The beginning of the first day of Basic Combat Training

September 12, 1964. A company’s worth of Private E1s stood or sat and leaned against tall pine trees just outside the reception station at Fort Polk, La.

The afternoon was hot and humid, the combination of heat and humidity pushing the Wet Bulb Thermometer into the Danger area. Because of that temperature, every private wore his green fatigue trousers cuffs outside his combat boots. The privates looked like a bunch of civilians dressed like sloppy soldiers.

Talk among the privates was the same as the day before and the day before that. Drill sergeants would beat a soldier for the slightest infraction. Some of us would die from physical training or while in hand-to-hand combat training or from an accident on a rifle range. Privates who made those predictions had been told by an older brother or a cousin, who knew somebody who knew somebody … Rumor was 10 soldiers in one company died from meningitis a month ago.

There was talk, too, of sports and cars and girls back home, stories that would be inflated even more in the weeks ahead.

The Spec. 4 who had sort of marched the mob from the barracks to the trees called “At ease!” Talk stopped. The real soldier said, “You may now blouse your boots!”

Cheers erupted. Every private unlaced his boots and stuffed trouser cuffs inside his boots and relaced his boots. Everybody suddenly felt like a soldier.

Then the buses arrived, four, shiny green and with “U.S. ARMY” in yellow letters. The buses stopped. Doors opened, and from the first bus stepped a staff sergeant. His fatigues were ironed stiff, with sharp creases down each trouser leg and shirt arm. He wore a polished black helmet liner pulled down so his eyes barely showed. His combat boots held a mirror shine. He was the meanest looking man I had ever seen in my life, and perhaps the blackest.

My mind said, “Oh, lordy, what have I got myself into?”