I don’t know when it actually happened, but when I turned 16 in 1985, I started to realize that if I wanted to go to college, it was going to be on me. My mom never directly said it, but I was an only child in a single-parent household. My mother was a schoolteacher, and I just knew that if college was going to happen, I’d have to figure out how to make it happen myself.
As I entered my junior year of high school, I started thinking about my options. One serious
idea I considered was going on active duty in the military to qualify for the G.I. Bill. I figured that if I gave the military a couple of years, I could get some clarity on what I wanted to do — maybe go in as a medical specialist, get some experience, and see if the medical field was for me.
But my father talked me out of taking a break. That pretty much killed the active-duty plan.
Then I had a chance encounter with a recruiter who opened my eyes to another option: joining the military reserves. I could go to drill one weekend a month and make a little extra money — about $100 at the time — while still going to college. It sounded like a win-win.
The only issue? I was 16. I’d need my mom’s permission to enlist.
Interestingly, out of all her siblings, my mom was one of only two who didn’t serve in the military. I had four uncles who did, but it never crossed our minds to reach out to them for advice. So when we met with the recruiter, we were flying blind — relying completely on what the recruiter told us.
There were no available slots for a medical specialist, but they had an opening for a combat engineer. At 16, I didn’t really know what that meant, but the video they showed — demolition, construction, big equipment — looked cool. I figured it wouldn’t hurt. I wasn’t planning to do this forever; I just needed a foot in the door. So in the fall of 1985, with my mom’s signature, I enlisted in the Army Reserves as a combat engineer.
No Clue What I Signed Up For
I had no idea what I was walking into. I didn’t understand what being a combat engineer entailed, or what basic training would be like. My entire impression of boot camp was based on movies like Stripes with Bill Murray. It all seemed distant and unreal.
The process started with a visit to the Military Entrance Processing Station (MEPS), where I underwent a thorough physical and filled out a mountain of paperwork. But no one ever explained what to expect from basic training. I went in blind.
And yet, that summer would turn out to be one of the most transformative experiences of my life.
The Night Before It All Began
By the summer of 1986, I had turned 17 and was eligible to report to basic training on my own. I was told to be at MEPS in Little Rock at 5:00 AM for transport to the airport, where I’d fly to St. Louis and then head to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri.
As a proud mama’s boy, I envisioned my mother getting up early to drive me, give me a hug, and see me off. But my uncle, who lived in Little Rock, suggested it would be easier if I stayed overnight at his house and let my cousin take me instead.
So my mom dropped me off the night before. And when she drove away, it hit me: I was really doing this. I was stepping into something completely unknown — alone.
Then, disaster struck. That night, I somehow managed to break my glasses — and not just a crack. They were demolished. I was nearsighted and couldn’t see a thing without them. I was terrified. This was already the scariest thing I’d ever done, and now I couldn’t even see.
My uncle reassured me, “They’ll give you glasses when you get there.” I wasn’t convinced. But I had no choice.
The Journey to Fort Leonard Wood
The next morning, my cousin dropped me at MEPS. I told the sergeant there about my broken glasses, and like my uncle, he shrugged it off. “Don’t worry, you’ll get glasses when you get there.”
So, blurry-eyed and anxious, I boarded a plane to St. Louis. Once there, I was greeted by another sergeant — a blur in uniform — who gave me the same reassurance.
We were loaded onto a charter bus and taken to Fort Leonard Wood. I’d never been to Missouri. I’d never been on a military base. And I still couldn’t see. But I tried to stay calm.
For the first few days, everything felt… manageable. We got issued our bedding, did some paperwork, had medical checkups, opened bank accounts — nothing too intense. I even started to relax.
What I didn’t realize was that we were just “in-processing.” The real basic training hadn’t even started yet.
Reality Hits — Hard
On day three, we were told we’d be assigned to our training units the next day. The past few days? They didn’t count toward our training time. That calm I was feeling? Gone.
