FOR THE BEST
There was no smile from my mother as she poured another glass of lemonade. She had a lot on her mind the baby was coming any day now. I could tell. But still no one came to visit, and she hadn’t even start to knit wool socks for the new addition to the family.
I remembered what it was like when my little sister was born and my feet barely touched the floor at the breakfast table. Grandma’s number was beside the phone for me to call when there was a rush to the hospital. I would walk into the kitchen on a Sunday morning and see my mother and father embracing one another. I walked up to them and stretched my arms out as far as they could go to hold them both as I stood on my tipy-toes.
Now she stayed inside all day as if she was hiding. My father barely looked at her when he came home from work. He gave me a nod and cracked a smile to me, and he would spend the time before suppertime in the woodshed. He would sit on his handmade stool leaning in one direction in the corner while his hands covered his eyes like he was refusing to cry.
During supper I would make these monstrous towers of mash potatoes hoping one of them would raise their voice at me and send me to my room without any desert. My sister would look at me in admiration. I would then begin to tickle her and she would exaggerate her giggles demanding the same attention I was.
“Boy! Take your sister to the front yard and stay away from the river - don’t come in until the sun comes down.” My father scowled then tried to cover it up with a,”please.”
I picked up my sister from the highchair, and started walking outside. My mother stared at us in a trance slightly rocking back and forth with her hands on her belly.
“What’s wrong with momma?” My sister asked.
“Nothing she’s fine,” I said.
We played until the sun went down and the lightening bugs came out. There were more of them tonight then last. I walked up the front porch steps and looked back when I didn’t hear another set of footsteps close behind. My sister was trying to catch one. It was her favorite thing to do at night.
“Got one,” she yelled in excitement.
“Come on. We are supposed to go inside.”
Still holding the lightening bug she started running towards the front door her legs got the best of her as she fell to the ground. She slowly got back up with a concerned look on her face as she opened up her hand. The light that once flew freely in the darkness was now just sticky florescent glue. She looked at me preparing herself for a scolding.
“It’s okay,” I said as I smeared what was left of the flying illumination from her hand.
“Don’t let momma see that you have grass stain on your school dress.” I told her.
We went through the front door my little sister went straight to her room-avoiding momma.
There was a single lamp, behind the sofa where my parents were sitting; showing a silhouette of my parents crouched together on the wall. My father was caressing my mother’s hand staring down at her stomach containing another one of us. My mother was staring at the miniature rocking chair my sister could still sit comfortably in. The phone was off the hook and the busy signal was being ignored.
“It’s for the best,” my father whispered over and over…
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s time for bed,” my father said, “brush your teeth I’ll tuck you in.”
I did what I was told not understanding what was going on with my parents. I stayed in bed staring up at the ceiling waiting for my father. My sister was in the bed next to me, and she was already asleep. My father entered the bedroom and surveyed the two beds holding his creations. He went to the window with the view of the river near our house.
“Papa…Papa are we going fishing this year?” I asked.
He cracked the window so a cool breeze could come in then he sat beside me.
“Yeah. Who loves you boy?" Papa asked rubbing his eyes.
“You, momma, and Jesus.”
He padded me on the chest, went to my sister’s bed and just looked at her as he covered her small body with the sheet. Then he left.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but I remember waking up to the shrieks of my mother. Suddenly, there was silence and a set of footsteps creeping down the stairs. I put on my shoes and my robe and tip toed out of my room seeing my father carrying my mother out the front door. I walked softly down the steps to the front door and waited. Staring out the window near the door I saw my mother was holding a rod in her mouth preventing her to scream, and to bite down on. My father carried her to his old rusty tractor. They boarded, my mother on my father’s lap as my father drove away in the direction of the river. I followed occasionally hiding behind a tree out of sight of my father’s eyes.
He stopped at the edge of the river. I stood behind a dying tree watching. My father picked up my mother again, stepped out of the tractor, and entered the river using a tree that was down from the last storm as a guide. My mother’s face was red, her eyes revealed a devastating pain, and her tears rolled off her cheek into the river. My father was talking to my mother rubbing her head, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. My mother spread her legs and pushed. I stood there behind the dying tree hearing my mother grunt and moan as she pushed for the longest time. My father held her against the tree that was disconnected from the ground. The newborn package, finally, came unwillingly.
I started to come out of my hiding place to see my new baby brother or sister. My walk became petrified, when my father took the creation with both hands and shoved it under the water. I remained frozen. They still didn’t see me.
My mother took both fist and started hitting my father shrieking, “ No… Don’t! Don’t!”
The determined look on my father’s face ignored my mother’s pleas his elbows were still locked. Then he let his hands up and started crying as one of us drifted away with the current.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
COMBAT
There have been several battles I have fought as a child. A battle for a child is what helps form their personality rather it is a victory or a loss. Some battles can be a small as sitting still during church, but other can be so big that the person will think of them for the rest of their lives. Need more in this introductory paragraph
I was in kindergarten living in a subdivision outside of Charleston West Virginia. In my neighborhood there were woods to play hide and go seek. Occasionally we played war. One day we weren’t in the woods we found a tree house in one of our friend’s back yard.
In those days I played with my brother, and I’ll neighbor across the street. I don’t remember what exactly we were doing in the tree house. I guess we were just messing around like kids do. Suddenly the neighborhood bully heard us. I don’t remember his name but I remember he had blond hair. On this particular day he had his bee bee gun which was a in the shape of a rifle. My brother and I weren’t allowed to have a bee bee gun.
