Today I slept in.
Today I slept in.
At 0615 my alarm chimes. I set it earlier than normal for a Friday to allow time for uniform maintenance, but it is certainly more pleasing than the 0520 for the previous week. Last night I washed my clothes, but because I was finishing the homework for the day, I had not ironed my blouse or rolled its sleeves.
Today I enjoyed my breakfast.
I have time this morning to order an omelet with ham, cheese, bell peppers, onions, and tomatoes. Normally I scarf an egg, a smattering of breakfast potatoes, and some honeydew, banana and yogurt for sustenance in the morning. I don’t usually taste much of it because there is little time available between morning physical training and muster for movement.
Today I relaxed.
We muster in front of LaFayette Hall at 0745 MST time, which is seven minutes ahead of real time. Our class advisor had adjusted the classroom clock to ensure we would ALWAYS be on time. After breakfast, I brush my teeth and sit down for a minute before taking my place in formation.
Today I observed colors.
The custom at Training Center Yorktown is that all “A” school students observe colors on Friday mornings. We arrive first, as usual. Our class leader marches us column left onto the parade field where we face the flag staff and stand at parade rest while other classes form to our left and behind us.
It isn’t without a little commotion that this task is accomplished. Each class has a designated student calling cadence. In that modified-military tone, he sings out, “Left, right on left, left right, left-right, right left.” I hear them chant in minor and augmented keys, and my favorite, though the particular class graduated not too long ago, in a blues style.
In time with him are his classmates. Boon-dockers and low-quarters strike the pavement in rhythm. Class leaders guide their classes onto the field. The trooping softens to a shuffling as the grass absorbs the heavy tread. Class halt. Left face. Parade rest. These commands carry over the parade field.
Lining the edges of the field and sporadically about the sidewalks are visitors. They are here to witness the graduation of their loved ones. I see in their faces awe at the spectacle before them. The synchronized movements impress upon them the significance of military order which makes the armed services function efficiently and effectively. They support our nation by supporting their family and friends, and their pride shows.
As the final class settles on the field, first call sounds from the pipes. It is five minutes before morning colors will be hoisted. The murmurs and stirring all but disappear as silence settles in. Occasionally a camera shutter releases, but the stillness is otherwise uninterrupted. It is during this time that I start to experience stimuli from other senses. North of us, the York River laps against the rip-rap at the base of a wall. Strong breezes sway branches overhead. Leaves slide past each other, creating that familiar sweeping sound so often ignored. The scent of dew and grass wafts from below; the wind carries it off before it becomes overpowering. Even from behind clouds, warmth radiating from the morning sun indicates that it will be hot today. For now, it is a welcome sensation.
An EM “A” class graduates today. They are dressed in bravo jackets. Directly in front of us and next to the graduating class stands the newly formed MST “A” class. They are required to wear the tropical long uniform for the first week. All other classes wear the operational dress uniform. Though the pairing happened coincidentally, it is perhaps this that caused me to record the morning’s details. Spectators may find it difficult distinguishing the discipline demonstrated by either class. However, from my position behind the two classes, I see confidence and uncertainty. The new class keeps their military bearing out of fear, or trepidation if you will. This is the first time they stand in front of Yorktown’s commanding officer. The graduating class keeps their composure with a collective calm. They know the drill. They know what is expected of them. And they are ready to disperse to all parts of the country, joining the rest of the fleet as maritime guardians.
The pipes sound again. Five minutes have past and now it is attention to colors. In an explosion of smoke and powder, two guns fire. The first notes of the “Star-Spangled Banner” magnificently echo across the field. Hand salute. Our national ensign smartly ascends the staff, and a moment later billows and boasts its stripes and stars as the wind reveals it to the observers on the parade field.
Our instructors, advisors, and other permanent party on base remind us on a regular basis that we are seated in the birthplace of the United States. It was here, with the assistance from the French navy that we were able to defeat General Cornwallis and turn the tide of the revolution. Sometimes that fact is lost on us as we focus on our studies, or kick back and relax after a brutal week. But the evidence is there. In order to leave base, we must drive through battlefields. If we choose to go to the beach, Yorktown serves to preserve our history. The bluffs have caves in which villagers had escaped siege and shelling.
During runs in the morning, our PT instructor stops us, allows us to catch our breath, and knock out a few push-ups for good measure. Then, before taking off again, the instructor will silence us for a moment. We hear early birds chirping away, crickets and other sorts of insects making all sorts of a ruckus. As we appreciate the wilderness, we are reminded that this is often what young revolutionaries experienced before preparing themselves and flint-locks for the days struggles.
As our anthem continues, more recent conflicts come to mind. It isn’t the success of war, or the repercussions of such a massive loss of life that impact me. Hearing the tune at “the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air gave proof through the night that our flag was still there” affects me deeply to think of Mr. Key so moved to write those words. It is the passion of any individual that chooses respond with devotion to duty. It is the zeal with which honor and respect for ourselves, our service members, our country.
It is gravity that drives the bass line down and back up, supporting the melody, counter-melody, and rhythm. The majesty of the music rings out over the “land of the free and the home of the brave.”
Carry on.
The battalion disperses. Class leaders assume direction again. We march off the field, stopping frequently to let other formations have their right of way on the road. We stop at Hamilton Hall and file in from the right column. In the classroom, the scent of brewing coffee discourages any thoughts of return to a dream-state. We pull out the books and references we need for the day and begin the daily grind.
