Eight Weeks.

I remember like it was yesterday, walking through the gate and out onto the runway to board my plane. One of the really small planes that had a lot of turbulence. I sat towards the back and had tears streaming down my face as I watched my home fade into the clouds like an old memory.

I walked into battalion in the middle of the night. There were people from all over the country sitting around me Indian style on old worn out carpet. We were listening to more experienced soldiers scare the living shit out of us. I don't remember much of what was said except that there was an amnesty box in the back of the room and if we had contraband, now was the time to get rid of it or suffer the consequences. What those were I didn't know but I didn't have anything to worry about; the person I was planning on turning into didn't break rules or push the envelope.

Finally the talking ended and we filed into fluorescent rooms with identical double door lockers and rows of metal bunk beds with ancient mattresses that were laden with thin white sheets and green woolen blankets that smelled a little like moth balls. I had arrived at basic training and this was my new reality, the new life I had chosen for myself. A new beginning.

Nothing was familiar. There weren't any comforts of home to be had and any attempt at becoming too cozy was squashed by a DS(drill sergeant)just waiting to drop you on your face.

It wasn't 8 weeks. Basic training was 8 weeks but that did not begin the moment you stepped foot on Uncle Sam's property. I had to be in processed before those 8 weeks started and it killed me. I needed a goal, something tangible to hold onto to comfort me while my footing was no where to be found. Everything was taken from me and stuffed into a bag and vaulted. They literally strip you down to nothing and turn you into a number, and a last name. I was no longer me. I was nothing more than a Private, if I was lucky I was Private Doughty.

The scariest thing to me at the time, scarier than even the possibility of going to war, was the shots. I've got to be kidding, right? I'm not. My heart raced a million miles an hour thinking about it. I asked everyone I dared speak to what it was like. They didn't use needles there, they used guns. Guns that shot liquid into your arm like tiny shards of glass. It was quick and felt like a fire shooting through my arm. I passed out after the first one. Not right away, though. I was standing in line for the second and passed out right in front of a room full of people. I held onto the person ahead of me and started laughing like I was just given a shot of morphine and fell straight to the ground. Thankfully, I wasn't the only one.

A week passed before I climbed aboard the bus that would take us to our new home for the remainder of my stay at Fort Jackson. The place where I would finally begin the 8 week countdown.

Basic from that point on was just that. You're there to learn the basic skills and mentality that you need to survive as best you can if sent to war.

"What makes the green grass grow?"

"Blood, blood makes the green grass grow Drill Sergeant!!!!"

We shouted that response as we did flutter kicks at 3 am. Just for fun.

They teach you about propriety. How to salute, how to stand when in the company of other soldiers with higher rank than you. It is all very political and can be quite degrading. But there was a lot of honor as well. A sense of respect was commanded from higher ranking, at least there anyway.

Some of the soldiers were picked on for being slow or not being able to shoot a gun properly. I was never one of those but I was one of the soldiers who would quietly take pity on the guy in front of everyone doing push up after push up while mail was being passed out. I hated seeing the underdog get singled out.

The food was horrible but we ate it and fast. There was never enough time for chow and they would hold food over our heads as if it were a reward. The DS's would scan the chow hall looking for someone with their hair all jacked up or perhaps someone brave enough to take dessert with their meal just hoping to humiliate them. I never loved cake so much in my life. I could have cared less if I ate sweets before, but the minute someone told me I couldn't have it I craved it like an addict craves his fix. What I would've done for a piece of shitty chocolate cake.

Learning about my M16 was great and I was good with my rifle. Even with a bum eye. I had to use my right eye to find the target then take aim because my left is basically useless. It didn't matter though, I was quick. My DS stood behind and watched one day as the rain poured down upon me. I was flat on my belly, my rifle propped and ready, nailing target after target.

"Now that's the way it's done." he said.

I'd never felt so proud in my life. My self confidence skyrocketed that day; I'll never forget that feeling.

They tell you that DS's are there to break you down to nothing and then build you back up. Their job was half finished with me because I had already been broken. But when I left basic I had a sense of pride within myself that felt better than any high I had ever experienced. I truly felt I was capable of anything.

I'll never forget those 8 weeks. As they came to a close I wished that it would never end. I didn't want this feeling to pass and I certainly didn't want to leave my new found family. But eventually we all left. And gradually, over time, so did the confidence.

A piece of that pride still resides in me, but once your track is laid, you are who you are and it's going to take a lot more than 8 weeks to change that. It sure was great, though, for that small amount of time, to feel invincible.