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Fall 2008

Time seems to go on forever. It is not even two minutes into the first leg of the Army Physical Fitness Test. My arms are tired, and my shoulders feel like they are going to break.

“Keep going, cadet. You only stop when I say so,” says the Reserve Officer Training Corps (ROTC) Sergeant administering the test. 

I am on the second day of the four-day orientation for new cadets. On the first day, we enjoyed a welcome dinner. The second day is for demonstrating your physical fitness to join the ROTC program. I had read about it during the summer and have been preparing for the three-part test, which is to perform push-ups, sit-ups, and complete a two-mile run. I played baseball in high school. I am used to running, but sit-ups and push-ups? I needed to practice.

In the fall of 2008, at the start of my freshman year, I joined the Cavalier Brigade of the University of Virginia ROTC program. Dad dropped me off three days early so I could attend the ROTC orientation. The orientation is to last for four days. Then we go back to the main campus.

Before starting the physical test, the officer weighs me. I am five feet eleven inches tall, weighing 160 pounds. That is acceptable. When doing push-ups, I need to keep the correct posture and keep my body straight from the shoulders to the ankles at all times. I fail during the first ten push-ups twice. The Sergeant is sitting next to me, with one knee bent and his hand on my back to make sure I don’t bend.

“Okay. Take a ten-minute rest, and we do it again,” shouts the Sergeant, each time.

I am getting nervous, but don’t show it. I need to do my best. My whole career depends on this test. What will happen if I do not pass?

I prepare for the third time. I go past the first ten push-ups. Now there is no going back, no resting for another round. I succeed, or I am doomed.

“Forty, fifty…sixty…”

The count goes on. I can’t take it anymore, but I keep pushing with closed eyes. Finally, I hear the magic word “stop.”

I get up, all sore and perspiring.

“Good job.”

“How did I do?”

“Not bad, 85 in two minutes. Not too good, either. “

“I’ll take it,” I say to myself.

I proceed to the next test. I lay on my back with the Sergeant holding my feet to the ground as I raise my upper body with my hands crossed behind my head. I notice the Sergeant doesn’t count some sit-ups. Incorrect posture, not counted, he tells me later. I have an easier time completing the two-mile run in twelve minutes. My overall score for the three events comes to 250, just short of 270, which would have qualified me for a physical fitness badge. I am, however, delighted to have been declared eligible to join.

I learn that I need to take and pass the physical fitness test every six months.

For the next two days, I will participate in teambuilding exercises such as Paintball and a hike up the Humpback trail at sunrise.

*********

As I return to the main campus, I am more determined than ever to do the best I can in training to be a soldier. Since ROTC is an elective course, we are encouraged to participate in all the social activities on the campus. The ROTC education routine is the same week after week. Twice a week, we start the day with physical exercises. Once a week, we attend elective classes about military operations and tactics, and a day later, participate in a lab to practice what we learned in the class. I am cautious about my daily exercise routine and diet, lest I gain weight and fail the next fitness test.

I like the volunteer work done by the cadets. One week, we visit the Habitat for Humanity store and perform various duties such as assisting customers, moving items, etc.

“Arjun beta,” Mom says to me when I’m home for a holiday. “What a change in you. You are a different person.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“No. All a person has to do is look at you, and they can tell you are a soldier.”

“That’s what they teach us in the program, Mom.”

When I announced that I was joining ROTC, Dad didn’t understand why I wasn’t following the engineering track.

“Arjun beta,” he said. “What makes you think they will accept you in the Army? You’re not one of them. They will send you to godforsaken places. You think they’ll care about your life?”

“Dad, it’s what I’ve decided. I feel good about my prospects and the life I will lead in the Army. I’m an American. Born and bred here. It will be great to serve my country.”

“Whatever,” he said as if he had given up convincing me. “We’ll see. But don’t tell me later that I didn’t warn you so.”

******

Summer 2011

It is the month of July, the summer between my junior and senior years. I head to the Army Advanced Training camp at Fort Knox, Kentucky. Nobody gets to be a commissioned officer without completing the advanced training camp. The camp is a 31-day evaluation of a cadet’s leadership abilities, soldier skills, and fitness to be an officer worthy of leading a platoon.

The senior leader’s brief sets the tone during the reception.

“You may be a scholar at the university or a star sportsman. It doesn’t mean anything here. We want you to prove yourself and demonstrate that you have what it takes to be a soldier and a leader. Your peers and supervisors will evaluate you at each event you participate in.”

So says the Colonel making the presentation.

I listen with rapt attention, fear, and apprehension about the camp.

Weeks before the start of camp, I researched the preparation required of the cadets. I find a long list of items I need to carry with me. That list includes markers and plastic covers for maps, sturdy shoes, bug spray, extra hand sanitizers, and toilet paper, among a host of other things.

To be physically fit for the ruck exercises, I practice walking fast, carrying a 40-pound package.

I gather as much information about the camp as is available online. I realize that my peers and the supervising cadres will grade every event. A bit nervous, I try to keep a positive attitude.

