BMT Chapter 3: Zero Week

Or: My own bald-headed camouflage colored hell.

The fluorescent lights that flickered on, accompanied by the screams of our flight leaders and the far more distant bugle sounding revelle were the most sickening sound I'd ever heard.

A mere 45 minutes ago my head was finally allowed to rest on the pillow. Now, I was being shouted out of bed, staggering to my locker and fumbling to put on my clothes, all of the while thinking that this was undoubtedly the most horrifyingly uncomfortable thing I'd ever done.

"What have we started here, T." The mind asks.

You don't want to know.

Overseeing the rousing of our flight is our T.I., Senior Airman Dumb Dumb (or DD, TI, SrA Idiot - all will be used interchangeably) whose main goal it was, it seemed, to threaten psychological harm to his flight leaders should the rest of us begin to move any slower than top gear.

Arriving three days late immediately had its disadvantages.

The all-important routines for the morning were beginning to congeal when I was thrown into the machine, one gaping wound of tender emotional flesh amongst fifty. The rest of the flight was already accustomed to the orders to "brush your teeth!" or "shave" or "make those beds!" and while I understood what they wanted me to do, I was never told how to do it. Therefore, I quickly developed a reputation as an idiot.

My wingman (of the day) was one of the element leaders. He was responsible for one of the four divisions of the flight who were, in turn, all supervised by the dorm chief.
My wingman was very excited to finally be beginning his military existence and seemed endlessly irritated that I hadn't spent the last couple of months learning how to make a hospital corner on a bed sheet.

(By the end of BMT, it should be pointed out, that this particular airman was regarded as slightly deranged, racist, angry and not very smart.)

If there is one thing worse than being drug to the edge of sanity, it is not knowing what to do once you get there.

I helplessly observed that first day, doing my darndest to look frantically busy, and yet having no idea how the beds were to be made, where the mattresses should be aligned, how the shirts should be hung, which buttons should be fastened, where the broom was located, where the broom was returned to... a seemingly endless list of rules that caused minutia to loom like the Himalayas.

Details and any supervisory positions had been handed out already. I therefore (as one of the older members of the flight) was fortunate to have been skipped over for consideration for dorm chief, element leader, day room chief, latrine queen, house mouse, hanger monitor, chow caller, guide-on bearer, entry control monitor, etc. I was defaulted to the ranks of worker bee. Hallelujiah.

I was assigned to be part of the latrine crew for work detail. This ended up suiting me fine. The bathroom had a door on it that separated you from the rest of the dormitory, allowing you at least a few moments to talk, cry or just quiver in the corner. Initially I would grab a handful of paper towels and re-clean areas someone else had done, but over the course of BMT I graduated to the floor, where I would walk on my haunches, lint roller in hand, trying to gather up any piece of dirt that I could find. Our latrine queen for the first couple of weeks had the intelligence of wet cardboard.

One thing I imagine everyone remembers during zero week is meal time. This is because we got to re-live this experience every time a new baby flight came in. Zero weekers wore their civilian clothes for the first four days or so, so when lined up for chow, they were immediately noticeable.
The theory during BMT is you strip absolutely everything away from your prospective airmen and see how they deal with it. Sleep, food, family, privacy, civility - every aspect of normal life is strategically peeled away leaving shivering nervous children whom they begin to baptize in the fire of BMT.

One of the biggest (most memorable) parts of this training was meal time. During zero week, you were given approximately 30 - 45 seconds (no exaggeration) to cram as much food as possible into your mouth before you were screamed out the door. Since dehydration was always a concern, you were required to drink three 8 oz glasses of liquid with each meal. Since this meant you would spend most of your meal time drinking, it was a good idea if you chose softer foods that could be gummed once or twice and swallowed, or would dissolve when it came in contact with water. Everyone's water glasses looked like a two year-old had been drinking out of them.

Most meals were served at a temperature that was ready for lightning consumption. Every once in a while something would come out too hot, and it was either left behind on the plate or you would take each bite with a gulp of water to help cool things off.

Such a dramatic change in the tempo of eating led to interesting gastrointestinal effects. As our flight became more comfortable around each other, we learned that it was a universal affliction: constipation. Personally, I held out for twelve days of basic training before anything felt a natural desire to remove itself. I expected it to look and feel like a Volkswagen.

These first few days were where they did their best to beat our heads full of all of the protocol, procedure and ritual which would enslave us for the next six weeks. One no longer just 'walked' somewhere. You marched. Your hands went somewhere. Your eyes went somewhere. You didn't turn around, you did a facing movement. We stopped living our lazy rounded-corner existence and learned to love a geometrically superior precision.

Among the chores completed during the first days were receiving an ID card, (I looked like a serial murderer. Should I ever go disappearing, that will be the picture that magically surfaces on the 6 o'clock news.) setting up direct deposit, completing emergency notifications, your first military haircut (bzzzzt!) and then finally we are marched to the clothing depot for initial clothing issue.

Two BDU tops (Summer weight)
Two BDU bottoms (Summer weight)
Two BDU tops (Winter weight)
Two BDU bottoms (Winter weight)
One blue web belt
One pair blousing straps
One BDU cap (Summer weight)
One BDU cap (Winter weight)
One field jacket
Four SI undershirt (brown)
Six pair black wool socks
Six pair black cotton socks
Six pair white cotton socks
Two pair combat boots
One pair PRT shoes
One SI duffel bag
Six pair white underwear
Two white PRT sweatshirts
Two white PRT sweatpants
Three PRT tshirt
Three PRT shorts

Having laden our new duffel bags to the brim with our treasures, we are marched off (now wearing a set of new BDUs,) our bald heads peaking out beneath our caps, sneakers instead of boots on our feet, lest we develop blisters.

Singing about "our glorious" Air Force on the march back to the dorms, over Hydration Bridge ("Everyone drink!!") I began to truly appreciate the time spent marching. If we were marching, it was one of the few times when someone wouldn't pop out of a hole and start yelling at you. We were typically up before the sun, and the early morning march to our first appointment was my favorite. The air was clean and brisk (being February, after all) and I decided that if it weren't for the whole "BMT" thing, this wouldn't be such a bad deal after all.

After all, they did give me army man clothes...