Bayonet Training

D Vautier
6/2006

There were a lot of things that I didn’t understand about basic training.  The first thing was why all the drill sergeants had an aggregate IQ straining below room temperature. The second was bayonet training.  I came to understand the first one--I never did understand the second.

So one of my first and most memorable exercises in basic training was the fine skill of being able to stick a bayonet into somebody or something (usually something).  I learned the long thrust, the short thrust, the horizontal butt stroke, the vertical butt stroke, and all this time I was wondering why we couldn’t just blow the guy away, like, from 200 yards, or better yet, 2 million yards, with all the artillery and bombs we had laying around and not have to worry about seeing some poor slob wince in pain and die close up and personal and get blood all over our clean creased fatigues.  It just can't be that good for the soul.

On our first day of bayonet training a very big drill sergeant with a very big voice stood on what was a very big platform:

Drill sergeant:  People! Are you listening to me?
Us: Yes, sergeant!
Sergeant:  I can't hear you!
Us: [lauder] Yes, sergeant!
Sergeant:  There are two kinds of bayonet fighters.  What are they?
Us: The quick and the dead
Sergeant:  I can’t hear you!
Us: [louder] The quick and the dead!
Sergeant:  I still can’t hear you!
Us: [very loud] the quick and the dead!
Sergeant: What kind are you?
Us: the quick!

That was my first lesson in bayonet training.

Soon the big day came where we were to qualify for bayonet, of course, after endlessly practicing our long thrusts, short thrusts, vertical butt strokes.  I seem to remember a long trench with all these gunny bag-covered posts and baskets of straw representing various enemy, and we were to approach each one of these things and mightily inflict the appropriate long or short thrust upon them, accompanied by the customary blood-curdling scream or war whoop or some other vile sound.  Along each side of this trench were a cadre of observing drill sergeants encouraging us on, offering advice, insults, curses, condemnations, and more often, issuing even less complementary accolades.

Suddenly I was filled with a kind of spiritual zeal.  I was absolutely resolved to visit maximum punishment on any and all gunny bags, posts, bushel baskets, obstacles, stumps, enemies and all other such things that I may encounter in my path to perfection as a fill fledged bayonet worrier.  So I charged forward with a newfound fury and attacked the first post I saw with a vengeance absolutely unparalleled, filled with an adrenaline rush that bestowed upon me an invincible strength, and I thus was able to bury my bayonet about three and a half inches into that first evil enemy post.

Now to get it out.  Ahhhh!!!  How do I get it out?  So I stood there looking about as dumb as that post, tugging and wrenching at my rifle, trying frantically to get the damn thing unstuck.  Soon it became obvious that every drill sergeant in the world had gathered around and above me freely and generously giving advice and encouragement, while other members of my platoon began to jeer as they impatiently waited their own turns.  After what seemed like a very a long time, I was able to free my tortured rifle form the post's steel grasp, and continue the qualification course, careful this time not to stick any more posts too hard.  Just make it look good and do it with style.

In the army it always pays not to try too hard--just make it look good, especially when it comes to bayonets and evil posts.