The Green Wood at Deadwood

      The shadows grew longer across the dusty tile floor as the the line between afternoon and evening blurred. Cal shuffled in front of a row of wheel chairs lined up like a car show facing the sunset. Parked in the wheel chairs were folks at that stage of life where they just weren't able to care for themselves any longer. Known years before as teachers, foremen, nurses, coaches, brothers, sisters, parents, and Sunday school teachers now they sit and pass the time hoping for a visitor or someone to just drop by and play the piano for a little while. Cal, worked for 34 years in the banking business and did quite well, lost his wife of 40 years to cancer a few years back, and although he was in good spirits, his mind was failing. Aside from occasionally forgetting where he was or what he was doing, Cal thought he was doing just fine. Sure there were risks, but he accepted those risks so he could live freely in his house out in the country. "What's the worst that could happen!," he'd asked his kids at the big 'family meeting' when they were selling the idea that he should move to a nursing home. "I suppose I could fall and die peacefully right here in my own damn house, what's so bad about that?" was Cal's dry and very honest rhetorical reply. He was still sharp enough to also realize that this was not just about his well being. His children were grown and each had families of their own several hours and states away from the old family place in the North Georgia mountains. He knew they were wrought with guilt because they were simply unable to check on him more often and the shriveling economy made it very difficult for any of them to take a leave of absence to be with him for a while. So, after many restless nights and against his better judgement, Cal signed on the dotted line and was delivered to his current residence where he soon began to "rot away" at Deadwood with the 'real' old folks. It was truly an act of love. Clearly, he was not where he wanted to be doing things he didn't want to do with people he was having a hard time growing fond of and yet his own children could now carry on their distant lives with a much lighter load of anxiety. On the way to is room for the night he paused and leaned on his walker to soak in the sunset and he quietly wondered how many more of these he'd see before his time was up. Jack from the East wing came sliding by and Cal turned and told him, "I'll whip your ass again tomorrow if you feel up to racin'." Jack stopped his walker and laughed until he coughed uncontrollably then he smiled a wide smile at Cal. "The day I wake up and don't feel like racing your ugly ass is the day I pray the good Lord sends his angels to carry me home. Cal smiled back as they locked eyes.." Well, you bring that raggedy old walker and I'll see you just after breakfast you old bastard."

    

Sedgewick Finds His Way

 

I stepped onto those yellow foot prints on Parris Island in March of '87.

Following a miserable showing at college, I went into a tailspin and was losing fast, while running with the "good-time boys" in Dublin, Georgia. My self respect had quickly faded and I was not real keen on the lack of focus or direction in my life. I was in desperate need of a win. As I stood there that night, nostrils filled with the warm humid salty air of the South Carolina Coast, my resolution was rock solid. After years of my folks telling me where to go and what to do, which I typically ignored, I was finally doing something on my terms. It was later than most of my peers, but I was taking ownership of my life and wanted to see who I was and what I could do when I honestly applied myself. My dad had served in the US Air Force and at the time was working in federal civil service at Bangor Naval Submarine Base in Bangor, Washington. The cold war was still running hot, as our training got underway.

     It was during the initial sleepless 72 hour "check in" phase, as we drew uniforms, gathered gear, got our heads shaved, underwent medical evaluations, filled out piles of paperwork, and were divided into training platoons, that I first heard the name, Sedgewick.  As we checked in, we were introduced to immense and unrelenting pressure, as Drill Instructors were in your face and shouting at us with every breath. Ultimately, the end goal is teach recruits to block out the stress of chaos and focus on nothing but carrying out the mission. Sedgewick, along with a number of others had already been labeled as "half steppers." They were consistently the slowest and most inefficient with even the most basic tasks. Within a week, it became clear that a push was underway to motivate struggling recruits to get with the program or be cut from our ranks. About two weeks later, we lined up in formation for our initial uniform inspection, which had been preceded by an incredibly long hot day full of training. This post is already too long and it would take two or three more paragraphs to properly paint a picture of what happened that day, but I watched two grown men wet themselves, while standing at attention, and another four or five uncontrollably burst into tears.