It is sweltering in Kentucky, and the humidity is unbearable. We are away from everything, away from the comforts of college dorms, and have no regular contact with familiar people and food. I realize it is something we have to get used to, to learn how to survive if deployed to parts of the world with hot weather.

I am meeting new cadets from other universities. I have to be social and make friends, I say to myself. Will I be graded on that, too? After checking out all our stuff for unacceptable items, the Sergeant assigns our platoon number, squad number, and barracks. Some cadets get called out for weed possession. I am good in that respect. I learn I have to take turns acting as a Platoon leader or a Squad leader in simulated environments. I meet my drill Sergeant, one of the Cadres, and dislike him immediately. He has rough features and seems arrogant. Above all, he starts calling me Gandhi, which I dislike. With the last name Rodriguez, I would think he would be empathetic to minorities like me. But hey, this is the military. Maybe he is a noncommissioned officer and dislikes “privileged” college kids of “rich parents.”

I get a feeling that each of the thirty-one days is going to be grueling and challenging. One day, I am a minute late for the four a.m. assembly.

“Gandhi,” Rodriguez hollers, “are we having a problem getting up today?”

I start to say something, but don’t get a chance.

“DROP. Give me thirty push-ups,” he says.

Another day, he catches me talking with another cadet during a practice. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with that.

“Gandhi, get on your belly and crawl. You stop only when I say so.” His voice is loud and shrill.

I feel horrible and insulted. Nobody in my life so far has ordered me in this manner. I do as I am ordered. My forearms hurt from the gravel, and I can smell the dirt on the ground. I keep pushing. Is this the way to learn to be a leader? I say to myself. But maybe this is to get me to learn to accept authority and follow orders without question, an essential trait of a good soldier. Whatever, I hate him already.

At the dining hall, I made friends with Brian from Nevada. We try to sit together whenever possible.

“You want to know what I overheard yesterday?” Brian asks one day.

“Yes.”

“I heard they discovered two dudes smoking a joint in their barracks.”

“How can that be? We all had a check-up on the first day, didn’t we?”

“Yes. Don’t ask me how, but they smuggled the stuff somehow.”

“Oh my! What happened then?”

“They were punished.”

“Punished? How?”

“Well, I heard they submerged one under ice-cold water, and the other was asked to run until he collapsed.”

“That amounts to torture if you ask me.”

“More like Army discipline.”

For the next few nights, I cannot sleep. Have I done the right thing? I keep thinking. Why am I going through all this? What if I can’t pass training? What choice do I have then? Maybe I should have listened to Dad.

Today we have the navigation test.

“Cadets, you have four hours to find four points. Your route is marked on the map.”

So says the Sergeant. The map we are handed is not in color. Some letters are not visible, and some lines are faint or nonexistent. The map is too dark in some places or too vague in others.

The maps are not the easiest thing to read. Then, an hour into the test, it starts to drizzle. I have my plastic wrapper to keep the paper map dry. Thirty minutes later, the rain stops. I make a note in my notebook as I reach each point. Overall, it is not that much of a hassle for me. I find the four points in a little less than four hours. Some in my Platoon do not, and they are assigned for retesting.

So, it goes. We are trained in handling weapons and taken to a shooting range for practice. We learn basic first aid to be able to treat combat casualties on the field.

“Do you know what we are going to learn tomorrow?” Brian asks that evening.

“I have an idea. Isn’t it the Gas Chamber?” I say.

“Yessiree.”

“Are you looking forward to it?”

“Of course. It will be my favorite.” Brian says nonchalantly. I wonder if he is joking.

“Are you for real?” I ask.

“No. I am kidding. From what I hear, it is not going to be a joy ride.”

“Well. We’ll find out. Wouldn’t we? What choice do we have?”

I’m ready to accept whatever is to come.

The site for the test, which is technically called CBRN for Chemical, Biological, Radiological, and Nuclear, is a rectangular barn-like structure with red walls and a grey roof. Looks like a gas chamber indeed, I say to myself. Are we going to come out of it alive?

Rodriguez demonstrates how to put on the protective mask, how to take it off fast, and how to detect a chemical attack. We practice taking the mask off and putting it back on quickly. Then we go into a small room.

“Everyone, line up by the wall,” hollers Rodriguez.

We stand along a wall to the left with our backs to the wall. Rodrigues approaches each of us and cups our faces in his hands to ensure that we have put the mask on correctly. The female cadet next to me is shaking. We are asked to jog in place and do jumping jacks. My heart rate is climbing; I can feel it.

Rodriguez walks to the beginning of the line.

“Open your mask, cadet, and tell me your name and SSN.”

When he faces me, I am afraid he’s going to address me as Gandhi, but this time he doesn’t. I utter my name loudly, but mess up my Social Security Number. He moves on. It doesn’t matter to him that I made a mistake. How would he know?

We are asked to turn to our left. We are now standing in line with our backs to the entrance of the room.

“Take off your masks, and walk this way slowly and out.”

He points in the direction. Each of us has placed our right hand on the right shoulder of the person ahead of us. Rodriguez has left the room. They have released the tear gas. I smell gas, really strong. I am choking, and my eyes are burning and watery as I follow the cadet ahead of me. I want to get out. I am going to die. But I don’t. I survive and come out huffing and puffing, and my eyes are itching. All of us walk around in circles, flapping both arms up and down like a bird. I am sick to my stomach and throwing up. After I calm down, I wipe the stuff from my face and arms.

