Basic Blues

The first days of Basic Training are a test, not only for Soldiers, but also for  parents. We’ve all seen “Platoon,” and “Full Metal Jacket,” and we have a mental image of our kids going through the various stages of training.

Tears that could flood a desert come from nowhere, for no reason, and never seem to stop. This is normal. When children leave home, a large part of us goes with them. We have spent years raising them, being with them daily, and suddenly they are gone. We grieve the loss of their physical presence: a normal reaction, intensified by knowing where they are, and what they are about to face.

Tanner joined the Army National Guard in December 2000. In February 2001, the day I had to drive him to his recruiter’s office, I did so with mixed emotions of pride and fear. That last hug, that final goodbye, and the lonely drive home through blinding tears, are a blur.

I was shocked when the phone rang that night. “Hi, Mom. I’m in a hotel in MA and fly out to MO early tomorrow. I’ll write when I can. Write me a lot of letters. I’ll let you know the date of graduation. Hope you and Dave can make it. I love you, Mom. Thanks for everything.” 

The phone call was over. I remembered something I wanted to ask Tanner, and picked up the phone to call him back. Suddenly, it dawned on me; I can’t call my son! In twenty years, he has never been more than a phone call away from me. Oh my God! I can’t even call my own son!

The tears started, followed by body wracking sobs that would not stop. I called my brother, Dave, who had been the only father figure Tanner knew since his dad died when he was only four-years-old.

All I was able to say was, “Dave…Dave, help,” and then dropped the phone. I was all alone in the house with two dogs. Pepper was Tanner’s dog, and Little Bit was mine. Both of them kept tying to lick the tears from my face. Dave arrived about ten minutes later, and spent hours calming me down.

My life was in such turmoil. My son was gone. I was moving to a new apartment one town over, and was cleaning houses during the day to make a living. I spent my nights crying, packing and moving boxes, and my days crying while cleaning other people’s homes. Thank God they were all at work when I was there.

I felt lost and alone. I couldn’t call, didn’t have an address, and only knew that Tanner was at Fort Leonardwood MO. It seemed like years until his first letter arrived. He was never much of a writer, and his first letter brought little consolation.

“Hi, Mom. I’m writing from Fort Lost-in-the-Woods, Misery, USA. I got a shot in my ass. It hurts. Tell everyone to write, but make sure they put a 3 on the back or I have to do pushups to get my mail. I’m ok. Love you, Mom.”

Subsequent letters told of his training, the heat, muscle soreness, blisters, missing home, reading the Bible, getting smoked: mostly negative news, but always ending with, “I love you and I’m okay.”

I was still quite the basket case of emotions, running to the mailbox, and getting excited when there was a letter, and so angry when there was none. I cried daily for my son because I missed him so much, and for the pain and stress that he was going through.

Tears came frequently, caused by nothing and everything: a song, the smell of his aftershave, driving past his old high school, seeing a flag, grocery shopping for one instead of two, seeing someone who knew he had joined, and asking if I had heard from him. Anything could make me cry…and did. What made it worse, was that I had no one to talk to except Dave, and even that was difficult because he was going through his own pain. I was not aware of any Internet support groups, and knew little about his recruiter.

About six weeks after Tanner left, I noticed a change in his letters.

“Mom, I got to repel down a tower. It was so cool!”
“Mom, I scored expert in hand grenades!”
“Mom, I did great in PT today!”

There was still the undertone of homesickness, but the pride that Tanner felt in himself and his accomplishments, was unmistakable!

Even when his news was positive, I still found myself having rough days. I remember losing control when the phone at my new apartment wasn’t hooked up correctly. For some reason, my phone line was hooked  into the one on the second floor. Tanner called and the people upstairs answered, telling him I didn’t live there!

I’m lucky I didn’t end up in jail over the way I blasted the phone tech. Picture me at five-foot nothing, 115 pounds, screaming at the tech, “If I miss a phone call from my son, I’ll rip every phone line out on this street with my bare hands!”

The repair took place quickly. Within fifteen minutes, the phone rang and it was my son. Of course his first question was, “What’s wrong, Mom. Why are you all out of breath?”

“Nothing’s wrong, son. I’m just unpacking boxes.”

We learn to avoid the truth, and talk of nothing but good news and how proud we are.

My brother and I decided to drive to MO for graduation. We left CT at 10:00 at night to avoid traffic, in a rented Buick. I remember being tired the next morning somewhere in PA, and asked Dave to drive, telling him not to get off the highway and wake me in an hour. When I crawled in the back seat, he was cruising along at about 70 miles an hour.

I never could sleep well in a car, and after about 45 minutes of tossing and turning, I sat up and saw a horse’s ass in front of us. We were behind a horse and buggy, traveling at 10 miles an hour!

Dave explained (through my screaming at him that if we were late for graduation I would kill him) that he jumped off the highway for a few minutes to see Amish Country. I thought it best not to hand him the wheel again for the rest of the trip.

We arrived in MO tired, but on time. Dave and I stood on the grass under a tree, while Tanner’s unit marched by. I saw my son in his uniform for the first time, and the sight is one I will never forget. The first time you get to hug your Soldier in uniform, is worth every bit of pain you felt since the day he or she left.

Barracks Open House and a banquet followed the family pre-briefing. We returned the next morning for the graduation ceremony, and got to take Tanner back to the hotel with us for two days. We spent a lot of time listening to Tanner tell us the basic horrors of Basic, but we also heard such pride in his voice that he was now a United States Soldier.

Basic training conditioned his body and mind. Days of no sleep, blisters, working in pain, intense heat, loneliness, picking up the slack of others, all experiences of Basic, are lessons he learned then and uses daily now. His time spent in Basic, is what keeps him alive seven years later.

Tanner told me that was got him through Basic was the intense training, my strength, letters from home, his Bible, and the knowledge that he could do anything he put his mind to – something I have told him all his life.

© Arlene R. O’Neil
Proud Parent of a US Soldier

Copyright 2006 Arlene O’Neil All Rights Reserved

Arlene R. O'Neil is the very proud parent of a US Soldier, and Author of "Broken Spokes," a soon to be released novel. In addition to being an author, Arlene is a self-employed editor and proofreader and is a regular contributor to www.goarmyparents.com. A member of several blind dog lists, Arlene is involved in animal rescue and transport. Currently, she resides in Connecticut, and may be contacted at arleneoneil@aol.com