“routine,” and that was it. They conducted their work silently, like aliens examining an abductee. I admit I was a little weirded out by the whole thing, but then I looked at it another way.
This is good, I thought to myself. Maybe I’m just not used health care that is this good. This place is equipped. If anything happens to me out here, they can handle it.
It made sense that the hospital here would be equipped and ready to deal with anything. If there were a medical emergency out here, there was no other place to go.
After my exam, somebody took me to a small room to wait. From there, two MPs took me to another room for “processing.” This was where they made my ID. They took photos and scanned my face, my retinas, and my palm prints. Like with the medical exam, I thought the amount of information they gathered was a little overkill (and a little freaky), but again, I told myself they were just being thorough. It must have been part of the high-level clearance thing.
I was excited about meeting the other members of the “special unit” I was assigned to – excited, but also scared. Although I hadn’t even met them, I desperately wanted to be accepted by these guys. I wanted to fit in with them in a way I never did with the last group. I didn’t know what to expect. Maybe these guys would be a bunch of psychos or perverts like the ones in my unit in boot, but still, if that turned out to be the case, I wanted to be the one to reject them, not the other way around.
The Chandler the Handler (as I started to think of him) arrived at my room. He had my new security ID (which they had manufactured with incredible speed).
“Congratulations,” he said, handing it to me. I clipped the ID to the front pocket of my shirt. I felt proud wearing it, as if it were a badge or a medal I’d won for some heroic effort or courageous act. In reality, I hadn’t done anything, but that fact that I had a military security clearance of any grade felt impressive.
“Alright,” he said. “Now it’s time to see your new home.” Chandler led me out of the room, down several halls, and to a door with guard posted at it. The MP’s hard blue eyes steeled as they met mine and then scanned me from head to toe, mentally weighing me and choosing what spot he would attack first in event of a fight.
The handler did not need to show his badge. The guard obviously knew him. Chandler, impressively not intimidated, looked at the man and said, “D-Unit.”
The guard nodded silently and turned to face the door. The door had an electronic lock. The handler placed his hand on a panel by the door. The guard did the same. They spoke passwords aloud. I heard the click as the door unlocked and swung inwards.
I noticed the guard’s hand was “resting” on top of the handle of his pistol, the same way you see cops do it on TV during traffic stops or other tense situations. I don’t know why the guard was nervous now. We weren’t in a hostile situation, but he was ready for one regardless. I didn’t get it. All we were doing was going into a room. There was no threat, unless he expected one to come out the door.
Then I got it. The guard’s job was to restrict access of who went in, but he was also controlling who went out.
I felt queasy. Weren’t these supposed to be the barracks? Why was there so much security? I had a bad feeling about this. I was starting to feel a lot like I did in the Army hospital ward in Texas, where I couldn’t tell if I was being held for observation, or being held in captivity.
10
There were seven of us in the room altogether. The group was really diverse. The whole Army was like that. I remember some old veteran saying the same thing during a speech at my high school. He said, “That’s the thing about the Army. It puts a lot of people with diverse backgrounds together who probably never would have met otherwise.”
I remember the old guy smiling as he said that, as if he were looking fondly back
This is good, I thought to myself. Maybe I’m just not used health care that is this good. This place is equipped. If anything happens to me out here, they can handle it.
It made sense that the hospital here would be equipped and ready to deal with anything. If there were a medical emergency out here, there was no other place to go.
After my exam, somebody took me to a small room to wait. From there, two MPs took me to another room for “processing.” This was where they made my ID. They took photos and scanned my face, my retinas, and my palm prints. Like with the medical exam, I thought the amount of information they gathered was a little overkill (and a little freaky), but again, I told myself they were just being thorough. It must have been part of the high-level clearance thing.
I was excited about meeting the other members of the “special unit” I was assigned to – excited, but also scared. Although I hadn’t even met them, I desperately wanted to be accepted by these guys. I wanted to fit in with them in a way I never did with the last group. I didn’t know what to expect. Maybe these guys would be a bunch of psychos or perverts like the ones in my unit in boot, but still, if that turned out to be the case, I wanted to be the one to reject them, not the other way around.
The Chandler the Handler (as I started to think of him) arrived at my room. He had my new security ID (which they had manufactured with incredible speed).
“Congratulations,” he said, handing it to me. I clipped the ID to the front pocket of my shirt. I felt proud wearing it, as if it were a badge or a medal I’d won for some heroic effort or courageous act. In reality, I hadn’t done anything, but that fact that I had a military security clearance of any grade felt impressive.
“Alright,” he said. “Now it’s time to see your new home.” Chandler led me out of the room, down several halls, and to a door with guard posted at it. The MP’s hard blue eyes steeled as they met mine and then scanned me from head to toe, mentally weighing me and choosing what spot he would attack first in event of a fight.
The handler did not need to show his badge. The guard obviously knew him. Chandler, impressively not intimidated, looked at the man and said, “D-Unit.”
The guard nodded silently and turned to face the door. The door had an electronic lock. The handler placed his hand on a panel by the door. The guard did the same. They spoke passwords aloud. I heard the click as the door unlocked and swung inwards.
I noticed the guard’s hand was “resting” on top of the handle of his pistol, the same way you see cops do it on TV during traffic stops or other tense situations. I don’t know why the guard was nervous now. We weren’t in a hostile situation, but he was ready for one regardless. I didn’t get it. All we were doing was going into a room. There was no threat, unless he expected one to come out the door.
Then I got it. The guard’s job was to restrict access of who went in, but he was also controlling who went out.
I felt queasy. Weren’t these supposed to be the barracks? Why was there so much security? I had a bad feeling about this. I was starting to feel a lot like I did in the Army hospital ward in Texas, where I couldn’t tell if I was being held for observation, or being held in captivity.
10
There were seven of us in the room altogether. The group was really diverse. The whole Army was like that. I remember some old veteran saying the same thing during a speech at my high school. He said, “That’s the thing about the Army. It puts a lot of people with diverse backgrounds together who probably never would have met otherwise.”
I remember the old guy smiling as he said that, as if he were looking fondly back
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