BraveMan’s Excellent Adventure at Fort Jackson, South Carolina

Our daughter graduated from Army Basic Training at Fort Jackson near Columbia, SC this weekend as part of the 193rd Brigade 3rd Battalion 60th Infantry Regiment, Foxtrot Company (the Wardogs). Communicating with loved ones during Basic is always an iffy proposition (less so today than generations ago). We and our daughter corresponded often via the U.S. Mail, a welcomed though wholly insufficient means. (As an aside, those of you with children or loved ones going through Basic write them often with positive messages and support; it works wonders for the morale of the recipient who is going through the biggest struggle of their young lives.) Through the modern miracle of Al Gore’s internet, we have been able to track our recruit’s progress via Facebook through a page setup and run by the wife of one of the Drill Sergeants’. We are indebted to this person’s efforts, as it gave us a unique insight into the progress of the training. To visit her fabulous efforts chronicling the progress of the Foxtrot Company’s recruits, follow this link:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Columbia-SC/193rd-Brigade-3rd-Battalion-60th-Infantry-Regiment-Foxtrot-Company/190731797054?ref=mf

As proud parents, my wife (LostThread) and I eagerly wanted to attend the Graduation ceremony to see our girl, show our support for the newly minted soldier and to enjoy a long weekend in temperate, sunny South Carolina, away from the cold, snow laden and blustery winds of scenic Wisconsin well known around here these times of year. I had spent time in South Carolina a few times before, so I had certain assumptions and expectations in my mind; LostThread had been there previously as well, though not as much. The last time I’d been there it had snowed during my stay, some 3” or so. When I inquired about this weather event to the locals I was told this NEVER happens around these parts. I had congratulated myself on having the good fortune to personally witness such a RARE event, thankful I had a modicum of winter driving skills under my ever lengthening belt.

I have learned long ago through events borne out of many years of travel that perception and expectations rarely mesh with reality. This adventure would do nothing to alter the truths of that lesson. A planned leisurely trip to the airport became a frantic dash around town to procure a last minute request from our daughter (a confection known as Fairy Food) in an alarming quantity (to share with her roommates). After running the TSA gauntlet with the wife and all her newfound security surprises (the shoes too, laptops out of the case, only allowed 3 ounces of fluid, throw the bottle of Diet Coke away, BEEEEP, please remove the jewelry ma’am) we dashed our way to the gate occupied by which at first blush appeared to be a DC9.

Upon further inspection I uncovered the aircraft to be a The Bombardier CRJ200, of which “Airline Monitor” stated: “It is well to remember that this regional jet was the most radical new commercial product idea since the Concorde, and together with the 707 and 747 those four represent the real innovation in jet air travel.” Fellow gentle posters I can tell you with all due certainly this aircraft shares NOTHING in common with these other giants in the industry. People must be much smaller in Bombardierland, because the only way I would truly fit in that assigned seat were if my arms were hacked off at the shoulder blades. Thankfully my wife (seated apart from me) shared the only unoccupied seat on the flight, giving her elbow room enough to make all the other passengers green with jealous envy (or was that airsickness). I hacked off my left arm, shoehorned my way into the left side window seat, opened up my Kindle and settled in for the long trip.

A quick change in Chicago into another Bombardier CRJ700 (a laughably ‘stretched’ version of the previous plane) and we were off to sunny South Carolina; if you’re a Cheesehead your trip doesn’t really begin until you’re out of Chicago. We would find out soon enough our luggage wouldn’t be joining us, despite the $50 premium we’d paid at the check-in counter for this luxury of life. We shared this plane with many parents off to see their fresh-faced graduates as well. Conversations started, anecdotal stories told and emails exchanged, the flight took on an atmosphere of friendly camaraderie and mutual shared experience. Most everybody was happy except the baby several rows back.

