Comment Re:Good! (Score 1) 204
As another former soldier (also honorably discharged, as a Specialist), I'm calling bullshit on your call of bullshit. I read the parent's reply and nodded with each and every complaint he had. My MOS in the military was that as 92G - Food Service Specialist (I maintain this as the biggest mistake in my life). Basic was a joke, I never should have graduated when I did as I spent the entire first week in quarters (this alone should have forced me to restart the cycle, IMO); I only did so for three reasons:
A) I barely hit enough targets
B) I barely ran fast enough
C) I didn't make my drill sergeants too mad at me (excelling only in book learning and Land Nav, I took an otherwise heads-down approach)
From our company about two dozen people fell out of our final victory run (6 miles, IIRC), and the pace was moderate at worst.
I was Whiskey (you know~) Co. at Ft. Lee, VA (I forget which BN, the one for Quartermasters, doesn't really matter now). It was a continual, downright embarrassment. Day one, after everyone else had gone to their training unit, my group of 70+ people waited for four hours for our sergeants to arrive. Then we sat in our common room for four hours, doing nothing. Then they realized that, hey, we might want to have dinner, so they managed to scrounge up a box of MREs for us. Much latter in the cycle, one of my and another platoon's SSGs came quite close to fisticuffs, in front of both platoons, over who would be able to use the bus to move their platoon. My platoon had to go to a training center on the other side of the post. The other platoon had to go four blocks, and apparently the other SSG didn't want to march his 98ish person platoon (yes, 98) the four blocks. (That's nothing, an incoming platoon the week we did our final field mission was 120 or so, I believe.) During this time I learned enough to basically work at a Golden Corral, if that. I had to relearn most of the actual cooking once I was assigned to my final unit. My final PT card was falsified, a fact which I found out only after arriving at my final unit, and I only knew this because the sergeant that filled it out put down the wrong time to get the minimum of 60 points (the time he put down would have actually given me 55 or so) and did not put down the right number of sit ups (he once again put down the minimum, when I know for a fact I did 10 above that).
At my unit, the first E6 I had (who is now the only E7, from talking to friends still in) for us cooks was atrocious at any kind of leadership and taking care of her soldiers, preferring to accommodate requests from anyone above her rank, even those she couldn't realistically fulfill (such as promising an extra meal we did not have the supplies for at a time after we were to head back to the rear; thankfully another SSG stepped in and ended that one). After a nervous breakdown one night (which began the path to my discharge) I straight-up told her that I had planned to kill myself, and wanted to see a psychiatrist or maybe even check into the psych ward (I had come out of a deep depression, but did not know if I'd go back in). Her reply, literally, was "Well, soldier on." Later she gave me a card with the number for 1 Stop (I think that was the number, whatever they put on the ACE cards). My BN commander would sometimes get on the radio during field missions and curse out a SSG or SFC who had the audacity to confirm a conflicting order from their own 1SG. Dates for field missions often were not confirmed until two or so weeks before the actual start (an issue for us cooks because we had to put in UGR orders 30 days in advance). My direct CO called my direct SGT a "fucking retard", to my face. One of my squad members was dealing with depression and I was worried he was going to lash out at someone and even threatened many times to do it; I talked to his SGT (who was one year younger than I) multiple times about this and, to my knowledge, nothing was ever done. They drilled it into us in Basic to not salute in the field, and when I walked past our BN COIC, gave the greeting of the day, and kept on moving, I was chewed out by a SSG. Asking around, no one could give me a firm answer if I was right or wrong. Later, when I saluted a Chaplain, a SFC chewed me out for doing so (thankfully, he was one of the reasonable ones I admired, and after explaining he just told me that the SSG was a "fucking idiot").
Cooks would come in to work drunk, have disheveled (or, worse, dirty) cook whites, and more, yet they would just be told time and again to fix it and nothing more; in the entire cumulative year I was at that DFAC I saw maybe one cook get a counseling statement. Sometimes they would be forced to bring in all their whites and iron them there, but that just meant they'd have enough fresh whites for a week, at most. Meanwhile the entire morning shift would be made to stay late because one person f'd up their meal, regardless of how admirably the other sections were (yes, we try to help each other as much as possible, but that's not always possible). And, thanks to Congress and the budget, CFI wouldn't always have the proper size shirts/pants when ours would invariably get stained, and despite even bringing back notes about this and checking every week an E7 would still go off on us now and then.
On one of my last field missions I was awake for nearly 72 hours straight because our E6s couldn't be arsed to A) figure out a proper plan, B) have the trucks packed properly (i.e. meals are put depending on how soon they will be used) which any of the drivers at TISA would be happy to help with if asked, and C) actually do some damn work themselves. And then they would both take the trucks to go to the rear for a resupply, and would always choose the same two or three soldiers to go with them (which almost always included both of our female SPCs). They would take hours upon hours, having the opportunity to actually shower, sleep in a bed, and do laundry.
Then there were the soldiers (E1-4). I read those stories about puppies (dead or alive) being thrown off cliffs, soldiers taking a shit on someone's Quran while searching homes overseas, and more, and I thought "That can't be all soldiers, we're just hearing about the worst cases like the news only talks about the worst car accidents." But, in my experience, the majority of the soldiers I met weren't far from such acts themselves. Gook, nigger, spic, raghead, all the names were used widely (and even in mixed company, if said company did not include the race being referred to). Many were either dumb as a rock or absolutely selfish (if not both).
As for the Advil thing, I agree with him. Unless you had a bone sticking our of your skin or were actively bleeding profusely, either sick call didn't care much or your chain of command thought you were trying to bail out. Not that I could blame them that much, because there were plenty of soldiers who would go "I don't feel like running, I'm going to claim a sprained ankle and go to sick call instead".
Maybe you've been in for a while; I have a theory that anyone past E6 P suffers from a form of Stockholm Syndrome, where they've deluded themselves that all the bullshit is good and intentional (especially hearing them threaten people with how horrible "civilian life" is). Maybe you've been lucky and were stationed with a good unit and good troops. All I know is that I went in hoping the military would drive some good habits into me and give me a sense of purpose, and instead all that happened between going in and coming out was a complete loss in both how disciplined I thought our military was and my faith in humanity. Call me a pussy if you want (I won't disagree), but the bullshit I went through drove me to the edge of suicide, and now I'm on medication for depression (and told that I will likely be on it my entire life). I knew some good SSGs and SFCs; I worked with one closely near the end of my Army stint, and we had some good discussions. But they were a small minority of the overall crowd, and will never get promoted because they don't spend all their time kissing ass and looking busy doing nothing.