The week after taking the ASVAB had gone very quickly. The last time I was this excited was when I started the Law Enforcement Academy in 1999. My wife, however, was not as excited as me. In fact, she seemed downright gloomy.
She told me she didn’t want me to go off for months in that she couldn’t talk to me on a daily basis or send text messages or emails. What I tried to convey was we have the rest of our lives together, so what was four months? Other than sending me text messages, we didn’t verbally communicate. I was beginning to get the feeling that she was having second thoughts about me leaving for the Army. Part of me couldn’t blame her, but another part of me said this: I only have one life to live and this may be my last shot. She told me to go, but no girls are allowed in my room. She doesn’t have to tell me that. She’s all I want and need.
The following week I went to Montgomery. The “bus” I rode in was actually a van. The driver, a nice guy in his early sixties, talked with me exclusively. I guess it made sense, being closer to his age group than the others. Now remember when I drive, I practically have nerves of steel having experienced pursuits and emergency high speed . I’ve had trainees that made me nervous, even when one of my buddies got into a serious crash and we drove at very high speed to get to him. The trainee drove well and even though I got nervous, but never scared, that deputy trainee was the best driver (besides me lol) to drive that car that well.
The old man driving the van nearly caused all of us to be medically disqualified when, during a rain storm, a semi-truck parked on the shoulder of I-65 activated his left turn signal. Our driver slammed on the brakes and the van started to slide sideways. We were facing west bound while the van was traveling north bound. The driver let go of the brake pedal just as we were crossing into the inside lane and he regained control of the van. The semi truck never moved an inch until we passed by. The driver asked if he could get a ticket for slamming on his brakes like that. I said in a polite way “yes, I would definitely write you a ticket for that. It’s called DWHUA.” He asked what that meant. I told him it was technical acronym for careless driving. LOL. (It means Driving With Head Up Ass). The night before the physical, we stayed at a fairly decent motel. I was in the company of kids young enough to be my children. I met a couple of guys my age and older, but they were prior servicemen who were starting their second military career. The younger guys and gals were jamming out with their I-pods, “be-bopping” around the motel. I met a young Marine applicant who had to loose five or six pounds in less than twelve hours. Like the Marine shipper from 19 years ago, he waited a little too late to stop eating the junk food. He hadn’t eaten in three days and was on the verge of dehydration. Several of us had to convince him to stop or he would get disqualified or sent home for a med waiver. The poor Navy applicant that shared a room with him suffered as the Marine Applicant had the heater on that night.
For me, I shared a room with an Army shipper who was about to complete his final processing before going to Fort Jackson for Basic Training. He liked the a/c on high, as did I but it got so cold I thought about sleeping between the mattresses.
The next morning I got up at 0400, showered and shaved, and went down stairs for chow and at 0500 we boarded a bus. Another old guy, this time in his seventies, drove us to MEPS. He wore out a set of brakes before we got there. He had one foot on the accelerator and the other brake pedal the whole way up to MEPS.
I was told, prior to going up there, that Dr. Screwes was still working there but I found out he passed away at a “very old age” in 2002 or 2003. I didn’t think the old guy was still around, he was 90 years old when I had my physical 19 years ago. The physicals from yester-year were moot since many of the enlistment standards had changed. My earlier medical disqualification didn’t count so this was a second chance at joining the military. Other than the torture of the power point during the medical briefing, the physical went well. They took my blood, checked my eyes, blood pressure (I had to take it three times due to the tech not writing down my b.p.) and there was a battery of other examinations.
The whole time I was dreading the hearing test. I heard some say “press the button when the others are pressing the button.” I didn’t like that idea one bit. If I did have a hearing problem, and quite frankly I didn’t believe I had one, it would not be fair to the others or the Army. No, I wanted to know for myself. I went into a room and got into the booth with two other applicants, including the one who had his I-pod blaring in his ears the night before. I put on the ear phones as instructed by the tech and he shut the door. All I heard was the sound of my own breathing. At that moment it dawned on me I needed to breathe through my mouth. If you plug both ears, and breathe through your nose, the sound of your breathing will drown out any outside noise. The test began with a recorded voice providing instructions. The beeps in the test were noticeable but others were very faint. I pressed the button every time I heard a beep, or when I though I heard a beep. Sometimes in a situation like that your mind can play tricks. You may think you are hearing someone else’s “beeps” but you are not. You are hearing your own. Another thing is the fatigue from not getting much sleep the night before and getting a wake up call at 0400. People have been known to doze off in the booth. You have to remain alert and concentrate. If not, you will fail.