We arrived in dark Columbia South Carolina little behind schedule; oh well, it was a vacation after all. We then found out about the missing luggage, still hanging out in Chicago presumably soaking in more winter weather. I’d feared as much would happen given the size of the aircraft, it’s fullness to capacity and traveler’s luck. I’d kept these worries to myself; why burden my better half with a yet unproven hunch? While my wife stood in line at baggage services (we wouldn’t be alone in our loss) I wrestled with the car rental agency over our Hotwire procured reservation, somehow off by one day. The fine ex-Marine behind the counter, James, helped work out a way to get us into the car while I passed the time away watching new fresh recruits fall into line guided by a soft spoken but visibly hard Drill Sergeant who’d been waiting for them to arrive. I was amazed by his ability to muster up this motley crew of twenty-something’s with a countenance so quiet as to leave a now familiar sleeping baby undisturbed. James and I both enjoyed the spectacle as he navigated through the reams of computer screens associated with a reservation through Hotwire.

Sans luggage, but with keys in hand, we made our way to our hotel. I consoled my wife about the missing bags cautioning her not to let this setback cast a pall over our adventure. I remarked about our good fortune over the car, a brand new Dodge Sebring with all of 24 miles on the odometer. Secretly I worried about the lack of license plates, though not sharing my apprehension. The cardboard & magic marker adorned facsimile would suffice to get on base, I hoped. Following Garmin’s convoluted path we made it to the hotel without incident. My wife made out for the local Wal-Mart for a fresh change of clothes for the next day’s events, buoyed by the promise of the voucher we’d received from the offending airline to cover the cost. We finally settled in to a comfortable bed around 2:00am for some well needed sleep.

Ahh, the next morning. Family Day. The sunny South Carolina we’d anticipated was in grand display out our hotel room window. I trotted down to the lobby to grab some of the complementary beverages and grub for a quick morning repast. Loaded down with minor provisions I glided through the glass doors of the lobby to the outside to take in the moment. Holy Cow was it cold! I quickly retreated back into the protection of the lobby, up the elevator and into the room, trying to shake off the shivers along the way. Sunny? Yes! Temperate? Not so much, unless you’re from Wisconsin or some other similar latitude several degrees north. My wife was already talking to a representative in India from the number supplied by the airlines to help us track the whereabouts of our luggage. (What is our luggage doing in India, I momentarily wondered listening to half the conversation?) It occurred to me soon enough this tracking service had been farmed out to a country halfway around the world, the folly of which I’ll leave to the readers to discern.

We left the hotel at 9:30am for the ten minute drive to Fort Jackson to secure our visitor pass and meet up with our daughter. The crush of a whole regiment of families, friends and loved ones wanting to do the same thing at the same time had been somehow lost on me. The visitor’s line crept along as I admonished myself repeatedly for not taking this into account. Dressed in our Wal-Mart best we easily cleared our checkpoint (too easily it seemed for a country at war), received our pass, got our directions and headed to the ceremony grandstand at Hilton Hill. We got there in the nick of time.

My lovely wife was taken aback by the sheer size of Fort Jackson. I was not, having been on several bases across the country in my business travels. Still, I enjoyed my wife’s new revelations as she peered out in wide eyed amazement. “Look, a Burger King! Look, a bowling alley (there were three actually)! Look at the size of that gas station with the Subway restaurant! Is that a Wal-Mart (AAFES PX)?” A platoon marching along the side of the road near Hilton Hill was a poignant reminder we weren’t in Milwaukee anymore. As I watched her beaming smile grow larger and larger I knew her inner patriot was starting to kick her ass. This made me smile. She had been very cool to the idea of our daughter enlisting in the Army National Guard. This had dissolved into resignation which was now blossoming into unabashed pride of daughter and country. I loved every minute of it!

The dichotomy of the regiment on the field and the crowd in the grandstands was striking. Out on the field was calm, controlled precision. In the grandstands was pandemonium and chaos. Whistling, screaming foot-stomping civilians could barely contain themselves and follow the directions of the unknown high-ranking speaker. Finally the speaker gave the command to the audience to “find their recruit”. My wife was instantly gone. I held back wanting to exercise some decorum and take in the spectacle. Babies were being handed down through the throng and over the fence presumably to waiting arms below. I saw a miniature bulldog dressed in camo and swaddling as though a baby was being carried about. I marveled at the skimpiness of some of the attire given the chill in the air, noting it wasn’t just a Wisconsin fashion thing to be inappropriately dressed for such cold weather. As the sea of people ebbed I made my way down the ramp in search of my daughter. I watched while one goth dressed girl jumped a four foot chain link fence, shredding her black tights in the process, to save herself an additional ten feet of walking. Wow!