While at attention, I can only clearly see the guys directly across from me, but I heard the name Sedgewick screamed at least twenty times during that very long ordeal. He did not have himself or his uniform and gear "squared away" that day.

       We geared up and marched across the island for two weeks of marksmanship training, as our squads began to tighten up with the fourteen recruits dropped at that point. Our Drill Instructors used two very effective tools for motivating us to. Their favorite was a corporate trip to "The Pit" where we were forced to perform calisthenics in a box that was 8-10 inches full of sand. The other tool was a grueling encounter with a pull up bar. The drill instructors referred to it as being "crucified" on the pull up bar, but certainly this paled in comparison to what Jesus suffered for our sins. The recruit was required to perform as many pull ups as possible and then to simply hang from the bar until he was told he could drop. This technique literally left even the most durable and gritty man hanging from the pull up bar at the jagged end of their physical and mental limits. It was pitiful to watch grown men hang and cry as their Marine Corps hopes literally hung in the balance. Drop from the bar and you were washed out or hang on and earn the right to stay with the group a little longer.

    Searing heat and fatigue were more easily endured, as no man wanted to catch the watchful eyes of the D.I's as we marched to and from the rifle range. It was here at the range, that I was ordered to take over as squad leader for the second squad. We had witnessed several guys before that had been hired and fired already, so it really seemed like a set up to me to eventually get fired and sent to the pit for further motivation. Those of us who grew up in the country, already knew how to shoot pretty well, but with some USMC training, we were able to consistently ping the bull's eye from 500 yards out with our rifles. After two weeks of marksmanship training, we marched again and this was a turning point for recruit Sedgewick. He really began to fall apart and was clearly struggling to keep it together from day to day. We were also seeing a change in training philosophy as the entire platoon now had to pay when Sedgewick screwed up, as opposed to him getting singled out. After a few corporate trips to the "pit," many of  us wondered why he hadn't just been dropped like the others.

  Sedgewick was a medium framed guy from Indiana with a mild mannered disposition, but when he should have been locked onto instructions and commands, he just had this distant gaze about him, but it wasn't a "thousand yard stare" but more like outer space day dreaming. Was he thinking about a woman back home, a sick loved one, wondering why he was even here? I wondered but I really didn't care. We each had our own crap back home and we had learned to put it away and get through each training day and we needed him to coagulate his fecal matter. April gave way to May and the entire platoon was desperately weary of paying for Sedgewick's frequent goof ups, most of which resulted in increasing grueling visits to "The Pit."

      One hot Sunday afternoon, while practicing close order drill on a parade deck of melting asphalt, the sounds of marching commands and fifty plus heels striking as one filled the air, as we were put through the paces. Those sounds were shattered, however, by the crashing of a rifle hitting the ground, which was easily considered the ultimate no-no. You guessed it, Sedgewick. All five drill instructors converged on him from every possible angle loudly providing compelling reasons why he should learn to hold onto his weapon. Ahhh.. I thought this must be the last straw. There going to drop him. Instead, we were all double-timed all the way to the pit by our barracks, where spirits were breaking before we even began the pit session. To add insult to injury, Sedgewick was not only excused from the session, they actually had him in front of us relaying the Drill Instructor's exercise commands to us, while we were pushed so hard guys were falling face first in the sand from heat exhaustion. At the conclusion of this complete thrashing, I fully understood how a mutiny could take place. During our "free time" that evening, there was a tangible uneasiness about the men, like a spooked horse. Nobody sat near Sedgewick and not a single sound was uttered by any man, as we shined boots & brass and prepared for the next day. Just before lights out, the Drill Instructors called us squad leaders and the platoon Guide into their office for a "leadership meeting." They explained to us that the time had come for the platoon leaders to "help" recruit Sedgewick learn to focus. "Today you paid for Sedgewick's mistake with sweat and pain, but in battle a crucial mistake is paid for in death and defeat." We were briefed on a proven method of getting Sedgewick's attention and then we were dismissed.