Five minutes and 45 seconds of cotton mouth. I was tempted to wet my mouth but I knew the moment I did I would miss the faint beeps and fail the test. When it was over I received my medical chart with the hearing scores. I saw several zeros, fives and tens in both ears. I could not remember the scores from the 1990 test, but I thought that when you see zeros, it was bad. “Well I gave it my best shot,” I said under my breath. At least I could get a drink of water.
We went into a large room with other males. Stripped down to our undies we duck walked, walked on our heels, walked on our toes, one leg stand, walked backward, and walked side to side. Then we stood in line for the weight and height measurements. I weighed in at 230 pounds and measured in at 27% body fat. Anything between 29 and 32% mean that I would have to take the ARMS test, which was an exercise consisting of stepping up an down from a twelve inch platform at a rate of 120 beats per minute and a series of puss ups. Then they check your blood pressure and if your b.p. or pulse rate were too high, they send you home for two months so you can work off the excess. I didn’t have to take the ARMS test since I measured at 27%.
I thought that was great, losing 43 pounds since February even if my hearing test didn’t fly. After the physical agility we went to a private room with a one on one. I will not discuss the particulars but fellows, you know what the doc checks for (the turn your head and cough) He asked me if I had a prostate exam and I said “no, sir.” I thought I was in trouble, because he had very large fingers. He said “ok, just think about it when you turn forty.” He then sent me to the Chief Medical Officer, just outside the room. I was relieved.
At the CMO’s office I was expecting to hear the worse. In fact the only thing I was confident about was that I was going to fail the physical in some way. After all, nineteen years had passed since my last MEPS visit, and the hearing issue that was “progressive, permanent and irreparable” was the only thing I had been sure of, or at least, led to believe. Several people before me walked out visibly upset. One female in particular found out she was pregnant. The two that submitted to the hearing test when I did, including the young guy that had been jamming out with his I-Pod, failed. They both re-tested, but the male’s hearing was “H-4.” H-4 meant this was the end of the road for him. He was ineligible for a medical waiver and he would be “blackballed” from enlistment. The female had “H-3” hearing; her medical assessment was taken before a waiver board for review. If she was granted a waiver she could get in. If not, it would be the end of the road for her, too. Now it was my turn.
In 2001 I remember my interview with the Sheriff’s Office. Before me were three SRSO Administration personal and two civilians. I remembered the cotton mouth, the butterflies in my stomach and knowing that the five people sitting across the table had some influence on my future. It was to be a go-no deal. Nothing about that interview was anything compared to sitting in front of the CMO and another senior physician. The senior doc had to have been as old as Dr. Screwes was in 1990, but not as decrepit. He even smiled, which was something Dr. Screwes never did. The CMO looked at my paperwork. He looked at me, looked down at the paperwork, looked at me again, and then showed my paperwork to the senior doctor sitting next to him, they whispered as the CMO showed the other doctor my chart. After their “side-bar” he cleared his throat and said “Mr. Holster, you are medically qualified to join the Army Reserve.” It was the longest twenty seconds of my life. I was in a state of shock. I actually passed the physical.
Without getting into details, the doctor said I was in fairly reasonable shape for my age and encouraged me to continue so I could be prepared for what is yet to come. No wavier boards, no follow-up consults, and no sitting by the phone waiting for a decision from a government official who could care less if I joined the Army or get killed by some crazy old bus driver.
After all of the medical assessments were completed, we all piled downstairs. We got called to the control desk be each of out own branch of service to get a meal ticket. Three hundred yards away was the Aviation Inn, which was where we went to eat. We walked over there and stood in line for the meal trays. We could eat whatever we wanted, and how much we want and the price was right. It didn’t cost us a dime and we didn’t have to be weighed again. I tried to continue doing what I had been doing and eat healthy stuff such as a salad or grilled chicken. Ok, I did eat something I had not enjoyed for quite some time: a cheeseburger and fries and I washed it down with tea. Just with an average burger and order of fries I was full. My Marine buddy, Cody, got two bacon double cheeseburgers, chili-cheese fries, a hot dog and he went back for a desert. He wasn’t the only one that “went to the trough.” Several others ate as if they had been starving for days.
I walked back to MEPS and went upstairs to the second floor. There I would sit in a waiting area and would be called on a loudspeaker to see my Army Reserve Guidance Counselor, Master Sgt. Jorge Calderon. The others that failed the physical went downstairs and had to wait until 1600 hours for their respective buses to arrive to take them home. I finally got paged to see the Army Reserve GC, and I went into a room with a half dozen Army GC’s, a dozen other applicants, and the Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge, Master Sgt. Tom Mitchell. MSGT Calderon and I looked at my qualifications and what I wanted. I could have been a “Chemical, Biological and Nuclear Specialist,” which sounds impressive, a “Petroleum Specialist” or a “Motor Transport Operator.” The MTO is the Army’s designation of a certified driver of large trucks. For those who have known me for long time, I cut my teeth driving big trucks. Fire trucks, tow trucks and motor homes were my mainstay before being commissioned as a deputy. I have always loved to drive and this job was right up my alley.