He started loading it up. Then he started shooting at us in the tree house. The bee bees would either ricochet inside or hit the roof and bounced off. The three of us were ducks on a pond. I started crying hysterically. I think we all did. He kept shooting at us.
I looked up at my older brother with tears in my eyes.
“Are we going to die?” I asked innocently.
My brother wiped the tears out of his eyes, and whispered.
“When he loads again that is when we will run for it.”
We waited as he ran out of bee bees. Then he stopped shooting.
We stepped down the ladder and jumped out of the tree house running for our lives.
We didn’t surrender. We did, however, retreat.
Next in the fifth grade I was at Cherry Hill. It was called Cherry Hill even though nobody ever saw cherries on it. Sometimes underagers went their to drink and smoke cigarettes. Sometimes that was where kids would fight their nemisis of the school day which usually drew a crowd. The hill was usually used for sledding in the winter, but that day in Roanoke Virginia it was spring.
I was with a friend of mine, however my thoughts were distracted. A couple days before my speech therapist said I would never talk like the other kids. I was sure how I could tell anybody because I didn’t think they would understand.
My friend and I just had gone to 7-11 and our mouths were full of candy. The 7-11 was in my neighborhood which was considered to be a rich neighborhood. However when you first entered the houses weren’t as big as the once further up the street.
A kid came out with his brand new bike. It was a Schwinn, and it looked expensive. My parents bought me a Huffy, and it didn’t matter who I was with they usually brought it to my attention that my bike wasn’t as good as their bike.
That was how the rich kid made his presence known. I said a few words the wrong way (because of my speech impediment) and He started to mock me, and make fun of me.
It proved I would never talk like the other kids. I didn’t know what happened but I think the mocking on that day and all the other days mounted up. The words I couldn’t say festered inside me. Imagine wanting to say something but you can’t because you know either someone would not understand or they will mock you. Because of my speech impediament I was a quiet kid by choice even though I had usually had a lot to say. Eventually I took the rich kid’s bike and sent it riding down the hill without a passenger.
I was in awe at the bike when it went further than you would expect a bike to go without someone on it. Finally it hit a bump and went sailing in the air, and then came crashing down.
The rich kid went running down the hill. He dropped to his knees crying over the bike.
I actually started giggling. My friend asked me or whoever was listening.
“What is he doing? It is just a bike.”
There have been several battles I have fought as a child. A battle for a child is what helps form their personality rather it is a victory or a loss. Some battles can be a small as sitting still during church, but other can be so big that the person will think of them for the rest of their lives. Need more in this introductory paragraph
I was in kindergarten living in a subdivision outside of Charleston West Virginia. In my neighborhood there were woods to play hide and go seek. Occasionally we played war. One day we weren’t in the woods we found a tree house in one of our friend’s back yard.
In those days I played with my brother, and I’ll neighbor across the street. I don’t remember what exactly we were doing in the tree house. I guess we were just messing around like kids do. Suddenly the neighborhood bully heard us. I don’t remember his name but I remember he had blond hair. On this particular day he had his bee bee gun which was a in the shape of a rifle. My brother and I weren’t allowed to have a bee bee gun.
He started loading it up. Then he started shooting at us in the tree house. The bee bees would either ricochet inside or hit the roof and bounced off. The three of us were ducks on a pond. I started crying hysterically. I think we all did. He kept shooting at us.
I looked up at my older brother with tears in my eyes.
“Are we going to die?” I asked innocently.
My brother wiped the tears out of his eyes, and whispered.
“When he loads again that is when we will run for it.”
We waited as he ran out of bee bees. Then he stopped shooting.
We stepped down the ladder and jumped out of the tree house running for our lives.
We didn’t surrender. We did, however, retreat.
Next in the fifth grade I was at Cherry Hill. It was called Cherry Hill even though nobody ever saw cherries on it. Sometimes underagers went their to drink and smoke cigarettes. Sometimes that was where kids would fight their nemisis of the school day which usually drew a crowd. The hill was usually used for sledding in the winter, but that day in Roanoke Virginia it was spring.
I was with a friend of mine, however my thoughts were distracted. A couple days before my speech therapist said I would never talk like the other kids. I was sure how I could tell anybody because I didn’t think they would understand.
My friend and I just had gone to 7-11 and our mouths were full of candy. The 7-11 was in my neighborhood which was considered to be a rich neighborhood. However when you first entered the houses weren’t as big as the once further up the street.
A kid came out with his brand new bike. It was a Schwinn, and it looked expensive. My parents bought me a Huffy, and it didn’t matter who I was with they usually brought it to my attention that my bike wasn’t as good as their bike.
That was how the rich kid made his presence known. I said a few words the wrong way (because of my speech impediment) and He started to mock me, and make fun of me.
It proved I would never talk like the other kids. I didn’t know what happened but I think the mocking on that day and all the other days mounted up. The words I couldn’t say festered inside me. Imagine wanting to say something but you can’t because you know either someone would not understand or they will mock you. Because of my speech impediament I was a quiet kid by choice even though I had usually had a lot to say. Eventually I took the rich kid’s bike and sent it riding down the hill without a passenger.
I was in awe at the bike when it went further than you would expect a bike to go without someone on it. Finally it hit a bump and went sailing in the air, and then came crashing down.
The rich kid went running down the hill. He dropped to his knees crying over the bike.
I actually started giggling. My friend asked me or whoever was listening.
“What is he doing? It is just a bike.”
