would prevent you from doing an exercise that we ask of you or might cause you additional pain and suffering—
unless
your name is Kerry Fraser!” There were a couple more protocol instructions that singled me out, but I think you get the picture. I realized after the very first order was issued, and after taking note of the cold stares I was receiving from the drill sergeants, that these guys were all Leafs fans—I was doomed! I didn’t know whether to ask for the last rites or a blindfold.
My team was ordered off to the bayonet range first. It was about a quarter of a mile, and we were not allowed to simply walk—we were to jog, or preferably, double-time it on a dead run. Ever since I blew my knee out, I’d been confined to low-impact exercises—bike, elliptical glider, and so forth. On this day, I returned to jogging. If need be, I’d have had the damned thing drained afterward.
We were lined up in front of 75 pounds of battle gear, ordered to put it on, and instructed in the art of gutting the “enemy”—a stuffed dummy hanging on a hook. If you struck him in the right spot, with deadly force, he fell of the hook and “died.” Themaster drill sergeant was scary; our team lucked out and got the trained assassin, recently returned from a fifth tour. There was no doubt in any of our minds that this soldier enjoyed what he did for a living. (I’d use his name, but I fear he’d hunt me down!)
When the order to “kill” was issued, I lunged at the enemy, catching him off centre and causing him to spin on the hook, drawing the wrath of the sergeant, who yelled, “Fraser, are you having fun?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant.”
“Then hit the fucking thing, and don’t tickle it!”
“Yes, Master Sergeant!” We were never to address him as “sir.” That was our very first mistake as a group, and it sent him into a profanity-laced tirade that he’d earned his rank on the effin’ field of effin’ battle and not through some effin’ school or effin’ academy like an effin’ pussy. Well, I just wanted to kill my dummy and move on to the next exercise.
As luck would have it, the rope climb was just next door—a short jog through a ditch. The thick rope was attached to a large wooden beam 20 feet off the ground. We watched a soldier go up that thing like a monkey, hand over hand—and usually, they do it in full battle gear. We were allowed to use our legs as well as our hands and arms. The team scored a point every time one of us climbed the rope and slapped the beam at the top. We had a set time in which to complete the drill. I went up and down the rope four times. While it may not sound like much, some of our really strong linesmen were unable to make it to the top even once because their legs were so large and heavy. I was only pulling 156 pounds!
By this time, I was feeling pretty good about myself and was ready for the obstacle course. That’s where my luck ran out. One of the obstacles was a rope swing over a ditch, on the other side of which was a retaining wall of planks. My arms were still heavy from the rope climb, and when I jumped for the rope to catch it, Igot it too low and slammed right into the bloody wall and snapped my ankle back and to the side.
The drill sergeant saw what I’d done to the ankle, and for a fleeting second, I think, he almost felt some of my pain. Then: “Fraser, get your ass moving!” I made it on the second attempt, then finished up the rest of the course on adrenaline. As our team toured the barracks and visited with recruits, my deep respect and appreciation for what our military men and women do to keep us safe and free hit an all-time high. None of us can ever imagine just how demanding the training is, let alone the sacrifices (sometimes, the ultimate sacrifice) these brave men and women make for us. God bless you all, and thank you for your service.
For me, camp was over. My ankle blew up before we left the base, and by the time the school bus rolled up
unless
your name is Kerry Fraser!” There were a couple more protocol instructions that singled me out, but I think you get the picture. I realized after the very first order was issued, and after taking note of the cold stares I was receiving from the drill sergeants, that these guys were all Leafs fans—I was doomed! I didn’t know whether to ask for the last rites or a blindfold.
My team was ordered off to the bayonet range first. It was about a quarter of a mile, and we were not allowed to simply walk—we were to jog, or preferably, double-time it on a dead run. Ever since I blew my knee out, I’d been confined to low-impact exercises—bike, elliptical glider, and so forth. On this day, I returned to jogging. If need be, I’d have had the damned thing drained afterward.
We were lined up in front of 75 pounds of battle gear, ordered to put it on, and instructed in the art of gutting the “enemy”—a stuffed dummy hanging on a hook. If you struck him in the right spot, with deadly force, he fell of the hook and “died.” Themaster drill sergeant was scary; our team lucked out and got the trained assassin, recently returned from a fifth tour. There was no doubt in any of our minds that this soldier enjoyed what he did for a living. (I’d use his name, but I fear he’d hunt me down!)
When the order to “kill” was issued, I lunged at the enemy, catching him off centre and causing him to spin on the hook, drawing the wrath of the sergeant, who yelled, “Fraser, are you having fun?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant.”
“Then hit the fucking thing, and don’t tickle it!”
“Yes, Master Sergeant!” We were never to address him as “sir.” That was our very first mistake as a group, and it sent him into a profanity-laced tirade that he’d earned his rank on the effin’ field of effin’ battle and not through some effin’ school or effin’ academy like an effin’ pussy. Well, I just wanted to kill my dummy and move on to the next exercise.
As luck would have it, the rope climb was just next door—a short jog through a ditch. The thick rope was attached to a large wooden beam 20 feet off the ground. We watched a soldier go up that thing like a monkey, hand over hand—and usually, they do it in full battle gear. We were allowed to use our legs as well as our hands and arms. The team scored a point every time one of us climbed the rope and slapped the beam at the top. We had a set time in which to complete the drill. I went up and down the rope four times. While it may not sound like much, some of our really strong linesmen were unable to make it to the top even once because their legs were so large and heavy. I was only pulling 156 pounds!
By this time, I was feeling pretty good about myself and was ready for the obstacle course. That’s where my luck ran out. One of the obstacles was a rope swing over a ditch, on the other side of which was a retaining wall of planks. My arms were still heavy from the rope climb, and when I jumped for the rope to catch it, Igot it too low and slammed right into the bloody wall and snapped my ankle back and to the side.
The drill sergeant saw what I’d done to the ankle, and for a fleeting second, I think, he almost felt some of my pain. Then: “Fraser, get your ass moving!” I made it on the second attempt, then finished up the rest of the course on adrenaline. As our team toured the barracks and visited with recruits, my deep respect and appreciation for what our military men and women do to keep us safe and free hit an all-time high. None of us can ever imagine just how demanding the training is, let alone the sacrifices (sometimes, the ultimate sacrifice) these brave men and women make for us. God bless you all, and thank you for your service.
For me, camp was over. My ankle blew up before we left the base, and by the time the school bus rolled up
Similar Books
