My Ethical Dilemma Story

Recycled: To put or pass through a cycle again, as for further treatment.

It's a simple word. In fact, most folks think of recycling as a positive thing. We recycle to make the world a better place, right?

Yeeeeeaaaaa . . . not so much with the Army.

Getting "recycled" is the ultimate nightmare for any BCT soldier. It means you've screwed up so badly that you're bounced from your training company and sent back to start BCT all over again with an entirely new company of knuckle-draggers. Just think of the joy of completing nine out of your ten weeks of BCT and being told you have to go back and start all over again! (No shit: this happened to a battle of mine because he got into a fight with another trainee.) The most common way to get recycled is to fail at BRM (Basic Rifle Marksmanship) at about 4-5 weeks in. This is where I almost bought it . . .

Here's the thing: we all have a "dominant" eye that we get most of our visual information from. In most folks, this is the same side as your dominant hand (i.e. right hand/right eye). I, of course, am one of those aberrant freaks who is right handed and left eye dominant. They told us how to check for this the first day of BRM training and as soon as I noticed I went to DS Bipolar (not yet knowing she was as incompetent as she was crazy!) and asked her what to do. Her answer? "That Bull-crap don't matter! If you right handed, just shoot right hand and you'll adjust!" Well, this being my first time firing any type of real weapons (aside from a shotgun once) and she being my highly trained, professional, Drill Sergeant . . . I did what she said. I spent the next two weeks zeroing my weapon, learning to cluster my shots, apply the fundamentals of marksmanship (steady aim, good site picture, control breathing & trigger squeeze) all with my right hand. I was doing really well too . . . while we were using stationary targets. The real problem came on the first day of qualifications, when they began throwing random pop-up targets at us. I couldn't hit a damn thing! One of the other Sgt's. - we'll call him DS Muscles came up behind me, asking what my problem was. "I don't know, Drill Sgt. by the time I find the target, then line up the shot the targets are going down." He had me fire another clip while he watched . . . "Why the hell are you jerking that weapon to the left before you fire?" I explained that it was to re-center the site post on the target after I closed my left eye and that's when it hit him.

"Are you left eye dominant?"
"Yes, Drill Sgt."
"Then what the fuck are you doing shooting right handed? Switch that weapon to your left!"
"But Drill Sgt. Bipolar said . . ."
"That crazy bitch? Never listen to a thing she tells you! She spent the last 13 years as a fucking recruiter!"

So, I went back to position and tried shooting left handed. It was uncomfortable as hell, and I didn't get anywhere close to qualifying, but it was a definite improvement. (I think I went from hitting 3/40 to about 16/40) Better, but not good enough. I had only the next day to qualify. If I didn't hit at least 23/40 before they ran out of ammo on day two, my ass was recycling. Well, you can imagine that I was flipping out. Spend another five weeks at BCT (at least!)? Be away from my family for another month and a half? Lose my scheduled AIT spot and my chance of becoming a Combat Medic? Oh yea . . . "flipping out" is an understatement on the level of crazy I was approaching.

Luckily, I had some great battle buddies in the Army. I had two friends who worked with me in the bay through most of that night (no rounds to fire obviously, but they lay on either side o me, coaching on my fundamentals as I dry fired.) They both noticed that my body armor & helmet were WAAYYY too big on me and that was just making things harder. One of them actually swapped his armor with me for the next day because he'd already qualified. Even after all that, I still knew I wasn't ready to qualify the next morning. Another battle of mine was the talk of the company because he'd hit 39/40 on his first round of qualifications. I went to him and asked for any help he could give me, because up until that day he hadn't been shooting all that well. I asked what he'd done to improve so quickly. He took me into the latrine and made sure we were alone before telling me his secret:

"Dude, just pull the plating out of your armor! Leave it in the bottom of your locker for the day. Nobody can tell it's out unless they punch your chest and it makes shooting like 1000% easier!"

And there it was . . . my ethical dilemma.

You are required to qualify with those plates IN, because that's what you'll be wearing when you deploy. I knew he was right though, if I pulled them out I'd qualify easily. It wouldn't be that big a deal because I'd continue training left handed and I'd get good enough to qualify in a week or so anyway. Thing was though, I had to qualify TODAY! If I didn't, I'd be screwing up my entire life, hell my entire FAMILY'S life because of some random time frame the DS's had decided on. The logic was simple: pull the plates, pass the test, then gain the shooting ability in another few days. Simple, right?

Yeeeeaaa . . . again with the not so much.

I knew it was cheating, no matter how much logic I applied to the problem. Yes, I had a lot to lose and justifications out the ass, but I still knew it was wrong. In real life, I'm the kind of guy who would never consider such a thing. I don't lie, I don't steal, and I don't cheat. Ever. The fear of recycling though -and what it would mean to my family- was weighing real heavy on me. When everyone else went to bed, I sat up the entire night with my IBA (Interceptor Body Armor) sitting in my lap, trying to decide what to do. I'd be lying if I didn't tell you I pulled the armor out, then put it back in at least half a dozen times. As goofy as it sounds, this was -without doubt- the worst night of my BCT experience. (and there were some others that were insanely bad, as you'll soon hear!)

In the end, it was The Boy who saved me from having to hate myself. Yup, from nearly 1,000 miles away, without saying a word, or even knowing anything about what I was going through, my son saved my ass. It was only minutes before we had to wake up for the day that it hit me. The Boy would ask me how I did on my marksmanship test at some point. He'd ask, and I'd be faced with either telling him I'd cheated, or flat out lying to him. That settled it right there. I would NOT do either of those things . . . I could look him in the eye and tell him I'd failed, but I could never lie to him or let him know I was a cheat. I got up for the day and put that IBA on with all the plates firmly in place. If I was getting recycled, fine, but it would be AFTER I gave it my best -honest- shot (literally!)

I'd like to say I went out and destroyed that range but this ain't a Hollywood movie. I sucked. I shot horribly . . . all day. Finally, DS Muscles knelt beside me, talking me through each shot, guiding me on my fundamentals and giving advice on where to target at what distance. After about 4,000+ rounds and a good two hours of that man's time . . . I hit 25/40. Enough to qualify as a Marksman (barely!)

It was one of the proudest moments of my life.

Later!