Basic Graduation

I didn’t have to wear the dress uniform for my graduation from Basic Training, which I am quite thankful for. My company, Alpha 2/58, were inducted into the Infantry on a hot day in April, 2004, and most of the company was forced to stand at attention on the parade ground while the ceremony took place, sweating under the unforgiving sun while dressed in dark green.

I sweated, too. But I and the rest of the Infantry Squad were dressed in camouflage BDU’s, wearing pseudo-ghillie suits and camo face paint, and carrying weapons. We had a full squad, with two SAW gunners, two Grenadiers, two Riflemen carrying anti-tank weapons, and a squad leader. We spent all day running around in full battle gear, and it was glorious.

None of us got to see the start of the demonstration we were putting on, because the nine of us were stuffed into the back of a Bradley Fighting Vehicle, waiting and perspiring. We knew there was going to be loud music, and that some smoke grenades were going to be fired off, after which the Bradley would be raced across the open graduation lot. When it skidded to a stop, the rear deck would drop and we would exit the vehicle as quickly as possible. I’m sure a skilled Mechanized Squad soldier would have found our performance laughable, but it wowed the crowd when we hit the ground running. I had been stuffed into the most forward corner of the squad area, farthest from the door, and was the last man out. I managed to make it through the various bits of metal that all seemed to be at shin-damaging height, and kept myself from doing a face-plant on the lowered deck, although just barely. Down the deck, sprint a short distance to the grassy area and to the end of the line of my squad mates, hit the ground with weapon pointed towards the grandstand filled with our assorted families and well-wishers, and fired off my twenty rounds as fast as I could. Not to worry, they were all blanks.

The up, onto our feet, weapons at the ready, scanning back and forth while walking forward at the ready, as if we were on patrol. There was a voice on the loudspeaker, but the only words any of us heard were, “Infantry Squad!”, which was our cue to stop patrolling and run full tilt to the muster line, all the while sounding a might roar.

Hit the muster line and fall back into patrol stance, scanning back and forth through our weapon’s sights, until we received the order to come to attention at port arms.

Each member of the Squad was introduced, by their position, and each stepped forward and held out the weapon they carried as the loudspeaker reeled of the litany of duties and armaments each one was tasked with. I hear “Rifleman”, and step forward, holding out my M-16 rifle when it is announced, then doing an about-face to give the crowd a view of the anti-tank weapon I have strapped to my back. Then, again on cue, I step forward, back onto the muster line, and execute another about-face so that I’m in line with the rest of the Squad.

Another command comes, and the Squad performs a bayonet strike, and draws back up into the patrol stance again. The Bradley roars in and drops the back deck again, and we back towards the vehicle in the combat stance. Except for the Squad Leader, Sgt. Pickett, I’m the last man in. The Bradley normally carries six fully armed soldiers, and were stuffing nine in, so when my turn comes, I barrel up the ramp at full speed, hitting the press of bodies hard to make room for the Sergeant and myself in the small area. The Sergeant is right on my heels, and the groans caused by my impact double as the deck closes, forcing the already cramped Squad to squeeze even closer together. I hear various imprecations heaped upon my person, and laugh even harder.

My family was there that day, all of them, along with some very beloved friends. But it was being in the Infantry Squad that took my graduation from being special to being spectacular.