NCOs

Though we are not supposed to even move while standing in line standing still with eyes to 
the front, people talk, turn around, joke and even light up a smoke. 
The NCOs eventually gave up on trying to quiet us down (ours took longer than other units) because
sometimes we don't even listen to what they had to say. Some privates talk back at them.

I am amazed by what our NCOs are having to suffer. What a contrast this all must be when compared
to what they had to (and still are) going through. The situation is made more awkward because they
are younger than us. Suddenly, these mere youths of 19 years, who serve for 18 months, find themselves
the superior officers for a bunch of reluctant, spoiled privates. Some of us are old enough to be their
fathers, and we complain incessantly about our month-long service. Their inherent respect towards
elders prevents them from being too harsh with us. I can still hear one of them addressing the company
at the mess line on a day when we were particularly rowdy. "Look, I can't really shout at you.
You are all older than me, as old as my father or my older brothers. Please don't make me shout."
It didn't have much effect. 

Like they say, age has nothing to do with wisdom. I flinch inwardly as I witness these young people
trying unsuccessfully to officer us. It's not that we can't be punished. But the punishment barely
amounts to more than cancellation of weekend leave.

Not only do they serve 550 days, but they suffered boot camp for two months (compared to our so-called
boot camp which lasted one week). Their boot camp experience was much more severe than ours. They
are the ones who are responsible for everything we do and they get shouted at by the officers when
something goes wrong. They have to keep the armed watch on the periphery of the compound, each one is
on sentry four hours a night.

C., our sergeant, has 352 days to go. He’s young enough to be a freshman in one of my classes.
He’s bright, intelligent, and is suffering from being in the military. They’ve given him some sort of 
job where he handles all the guidance and psychology files of the battalion, and a place, slightly 
removed from the rest of the battalion area, in which to work. It’s only 2-300 yards away, but it’s 
enough for him. He goes there every chance he gets. He can’t wait to be finished with his service. 
He has a son, who is forty days old, whom he has only seen in a photo. He says he’s saving up his 
vacation time so he can go and visit for a whole month. 

His office: details, it’s all in the details. Imagine a crowded and disorderly table with all kinds 
of paper and forms scattered around, almost all of which are on low quality yellow paper. Two hole 
punch, cheap plastic dossiers, an ashtray overflowing, and a half burnt cigarette, which issues 
smoke frantically (yet with profound boredom.) He’s shuffling everything around, muttering to himself. 
Low, dim, harsh white fluorescent lighting; bare whitewashed walls (or once were whitewashed); and 
the cold that permeates everything in this stone hole. 
He has 352 days left to go. 

Pittsburgh 10 November 2000