I’m awake. The door bursts open, screaming, bed being shaken until I’m out of it and getting dressed. It’s the first morning of Hell Week. Hell Week, lovely name for it. Have to get into my issued PT clothesshorts, shirt, and leg wrappings. No sweat, nothing difficult at all; it’s just like when I was at Valley Forge. Just like the “drills” we used to do there; get dressed in seconds when it’ll take a couple minutes because you’re disoriented and tired from lack of sleep. Well, most of us anyway; there’s a few of us who’ve already gone through this routine at another military school somewhere.

I’m dressed and rushing down the stairs. Where’s the rest of my squad? Damn, guess I’m one of the first ones on line. Being the first few to line up down on a white taped line in front of the quad. My sergeant paces back and forth along the tiles, screaming and hollering at us. I ignore him; tune him out for now. Look around without looking around; use my peripheral vision to look around the barracks. The building looks just like a castle, more Spanish style. The walls are lined with rooms where we live, the center of the barracks a large checkered quadrangle, red and white concrete tiles five feet by five feet. The rest of my squadmates show up; my sergeant wastes no time getting on them for being late when we’re still five minutes early to reveille. It doesn’t matter; if you’re early you’re on time, if you’re on time you’re late, if you’re late you’re absent formation.

The yelling is over for now, only because we’re in the front lean and rest position; pushups in layman’s terms. No sweat, nothing I haven’t done before. Well, maybe I was wrong… when I did do pushups there wasn’t 90 percent humidity in the air at 6:00 am. Twenty pushups isn’t so bad, but murder when you’re still dead tired. And now we’re forming up into a platoon: four squads with ten per squad; forty of us starting out. A majority of us probably haven’t done anything remotely like this before; glad I have some knowledge. Forward march is given, then double time. Running outside now, full sprint around the campus. Running, good God I hate running. I can do everything else except run; not in this climate anyway. I’m too used to the North, not the humidity that Charleston has in the summer. It feels like a damp blanket around me, presses my chest, makes it difficult to breath while sprinting a mile. Have to breathe, have to keep a rhythm, have to keep deep breaths…

Mile and a half now before we slow down; first day was to give a system shock. PT test is in a month and we have to do two miles in this climate. We’re going to get a crash course in how to pass the school’s PT test; 56 sit-ups, 56 push-ups, 15:56 two mile run. That’s just to pass; maxing is something I won’t be able to do in a long shot. At least, not on this PT test. It sounds simple enough to do, and that it isn’t that many, but do realize that we’re doing this starting at 5:45 in the morning with this climate; those two factors make things hell.

Breakfast was interesting. We stand at attention in front of a table, crowded so close together that I can feel the person’s sweat turning to steam next to me. Fourteen people to a table; two people at the ends, people who hold rank who will be known as mess carvers, and twelve cadet recruits on the sides. The mess is cut in half; six cadets on one side of the table belong to that mess carver, the other half to that mess carver. We pass around the food, taking a small amount, leaving some for our fellow recruits, our classmates. If there isn’t enough, we give them some. My luck must be pretty good (sarcasm), I’m sitting at my First Sergeant’s mess, the Top. Mr. Raymond, a junior here at the college, and a hardass of a panther. He’s cut pretty well, PT shirt tight on him, purposely showing his muscles probably. His voice booms out, telling us to drink more water. He sounds like a Baptist preacher almost, speaking in a rhythm, well, commanding more than anything else. He snarls and yells at us for not giving him any food after we had taken some; the two closest to him shovel off some of their share.

Eat quickly before your turn comes; when it does you have to pop off a random question and let the mess carver guess it. Number questions are bad, more on that later. Mr. Raymond like’s anime apparently; I can do that. Give off a few quick questions before I shovel more food down my muzzle. Crap, ate too much at once, getting yelled at. Must keep a low profile; people who make themselves known are blacklisted for the entire year. My sergeant told me all about that already; unfortunately for a few guys, he only made that clear after a couple guys were put on said list. Mess is done, we’re lining up outside the mess hall. Right arm up, showing a number four with my fingers. Have to keep my arm up until everyone is in formation. Five minutes of this, arm feels like battery acid is going through my veins. Last man in formation arrives, arms down, a touch of relief before we’re marched out to some meeting. Warm room, boring talks, and I’m out. I wake up to an angry sergeant telling us to form up.

Arms up again, minutes pass by, arms down, and march out. More meetings elsewhere, then back to battalion for lunch formation. More of the same; eat quick, pop off questions, finish eating, form up, march out to meetings. That’s day one. Not so bad for the first day, but that’s only because we have to get the preliminary meetings out of the way. PT again in the morning, more meetings until noon, mess, drill on the quad and parade deck after mess, mess, meetings, then sleep. That’s what the schedule says anyway… monotonous. Plenty of food though, too much sometimes. Sleep… still can’t get enough of it though. A week of this shouldn’t be too bad. We’ll see though. It’s still only the first day.