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
FOOTBALL AT THE FIRESTATION
It was a routine for us living in South Roanoke Virginia. Friday football at the fire station. Some of us had to go home first to change into our play clothes but others came as is. We were between the ages of watching Saturday morning cartoons and having girlfriends. However when Billy played there was usually a pack of girls watching him. He would either show off or leave the game to go with them to 7-11.
The fire station had a long triangle shaped field on the side of it. The field separated two streets. One went one way and the other went another. The grassy villa didn’t have very many bare spots except for a dusty one closer to the station. We probably created it.
First things first choosing captains. There were two, and if Landon was playing you could bet that the first captain was going to pick him, and that team would win.
Landon was quick and he was an equipped football player, but his passion was the gentlemen’s game known as soccer. He often treated the football we were using as a soccer ball. He would juggle it on his knees and feet like soccer players do with a round soccer ball.
In school there was the popular crowd but at the fire station the only boundaries were the curbs. If you went into the street you would be considered out of bounds. Despite my mom asking me to make the game two hand touch; it was tackle- a rite of passage for us white boys living in the good part of town.
James was new to the game of football. For this reason we ordered him not to play quarterback, and when it came to catching passes, his hands were made of stone. His defense was in your face like a rodeo clown to a bull. His schoolboy exterior would quickly turn in to a ravage mad man. Some of us just thought it was funny to watch him play.
On a good day it was 5 against 5. On others the older kids would come and play ignoring us and just throwing the ball to their friends. Occasionally the fire fighters would come out and play quarterback for bother teams, but that only happened once in a blue moon.
Sometimes our true colors would come out. When big Dan was playing it took three to four of us to bring him down to the ground. Some would just watch not wanting to get hurt and others would join in.
Sometimes what ever was bothering the individual would come out. He would play harder or would start to cry. Trace started to cry one day. His face was red, and tears were pouring out of his eyes. I didn’t know if he was hurt from the last play or what so I asked.
He dried the tears for a second to answer.
“I am just thinking about my parents.”
His parents were divorced. He lived with his dad, and is mom lived in another state.
In South Roanoke a lot of the boys playing had divorce parents. It was like there was something in the water. My parents were still together so I didn’t know what to say to him. I just knew that there was a football game being played.
“Come on Trace; get your head in the game. Let’s keep going.”
Was that right? I didn’t know what to say. He later tackled Landon after a one yard gain. Everything seemed to be fine maybe even better.
We played football until we got too tired to stand up or when it was just before dinner. Some of the boys stayed back to throw around the football unless the football was going home with who ever brought it that day. I look down at my cuts and bruises that I got that day, and saw them as a badge of honor.
Now we are all adults successful in our own way. Some of us have moved out of the neighborhood. Sometimes we remince the days we would just throw our book bags down somewhere on a Friday and run to the fire station.
It was a routine for us living in South Roanoke Virginia. Friday football at the fire station. Some of us had to go home first to change into our play clothes but others came as is. We were between the ages of watching Saturday morning cartoons and having girlfriends. However when Billy played there was usually a pack of girls watching him. He would either show off or leave the game to go with them to 7-11.
The fire station had a long triangle shaped field on the side of it. The field separated two streets. One went one way and the other went another. The grassy villa didn’t have very many bare spots except for a dusty one closer to the station. We probably created it.
First things first choosing captains. There were two, and if Landon was playing you could bet that the first captain was going to pick him, and that team would win.
Landon was quick and he was an equipped football player, but his passion was the gentlemen’s game known as soccer. He often treated the football we were using as a soccer ball. He would juggle it on his knees and feet like soccer players do with a round soccer ball.
In school there was the popular crowd but at the fire station the only boundaries were the curbs. If you went into the street you would be considered out of bounds. Despite my mom asking me to make the game two hand touch; it was tackle- a rite of passage for us white boys living in the good part of town.
James was new to the game of football. For this reason we ordered him not to play quarterback, and when it came to catching passes, his hands were made of stone. His defense was in your face like a rodeo clown to a bull. His schoolboy exterior would quickly turn in to a ravage mad man. Some of us just thought it was funny to watch him play.
On a good day it was 5 against 5. On others the older kids would come and play ignoring us and just throwing the ball to their friends. Occasionally the fire fighters would come out and play quarterback for bother teams, but that only happened once in a blue moon.
Sometimes our true colors would come out. When big Dan was playing it took three to four of us to bring him down to the ground. Some would just watch not wanting to get hurt and others would join in.
Sometimes what ever was bothering the individual would come out. He would play harder or would start to cry. Trace started to cry one day. His face was red, and tears were pouring out of his eyes. I didn’t know if he was hurt from the last play or what so I asked.
He dried the tears for a second to answer.
“I am just thinking about my parents.”
His parents were divorced. He lived with his dad, and is mom lived in another state.
In South Roanoke a lot of the boys playing had divorce parents. It was like there was something in the water. My parents were still together so I didn’t know what to say to him. I just knew that there was a football game being played.
“Come on Trace; get your head in the game. Let’s keep going.”
Was that right? I didn’t know what to say. He later tackled Landon after a one yard gain. Everything seemed to be fine maybe even better.
We played football until we got too tired to stand up or when it was just before dinner. Some of the boys stayed back to throw around the football unless the football was going home with who ever brought it that day. I look down at my cuts and bruises that I got that day, and saw them as a badge of honor.