   Around midnight, as the rest of the men slept, the platoon guide woke up the squad leaders and it  was time. Sedgewick's "blanket party" began as each squad leader grabbed a corner of his blanket and pulled down hard to keep him secured in his bed, while the platoon leader (guide) pulled a rag across his mouth to muffle the noise. Once he was secured, we glanced at each other for a second or two then Dobrucky started pounding on Sedgewick's mid-section with his free hand (fist). Sedgewick was in a top bunk and I happened to be holding the corner of the blanket right next to his face. I did not to want to look at him while this went down, but I could feel him staring right at me. Another squad leader took over and I glanced at Sedgewick 's face and it's a face and an expression I'll never forget. His eyes were full of desperation, disbelief, and horror, as tears poured out and he grunted with each blow. Suddenly, it was my turn and the kid had already taken a really good beating, but I had to do my part. My first shot was half-hearted, but it primed the pump and I let him have it after that. Seven or eight solid body shots to his unprotected midsection. Sedgewick was done. We let go of the green USMC blanket, removed the rag from his mouth, and quietly returned to our beds.

  I laid awake for a few hours with an adrenaline rush and listening to poor Sedgewick cough and cry. It started out as a pitiful broken-hearted cry and slowly faded into deep groans and an occasional whimper. It was as all I could do to keep from going to check on him, but I didn't. I couldn't.  What was amazing, is that Sedgewick never got out of bed to try and rat us out even go to the bathroom. At some point I drifted off to sleep wondering how in the hell he'd be able to handle the next training day.

   His rack was across and down a few from mine in the squad bay and at 4am I could see him struggle just to get out of his rack and stand at attention. With two seconds to spare, he beat the morning 60 second count down to be fully dressed. Very gingerly, and through some involuntary groans, Sedgewick made it through the morning run, pull ups, mountain climbers, and sit ups. Clearly, Sedgewick's attention was becoming focused on the very real events directly affecting him in the here and now. He managed to string together a solid week and it was then that I decided that I wanted him on my squad. The only time I ever initiated contact with a Drill Instructor was when I fearfully and respectfully requested that recruit Sedgewick be moved to my squad. It was a demanding time for all of us with increasing expectations and we had to have Sedgewick at 100%. They say, " The eyes are the window to the soul" and upon learning that I had requested that he join my squad, his eyes were filled with hope. For six or seven days I spent 10-15 minutes of my free time with him each night to make sure his boots and brass were shined and to make sure he was prepared to handle the next training day. Sedgewick was finally dialed in and for the final 4-5 weeks of training he became a high performer and earned his way off the Drill Instructor's radar, while also earning the respect of myself and many others in the platoon.

   In the jubilation of the post graduation celebration with new marines milling around shaking hands and finally able to actually communicate with each other and their Drill Instructors, I was hoping to catch up with Sedgewick. While embracing and talking with my family, I was also scanning around looking for him. For a moment we made eye contact, as his family too was all over him with back slaps, hugs, and hand shakes. With a big heart felt smile on his face, Sedegwick offered a thumbs up my way, which I gladly returned. It meant the world to me. One by one, we all left with our families and I haven't seen Sedgewick since that day in June of 1987. He dug deep, got focused, and discovered that he could change himself and be a winner. Having thought back on Sedgewick and my time on that Island, it's clear that Sedgewick, like many people, was simply more afraid of succeeding than failing, failure was familiar. In the end, he chose to make himself uncomfortable and give 100%. If he had quit or been dropped it would have haunted him for years. I use to beat myself up over the events of that night, but looking back now, I know it made all the difference in the world for him in boot camp and in the years to come. We didn't change him, but we did our part to give him reasons to change himself.