“Wasn’t it fun?” Brian asks.

“For you, maybe. Not for me.”

“Think of it this way. What will happen in a real-life situation? What will you do in combat when you are faced with this kind of exposure?”

“You have a point there.”

The day comes when it is my turn to be a Platoon Leader. The night before my turn, our Commander informs me of my mission. I have to lead my Platoon through a simulated but torturous terrain through hills. We have 48 hours to complete the assignment.

That night’s sleep eludes me with thoughts of keeping the soldiers, barely past their teens or in their early twenties, motivated. Will they be a rowdy bunch? If I cannot control them, then I am a failure. I get up early to make sure each of them has their weapons and other gear ready, and instruct all of them to gather in one place to review our mission and the responsibilities of each Squadron. Has everyone understood my instructions?

Sometimes I wonder if there is something wrong with the way I say things or if a soldier is just slow to learn. Some don’t follow what I’ve told them. A few hours into our journey, it starts to rain. One Squad leader has forgotten to bring a plastic cover for his map, and it gets wet and hard to read. I ask him to follow others. It is evident that not everyone has understood or mastered the knack of reading coordinates on a map, and there is a lot of discussion, loud talk, and shouting matches about what to do. I try to settle matters with the help of Henry from Texas, whom I have selected as my Platoon Sergeant. It helps to have someone you can trust.

We finish the first day and are ready to rest for the night. I instruct everyone to get up early the next day because we have lost time in arguments. Some of the soldiers are snoring. I have to “kick them out of bed.” They are mad at me. Later, during downtime, I talk baseball and other sports to ease matters. By the afternoon, everyone is hungry, and some don’t want to go ahead anymore. I realize that the squad with the wet map is no longer with us. They probably lost their way. I have to proceed without them. A while later, a tear gas grenade explodes in front of us. The “enemy” is ambushing us. There is smoke all over. I shout to ask everyone to pull their masks over their faces. I hope everyone remembers the instructions they received during the “gas chamber” survival training. Again, there is a scramble to run away, but Henry and I manage to keep most, if not all, together.

It starts to get dark. I hear a moan and look back to see a member of the platoon down on the ground holding his right ankle in his hand. I approach him only to find that he has tripped on a rock and twisted his ankle. I move his leg this way and that way to see if it hurts. I go to my backpack and bring a soft bandage. I wrap his ankle tight. Fortunately, he can get up and walk, albeit slowly. I assure him that he can make it to the finish line.

We finish our mission the next day. I have a feeling I’ve messed it up and am not going to get a good rating. On the contrary, the Commander congratulated me for completing the mission.

“Way to go, soldier. Bravo for completing the assignment. We look for leadership, confidence, and management skills at this time more than tactical acumen. That’s what counts.”

I am surprised to hear the encouraging words from the normally cold, detached, and staid cadre. The takeaway for me is to learn to stay calm and confident and keep my people motivated despite their negative attitudes and fatigue.

The last challenge we have is the 12-mile ruck, hiking, and carrying a load. It is hot and feels even warmer in our uniform. My pre-camp practice is of help. Fortunately, there is no pressure to complete it in a specific time.

We spent the last few days of the training camp cleaning up and turning in the weapons we used.

I didn’t get the highest ranking at the end of the camp, but I didn’t do very badly either. I finish in the top quarter of my class, and I am happy with that.

The day before the end of the camp is designated family day. Mom, Dad, and Krishna arrive by car from Virginia. On this day, we are allowed to leave the base. We go to the Tuscany Italian restaurant near the base. It feels good to be in an air-conditioned place with my family.

“How did you do, Beta?” Mom asks.

This is a time to brag about my accomplishments. I think of telling her about how I led a platoon, but I restrain myself.

“It was okay, Mom,” I say. “Lots of new things to learn. It’s one thing to learn the theory and another to use what you learned. Here, we got hands-on experience. I feel good about it.”

I don’t want to tell her about a few times when I was humiliated and punished by Sergeant Rodriguez.

“I don’t know much about military operations,” Dad interjects. “I hope they don’t deploy you to a war zone. But, if they do, all this training will be helpful, I guess.”

I am glad Dad has started to accept my decision to join the Army. I hope he sustains it in the future.

“I’m sure of that, Dad.”

*******

Summer of 2012

It’s graduation time. I have completed the ROTC program and will be receiving a second lieutenant bar. I am a commissioned officer in the United States Army. The ceremony is in front of the Rotunda. We are all dressed in the Army uniform. Mom and Dad are there to witness the ceremony. The noncommissioned Sergeants who were guiding us through the last three years salute us to acknowledge our new status. They take pictures of me with each of the graduating soldiers in my class, and then someone volunteers to take a group picture with all of us, including Mom and Dad. It’s all smiles and congratulatory handshakes. I say goodbye to my classmates and wish them well. Two of the ten cadets who were with me at the orientation have dropped out of the program.

I am looking forward to the future, whatever it is going to be.