Now we are all adults successful in our own way. Some of us have moved out of the neighborhood. Sometimes we remince the days we would just throw our book bags down somewhere on a Friday and run to the fire station.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
FAR FROM FALUJAH
Smoke break in the psyche ward
Smoke disappears
Behind bars
Puddles collecting
Pajamas
Defining institutions
Closing a mind
Relaxing
With a load off
Three meals a day
Sleeping
Until they call your name
Slippers sliding
Like tires on black ice
Suicide attempts are normal
Like alcoholism
And skin to bone
Scars inside
Try to smile
Add another blanket
Celebrating discharges
The last of
This military life
Seen as failure
They get theirs
I get meds
At ease mind
With my own stripe
Far from Falujah
And faulty flack vest
A terrorized body
Covering faces
That haunt
The American family
Smoke break in the psyche ward
Smoke disappears
Behind bars
Puddles collecting
Pajamas
Defining institutions
Closing a mind
Relaxing
With a load off
Three meals a day
Sleeping
Until they call your name
Slippers sliding
Like tires on black ice
Suicide attempts are normal
Like alcoholism
And skin to bone
Scars inside
Try to smile
Add another blanket
Celebrating discharges
The last of
This military life
Seen as failure
They get theirs
I get meds
At ease mind
With my own stripe
Far from Falujah
And faulty flack vest
A terrorized body
Covering faces
That haunt
The American family
Monday, April 12, 2010
To Reid and Tatum
NEPHEW
PURITY WOBBLES ON TWO LEGS
SPEAKS GIBBERISH THAT ONLY
HE UNDERSTANDS
AND HARDLY EVER CRIES
I SLEPT WITH HIM
IN THE SAME ROOM
AT MY PARENTS HOUSE
REGULATING EVERY MOVEMENT
AND CHANGE IN BREATHING
INSIDE THE CRIB NEXT
TO MY BED
I FELT REJUVENTATED
WHEN FORCED AWAKE
BY THE SOUND
OF A LANGUAGE
I DIDN’T UNDERSTAND
AND HIS WORLD
I DIDN’T KNOW
I CREPT UP BEHIND HIM
TO TICKLE HIS SIDES
HE TURNED AROUND
AND HANDED ME A TOY CAR
HE GOTTEN FOR CHRISTMAS
I HAD THINGS TO DO, ERRANDS TO RUN,
BUT HE WOULDN’T LET ME LEAVE
SO I STAYED
By Jason Jepson
Nephew 2
That’s all right, little man
Everyone falls;
And that bruise on your head will heal.
Go play with your toys.
Pretty soon you will be too old
For little cars and trucks.
You will look at them as sand
During the off season at the beach.
For now, go play;
Until you notice the curves
Of the girls in school.
Awkwardness will approach.
And you thought taking your first step
Would be the hardest thing
You would ever do.
I assure you
There are bigger steps to come.
By Jason Jepson
PURITY WOBBLES ON TWO LEGS
SPEAKS GIBBERISH THAT ONLY
HE UNDERSTANDS
AND HARDLY EVER CRIES
I SLEPT WITH HIM
IN THE SAME ROOM
AT MY PARENTS HOUSE
REGULATING EVERY MOVEMENT
AND CHANGE IN BREATHING
INSIDE THE CRIB NEXT
TO MY BED
I FELT REJUVENTATED
WHEN FORCED AWAKE
BY THE SOUND
OF A LANGUAGE
I DIDN’T UNDERSTAND
AND HIS WORLD
I DIDN’T KNOW
I CREPT UP BEHIND HIM
TO TICKLE HIS SIDES
HE TURNED AROUND
AND HANDED ME A TOY CAR
HE GOTTEN FOR CHRISTMAS
I HAD THINGS TO DO, ERRANDS TO RUN,
BUT HE WOULDN’T LET ME LEAVE
SO I STAYED
By Jason Jepson
Nephew 2
That’s all right, little man
Everyone falls;
And that bruise on your head will heal.
Go play with your toys.
Pretty soon you will be too old
For little cars and trucks.
You will look at them as sand
During the off season at the beach.
For now, go play;
Until you notice the curves
Of the girls in school.
Awkwardness will approach.
And you thought taking your first step
Would be the hardest thing
You would ever do.
I assure you
There are bigger steps to come.
By Jason Jepson
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Book Review
When We Were Young
by Jason Jepson
This review was written by Mike Wever, the editor of Wanderings.
When We Were Young is described by the author as a fictionalized account of his youth, and indeed it reads much more like a memoir of a common man than a novel. Although the main character Jonah learns lessons and grows from his experiences, there is not much sense that Jonah’s biggest problems are resolved and the man’s situation at the end seems little changed from that of the teen at the beginning.
More than anything, this book is an in-depth examination of Jonah. Nothing especially remarkable happens to him between the end of his time in high school and the beginning of his truly adult years, but the steady beat of mundane events work on him like water against a stone. Jonah’s roughest edges are smoothed while the central core of his personality remains intact. It’s hard not to admire Jonah for the convictions he sticks to and easy to forgive the faults he can’t escape.
The writing at times seems a bit self-indulgent, and the things that are important to Jonah come across more from sheer repetition of ideas than masterful description of his emotions or thoughts. Just like with Jonah, however, a number of admirable traits exist among the faults. At a number of critical points in the story Jepson turns a phrase that makes several pages worth of writing click, creating a firm, memorable impression. There are also a number of descriptive passages that rise far above the rest, suggesting that Jepson will be an author who will be even more enjoyable to read with each successive book.
