED STATES ARMY. PICK UP YOUR FUCKIN’ BAGS AND GET READY TO GET OFF MY FUCKIN’ TRUCK.”

You quickly learn that this guy owns everything. The truck. The drill pad. The stairs. Even the air you breathe. You reach down and grab duffle bags, unsure if you’ve even grabbed your own. The truck stops and the rear doors fly open. You’re aware of a lot of yelling. So. Much. Yelling.

“WHAT’S YOUR NAME, PRIVATE? GODDAMMIT, I SAID WHAT’S YOUR NAME? GOD YOU ARE ONE STUPID MOTHERFUCKER. GET DOWN AND BEAT YOUR FACE.**”

You hustle your way off the truck, hoping to God and anyone else who will listen that you can get through this with minimal damage. Alas, it’s all in vain. When all is said and done, you have run the gauntlet of six Drill Sergeants and had the misfortune of running up square against basso profundo (who’s not so soothing anymore as his 6’5” frame looms over you) and the fire hydrant – the Senior Drill Sergeant. (This would be funny, an interesting study in contrasts, but you lost your funny two drill sergeants ago.) You have said your name too many times to count. You have done push-ups for not saying “Drill Sergeant, yes, Drill Sergeant” on more than one occasion. You have done them because you have an accent. You have done them because you are from Boston. You have done them because they met someone else from Boston and didn’t particularly like that person fuck you very much. You think your name is Motherfucker or maybe it’s Sumbitch or the quite exquisite, Punkassmotherfucker. Kinder, gentler Army my ass. You are long past not being able to feel your arms. This is what running on pure adrenaline is like. And man is it hot – Oklahoma in June – can’t wait to see what July and August bring. Is that a migraine rearing its ugly head? Fan-fuckin-tastic.

“Grab your bags and stand over there. Drink some water too,” says the Senior Drill Sergeant, not yelling, just talking. “You Northern boys…yeah you…you need to drink water. Lots of fuckin’ water. I don’t want any fuckin’ heat casualties. Hurry up!” Hurry comes out Her-ry. And you’ll hear it a lot. In your sleep even.

The shock-and-awe portion of our program is over for now. What time is it? Oh my God, he was right. I have no concept of time anymore. It’s time for the punks to get settled into the bays. Each bay consists of four rows of ten bunks each, separated by wall lockers, two bays per floor. This particular bay is third platoon, A Battery, 2/30 FA. Third Herd as it would be affectionately known to the 40 men who resided here. And home sweet home for the next eight weeks. Forty men go in, 38 come out.

**Beat your face means get down on the ground and start doing push-ups. The only thing worse to hear is “half-right face…front-leaning-rest position…move…in cadence…exercise” which is the actual command for the push-up while in platoon formation.