Some time ago, I wrote about Sgt. Jackson’s tour as a combat engineer in Somalia in the 1990s, but I didn’t mention how hard he drove his soldiers in our Army National Guard unit. He knew what we’d encounter in our future deployments, and because he cared about his soldiers, he was determined to force us to prepare.
His methods were effective but unpleasant, and most of us figured out how to cope.
“Why set the explosives like this?”
“Because you told us to, Sergeant!” I said.
“Exactly!” he said. “And because we want the explosion to … ”
Spc. Randall had trouble adapting to Jackson’s methods. Randall had served as an ambulance medic, but one summer, he reclassed as a combat engineer and trained with us.
It was, perhaps, a mistake. Our job required some subtle skills that Randall didn’t know. He’d also been issued a small-size rucksack, like a purse. It meant he couldn’t quite keep all his gear packed and would suffer Jackson’s wrath for having his stuff everywhere.
One day as our squad rode away in our truck, 1st Sgt. Wolf waved a helmet overhead.
“Who the f— forgot his Kevlar!?” Jackson screamed.
Cold terror sunk inside us as we scrambled for our gear. We slipped our helmets on with sweet relief. But not Randall. His punishment was to continually wear his Kevlar, even to the showers that night.
A major from another unit spotted Randall. “No Kevlars near the barracks.”
“Um, sir, my team leader said — ”
“Don’t argue, Specialist!”
After we were all cleaned up, waiting to go back to the field, Randall kept his helmet off, agonizing over the situation. “The major said no Kevlar. He outranks Sgt. Jackson so — ”
“Randall,” I said. “The major’s forgotten you. You gotta live with Sgt. Jackson in the woods for the next week. Put the Kevlar back on.”
Just then, Jackson returned to the barracks. “Randall! Where the f— is your f—ing Kevlar!”
“Um, Sergeant, a major said I couldn’t wear the — ”
“I don’t care if Jesus Christ himself comes down here and miracles it off your head!” Sgt. Jackson was red in the face. “You wear that f—ing Kevlar forever!”
I worried that might’ve been sacrilegious, but my more significant concern was not being able to hold back laughter for which Sgt. Jackson would have turned his wrath on me.
In the past, I had often been yelled at by Sgt. Jackson, but that summer, Randall was the perfect lightning rod, drawing Jackson’s fury away from the rest of us.
That night, my buddy Spc. Anderson and I were spreading our ponchos on the ground before sleeping.
Spc. Randall asked for a private word with Sgt. Jackson.
“This here’s a bad idea,” Anderson said quietly.
“Um, Sergeant,” said Randall. “Coming from the medics, I’m just not used to this. And the yelling. Um, right now, I am like a bottle, that is just full. And, um, I’m about to overflow and … ”
Jackson listened patiently. “Did you get the chance to say everything you needed to say?”
Randall nodded.
Jackson continued, “You’re a bottle? OK.” Jackson screamed, “I’m a f—ing powder keg! I don’t give a f— if you’re gonna f—ing overflow!” Jackson continued with an exquisitely artful, completely improvisational, profanity-filled tirade, a masterpiece of Army instruction, harshly correcting Randall in the hope of forging him into a combat soldier. “You’re in a combat unit. Each man depends on the others to survive — an unbreakable chain. Right now, you’re a weak link that could get people killed. Unf— yourself!”
“Ah, nice night.” Anderson rested on his back. “Relaxing.”
Jackson berated Randall for a long time. I fell asleep before he was done.
Not long after, Spc. Randall returned to his ambulance job. I hope all went well for him. I never had the chance to thank him for bearing the burden of Jackson’s anger. And as a writer, I will forever admire Sgt. Jackson’s gift, his supreme skill with weaponized words.
Trent Reedy served as a combat engineer in the Iowa National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a tour of duty in Afghanistan.