At 4:00 AM the next morning, we stripped our beds, packed our duffel bags, and lined up in formation outside in the dark, waiting. Then, the cattle trucks arrived.
That’s right — literal cattle trucks. Huge, open-air, military transports. Drill sergeants started stepping off, one by one. They looked like carbon copies: clean, crisp, glasses, and those iconic round hats. The hat meant one thing — drill sergeant.
Names were called. When I heard, “Private Reeves,” I shouted, “Yes, Drill Sergeant!” and ran to the truck as fast as I could, duffel bag bouncing behind me. My adrenaline was so high, I could almost see clearly again.
We were crammed into the truck — shoulder to shoulder, barely room to breathe. And our drill sergeant? Silent, smirking. He knew we were terrified. He didn’t have to say a word.
When the truck finally slowed down, he turned to us and said:
“When I open this door, you have ten seconds to get off. And nine of them are already gone.”
Welcome to boot camp.
The Shock and the Grind
The next hour was chaos — standing in the blazing summer sun while drill sergeants screamed in our faces. I couldn’t even see who was yelling at me. One of them noticed me squinting and barked, “What the hell are you squintin’ at?” I told him about my glasses. He laughed and said, “Make sure you say something before you go on the firing range.”
Eventually, we were assigned to our platoons and barracks. Eight guys to a room, bunk beds, shared showers, and lockers lined up with military precision. We each had a battle buddy — mine slept in the bunk above me. We didn’t know each other, but we would soon become brothers.
From that point forward, life was structured and intense:
- Wake-up at 4:00 AM.
- Physical training from 4:30 to 6:00.
- Showers and inspections.
- Breakfast in the mess hall.
- Drill, class, and field training until dinner.
- Lights out at 9:00 PM.
Everything was timed down to the minute. You showered in under five. You cleaned the bathroom with military precision. You ate without speaking. You ran everywhere.
I did all of this — for weeks — without glasses.
Growth in the Grind
The turning point came during kitchen patrol. I was assigned to clean pots and pans. The head cook inspected everything — and nothing was ever good enough. One day, he looked at me and said, “Are you blind or something?”
I told him I didn’t have my glasses. After that, every time he pointed out a spot, I scrubbed like my life depended on it. Weeks later, I found out he told my drill sergeant I was one of the hardest workers he’d ever seen.
And then — finally — my government-issued glasses arrived. Ugly as hell, but I could see again. And I had earned a little respect.
Becoming a Man
Halfway through training, I got my first paycheck. My mom had opened a bank account for me, and the money had been deposited. When I called her, she told me our car had broken down and she needed some money for insurance. Without hesitation, I told her to use whatever she needed.
And that’s when she said, “Now you’re a man, my son.”
That moment hit me hard.
I wasn’t just a 17-year-old kid anymore. I had income. I was helping my household. I was being responsible. For the first time, I felt what it meant to be grown.
Graduation and Beyond
The final weeks were filled with field exercises — digging trenches, living in tents, marching everywhere. By then, I had earned the respect of my peers and my drill sergeant. I had passed all my training, qualified with an M16, and completed gas mask and first aid training.
My mom came to my graduation. She flew to St. Louis, took a bus to the base, and sat in the crowd as I marched across the field — in full uniform — as a soldier.
That day, everything came full circle.
\When I left boot camp, I walked through the airport wearing my Class A uniform. I didn’t feel special — I just felt… different. I had changed.
\On the plane, I sat next to a beautiful young woman. She was reading and listening to music. Out of nowhere, she tapped me on the arm and asked what I was listening to. I gave her my brand-new Walkman and let her hear it. She sat there the whole flight — reading quietly, wearing my headphones — and it was like life had come full circle again.
I didn’t ask for her name or number. I didn’t need to. That quiet moment was enough.
Looking Back
When I got home, I knew I wasn’t the same. None of my friends had done what I had just done. I was still 17, but I had seen a different side of life. I had learned discipline, responsibility, and what I was capable of.
That summer, I grew up.
And even now — decades later — I still pull strength from that experience.
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