MSGT Calderon said I would be trained to operate everything from the Humvee to the M1070, which is a very large truck that transports the Bradleys and the M1A2 Abrams Main Battle Tank. That tank is 60-70 tons! I would be assigned to the 309th Transportation Detachment in Panama City, Fl. and could begin drilling there before I ship to Basic Combat Training.
I knew this day had gone too easy and uneventful. I was the oldest non-prior applicant and passed the physical with flying colors to include the dreaded hearing test. I even ate a sensible meal, even if it wasn’t a salad or grilled chicken. But something had to give, and it did. Basic Combat Training starts every week of the year except during the middle of December. But each applicant’s actual start date depends on their Advanced Individual Training (AIT). AIT is where a solider goes to be trained for their Military Occupation Specialty (MOS), and it happens after the completion of Basic Combat Training. With that being said, the date of the next available AIT for my MOS would determine when I ship to basic. In my case, I would ship on July 2, 2009. I would have shipped to Ft. Leonard Wood, Mo for BCT and AIT. And I would have been home well before Christmas, maybe even before Thanksgiving.
This would have been great for others but not in my case. I had been told that my delayed entry would be for six to twelve months, which would give me plenty of time to not only get into shape, but it would help my wife and I prepare for my four to five month absence. It would also assist in making sure my SRSO responsibilities were met. I could live with three months but not two. If I were fresh out of high school with no wife and son, no job, no mortgage and no responsibilities, I would have wanted to go the next day. As a man approaching middle age, with a wife, son and the responsibilities therein, coupled with my current assignment with the SRSO I had to do the sensible thing and weigh the sacrifices versus the benefits. From where I was sitting it was clear. This was not going to work out.
I was told it was a “take it or leave it deal.” I was also told the Army’s quota for the fiscal year was nearly complete and there had been some talk about lowering the maximum age of enlistment for non-priors back to 35 years old as the Army National Guard did in March. MSGT Mitchell called me into his office and asked me to shut the door. I gave him my life story and told him I really wanted to enlist but the date of shipping out was way too soon. He agreed and told me for someone my age and qualifications to set out on an endeavor such as military enlistment, deserves some concessions. He contacted his headquarters and got approved to get my dates pushed back. The downside was that I would have to stay in Montgomery for another night. I left MEPS empty handed but returned the following morning.
The date was September 23, 2009. Now were talking! I was just about to sing on the dotted line when I realized that I needed to call my wife. She said it was still too soon and I should just come home until some things improved and we would look back into it. I couldn’t blame her. She had some well founded concerns and it would not be the same not having me around the house for four to five months. I recalled a line from the movie “White Man Can’t Jump.” Wesley Snipes’ character told Woody Harrelson’s character to “Listen to the woman.” Snipes was right. She was my wife, my best friend and I promised that I would never let her down or make a decision that would hurt our marriage or my career. I went home that day and spend the weekend lamenting on what could have been. I thought about the sign on bonus, which would have paid of some debts and then some, the Montgomery GI Bill, going through BCT and AIT and the though of becoming a United States Soldier. And now it was over. I got my second shot. This time it wasn’t a “hearing problem” or weight or anything physical. I “knew” that I wouldn’t go back up there. It was just not meant to be. I caught hell from my recruiter, but not in a bad way. His job is to recruit and when an applicant passes the physical but doesn’t sign, he has a lot of explaining to do. He mentioned some things that made sense, but then again, I wasn’t a teenager graduating from High School or an unemployed person looking for a career.
So back to the old same old same old. No Army career for me. NOOOOOOOOO!!! I was probably more aggravated than angry. I had a chance to go. I didn’t tell my wife, but in my mind, this was her fault. I would have never went up there had she not tell me to go for it. She was being downright selfish, so I have to give up on my dreams just to make her “feel” better.
I came home Friday afternoon, and not once during weekend did we talk. She wanted to go play bingo with her mom, and shop and do other stuff while I got stuck around the house cleaning and doing chores that should have been done while I was gone.
But I guess that’s the life I chose. I get to sacrifice my own dreams and desires and happiness to make someone else feel better. Hopes, dreams and aspirations are bullsh*t. Or was I just mad because my wife wanted me to do the sensible thing? But then again, what is the right thing or the wrong thing to do? We shall see.
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