ARMY MEDIC: JOB TWO OF FIVE

Army medic was the job I signed up for when I joined after freshman year in 1974. Army medic was my dad’s idea.

The old Marine also advised against joining the Navy, but that’s expected.

I went in on the Buddy Plan with a high school buddy. We lasted three days together in receiving, then got assigned to different training companies.

I missed by buddy right away, but got into a platoon with some of the guys I started with. Except I got moved from the first platoon to the fourth, surrounded by people I’d never seen. That’s why I went in on the buddy plan, to have a familiar presence.

The isolation in a group of guys in green was strange; it was an exercise in anonymity, like I disappeared. I was adjusting when the drill sergeant picked me out for a floral tour.

For some reason he walked me out of the formation and we strolled beside the plantings along the front of the barracks.

Bootcamp Garden Tour?

Drill Sergeant Easterling pointed out his favorite flowers, which ones were struggling, and explained his next green thumb phase.

If I joined to Be All I Could Be, this wasn’t it. I’d pulled weeds in my mom’s flowerbeds. Now I’d pull weeds in the army?

What the hell is this, I thought? Am I the new flower boy?

I returned to the formation with more questions than I had at the beginning.

Platoon Guide Gillaspie

On the whistle everyone broke formation and ran for the barracks. My group was on the top floor, the third floor. Each platoon had a bay on either side of the second and third floor, with four four man rooms.

I started in the bay, got tapped to join a four man room, then tapped again and found myself in a single room. Single room?

I’d barely slung my duffle bag on a bunk before I got moved to the four man room. Funny thing was, it already had four guys, and they’d all slung their bags onto a bunk.

Growing up with brothers, and playing sports, I knew what a pecking order was and where I wanted to be. Someone was going to sleep on the army floor and it wasn’t going to be me.

I surveyed the room of four from the doorway and made a quick decision. I asked the biggest toughest looking guy in the room which bunk his bag was on. He ignored me, talking to his roommates. I asked again. He pointed to a bunk and continued ignoring me.

“Alright guys,” I said, “no hard feelings. We’re all in the Army now, right?”

They all ignored me until I walked over, threw the big guy’s stuff on the floor, and slung my bag in its place.

Not a popular move in that room; not a great move in any room. I might need an army medic if things went wrong.

“You guys figure out where the extra goes, because I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

All four guys moved to the other side of the room from me. We stared each other down. I was ready to go Full-Bulldog if any of them wanted to give it a try and came for me.

Instead, the drill sergeant came for me. I didn’t notice him standing in the door while I rearranged the room. He called me out and said to follow him down the hall. I waved goodbye to my former roommates; they mumbled something that started with an F.

Drill Sergeant Easterling opened the door to another room. Instead of bunks with the mattress rolled up and sheets and blankets stacked on top, this room had one bed all made up, curtains, and a desk with a fresh flower in a bud vase.

Flower Boy Gillaspie?

The drill sergeant walked in and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Come in,” he said.

I stood in the doorway and took one small step forward. I followed direct orders.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” he said.

“No, drill sergeant.”

“And why is that?” he asked.

“If I’m supposed to know, then the drill sergeant would tell me.”

He looked at me from his perch on the bed; I stood with my eyes forward. If getting the garden tour wasn’t weird enough, I was in a fancy room with a grown man; not good.

If he had questions, I had answers. Probably the wrong answers, based on what I saw, so I used measured responses.

“Every training cycle, I notice a trainee who I believe will move the Army the right direction. We need those guys. That trainee lives in this room, a command post, and office. As my Platoon Guide you will be my voice when I’m not present. Do you understand?”

“Yes, drill sergeant.”

“You will be the face of the new Army we are building today, an Army we are determined to be the best army in the history of America. Can you do that?” he asked.

“Yes, drill sergeant.”

“As my Platoon Guide you will have four squad leaders to supervise. Can you do that?”

“Yes, drill sergeant.”

“Your squad leaders are in the room you just left. You will lead them from the front.”

My new best friends and I got off to a rough start, but that’s the army.

“The first job I put before you is ID. You will find a way to mark the dress shoes of everyone in the platoon with their social security number. I will leave you with white paint, brushes, and black markers.”

“Yes, drill sergeant.”

Hup, Toop, Threep, Fope

I circulated through the bay and rooms, skipping the first one. I asked the guys to write their social on a slip of paper, put it in their dress shoes, and tie them together.

“There’s an open room three doors down on the left. Take your shoes and leave them there. The drill sergeant wants this done, so let’s do it.”

Then I popped into the four man room with my new squad leaders. I wasn’t the most popular guy in there.

I explained the drill and went to my room. Within an hour I had a mountain of shoes. I brought the four guys in. We got to work painting a white stripe in each shoe and writing social security numbers on it.

For my first night on The Hill, in the Real Army, I spent it getting to know my fellow trainees. Good guys, too. I apologized to Dale Pagel for tossing his bag on the floor.

The first night seemed like a dumb-shit job, which fit right into the curriculum. Later in the week I started Army Leadership School.

No one mentioned what to do when you’re the fifth guy in a four man room. Like a good soldier, I didn’t volunteer any new ideas.

Halfway through the training cycle the B-4-3 platoon had an incident that I took responsibility for. I stood up for them and got dismissed. I lost my fancy room and returned to the bay because I didn’t play the army game and cover up a problem.

An Army Medic Oath of Truthfulness

Everyone in government service has a duty to tell the truth. From trainee, to army medic, to the top of the command chain, truth matters.

Words matter.

Great leaders understand how important it is to communicate in a particular way because of the effect downstream.

While I had the fancy room, the guys came to me with problems, problems I had no clue how to solve. I trusted my home town experience. After my eviction, they still asked.

An older trainee, maybe twenty-four, was rightfully upset because his wife was pregnant and due in a couple of weeks.

“I’m going AWOL,” he said. “I’ve got to be there for my wife.”

“You’re married? Why did you join when your wife’s pregnant?” I asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “She needs me.”

“Are you coming back?”

“What do you think will happen?” he asked.

“While you’re gone, the drill sergeant will kick our asses all day long. When you get back we’ll kick your ass after he’s done.”

“You will? You too?” he asked.

“Some of these guys know how to throw a blanket party. They’re mean guys taking a load of crap like the rest of us, and they want to hurt someone in return.”

“You too?” he asked again.

“I’m not a fan of any bully bullshit, but I wouldn’t be able to help you. They will hold you under a blanket on a bunk and line up with a bar of soap in a sock and take turns swinging.”

“You too?”

“Yes, but I won’t swing hard.”

He decided to stay. I hadn’t been to army medic school, but I chalked him up as my first save.