My Unforgettable Welcome to Basic Combat Training
Nothing could have fully prepared me for my arrival at Basic Combat Training.
If not for the YouTube videos I watched at home before joining the military—as suggested by my recruiter—the experience might have been much worse, perhaps even a nightmare. Those videos gave me an idea of what to expect. I anticipated the shouting, running, drills, and confusion, so I arrived feeling somewhat prepared.
Still, watching Basic Combat Training from the comfort of one’s home is very different from living it.
There was no gentle welcome, friendly tour, or quiet moment to settle in. Instead, we were welcomed with what felt like a war simulation.
Smoke from training grenades filled the air and clouded our view. Recruits began scrambling in different directions, searching for safety. Somewhere through the smoke and confusion, a female drill sergeant shouted instructions, directing us to use our instincts and find our way to safety.
I remember thinking, Is this really how they welcome people to BCT?
For a moment, I wondered what might happen if someone had an unknown heart condition or asthma. Recruits are expected to be medically fit, but some people may be unaware of an underlying condition. Others may be so desperate for employment, financial stability, or affordable education that they put not only their best foot forward—but occasionally a false one too.
Despite the confusion, I found the simulation strangely exciting. I ran through the smoke, barely able to see where I was going, until I eventually reached safety. We formed a long line and were led toward the cafeteria.
For one brief moment, I thought the worst was over.
I was wrong.
Afterward, we were ordered to retrieve our bags without assistance. We had to carry everything ourselves—bags in both hands and sometimes balanced on our heads—while drill sergeants shouted at us to move faster.
“Run!”
“Get your bags!”
“Open them for inspection!”
Commands came from every direction. There was hardly enough time to understand one instruction before another followed.
I was in my very late thirties, almost forty, when I entered Basic Combat Training. My ambitious mind insisted that I could handle everything, and my face still carried a youthful appearance. My body, however, spoke disdainfully—and much louder—than either my ambition or my youthful looks.
My mind said, Keep going.
My body replied, Madam, are you sure about this?
But as we sometimes say in Nigerian Pidgin:
Wetin man go do? I go die here.
What else could I do? I had come too far to turn back.
“I go die here” did not mean that I expected to die. It was a declaration of determination. It meant that I had made my decision: I was there to stay, endure the training, and make the opportunity work.
Returning to the trenches of lack was not an option.
Not everyone is fortunate enough to be recruited into the military or to pass the required examinations. I knew that I had been given an opportunity, and I did not intend to waste it.
For me, joining the military also came during a pause in my medical journey, when I was reconsidering how and when to challenge the board examinations. At that time, the boards and I were not quite ready for each other. The military offered me a different challenge, a source of stability, and an opportunity to discover another side of myself.
Still, somewhere within the chaos of that first day, I felt one or two tears escape.
Then the questions began forming in my mind—in Nigerian Pidgin, of course:
Who send me message?
Abi na prison I come?
Abi na secondary school?
Wetin be this sef?
In other words:
Who asked me to come here?
Did I come to prison?
Is this secondary school?
What exactly is all this?
I was so lost in my private thoughts that I temporarily forgot where I was. A sharp command abruptly returned me to the present.
“Get down, Soldier! Give me ten push-ups now! Why are you standing there instead of following instructions and opening your bags?”
Just like that, my private conversation with myself ended.
I dropped to the ground.
One. Two. Three.
There was no time for tears, explanations, or second thoughts. Basic Combat Training had begun, and I was already learning its first lesson: whether frightened, confused, exhausted, or older than many of the recruits around me, I still had to listen, move, and keep going.
Looking back, the experience was frightening, fascinating, and almost humorous. Beneath the smoke, shouting, heavy bags, aching muscles, and push-ups, something new was beginning to emerge.
The woman who arrived wondering, Who sent me here? was about to discover that she possessed more courage, endurance, and adaptability than she realized.
My body might have spoken louder than my ambitious mind that day—but my determination had the final word.
That unforgettable welcome was only the beginning.
The views and experiences expressed in this personal essay are my own and do not represent the official position of the United States Army or the Department of Defense.
By: Joan.A.Roberts
Divineaccolades 