Willing to Give Everything

I was in the Army and I hated it. I hadn't even been in for a year yet at the time, but I hated it. When I got off the bus at Basic Training, I already knew that I had made a mistake and it became more evident the longer that I was in. I met people who had enlisted in other branches of the military, and I found that each branch had it's up side. The Marines had those sharp uniforms and all of that Esprit De Corps which simply means that they looked better in their caskets, so I was most impressed with the Navy and Air Force guys that I met. They regaled me with stories of how easy life for them was. And I lamented the decision that I had hastily made to join the Army because they were offering an $8000 bonus and not even that after taxes. But the day that I'm thinking of is the day that I was on the starting line of the last event of my PFT (Physical Fitness Test) so that I could graduate from Language School. I had finished BT almost a year prior to being on that starting line, and I had been on that starting line many many times. But each time was just as difficult if not more so than the last. I had already finished the pushups and passed with flying colors, and the situps with the same result. The thing that always got me, from my very first day in the military was the 2 mile run (timed). I always thought how unfair it was that the women in the company got more time than me, after all, we were in the same Army, and in the same Military Specialty, so that meant that we would be doing the same work, so if I had to be in the kind of shape to make the run in under 20 minutes, why did they get 30? So, there I was, on the starting line again, my heart still throbbing from all of the pushups and situps. There were always those cocky guys for whom running was no thang, hopping up and down at the starting line, kicking each leg like they were world class sprinters about to begin the race to set another record, eager to go. And there was me, praying in my mind, "God please just let me finish in 19 mins and 59 seconds" but trying not to look worried because I didn't want that kind of embarrassment. BANG! the gun fired and off we ran. The first lap of the 8 we had to do always told the story for me on how I was going to do. I always assessed how tired I was after that lap and knew then and there whether that day was going to end in victory or crushing defeat and suffering the humiliation of having to take the entire PFT again, and alone with the entire company of over 200 soldiers having passed and me out there being pitied and ridiculed in there minds.

I left the starting line, when I crossed it again the timekeeper yelled out my name and my time, I was dead tired, totally spent, but I had 7 laps to go. This particular PFT was more significant than the ones leading up to it for two reasons; first I had to pass it to graduate from Language school. One has to dig very deep to try and come up a connection between speaking another language and how many pushups, and situps you can do in 2 mins. or running 2 miles in under 20 minutes. I personally never made the connection if there actually ever was one. But the 2nd reason was the most important. As I said, I hated the Army and the only thing worse than being in the Army was to being and enlisted man in the Army. But I had made this serious error in judgment, failing to avoid this particular slice of misery, so I decided to try and make the best of it by applying to OCS (Officer's Candidate School) but of course this required me to jump through several of those proverbial "hoops" that we keep hearing about in in life; I had to pass a test (no problem), with a high score (again no problem), I had to have the appropriate number of college credits if not a degree (no problem), and lastly I had to get my commander's signature and endorsement on my application (PROBLEM!!!). Y'see my commander had taken me aside one day leading up to this PFT; "Wilson" she said "you haven't proven to me that you are Officer material" "Ma'am?" I replied, she continued "Sure you have the test scores and the academic record, but your score on the PFT is just barely passing, so I'm not going to endorse your paperwork until I get the results of the next PFT" I considered bringing up the fact that the requisites for OCS only stated that you had to have passed your latest PFT, but thought better of it.

Crossing the starting line for the 4th time, my legs were lead weights, my feet burning logs, inside sweat filled sneakers. "You're behind Wilson, better pump it up!" the time keeper hollered. My mind raced through hundreds of escape scenarios, trying to sieze on the best "out" for this situation, or how to do the seemingly impossible.

Lap 6, "got to get rid of this Python crushing my lower back" I had just begun to think when my "nature" kicked in and I began to do something that I'd done my whole life, looking for an excuse to quit or compromise. My thoughts went back to Junior High School, field day, I was running the mile and my chest was burning just like it was now, my mind raced then as now to sieze on just the right excuse to quit and yet save face, as 5'3" Tammy Hamilton, the only girl in the race, scooted past and lapped me, quickly I clutched my chest, fell to my knees (being sure to hit the grassy part of the track on the infield, and pretended to faint. It worked and I had my excuse and the sympathy of the crowd. But that wouldn't work in this case, while I could indeed fall out and pretend to faint, I would still not pass the PFT and I certainly wouldn't get that endorsing signature from the Captain either. But, I thought to myself, "being enlisted isn't so bad, do I really need this aggrevation in my life, who wants to be an officer, how dare the Captain put her own rules in the mix, I didn't want to be an officer anyway, maybe..." and on and on it went like that.

End of Lap 7, timekeeper "18 mins 20 secs, Wilson". Now it was just me, the 3 or 4 fat people on weight loss PT, and most of the women left on the track going into lap 8. I couldn't feel my feet anymore, which was a blessing, my chest felt like I had white hot spears being hurled into me, my head was pulsating twice it's size and back, clothing drenched in blood, sweat and tears, each step was a new adventure in torture and pain, I swore that I could hear my knee caps bursting apart and even my mind hurt. With the finish line in sight I heard the timekeeper counting "19 minutes...19 minutes 10 seconds...19 minutes 30 seconds..." the finish line was blurred by the heat wave and my failing eyesight. "19 minutes 46 seconds" CLICK-CLICK! The stop watch echoed loudly in my swollen ears as I crossed the finish line, "19 minutes 48 seconds Wilson, you made it". I hobbled over to a cement slab which bore a flag pole intending to sit down, but suddenly and violently my stomach lurched and contracted in the attempt to regurgitate what what it held, but there was nothing there but air, saliva, and as I was to find out shortly...blood.

Later, that evening at home, seated on the side of the tub, my feet soaking in warm epsom salt filled water, I looked up from watching my multitude of blisters to see my infant son pulling himself up on the side of the tub to try and look in, curious to see what was in there to bring that slouched look of relief to Daddy. He was having a hard time and I reached over to assist him to his feet, as I did so it caused me to reflect even deeper on what I'd done that day, and I was overcome with shame. I wouldn't be going to OCS. But that wasn't my fault right? I had given it my all, hadn't I? Sure I had, right? I didn't have anything left, so I shouldn't feel bad right? I even had the dry heaves because I'd given so much, surely I was off the hook for letting my son one day know that I coulda been an officer but...right? Then it dawned on me, No I hadn't given it my all. I hadn't, and I knew it because I was still alive and breathing, had I given it my all, had I wanted it badly enough I'd either have succeeded or died in the effort. What I gave was all that people thought was reasonable to give, and that was it. Preachers talk about giving until it hurts. If Christ Jesus had just given until it hurt, his mission would have been in vain, so he gave his life, he died and in so doing succeeded. I resolved to tell my son, as I looked at him, one day this story and remind him that if he really wants it, whatever "it" is. That he should be willing to give everything.


ADRIAN M. WILSON (guest writer- my bro)