When We Were Young is published by Dog Ear Publishing and is available now through Amazon.
© Copyright 2010 Mike Wever
When We Were Young
by Jason Jepson
This review was written by Mike Wever, the editor of Wanderings.
When We Were Young is described by the author as a fictionalized account of his youth, and indeed it reads much more like a memoir of a common man than a novel. Although the main character Jonah learns lessons and grows from his experiences, there is not much sense that Jonah’s biggest problems are resolved and the man’s situation at the end seems little changed from that of the teen at the beginning.
More than anything, this book is an in-depth examination of Jonah. Nothing especially remarkable happens to him between the end of his time in high school and the beginning of his truly adult years, but the steady beat of mundane events work on him like water against a stone. Jonah’s roughest edges are smoothed while the central core of his personality remains intact. It’s hard not to admire Jonah for the convictions he sticks to and easy to forgive the faults he can’t escape.
The writing at times seems a bit self-indulgent, and the things that are important to Jonah come across more from sheer repetition of ideas than masterful description of his emotions or thoughts. Just like with Jonah, however, a number of admirable traits exist among the faults. At a number of critical points in the story Jepson turns a phrase that makes several pages worth of writing click, creating a firm, memorable impression. There are also a number of descriptive passages that rise far above the rest, suggesting that Jepson will be an author who will be even more enjoyable to read with each successive book.
When We Were Young is published by Dog Ear Publishing and is available now through Amazon.
© Copyright 2010 Mike Wever
Monday, March 8, 2010
A letter from Basic Training
A Letter from Basic Training
11/2/03
Mom and Dad,
You have probably heard from Philip by now about my BRM (Basic Rifle Maintenance) qualification, if not, now you know. I am a qualified mark smith, and I passed to white phase which is the next stage of training.
We just had the infiltration course. This course requires a lot of low crawling which feels like barbed wire to the scrapes on my arms.
One way to crawl is the low crawl. This is when one side of your helmet and face is in the dirt, and you throw your hands out while you lie on your stomach, and use your firing leg or your right knee to push you forward. There is a problem that often occurs. While low crawling the soldiers tends to veer off to the left this makes his journey seem longer. To straighten out, the soldier has to tug on his left cargo pocket with his left hand, and slide his head up so he can see where he should be. I have to do this a lot.
There are two infiltration courses. One is day time. One is night time. To get ready for the day we first have to learn how to cover someone.
Your battle buddy would yell out, “Cover me while I’m moving!”
You yell, “I got you covered!”
Your battle buddy would then yell, “Weapon on safe, Movin,” as he would run to an obstruction lying between him and the “enemy.”
The same thing is done over and over, and the roles, as well as, what is said are changed.
Before the real thing we went through the mock one. It has rained the last couple of days so the course had puddles sprayed sporadically throughout, and the terrain was muddy.
Here is some background information. A couple of days ago we had a SST test. This test is information taken from out of the soldier manual so we can be tested on. Some of the things we were orally tested on was military time, rifle maintance, rank structure etc. Another one was addressing an officer. The officer was actually a drill sergeant. I knew how to do this even though in a real setting I do my best to avoid an officer. But I step with my right foot and not my left. This was while he was talking the usual drill sergeant trash.
“Oh not this guy. Just go ahead and sit down.”
I went ahead sat down like I thought he told me to do with a grin. He saw the grin as a smile and promptly plotted revenge.
This particular drill sergeant pointed me out of the handful of soldiers still waiting in line.
“Jepson, fall in over here.”
He, of course, wanted me to fall in a line that most of us were trying to avoid. The reason we were trying to avoid it was because there was a puddle in the middle of it. We were already freezing wet and caked in peat moss.
I started crawling while freezing and hacking up the residue from what I thought was my sinus infection. The ground ripped the skin away from my elbows. I reminded myself I wasn’t the only one with burning elbows.
“Ahhh It’s Jepson!” The drill sergeant yelled as another one came over. Both of them weren’t even in charge of the platoon I was in.
“Why are you so slow Jepson?”
My glasses were smeared with the mud. My knees felt bruised and disfigured while my elbows lost feeling.
“Your battle buddies have left you, Jepson. You are moving as slow as a turd!”
I kept moving and hacking, hacking and moving.
When I was finally able to stand back up again, I noticed how behind I really was. I had to rush to get in step with the rest of my platoon as they prepared for the day infiltration course.
This “sinus infection” was making me unlawfully slow.
We had all of these contraptions attached to us and our rifle. They were leftovers from the old school possibly Vietnam. We were forced to wear old training equipment that would normally be used for a laser tag kind of live combat situation. We weren’t using it for laser tag though. It was used as extra dead weight that we had to carry. Our rifle had the transmitter attached to it, and a red box at the end of the barrel.
Each squad in our platoon was then matched with another squad so the platoon would be split up.
This was where our fun started. We were at the bottom of a hill, and were suppose to storm up it like in a real combat situation. We all had fun with it as we lay in the prone unsupported position, decorating our BDU’s and helmet with mud and leaves on the ground. Most of the helmets looked like a floral decoration you would see at an old lady’s house. We were all really in to it.
Every once in awhile we were waiting in line someone would yell, “Let’s take the hill!” or “Viet not!”
This was in the midst of war recordings being played from speakers attached to the trees. The recordings were screams and explosions making the battle more realistic.
Our mission was to always make sure our buddies are covered as we advanced up the hill, elbows burning, knees bruised with no feeling after pressing against roots and tiny pebbles on the ground.