I finally met up with my daughter and wife. I’d studied the regiment while in the stands and knew about where to look to find her. Still, she found me first, allowing me to walk a few feet past before yelling out “Dad!” in a voice I remember. There she was. A long embrace, then I studied her while she and her mom talked. She seemed taller, more assured, more brimming with confidence than I’d remembered. She led the conversation while we toured the vendor’s tents near the grandstand for trinkets and keepsakes. I eyed up the vendor selling DVDs of the basic training and graduation ceremonies and dropped $62 forthwith. Off to another vendor to claim my 193rd Brigade 3rd Battalion 60th Infantry Regiment, Foxtrot Company Wardogs hooded sweatshirt. I was in bliss with my wife & daughter; all was well in the world.

We padded off to the car. Although my daughter could not yet leave the base we had free access to all its areas and creature comforts, something my daughter had been denied all these many weeks. We only had to have her back to the barracks by 20:30. (Every time we referenced ‘time’ from this point forward it was done in military format, which amused me to no end. I was glad it wasn’t Zulu time though I supposed that would come later.) We confided we’d smuggled in some treats for her (the Fairy Food and a pack of Marlboro Lights). She tore into both with the ferocity of a lion on a fresh kill. When we asked her what she wanted to do first, she declared she wanted to get a Subway sandwich. Indeed, she confided she’d been dreaming about the Subway moment for weeks. I let out a big belly laugh as I thought about how simple her wants had become.

We spent the day touring the base. Each stop or point in the tour produced another raft of stories from my daughter associated with the particular area; the rifle range, the battalion range, the confidence course, the obstacle course (yes, they were different), Omaha Beach (a little plot of sand outside the barracks where DS Archangel had made her low crawl in circles for thirty minutes ‘for no good reason’), on and on to my wife’s consternation and my amusement. She went on ad infinitum about how glad she was that basic training was finally almost over and about how many kids in her Company didn’t make it through. I offered how at least it was never boring. She meekly agreed then immediately countered being at Parade Rest every morning at 05:30 hours each day for an hour was pretty boring in and of itself. Yes, it’s hard not to agree.

An Army Command Sergeant Major (personal friend of the family) had decided to attend the Graduation with us much to our delight. However, poor weather and aircraft problems had derailed those plans, or so we thought. We received the phone call announcing her presence on base after all right around 19:00 hours. We gave her directions to my daughter’s barracks and met her in front. Permissions to hug were given and gladly accepted. After a moment’s reflection the CSM realized the barracks were the very same she had attended back in 1981 when she herself had endured basic training. The CSM asked permission (?) from our new PFC to go up & take a look around, which was enthusiastically granted. The moment she stepped through the door was priceless; a collective gasp from the room erupted (a giant sucking of air) followed by a loudly called ‘At Ease’ as the soldiers in the barracks snapped to Parade Rest position. A quick ‘as you were’ from the CSM as we made our way to our daughter’s bunk soon had everyone in the Company gathered around. Stories were shared, questions asked and advice given. The fact that my daughter knew a CSM personally gave her instant cult status with the other troops. I marveled at all of this. Could I be any more proud of my daughter? It seemed not possible, but there it was. I rather enjoyed watching the Drill Sergeants assuming the Parade Rest position when they themselves walked into the room. I know my daughter certainly did as evidenced from the smile on her face.

Soon we had to be on our way. All of us were mentally exhausted from the high octane day. We left the base and headed back to the hotel. Our lost luggage was in the lobby; I thought my wife might faint at the sight of it the issue had bothered her so. All our daughter’s birthday gifts were in there. The airline certainly had not turned a profit on the $50 luggage fee. I tried to suppress the sense of schadenfreude I felt as I fiddled up to the room with the luggage, bags, trinkets and keepsakes. Tomorrow would be both Graduation Day and my daughter’s 23rd birthday. I knew the day would be extraordinary, though the extent of which would surprise even me. As my wife unpacked (and decompressed) I turned on the Weather Channel to hear what was in store for tomorrow. I couldn’t believe my ears!

