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Over the decades, various family members and friends have invited me to join them at their church. Terms like camaraderie, perseverance, brotherly closeness, and fellowship have been used to describe the benefits I would reap pending my participation. I always politely declined, usually citing my time in the military had satisfied any perceived inadequacies in those areas.

First time I experienced camaraderie, fellowship, and brotherly closeness with another human being was in Basic Training (Boot Camp to you really old farts). My Platoon (group of new friends) road-marched (quick-paced stroll) to Basic Rifle Marksmanship Zero & Qualification Course (the shooting range). This kinda covered the “enclosed society” or fellowship portions of my life in the military, from time to time.

It was a brisk early February morning when we departed. We arrived in a couple hours to Bivouac Site A (campgrounds). Our Drill Sergeants (guides) paired us up with one of our new friends (boot), then demonstrated how each Personnel, Organic: One [1] each (person) would combine their partial tent components with their new-found friend’s partial components to construct a pup tent (portable, temporary, dual-occupant structure). There were numerous times for this camaraderie during my 21 years of active duty.

Now, back then, I was indeed a pup tent-sized person. My assigned tent-mate, however, was built like an NFL linebacker. Fast forward to an hour later. We finished our task. It was a beautiful sight to behold. Desiring positive feedback, we asked to be inspected. The Drills looked it over for several seconds, screamed at the top of their lungs, tore our tent apart, threw every item as far as they could, and told us to redo it correctly (they offered enthusiastic, detailed advice to enhance structural improvements). Then, they graciously offered this advantageous mentoring to each and every tent pairing in the Platoon (group of military personnel, averaging 20-45 people).

Fast forward four hours. After every pup tent pairing was approved for occupancy, we were then led, uh, I mean, marched to the Rifle Range (pew-pew training area). Pardon me while I digress...You know one of the surprise weather phenomena of Southwest Oklahoma in February? You know, when it’s not cold enough for snow, but it’s too cold for water to remain just rain? Yup, that’s called sleet. I qualified with my rifle, caliber 5.56 mm, M16A1, in February 1982, in a sleet storm.

Oh, THAT’S not the funny part of this story. See, I’m 5 foot, 4 inches, in combat boots. The rubberized rain poncho we were issued for “inclement weather”, hung off my shoulders, down my back, and down the back of my legs, terminating just above my kneecaps. My wet weather foot coverings, my rubber boots, my galoshes, reached up my legs and terminated just below my kneecaps. That left, roughly, four inches of pant legs not covered by boots or poncho. And, when leaning forward, standing up in a foxhole to shoot my rifle at the pop-up targets, the sleet, oh, yes, the sleet. It bounced off my steel pot (helmet) (you put your poncho hood over your head, THEN put on your helmet, so the sleet won’t run down your neck), hit my shoulders, ran down my back, down the length of the poncho, down my exposed pant legs, and down into my rubber boots.

This entire pew-pew, qualifying with your rifle thing consumed the better part of an afternoon. This memorable session did just that. Long story short, I qualified Sharpshooter, in a sleet storm, in February, with my boots filled with ice water. Perseverance, cross it off the list.

Hey, remember the tent pairings from earlier in the morning? Well, it’s early evening now. Everyone had finally “qualified” with their rifle. We all enjoyed a sumptuous evening repast (B-Rations, last of the leftovers from ‘Nam). After some last-minute instructions from our “guides”, we were told to nestle in for the night. Let me tell you folks, there was only one way my NFL linebacker and me both fit into that pup tent, with our rifles, and our boots, and our Alice Packs (backpacks), and our other “camping gear”. Zipped-up into our sleeping bags, we had to lie on our sides, one with their head to the East, one with their head to the West and butt-to-butt. Brotherly closeness? I had my fill. Long story short, nah, I’m good with that church participation benefits stuff.

George Keck is an Army retiree, a drummer, and Lawton resident, off and on, since 1964.

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