Go ahead, naysayers, naysay the military draft. Conscription was one of the best things that ever happened to me.
It was 1965, Vietnam was ratcheting up, and the letter read: “You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States.” I graduated, hugged my parents, and boarded an Army bus.
Fort Polk, Louisiana, seemed unchanged since the Jurassic. It was humid, hostile, and green — green swamp, green machines, green men. It was as different from Ole Miss as hell is from Heaven. Here I met the man who would transform me from adipose to iron, from slouch to straight, from long hair to no hair, from sleeping late to never sleeping. I was welcomed to this Ultima Thule of obedience, discipline and fitness by the toughest man alive: Drill Sergeant Sylvester “Sluggo” Smith.
He was health incarnate, with glossy black skin, a stiff moustache parallel to his drill sergeant’s hat brim, and the amber eyes of a nocturnal leopard, stalking prey. Countless chevrons striped sleeves of a starched uniform covering rock-hard muscles. He was my worst nightmare.
In a bullhorn voice he roared, “Bullet stoppers, att-en-shun!” My blonde hair, longer than pre-Delilah Samson’s, irked him.
“Private Reek, you need a haircut.”
“My name is Reed, not Reek.”
Holding up a folder, he said, “You callin’ me a lie, boy? These records show you were raised on a Mississippi Delta plantation, went to a fine university. You pampered, pitiful, pudgy, pimple-faced pantywaist private, you on my farm now.”
Day and night he was in my face. “You ain’t gonna make it, boy. You’ll be recycled. You’re mine forever.” I lived in terror.
Once during inspection, I presented my weapon to Sergeant Smith and shouted name, rank, and serial number. He looked at my face.
“You shave this morning, soldier?”
“No, Sir, didn’t need to.” Nearly beardless, I could go a week without shaving.
“In this man’s Army, we shave daily. Get your razor.”
I was ordered to shave, with no mirror or cream. For an hour, while inspecting the company, he kept shouting, “Shave, boy.” I scraped until blood dripped from my chin. Finally, he stepped before me and said, “That’s what I call a close shave, Reek. Dismissed.”
The days dragged on. I dreamed of Mama’s cooking, while shrinking from 180 to 150 pounds. Somehow, I completed boot camp.
On graduation day, I thought about this man who had changed my life forever, for the better. He instilled in me a sense of unfaltering patriotism. He taught me the surest way to build character is through self-discipline, and self-discipline is built by applying oneself relentlessly, as if every day is the last. He defined precisely what Rudyard Kipling meant in these lines from his famous poem, “If—”:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And, which is more, you’ll be a man, my son!
Jimmy Reed——
Bio and Archives
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