It first started out at 1”-3” (yes, snow). Within an hour the forecast rose to 2”-5”. By lights out the prediction was for 3”-7”. I considered the sheer impossibility of my last two trips to South Carolina both being riddled with snow. I fell into a fitful sleep and dreamed of Drill Sergeants and old bosses.

The morning greeted us with overcast skies (the very same ones we’d longed to escape) with temperatures in the 40’s. The local weathermen were giddy with the news of the impending storm starting around noon (12:00 hours I barked back at the screen). We had arranged to meet the CSM at Hilton Hill at 09:30 hours to snag VIP seating. Determined not to be late I quietly coaxed the wife along while I transferred packages from the room to the car. Finally, I put my coat on and propped the room door open with my foot (I couldn’t think of a more polite way to be insistent about our immediate departure). It had the desired effect and soon we were on our way.

Though I’d adequately braced for the crush of cars at the gate the onslaught seemed to double in size. Had really only half the attendees shown up yesterday? Though the line was much longer we had our pass and ID’s at the ready and cleared the checkpoint quickly. I hollered a Wisconsin twanged Hoo-aah on my way past the gate; the response returned was more like ughh-UP. I thought to myself I’d better work on the pronunciation. Again we got to Hilton Hill in the nick of time.

Via cell phone the CSM talked us to the VIP seating area she was already occupying. After hugs and introductions we were escorted past the velvet rope and shown our seats. We were amongst Army Rock Stars! Three Star Generals, Command Sergeant Majors, Base Chaplains and ranks I couldn’t begin to identify. We had the best view in the grandstand. Drill sergeants manned the ropes the pleading citizens tried to cross to no avail. The crowds in the stands were divided into Companies much as the soldiers who marched onto the field. Waves of sporadic cheering and foot stomping permeated throughout the stands. When A Company began to march the cheering and stomping began in earnest in the A section of the grandstands. Likewise with Companies B through F until all the troops, Color Guard and the Band were in their places on the field. The speaker approached the podium and the entire crowd roared before he uttered a single word. I stole a glance at my wife who was fighting back tears. That inner patriot was kicking ass again.

Details from the whole cloth of the ceremony tapestry are already beginning to fade in my memory, but one moment I will never forget and the memory will never fade. One cannot help but be moved at the sound of six companies of soldiers yelling out the Army Creed in unison. The slight variance in timing from one company to the next added reverberation and stereophony across the field in front of us, with dazzling effect. My inner patriot began to work me over and soon I was the one fighting back the tears.

It was official; my daughter was a soldier who had earned the right to wear her colors. All the self-doubt plaguing her in the beginning was gone. She had made it through Basic Training. She had her Sharpshooter medal and a comfortable combined PT score. About 60 of the troops hadn’t made it; fifteen from her Company alone. One girl failed her two mile run by two seconds. One family flew in from Florida and attended a graduation ceremony their daughter couldn’t. Some would take one last shot at the PT test; some would start over in a few days or weeks; some would be discharged, never again to try. I felt so terribly bad for those who didn’t make it to graduation.

They released the graduates at 10:00 hours, setting them loose with an off-base pass for the day with admonishments to be back by 20:30 hours, no civilian clothes and no making babies. Our daughter climbed into the rental car almost involuntarily bouncing up and down in the seat, giggling “I’m free, I’m free”. I couldn’t get off the base fast enough to suit her. Back we went to the hotel room to celebrate her birthday. Big fluffy white flakes began to fall as if on cue, straight down in copious quantities. We watched as she opened her presents with relish. We went to lunch, shopping, hither and there. I bowed out of the second round of shopping and settled in for a nap, pausing to admire the snowland dreamscape forming outside. Three inches were on the ground already with no tapering of the storm in sight.

Knowing how to drive in snow does you little good if everyone around you doesn’t. Cars, trucks, SUVs and Jeeps were littering the ditches and medians of the freeway, one every quarter of a mile on average. The automotive carnage was everywhere at levels this Cheesehead-Yooper has never seen in his life. Before sunset there were 85 accidents reported in Columbia and the surrounding areas. By sunrise there were more than 1500 snow-related accidents in South Carolina. In the morning the official tally would come to 8.3” of snowfall. We’re talking Biblical here.

