From just about the first moment I entered Tracen Alameda in August of 1974, it was obvious that anyone from Texas would ultimately have a bigger hill to climb in getting to the end of boot camp than everyone else. Insult upon insult was thrust upon anyone admitting they were from Texas. Guys had to do extra pushups just because they were from Texas. For reasons I’ve never understood, Texans drew more attention from the Company Commander than non-Texans. The first time I saw the movie Full Metal Jacket, I howled out loud as senior drill instructor GySgt Hartman berated some poor recruit after learning he’s from Texas, “Holy dogshit! Did you know that the only difference between a Texan and a five-gallon bucket of shit is the bucket?”
There was one inspection when our CC let loose on a Texan standing next to me. “What’s your third general order? In an instant moment of hesitation, the CC immediately shouted out, “Do you speak f**king English? Why are you moving? Are you not supposed to be standing at attention? Can you not follow simple orders? You got a hemorrhoid? Or did you forget to wipe your ass this morning? Why are you even breathing? Are you not competent enough to trim the hair in your f**king nose? Jesus H. Christ! Your face looks like an asshole. Daddy must be so proud of you – is he the one who gave you your middle name, F**ked-up? Do you get excited at mail-call? Well! I Bet no one else is excited as you, huh? I bet you got a girlfriend back in Texas … with a stinky tail and a long mane. Now get down and gimme twenty-five. Oh f**k it. Being from Texas, you can’t count. I’ll just tell you when to stop.”
I stood there not moving a muscle fearful that I would be subjected to a similar fate. As the poor recruit was loudly counting off his pushups, the CC moved in front me and shouted out, “What is your third general order? Without hesitation I recited, “Sir, my third general order is to report all violations of orders I am instructed to enforce, Sir.” And with that, the CC moved on. I felt as though I had dodged a bullet. After completing his twenty-five pushups, the Texan next to me quickly got up, adjusted his uniform and stood firmly at attention. I gave a quick glance and noticed a repressed smile on his face – almost as though he was a proud Texan who had endured and survived this little berating as though it was no big deal.
Semper Paratus
Martin's Mercurial Musings 