At the peak, “they” were firing at us. “They” were volunteers who the drill sergeants decided on to make this situation more real. “They” could only fire blanks, and we returned with the same.
I let my battle buddy finish or go ahead of me. When we finally came to the end of the course, he ran out of the course which left me alone with blanks. There was someone a couple of yards in front of me firing. I let some others go in front of me, as I fired back at the stranger wearing the same camouflage I was wearing. After a couple aimed shots to his head and torso, I stood up and walked to the finish line. I turned the corner and took out my magazine. I noticed who I was shooting at. It was Von, who is the squad leader. My jaw dropped, I felt terrible, and I couldn’t believe how swept away I became. I was swept away towards something that was obviously fake.
I just kept staring at him, and he laughed.
The drill sergeant said, “You would probably be one of the once…” That’s all he said. I had no idea what he meant by that.
I started walking back from the artificial war as I heard the squad leader tell someone else, “That’s loyalty.”
Back in formation, there was no afternoon chow, and still a full day ahead of us, but at least the sun was heating things up a little bit. I was still cold.
Next we got on some buses and went to the night infiltration course. The instructor informed us about the barb wire, the live rounds that will be fired over our heads as we complete the course, and the flares being shot at us.
These instructions ended in a warning, “Keep your ass down and stay away from the flares!” Easily digested.
The instructor then went on a tirade. The tirade began as the instructor told the story about the hostage situation in Iraq. You remember with the medics. Wasn’t her name Jessica or something like that? The instructor didn’t have the highest opinion of her. During her capture her and her crew never fired one shot off. They had their rifles, but they never tried to escape. They just surrendered. The instructor slammed a sandwich board down that had the description of the event. He then told us that a lot of soldiers in combat arms were killed during the rescue. She sold her story for a million dollars.
Cav scouts are combat arms, and that sounded like a recon mission. No regrets here, as they say in the Calvary- “If you ain’t cav, you ain’t shit.”
At this point of the day, I was hacking up some blood, sneezing ever so often, and feeling miserable. I was so tired I had forgotten how to give up.
We went through the night course with the lights starting to dim signaling the end of the day. This was a practice run, and I was lucky enough to find the puddle so the sand would collect to me in clumps. I was the last one through the puddle, under the barb wire, low crawling etc. but not the only one on the course.
There were three drill sergeants making sure I was still sliding closer to the end.
This was only a practice run, and we still had to go that night.
“Put your face in the ground!” A drill sergeant yelled.
Sand was creating its own layer on the lens of my glasses. It felt like sandpaper was literary dragging across my elbows, chest, and knees. I still slid closer to a concrete wall which was the end of the course. I rolled off and ran to the boundary where the sand and dirt met.
The drill sergeant followed. They surrounded me like great whites surrounding a surfer.
“Why the hell did you join the Army?!” One yelled.
Some others yelled their obscenities and profanities in my face. All I could do was stand at ease hoping that my knees wouldn’t give.
Luckily my lenses were smeared with a watery residue so I didn’t have to actually see who were causing me to become angrier by the second.
Next was chow, I ate my food shivering and hoping a lightening bolt would strike me dead right then and there. No such luck. I had to do the course again.
The light gave way and the darkness took control in waves. It was time for us to go through it again.
There were rules added to this trip though. We could only move when it was dark which sounded easy since the sun had gone down. This is while tracer rounds would be fired. They lit up the sky like orange fire crackers. There was also the same war recordings were being played, duds would also be shot off into the sky, and flares thrown.
When the flares touched the ground, we were supposed to stop low crawling. When the temporary illumination burns out is when you find out how close you are to the end of the course. When the flares go out you start low crawling again.
It was the same course, but this time I wasn’t last. I happened to beat a member of my old platoon.
My strength was beyond me, and everything around me reminded me of the freezing cold. The sinus infection felt like the war now.
The buses came to take us back to the barracks. Everything was coming out red.
Myself and another soldier had to stay back and grab the gear that was forgotten by our platoon. When we finally got on, we were on 3rd platoon’s bus instead of fourth.
The bus driver played music from a new rock radio station. The one’s who knew sang along. I tried to keep my head up so I could stay awake.
We finally arrived back to the barracks. We turned in our gear and tried to confine all the mud and sand on our equipment to one area. We swept what we could, and finally took a short cold shower, because the hot water for some reason was turned off. Lastly we are slowly yet willingly went to sleep.
I may have gotten pneumonia. My voice was fading to a hoarse, then to a whisper, and I was still spitting up blood. So I went to sick call thinking my muscles needed to go AWOL.
The morning was a blur. The doctor gave me bed rest, and it made me feel worse. I felt guilty, because other people in the troop deserve the same thing.
Here’s the bad news, bed rest wasn’t back at the barracks, and instead, it was in the troop commander’s office building. We slept on cots right beside our first sergeant and Captain.
Normally this would be nerve bending, but luckily we were so sick and slightly daze from the night before that I had no trouble getting to sleep.
The next day I went back for a check up, and I was feeling better. They took some blood and I immediately went back to training.
I think I told you this over the phone last week. The blood test said I am anemic.
This isn’t a concern of mine, because at every meal, I’ve made sure to eat a banana. I personally would like to explore this issue to see if this will be a problem for me later in life.
As for now we have just come back from throwing a grenade. The brochure said we would throw two, but we only threw one.
It was an M-33 highly explosive. This thing could probably do a lot a damage to a car. We all had a lot of fun.
