Rodgers' last stand

BEGRUDGE AN OLD ARMY VETERAN of the long-ago “New Army” – who served  in the early 1970s as our nation gradually shifted from a draft to an all-volunteer status – to recall a few snippets of my transition from a lowly civilian puke to an exalted soldier of STRAC status. The latter reference being slang for any raw recruit with acceptable spit-polished boots, pressed uniform and reasonable knowledge of when to salute an officer and make the fast transition from the position of attention to at ease.

In that early winter of my great expectations and discontent at Fort Jackson, S.C., I learned right away – from arrival at the reception station and having my head shorn like a forlorn sheep and getting our uniforms and initial gear – the best course of action was to fly under the radar. Do what you have to and avoid having the drill sergeants remember your name because of some misstep or screw-up. The true mark of success was measured by graduating and your drill sergeant not knowing your name.

And for good reason: If you weren’t measuring up in a particular way during the first three weeks, you didn’t always get a pat-on-the-back and a bus ticket home.
If had some shred of redeeming value, you were reassigned to a special unit called the “Special Training Company,” or STC. What that meant was if you passed through this grueling test, you would go back to square one. Start basic training all over again. It seemed a punishment akin to Sisyphus, damned to push that heavy, ugly-ass boulder up the hill, knowing it was likely to roll back and force you to start over again.

A few in our company were sent to STC. But the one I remember most was a fellow named Rodgers, a pear-shaped nice fellow from Georgia who had problems negotiating the monkey-bars (an obstacle we always had to pass in order to get in line at the mess hall) and keeping in step while marching. His day of reckoning occurred one morning as we lined up for breakfast. Like all past attempts, Rodgers couldn’t make the pass. And the Smokey-the-Bear hated hellions were all over him. Later that day, his area in the barracks was cleared as if he had never existed.

Re-assigned to STC, Per Order of Company Commander.

Even the hardest-hearted fellows felt for the gregarious Georgian, including the obnoxious New York City guys and the LSD-eyed Californians.

A few weeks later our company was on a march for final qualification at the rifle range, miles away from the tranquility of our concrete Bastille. As we chorused our bawdy, blasphemous cadences led by our drill sergeants we passed an STC unit undergoing their re-education. They were carrying huge, ugly pieces of timber – some perhaps being discarded telephone poles – and being dropped for push-ups ever several steps. It resembled the Bataan Death March photos I have seen.

 A few of us recognized Rodgers among that group. He was slimmer and grimy, and grunting his best. He looked beat to Hell and back.

If I remember right, somebody later explained to me that STC tormentors were guys who washed out in drill sergeant school or were “iffy” as NCOs. What better way to educate someone who needs special training? The oppressed become the oppressors of the oppressed.

Our basic training finally ended. About 10 percent of those who started the process were not among our fold as we smartly paraded on graduation day. I wonder sometimes, too, how that altered their lives. After all, all of us were volunteers, making a choice which ultimately was left in the hands of those who chose for us.

I sincerely hope that Rodgers’ life turned out well. Monkey-bars aren’t the most important thing in grasping through the obstacles of this life.

In retrospect, regardless of the endeavor, who wants to be left behind?