Alas, our free time with our daughter was nearing its end. The ten minute drive from the hotel to the base had morphed into a thirty minute gauntlet worthy of Jesse’s Bull Run. We let our daughter out next to the barracks and spent our final moments in a sweet embrace. She was to ship out the next day to her AIT at Fort Sam Houston in Texas. Parting is indeed such sweet sorrow, an ache in the shoulders and a lump in the throat. We promised to see her off at the airport if we could, but there were no real assurances we could pull it off as nobody knew where or when the flight would be. I fought back the tears on the way back to the hotel. It was over too soon; our time with her was gone. Just like with Jake, I was begging for more time I could not have. I sat in the hotel room bathroom and sobbed. I could steel myself against the pain of the body, but I had no defense for pain of the heart.

Wonderful post! Thank you! And, please pass along our gratitude to your daughter for her willingness to serve in the cause of liberty on our behalf.

Your post is an emotional reminder of days long ago in a similar experience at Ft. Jackson, and following Ft. Benning, the next post was Ft. Sam Houston, an absolutely great experience.

San Antonio is a great place to be and to enjoy, with wonderful people, history, and surrounding countryside.

Wish her well and our prayers are with her.

Well written.

We got a bunch of global warming in Sumter, SC as well.

Tell your daughter “thanks for her service” from a crusty old Air Force guy!

LOL

Great story, and truly, I am sorry it snowed while you were there—twice! I live in NC right on the coast just above Wilmington. We only get snow every once in awhile, and big snow about once every 10-15 years. We got 7” of globull warming last weekend.

You’re absolutely right about people not knowing how to drive in snow down here! The yankees who think they can don’t realize that ours is usually udercoated by ice, and the locals don’t know anything. Better just to stay home and off the roads until it clears. :)

All things considered, I'm glad the daughter went through BT in the South Carolina winter. I spent the better part of a year in the Spartanburg area many years ago. I know how hot the summer can be. My girl was fortunate to go through BT in the winter.

I remember asking one of the locals on a particularly brutal day, “What do you do when its this hot”? His short reply was, “stay inside”.

For my part, I enjoyed the time immensely. I got invited to go fishing once with some of the local ironworkers. They all laughed when I showed up with a pole & tackle. It was my first experience with what us Yankees call ‘noodling’, where you use your hand as bait, reach under a rock and grab ahold of the catfish trying to eat your hand. I managed to latch onto a pretty good size specimen, redeeming myself in front of the group. They took no end of pleasure asking me to show off my scars to others on the workforce. My arm reacted very badly to the bites and scratches, and flamed up rather nicely.

I carried it as a trophy. I was a true noodler. I've never done it since . . .

Yeah, summers here can be tough, but I’ll take my summer over your winter any time!

Noodling? I’m impressed. No way am I stickingmy hand into a dark hole underwater when I can’t see what’s there! LOL

Got “stung” by my MIL’s aquarium catfish one time. That thing hurt like you wouldn’t believe! Burned and throbbed and swelled. I can only imagine how bad a real bite hurts!

This was taken out the hotel room window around 12:00 hours, Friday February 12 2010

Two days later the Palm trees looked none the worse for the torture.

This is why they call it Hilton Hill. Learn more at the link below.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richmond_H._Hilton

CSM & PFC outside the hangar. Yes, we did get to see her depart. Try snagging a forgotten cell phone from
a flight booked by the DOD sometime. My daughter doesn't fully grasp the trouble we had to go through.

PFC Gosselin in her Class A Uniform. Standing in the barrack's Kill Zone like this would normally earn you some
manner of sadistic PT torture. Fortunately the Drill Sergeants were nowhere to be found.

Congratulations, PFC Gosselin,
on your graduation from Boot Camp!!

Click for The Story: FReeper BraveMan's daughter graduates!

Holy Cow was it cold!

I find that funny coming from a Wisconsin person. LOL

Congrats to you, your daughter and family. You and family have a right to be proud

Please convey my thanks to her for her taking up the mantle and for her sacrifice. Thank you as well.

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