Friends,

Ah, Basic Training. 10 weeks of breaking a person down and remolding them to become killers.

What makes the green grass grow? Blood. Blood. Bright red blood.

I loved basic training. Sharp uniforms, new boots, all the equipment you could ask for.

I remember the pride I had when telling my flight mate that I was on my way to join the Army. I also remember the look on his face. Shock. Wonder. Concern.

I was a girl with a bag full of books and a smile.

I don’t think he thought I would make it. Looking back, I would have thought the same thing. But at that moment, was there anything greater than telling a complete stranger that you were determined to be a soldier? I don’t think so. I hadn’t even arrived, but I was part of something.

I was in the cool kid’s club.

When I arrived, I was instructed to find the USO to get a ride to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. Here, I would spend the next four months of my life.

Looking back, ten weeks isn’t a long time. It seems like a long time when you’ve never been away from home. But perceptions change over time, I guess. 10 weeks back in 1999 was forever.

You couldn’t come to basic with anything but a bag and a dream. And then the Army turns around and tells you that you have to buy all new ‘Army-approved’ stuff. Towels, soap, socks, underwear, bras, running shoes, etc… And it will come out of your first paycheck.

First lesson of basic training – nothing in the Army is free.

Day 1. I can’t tell you their names, but if I tried, I could tell you who my drill sergeants were. It’s better not to. If I did, I would have to look them up. I would want to see what they did with the rest of their lives.

There’s a possibility of finding out they were sent to war and didn’t return. I would rather remember the ten weeks I spent under their control. Mean, full of piss and vinegar, and leaders.

But what I will tell you is that it was my first-time coming face to face with a strong, black woman who had proven her worth and knew it. She was cunning, quick-tempered, tall with a long neck that vibrated when she yelled, and too smart to be in the Army. She wore the drill sergeant hat with pride, and it was her weapon.

She was my first role model.

And she scared the hell out of me.

We stood outside a long row of brick barracks in the middle of the night in a makeshift formation. Every one of us questioning our life choices. The drill sergeants flew up and down those rows with the speed of a roadrunner and the anger of a bull. I’d never been yelled at so much in my life. You couldn’t move when they stood three inches from you, screaming, spit hitting your cheeks.

This was the 90s- we were still ‘old-school.’

I remember how my nose hurt from the hat bill tapping into my glasses. Each punch was a reminder that I no longer had a say. Gone were my days of freedom and choice.

I belong to ‘them’ now.

I had to give up my glasses. That hurt. They gave me the old BCG’s – Birth Control Glasses, and I looked like a peppermint patty. A nickname that followed me for years. They bagged up our personal belongings and stored them behind a locked door. They also took my books. Rude.

This was long before the days of cell phones, so we were given 3 minutes to call our parents to tell them we had arrived. A long line of pay phones sat behind the barracks, but not enough for the over 200 soon-to-be soldiers. I can’t remember if I talked to my mother or left a message. I will have to ask her.

There wasn’t much to say, though. I made it. And I wasn’t coming home anytime soon. Little did I know that was the first day of 21 years of phone calls.

Until tomorrow, my friends- Keep Reading and Stay Caffeinated.

If tales of legend, myth, and fantasy topped with a cup of coffee interest you, I suggest checking out my book, The Writer and the Librarian. It’s a historical fantasy about a middle-aged woman faced with a decision: accept what is written in the history books or find out for herself the truth behind the stories. Limited edition copies are now available on my website (Shop – R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author (rlgeerrobbins.com) or at

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