My Halloween was spent in the gas chamber. This was a major event in basic, because it didn’t matter how strong or how smart your are. The tear gas turned everyone into an arms flapping, featherless baby chick with glazed over donut eyes coughing up every inch of his insides. However, my sinus condition seemed better than it had in days. I could breathe clearly without an obstruction in my nose or throat.
Next we started our 8K road march.
Road marches happened to be one of my favorite things to do. Especially this one, we got to see a new area of For Knox. Most of the time we had been confined to the area around our barracks, but this was like a field trip. We hiked up Misery and hiked down Agony with our distance intervals almost perfect.
Tomorrow we can talk on the phone for a half-hour. This is our reward for doing so well on the grenade course.
Please write back, and remember to save the letters.
11/2/03
Mom and Dad,
You have probably heard from Philip by now about my BRM (Basic Rifle Maintenance) qualification, if not, now you know. I am a qualified mark smith, and I passed to white phase which is the next stage of training.
We just had the infiltration course. This course requires a lot of low crawling which feels like barbed wire to the scrapes on my arms.
One way to crawl is the low crawl. This is when one side of your helmet and face is in the dirt, and you throw your hands out while you lie on your stomach, and use your firing leg or your right knee to push you forward. There is a problem that often occurs. While low crawling the soldiers tends to veer off to the left this makes his journey seem longer. To straighten out, the soldier has to tug on his left cargo pocket with his left hand, and slide his head up so he can see where he should be. I have to do this a lot.
There are two infiltration courses. One is day time. One is night time. To get ready for the day we first have to learn how to cover someone.
Your battle buddy would yell out, “Cover me while I’m moving!”
You yell, “I got you covered!”
Your battle buddy would then yell, “Weapon on safe, Movin,” as he would run to an obstruction lying between him and the “enemy.”
The same thing is done over and over, and the roles, as well as, what is said are changed.
Before the real thing we went through the mock one. It has rained the last couple of days so the course had puddles sprayed sporadically throughout, and the terrain was muddy.
Here is some background information. A couple of days ago we had a SST test. This test is information taken from out of the soldier manual so we can be tested on. Some of the things we were orally tested on was military time, rifle maintance, rank structure etc. Another one was addressing an officer. The officer was actually a drill sergeant. I knew how to do this even though in a real setting I do my best to avoid an officer. But I step with my right foot and not my left. This was while he was talking the usual drill sergeant trash.
“Oh not this guy. Just go ahead and sit down.”
I went ahead sat down like I thought he told me to do with a grin. He saw the grin as a smile and promptly plotted revenge.
This particular drill sergeant pointed me out of the handful of soldiers still waiting in line.
“Jepson, fall in over here.”
He, of course, wanted me to fall in a line that most of us were trying to avoid. The reason we were trying to avoid it was because there was a puddle in the middle of it. We were already freezing wet and caked in peat moss.
I started crawling while freezing and hacking up the residue from what I thought was my sinus infection. The ground ripped the skin away from my elbows. I reminded myself I wasn’t the only one with burning elbows.
“Ahhh It’s Jepson!” The drill sergeant yelled as another one came over. Both of them weren’t even in charge of the platoon I was in.
“Why are you so slow Jepson?”
My glasses were smeared with the mud. My knees felt bruised and disfigured while my elbows lost feeling.
“Your battle buddies have left you, Jepson. You are moving as slow as a turd!”
I kept moving and hacking, hacking and moving.
When I was finally able to stand back up again, I noticed how behind I really was. I had to rush to get in step with the rest of my platoon as they prepared for the day infiltration course.
This “sinus infection” was making me unlawfully slow.
We had all of these contraptions attached to us and our rifle. They were leftovers from the old school possibly Vietnam. We were forced to wear old training equipment that would normally be used for a laser tag kind of live combat situation. We weren’t using it for laser tag though. It was used as extra dead weight that we had to carry. Our rifle had the transmitter attached to it, and a red box at the end of the barrel.
Each squad in our platoon was then matched with another squad so the platoon would be split up.
This was where our fun started. We were at the bottom of a hill, and were suppose to storm up it like in a real combat situation. We all had fun with it as we lay in the prone unsupported position, decorating our BDU’s and helmet with mud and leaves on the ground. Most of the helmets looked like a floral decoration you would see at an old lady’s house. We were all really in to it.
Every once in awhile we were waiting in line someone would yell, “Let’s take the hill!” or “Viet not!”
This was in the midst of war recordings being played from speakers attached to the trees. The recordings were screams and explosions making the battle more realistic.
Our mission was to always make sure our buddies are covered as we advanced up the hill, elbows burning, knees bruised with no feeling after pressing against roots and tiny pebbles on the ground.
At the peak, “they” were firing at us. “They” were volunteers who the drill sergeants decided on to make this situation more real. “They” could only fire blanks, and we returned with the same.
I let my battle buddy finish or go ahead of me. When we finally came to the end of the course, he ran out of the course which left me alone with blanks. There was someone a couple of yards in front of me firing. I let some others go in front of me, as I fired back at the stranger wearing the same camouflage I was wearing. After a couple aimed shots to his head and torso, I stood up and walked to the finish line. I turned the corner and took out my magazine. I noticed who I was shooting at. It was Von, who is the squad leader. My jaw dropped, I felt terrible, and I couldn’t believe how swept away I became. I was swept away towards something that was obviously fake.
I just kept staring at him, and he laughed.
