Dr. Jean Timberlake

English Composition  

Jason T. Powell

10 February 2001

                                            Sgt. Wilson

     His camouflaged utilities were nicely pressed with creases that cut through the air like a hot knife through butter.  Not a single one of his blonde hairs was about of place on his regulation hair cut.  He proudly wore a bright silver dive bubble and shiny gold jump wings above his left breast pocket, which was the mark of a HALO (high altitude low opening) jumper.  He was one of the few who jumped out of planes and didn’t open their parachute till just before they hit the ground if he took or used one at all.  Sgt. Wilson was just one of my four drill instructors.  He defined himself as, “The Stress Monster”.  His only mission in life was to be the best stressor he could be, wait and watch for someone to screw up.  His steely blue eyes weren’t ever darting but always scanning and on the lookout for his next victim.  The very millisecond you messed up Sgt. Wilson was on you.  It didn’t matter if he was looking when it happened or not, whether he was right next to you or across the room.  Sgt. Wilson was like lightening.  He’d been in your face with his desert hot tic-tac scented breath pouring a dreadfully wet shower of commands, insults, and who knows what other kind of obscenities down on you.  In a streaming flurry, barely stopping to even take a breath, he’d blurt, “What is your major malfunction laundry number 43? Do you miss your mommy?  Did you not get enough chow in that fat little belly of yours this morning? Are you all tired now and need to take a nap.  Do you think Charlie is gonna let you take a nap?”    “Sir, this recruit?”, the poor soul who hadn't moved or even breathed fast enough would try to explain.  “Oh you want to just talk to me like I’m your drinking buddy huh?  Do you like me number 43?”, Sgt. Wilson would finish.  

     All of us recruits of platoon 1096 would have the most fanciful fight combinations during our off time. We’d say things like, “If Batman and Sgt. Wilson were to get into a fight who do you think would win?”  “Oh that’s easy.  Batman is a regular man.  Sgt. Wilson would”, one would say.  “How about Superman and Sgt. Wilson?”  “Hmm that’s a tough one.” another would chime.  “Superman could do it but it’d take him a while”, one would say.   “Don’t you know that they are related?”  “No really?” said another.  “Uh huh Sgt. Wilson is Superman’s dad.”  We’d all laugh and get back to what we were doing but that’s how we spoke of Sgt. Wilson. 

     During our second month on Parris Island Sgt. Wilson had us parked outside the chow hall when a fresh-off-the-bus platoon’s Drill Instructor parked them next to us.  Their Drill Instructor told them to look at us.  After five seconds he told them they were done and to get their stinking eyeballs back to the front.  Sgt. Wilson walked over to them and said, “You see those recruits next to you there?”  “Sir, yes sir!” they shouted at the top of their lungs.  “Those are second phase recruits.  You work hard, take your freakin vitamins, and say all your prayers at night, and one day you might get to be just like them.”  The whole rest of the time we were there I don't think anyone stood up taller or marched straighter then they did on that day.  That was Sgt. Wilson’s way.  A constant barrage of praise mixed with criticism.  He’d tear us down then build us back up to get us to where we needed to be. 

     The thing I remember most about Sgt Wilson is graduation day.  The man never let up on us not even for a second.  Just ten minutes before we walked out to the parade deck to greet our families and see our squad bay for the very last time he had us doing push-ups and salutes in our dress blues.  After he’d conducted our last parade inspection he said,  “You think you’re special now don’t ya?  You’re looking all pretty in that fancy uniform of yours. You think you’re tough now huh, and you’re gonna go home and make out with old Suzy rotten crotch?  Well you’re not on the bus yet.  Get on your freakin faces!”  After we had graduated and greeted our families we headed back to the squad bay to get our gear.   National Defense, Navy Achievement, Combat Action, Artic Service, Good Conduct, and Overseas Service were among the medals whose names that I knew on his uniform.  He had so many medals on his uniform we wondered how the man stood up straight.  Sgt. Wilson was helping my platoon members with their bags.   He was going back and forth helping each one he could with the same sense of purpose and urgency that he did everything else.  When he got to my bags he shook my hand and did not use the abbreviation of my rank, which was PFC, but instead said, “Do you need any help with those bags there Private First Class Powell?”  He reached down picked up my bag and tossed it on his shoulder.  He walked it all the way to my mom’s trunk.  I introduced him to my parents and when he left my mom said, "That doesn’t sound like the man you described in your letters."  Mother I exclaimed,  “That is Sgt. Wilson!”