Air Assault School - the Hardest Two Weeks in the Army

Air Assault School - the Hardest Two Weeks in the Army

Air Assault School: The Hardest Two Weeks In The Army.

Quickly, I make my way to the waiting Blackhawk helicopter. Even with my full combat load strapped to my back the rotor wash threatens to push me over. My face is pelted with grass and other debris; motivation and determination makes me run harder. As I reach the Blackhawk the Black-shirt directs me to one of four repel lines anchored to the aircraft. I wrap the line through my d-ring and climb into the cabin. I wait, crouched in the doorway, for my three other comrades to finish their hookup. The Black-shirt completes his check of our hookups and gives the pilot the thumbs-up. Abruptly, the helicopter lifts into the air leaving my stomach somewhere below.

Two weeks earlier in the darkness of an early April morning, I stand surrounded by close to three hundred other soldiers, filled with excitement and uncertainty. The air is heavy with the promise of another scorching day with the humidity reaching hundred percent. This day is called Zero Day. This is the day that determines which of the close to three hundred potential candidates get to make up the next class of two hundred Air Assault Students. The day begins early, 0330 to be exact, and with a lot of yelling. Immediately we are instructed to form one mass formation, the yelling continues. The Air Assault Sergeants, otherwise know as Black-shirts because of their distinctive uniform, take command. This is their yard and they make sure each and every one of us understands that. One by one soldiers are called out of ranks to receive their roster number. From this point on I am no longer be known as SGT Nealand, now I am Roster Number 442 or simply 442.

Through the parking lot and down the dirt covered dusty road we run towards the obstacle course; like a flock of sheep to the slaughter. I try hard to remain within the pack of soldiers around me and, above all else, I try not to be noticed by a Black-shirt. Notice always results in a thunderous “Hey, Air Assault. Drop!” That simple command is the vanguard of a relentless cycle of push-ups, flutter-kicks, and other physical torture they like to call corrective action. As we near the first obstacle, my canteen of water falls from my cargo pocket. I stop to retrieve my wayward bound canteen only to have those four backbreaking words slam into me from behind. As I drop to the ground, I hear the distinctive sound of a highly polished combat boot coming into contact with a plastic canteen at a very high rate of speed. I realize that the Black-shirt had just punted my canteen down the road like a football player making his last ditch effort to advance the ball farther down the field before relinquishing control to the other team. I spend the next five minutes conducting corrective action.

The completion of ten obstacles is required on Zero Day. Failure is not an option for me, but the Black-shirts are everywhere. They look for every mistake and every failure, their goal: to break you and send you home. At every obstacle I am greeted with a barrage of push-ups and flutter-kicks leaving my body feeling like ton of lead.

The confidence climb: two telephone poles standing thirty feet in the air, connected by randomly spaced horizontal beams. The goal of this obstacle is simple, reach the top and let out a loud and thunderous “Air Assault!” and then climb back down. Unfortunately, because even the loudest of us will never come close to the Black-shirt’s definition of loud and thunderous, this obstacle results in my needing of more corrective action! Only nine more to go.

Bone-wary and out of breath I reach the final obstacle. The humidity is so heavy I labor just to fill my lungs. Sweat covers me, stinging my eyes. My arms burn like the inferno shining high overhead. I feel like a stunt man on take ten of a scene in which he is hit by a barreling 18-wheeler. Even the Black-shirts are tiring; that simple command that has brought fear all morning has now been shortened to just one word: drop! I can no longer lift my body off the ground; my elbows refuse to straighten. I can’t help wondering if failure would be so bad. No! I can’t quit! Motivation and desire force me to my feet. I can’t feel the burning in my arms any longer; I can’t hear the yelling of the Black-shirts; I don’t even notice the rope ripping at the blisters on my hands. Hand over hand I pull myself up the fifteen feet of rope, across the trestle of logs, up another fifteen feet of a worn wooden ladder, and finally down thirty feet of cargo netting that threatened to twist an ankle and send me falling to the mats below.

Two weeks of Air Assault School and not one day is