Gordaen’s Blog

Note: This post is part one of a three part story called “Elbows.” For more information, see Elbows, An Introduction.

Warrior Week was the second-to-last week of basic training in the Air Force. During Warrior Week, you stay in tents, eat MREs, march in the mud, fire the M16, don gas masks, and do just about every other “manly” thing the Air Force has to offer. Not only did I have the wonderful honor of going through Warrior Week in August when the air of Texas felt like swimming in boiling water, but I had the distinct privilege of becoming exceedingly ill.

I was taken to a medical center in the back of a vehicle. I believe it was an ambulance, but being hot, sick, tired, and disoriented seems to have prevented the details from solidifying in memory. I do recall that there were two military guys who rode in the back with me and asked me questions. Though most were probably health-related, I distinctly remember being asked if I was German. Looking back, I suspect that it was simply curiosity asking, but at the time my failing brain was connecting it to World War II and somehow admitting that I was part German would result in me not being trusted.

Fortunately, GITMO was not an issue then and I made it to the medical center for what seemed like an excess of white pills. I was given an IV that forced near-ice into my veins, perhaps with a dose of anti-freeze, and my bladder felt the weight of the cold. My memory may be inaccurate, but I recall getting up to urinate about six hundred times that night. Each time, I had to wheel the IV with me. Each time, my illness and medically-induced stupor caused enough clumsiness that the needle wiggled around and blood started backtracking out the IV, up the tubing, and nearly into the bag. Each time, I simultaneously thought “Woah, cool” and “That might be bad.”

When I finally left the blood-stealing IV behind and returned to my tent, I largely spent the day alone. I took my medicine as required and broke the “don’t leave the tent alone” rule frequently for trips to the latrine. I was not completely alone as I met a scorpion in the latrine. Texas: home of humidity, scorpions, and a soon-to-break, flood-causing storm. Why wouldn’t you want to live there?

When I later met with a doctor out at the Warrior Week area, I had another honor bestowed upon me: I was yelled at for taking my medicine at incorrect intervals. When I had left the medical center the night before, I was given two or three containers of medicine. One was supposed to be taken ever twelve hours. One was every four. And I’m not even sure if there was a third.

The man yelled at me, threw the medicine in the trash, and didn’t want to listen to me pointing out the labels on the medicine bottles. Fortunately, the side effect of a relative overdose of the unknown medication was that I was looking at the world through such a distant fog I considered laughing at this man. He looked upset.

Skipping ahead (don’t worry, there’s always more yelling in the military), I ended up having to go back to Warrior Week to make up some of what I missed. If you think basic training sucks (and you should), imagine the fun of doing the “warrior” part surrounded by strangers. Being the odd man out, I was last in line for the 100-yard low-crawl. At least, it was supposed to be a low-crawl, but it ended up being a high-crawl to avoid drowning. You see, that wonderful storm had filled up the trenches with mud. Rather than low-crawling over some dirt, we were high-crawling in a canal of mud on what felt like gravel. My elbows throbbed, but I pushed on. At one point, there was a tree branch or root just over the trench. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but the 1-2 feet of mud required me to submerge my face and push through.

What waited on the other side was not a line of short-skirted cheerleaders shouting how wonderful I was. It wasn’t even a pair of pant-wearing cheerleaders whispering encouragement. No, it was a TI shouting that I had to go back to the start and make another trainee who had started late actually move. Apparently, the trainee was unaware of what a joy this adventure was and had frozen up. Either that or it was such a joy that he wanted to share it with someone. Asshole.

So I dove in at the start just behind Trainee Freeze and I shouted words of encouragement. I suspect my words were more along the lines of “Move, move, move! You can do it! Just push it out!” with a hint of irritation (a big hint) rather than a polite “Sir, you are certainly capable of accomplishing this task. Keep your head up and take it an elbow at a time. Your pace is very adequate.” My “You can do it!” was either convincing or filled with murderous intent (maybe that’s what made it convincing), because he began making steady progress.

Some time after that, we were given the chance to clean up, which meant strip, scrub with a towel, and put on a different uniform. I scraped at my elbows with clenched teeth, expecting the towel to reveal bruises or cuts. The pain was extreme and the grime was not being persuaded to come off by the towel that felt more and more like sand paper. Our time was cut short by another thunderstorm and many of us were forced to accept the temporary dirt tan: the mark of a warrior.