JRTC

The conversations move like a late summer steam, not the mad rush of the spring snow run off, nor the frozen still of December but the gentle trickling of August, not place to be, just floating from rock to rock towards an unknown destiny. Such is the flow of conversations when held for their own sake. No information to put out, no argument, just talking to pass the long hours until chow, until lights out, until the end of JRTC, until home.

The water emanating from the shower was barely more than a trickle, far to little to rinse the shampoo from my hair. Though the thin walls of the shower trailer, Soldiers are screaming: “ Cover me. Go, Go, Go. One up. Two up. Three up.” Directly in front of the female showers they had created mock houses of ply wood and were now practicing clearing the rooms of enemy personnel, sliding quickly though doorways with weapons at the ready. Their strategic locational choice, close to naked women, is amusing, but not surprising.

For a week, JRTC was a whirlpool, struggling against a current of Soldiers who needed better training, Trainer/Mentors who wanted a different organizational structure, a boss who demanded the physically impossible to the downright illegal. During this time I never saw my cot by the light of day, leaving for a 0630 meeting and only returning after midnight, fighting to swim, or only keep my head afloat, above the riptide, seeking to carry me away.