At 0615 my alarm chimes. I set it earlier than normal for a Friday to allow time for uniform maintenance, but it is certainly more pleasing than the 0520 for the previous week. Last night I washed my clothes, but because I was finishing the homework for the day, I had not ironed my blouse or rolled its sleeves.
Today I enjoyed my breakfast.
I have time this morning to order an omelet with ham, cheese, bell peppers, onions, and tomatoes. Normally I scarf an egg, a smattering of breakfast potatoes, and some honeydew, banana and yogurt for sustenance in the morning. I don’t usually taste much of it because there is little time available between morning physical training and muster for movement.
Today I relaxed.
We muster in front of LaFayette Hall at 0745 MST time, which is seven minutes ahead of real time. Our class advisor had adjusted the classroom clock to ensure we would ALWAYS be on time. After breakfast, I brush my teeth and sit down for a minute before taking my place in formation.
Today I observed colors.
The custom at Training Center Yorktown is that all “A” school students observe colors on Friday mornings. We arrive first, as usual. Our class leader marches us column left onto the parade field where we face the flag staff and stand at parade rest while other classes form to our left and behind us.
It isn’t without a little commotion that this task is accomplished. Each class has a designated student calling cadence. In that modified-military tone, he sings out, “Left, right on left, left right, left-right, right left.” I hear them chant in minor and augmented keys, and my favorite, though the particular class graduated not too long ago, in a blues style.
In time with him are his classmates. Boon-dockers and low-quarters strike the pavement in rhythm. Class leaders guide their classes onto the field. The trooping softens to a shuffling as the grass absorbs the heavy tread. Class halt. Left face. Parade rest. These commands carry over the parade field.
Lining the edges of the field and sporadically about the sidewalks are visitors. They are here to witness the graduation of their loved ones. I see in their faces awe at the spectacle before them. The synchronized movements impress upon them the significance of military order which makes the armed services function efficiently and effectively. They support our nation by supporting their family and friends, and their pride shows.
As the final class settles on the field, first call sounds from the pipes. It is five minutes before morning colors will be hoisted. The murmurs and stirring all but disappear as silence settles in. Occasionally a camera shutter releases, but the stillness is otherwise uninterrupted. It is during this time that I start to experience stimuli from other senses. North of us, the York River laps against the rip-rap at the base of a wall. Strong breezes sway branches overhead. Leaves slide past each other, creating that familiar sweeping sound so often ignored. The scent of dew and grass wafts from below; the wind carries it off before it becomes overpowering. Even from behind clouds, warmth radiating from the morning sun indicates that it will be hot today. For now, it is a welcome sensation.
An EM “A” class graduates today. They are dressed in bravo jackets. Directly in front of us and next to the graduating class stands the newly formed MST “A” class. They are required to wear the tropical long uniform for the first week. All other classes wear the operational dress uniform. Though the pairing happened coincidentally, it is perhaps this that caused me to record the morning’s details. Spectators may find it difficult distinguishing the discipline demonstrated by either class. However, from my position behind the two classes, I see confidence and uncertainty. The new class keeps their military bearing out of fear, or trepidation if you will. This is the first time they stand in front of Yorktown’s commanding officer. The graduating class keeps their composure with a collective calm. They know the drill. They know what is expected of them. And they are ready to disperse to all parts of the country, joining the rest of the fleet as maritime guardians.
The pipes sound again. Five minutes have past and now it is attention to colors. In an explosion of smoke and powder, two guns fire. The first notes of the “Star-Spangled Banner” magnificently echo across the field. Hand salute. Our national ensign smartly ascends the staff, and a moment later billows and boasts its stripes and stars as the wind reveals it to the observers on the parade field.
Our instructors, advisors, and other permanent party on base remind us on a regular basis that we are seated in the birthplace of the United States. It was here, with the assistance from the French navy that we were able to defeat General Cornwallis and turn the tide of the revolution. Sometimes that fact is lost on us as we focus on our studies, or kick back and relax after a brutal week. But the evidence is there. In order to leave base, we must drive through battlefields. If we choose to go to the beach, Yorktown serves to preserve our history. The bluffs have caves in which villagers had escaped siege and shelling.
During runs in the morning, our PT instructor stops us, allows us to catch our breath, and knock out a few push-ups for good measure. Then, before taking off again, the instructor will silence us for a moment. We hear early birds chirping away, crickets and other sorts of insects making all sorts of a ruckus. As we appreciate the wilderness, we are reminded that this is often what young revolutionaries experienced before preparing themselves and flint-locks for the days struggles.
As our anthem continues, more recent conflicts come to mind. It isn’t the success of war, or the repercussions of such a massive loss of life that impact me. Hearing the tune at “the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air gave proof through the night that our flag was still there” affects me deeply to think of Mr. Key so moved to write those words. It is the passion of any individual that chooses respond with devotion to duty. It is the zeal with which honor and respect for ourselves, our service members, our country.
It is gravity that drives the bass line down and back up, supporting the melody, counter-melody, and rhythm. The majesty of the music rings out over the “land of the free and the home of the brave.”
Carry on.
The battalion disperses. Class leaders assume direction again. We march off the field, stopping frequently to let other formations have their right of way on the road. We stop at Hamilton Hall and file in from the right column. In the classroom, the scent of brewing coffee discourages any thoughts of return to a dream-state. We pull out the books and references we need for the day and begin the daily grind.