Again no word from "the camp". Sprout laughed at me before he left every time I referred to him as "going to camp". He said "Mom, is that what you think it is? Camp?" Anyway...I've been searching the web for other mothers of children at Fort Jackson at the present time but they are nowhere to be found. I have come across a couple of drill sergeant blogs that are real interesting. One in particular is here. This guy scares the living daylights out of me, but he writes really well. I can't stop reading his stuff. From his archives, I can tell that he is not my son's DI (Drill Instructor) as his cycle started a few weeks earlier than Sprout's but I am sure they will chance to meet before it is all over. (A prayer) "Dear Lord, don't make me have to get that man in the hippie-hold and hurt him. Let him be nice to my little Sprout. Amen". Of course, should he perchance read this and determine which of those maggots is my boy, there could be hell to pay. Oh well, hopefully it'll make my boy a better soldier. He may never speak to me again, but he might not get kilt on the battlefield neither. One day he might even thank me.
Speaking of soldiers, last week a platoon in Iraq...an entire platoon...decided not to show up for an assigned mission to deliver fuel. Now, I'm not sure how to react to this. I have read three or four different accounts...one says the vehicles they were driving were not in good working order, one says the fuel they were delivering was contaminated, one says the mission was too dangerous. What I'm wondering is how all these soldiers got to make these long calls home from Iraq, a country without hardly running water much less telephone service, when my young'un can't even get a blasted 3 minute call from South Carolina. I sure would like to know all the rest of this story. I bet that smooth-writing drill sergeant has an idea or two. I'll be checking out his site to see.
Be nice now.