The drill sergeant said, “You would probably be one of the once…” That’s all he said. I had no idea what he meant by that.
I started walking back from the artificial war as I heard the squad leader tell someone else, “That’s loyalty.”
Back in formation, there was no afternoon chow, and still a full day ahead of us, but at least the sun was heating things up a little bit. I was still cold.
Next we got on some buses and went to the night infiltration course. The instructor informed us about the barb wire, the live rounds that will be fired over our heads as we complete the course, and the flares being shot at us.
These instructions ended in a warning, “Keep your ass down and stay away from the flares!” Easily digested.
The instructor then went on a tirade. The tirade began as the instructor told the story about the hostage situation in Iraq. You remember with the medics. Wasn’t her name Jessica or something like that? The instructor didn’t have the highest opinion of her. During her capture her and her crew never fired one shot off. They had their rifles, but they never tried to escape. They just surrendered. The instructor slammed a sandwich board down that had the description of the event. He then told us that a lot of soldiers in combat arms were killed during the rescue. She sold her story for a million dollars.
Cav scouts are combat arms, and that sounded like a recon mission. No regrets here, as they say in the Calvary- “If you ain’t cav, you ain’t shit.”
At this point of the day, I was hacking up some blood, sneezing ever so often, and feeling miserable. I was so tired I had forgotten how to give up.
We went through the night course with the lights starting to dim signaling the end of the day. This was a practice run, and I was lucky enough to find the puddle so the sand would collect to me in clumps. I was the last one through the puddle, under the barb wire, low crawling etc. but not the only one on the course.
There were three drill sergeants making sure I was still sliding closer to the end.
This was only a practice run, and we still had to go that night.
“Put your face in the ground!” A drill sergeant yelled.
Sand was creating its own layer on the lens of my glasses. It felt like sandpaper was literary dragging across my elbows, chest, and knees. I still slid closer to a concrete wall which was the end of the course. I rolled off and ran to the boundary where the sand and dirt met.
The drill sergeant followed. They surrounded me like great whites surrounding a surfer.
“Why the hell did you join the Army?!” One yelled.
Some others yelled their obscenities and profanities in my face. All I could do was stand at ease hoping that my knees wouldn’t give.
Luckily my lenses were smeared with a watery residue so I didn’t have to actually see who were causing me to become angrier by the second.
Next was chow, I ate my food shivering and hoping a lightening bolt would strike me dead right then and there. No such luck. I had to do the course again.
The light gave way and the darkness took control in waves. It was time for us to go through it again.
There were rules added to this trip though. We could only move when it was dark which sounded easy since the sun had gone down. This is while tracer rounds would be fired. They lit up the sky like orange fire crackers. There was also the same war recordings were being played, duds would also be shot off into the sky, and flares thrown.
When the flares touched the ground, we were supposed to stop low crawling. When the temporary illumination burns out is when you find out how close you are to the end of the course. When the flares go out you start low crawling again.
It was the same course, but this time I wasn’t last. I happened to beat a member of my old platoon.
My strength was beyond me, and everything around me reminded me of the freezing cold. The sinus infection felt like the war now.
The buses came to take us back to the barracks. Everything was coming out red.
Myself and another soldier had to stay back and grab the gear that was forgotten by our platoon. When we finally got on, we were on 3rd platoon’s bus instead of fourth.
The bus driver played music from a new rock radio station. The one’s who knew sang along. I tried to keep my head up so I could stay awake.
We finally arrived back to the barracks. We turned in our gear and tried to confine all the mud and sand on our equipment to one area. We swept what we could, and finally took a short cold shower, because the hot water for some reason was turned off. Lastly we are slowly yet willingly went to sleep.
I may have gotten pneumonia. My voice was fading to a hoarse, then to a whisper, and I was still spitting up blood. So I went to sick call thinking my muscles needed to go AWOL.
The morning was a blur. The doctor gave me bed rest, and it made me feel worse. I felt guilty, because other people in the troop deserve the same thing.
Here’s the bad news, bed rest wasn’t back at the barracks, and instead, it was in the troop commander’s office building. We slept on cots right beside our first sergeant and Captain.
Normally this would be nerve bending, but luckily we were so sick and slightly daze from the night before that I had no trouble getting to sleep.
The next day I went back for a check up, and I was feeling better. They took some blood and I immediately went back to training.
I think I told you this over the phone last week. The blood test said I am anemic.
This isn’t a concern of mine, because at every meal, I’ve made sure to eat a banana. I personally would like to explore this issue to see if this will be a problem for me later in life.
As for now we have just come back from throwing a grenade. The brochure said we would throw two, but we only threw one.
It was an M-33 highly explosive. This thing could probably do a lot a damage to a car. We all had a lot of fun.
My Halloween was spent in the gas chamber. This was a major event in basic, because it didn’t matter how strong or how smart your are. The tear gas turned everyone into an arms flapping, featherless baby chick with glazed over donut eyes coughing up every inch of his insides. However, my sinus condition seemed better than it had in days. I could breathe clearly without an obstruction in my nose or throat.
Next we started our 8K road march.
Road marches happened to be one of my favorite things to do. Especially this one, we got to see a new area of For Knox. Most of the time we had been confined to the area around our barracks, but this was like a field trip. We hiked up Misery and hiked down Agony with our distance intervals almost perfect.
Tomorrow we can talk on the phone for a half-hour. This is our reward for doing so well on the grenade course.
Please write back, and remember to save the letters.
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