Except for phone calls to
[fiance] this was a fucked
up day. Our morning free
time was stolen today.
Our afternoon was stolen
by reinforcement training while
3rd platoon went on pass and
2nd went on unofficial pass
en masse. Again we get
nothing.We're the best and 0.
then our final hour of free
time was fucked. Told to
prepare rucks, told to reinforce
5 minutes later, told to shower
5 minutes later. Then someone
narced on [Hollywood] for having
magazines. Called out for PT
at 9:00. Nearly dropped.
[Hollywood] finally turned in a magazine.
Free time killed for the
night. A day of rest is fucked.
Not tough-just fucked.
Boy is my morale good now.
Well. I was in a fine mood. Excuse the foul language. At least I wasn't taking the Lord's name in vain that day of rest. Well, God's day of rest. The Army had other ideas for us.
The day hurt not for what we did--truth be told a day like that four weeks earlier would have seemed like a Heaven-sent reprieve--but for the contrast between what was promised and what was delivered. Add in the fact that the other 2 platoons skated and you have a multi-colorful word journal entry.
Unit pride was evident. I possessed the double requirement of believing we were the best platoon in the company and that we always got shafted. Out of this shared pride and suffering is unit cohesion built.
Although in this case both were obviously true.
The multiple orders are a mystery to me from this distance. I don't know why orders kept changing. The apparent lack of purpose from the leadership for our ordeal added to the misery.
The Hollywood incident was a bit amusing, I suppose. Someone in the platoon ratted out Hollywood for having multiple entertainment magazines--contraband in one of its many forms. I don't remember if he had them in his locker or was smart and hid them in the public areas to avoid direct responsibility for having the contraband. As we stood out on the field behind the barracks alone, with instructions for the guilty party to turn in their magazines, Hollywood was worried because he only had one magazine at that point. I left ranks to discuss the situation with him and our platoon guide, and told them Hollywood needed to turn in his one magazine and explain that whoever turned him in was mistaken about there being more than one. He had to sell it that he was giving up all he had.
So he did. And the crisis for the platoon ended. I don't recall that we got burned for the incident. Although in retrospect perhaps that information had been bouncing around all day and had screwed up our platoon's free time plans.
Note, too, that I left out the part in my journal entry about breaking ranks to address the problem. We had to prior service specialists (E-4) in our platoon but I was third-ranked as a private first class (E-3). I wish I'd done this ten years ago! I'm sure more would be fresh. But eventually I'll haul out the file of letters that I sent to my fiance while there to mine them for more details. But that's a future project.
Of course, with the hardest parts of basic training behind us--rifle marksmanship and PT standards being upheld--we had more time to complain about our treatment. That was progress. In a totally screwed up world view sort of way.
