Jackson's Journal

J

J. Byrd

Active member
The thoughts and opinions of Jackson Byrd do not reflect the thoughts and opinions of the player behind him.  Please don't treat them as such.

This is a work of fiction for the 506th.

OSUT started today.  It was only when the class officially began that I realized how much I had been dreading it.  It wasn't difficult, not by a long shot, it's not hard to pay attention, and retain information.  Although, I certainly proved that wrong multiple times.  It was like being back in school.  I hated school.  I don't know why I thought it would be different. 

I'm rambling.  Perhaps subconsciously I'm trying to avoid why I started this journal in the first place.  Everyone needs a place to vent, or someone to vent to.  I guess, I have you, me.  Or is it me, you? 

Who the fuck cares.

I back blasted my Instructor today.  On the bright side, I hit what I was aiming at.  They call it catastrophic, though that would refer more to my poor Instructor rather than the armor.  I hope this is something that won't follow me throughout OSUT and can become something we can all laugh about sometime later. 

A man can dream. 

He shouldn't, though.

It's what landed me in this mess in the first place.
 
Day 2 of OSUT

Speaking of dreams, I dreamt of glory.  I can't lie, not even to myself, although I try.  Who doesn't?  It's what filled my head when I filled out papers.  It's what transported me away from that well-used bus that smelled of sweat and fear that drove us to Basic.  I let it consume me, I daydreamed and marveled at the deeds I would perform. 

God, what a fucking boot. 

I almost froze today.  I won't bore you with our training details, it would be a tedious and unnecessary description.  This was only the second day from when I realized what a horrible mistake I made chasing after glory.  It had taken cardboard to cement it.

I've never held a rifle before, much less fired one before basic.  It was loud, cumbersome, an unfamiliar metal beast that bucked and yapped.  There were those who took to it easily, without the fear that cooked in my stomach. 
And I found that I could almost not shoot a man sized target.

Fear of SGT Brewer overrode my fear of the rifle and its power, but did nothing to help my aim.  I ripped through my mag as if it had been stuck in a 240, and missed every one.

We left the range, and I departed in shame, and a crippling feeling that shouted louder than any shine of glory you could conceive. 

Cowardice.  The unspoken curse word that bent man as if he were a sapling in a hurricane.

With each step, the word pounded in my head, worse than a headache.  I was afraid the SGT would hear it, with the strength it rolled about.

My pride would not allow me to drop out, but what could I rely on to keep going?
 
This is outstanding; I would like to read more from you. Also feel free to write more in your journal post more detail! I was begging for more. GOOD SHIT. 
 
This is a letter written home by a 506th Paratrooper shortly after the events of our Fun Op last night.

Dear Beverly,

In short, we have landed, and I am safe.  I imagine you have already heard of our endevour on the radio, and I can promise you that the experience was more harrowing than any way they could have presented it.
Don't be afraid, your husband, as you so frequently put it, is a stubborn hard head, and it'll take more than a few Kraut bullets to get through it.

France is beautiful.  I'd like to take you here someday when all of this is done.  Hopefully, soon.  At the rate we're coming at Hitler's men, I'd wager it'll be by Christmas. 
I'll be sure to grab some souvenirs to send along with my letter.  I hope they make it ok, and I hope you like them.

We are on our way to Carantan This section had been edited by censors, but I will be sure to write again before then.
Give John my love, tell him Daddy will be home before he knows it.
Tell him not to slack on his studies.  I will know if he is.

I must go now.  Know that I love you very much, with a magnitude that stretches even over the Atlantic.
I will be home soon.

I love you,

James Byrd

James Byrd is Jackson's grandfather.  This letter currently sits in his father's desk.
 
Day 3 of OSUT

My Father once told me:

"There is nothing wrong with being scared... as long as you don't let it affect you until the danger is over. Being hysterical is okay, too... afterwards and in private. Tears are not unmanly... in the bathroom with the door locked. The difference between a coward and a brave man is mostly a matter of timing."

And so, I write this in the privacy of the bathroom, free of company and judging eyes. 
I will confess here, and only here, that I do not want to do this. 

I want to go home. 

Perhaps I should have saved my self doubt for a later time, when my life was actually in danger, but, I cannot wait.  Every ounce of my being begs for me to run away, screaming that I've made a horrible, terrible mistake. 
Yet, what would they say?  What would I tell them, the people back home?  I couldn't  cut it?

Hey, it's me Jackson, and it turns out I'm a bitch?

The mere thought of it smothers me, and now I can't say what I fear more; my continued service in the military, or the judgemental looks upon my return.

Tommorow is our final test.  SGT Brewer says that we will do well.  I wonder what he sees that I don't.  My heart is beating hard enough to wear a hole in my chest, and I still have to sleep between now and then.  If I can even manage it.

I could barely sleep last night, for the nightmares.

I am not an overtly religious man, but, tommorow, God shall be hearing plenty from me.  I hope He doesn't mind my renewed zealous devotion.



Author's note:  I shall gift a reasonably priced Steam game to whomever can tell me where I grabbed Jackson's Dad's quote from WITHOUT USING GOOGLE.  If you use Google, I'll know.
 
Day 4 of OSUT

I think I have used up all of my Godly favors after today.  I called on Him so much, I don't think He'll be answering me anytime soon anymore. 
The short of it is, that I made it through in one piece.  I won't say it was entirely bloodless, nor a breeze, but one piece is better than none. 

I hardly fired my rifle at all, and I don't think anyone noticed.  It got rather hectic for a mad, mad minute.  The men with me certainly helped, capable fighters, better than me without a doubt.

I do not think I would have passed without them. 

What enamored me more than anything were the medics.  I had encountered them before, of course, we all have.  However, they never drew my attention so much as they did now, selfless, tender and caring in their own rough way.  Sure, they were soldiers, but, to me, they weren't.  Life and living was their priority as opposed to the callous death dealing I was becoming accustomed to seeing. 

And I was fast realising that I wanted to be one.  It was an escape, in a way, escape from the rigors of a fighting infantryman, of the obligation to kill.  Taking a life wasn't in me, I could feel it, I knew it. 

I think SSGT Brewer knew it too, but he never said anything.  Maybe he saw something.

I hope he saw something. 

I have nowhere else to go.
 
By the way I love these and was wondering if you minded if I used the idea and wrote I guess short stories about Operations I have been in. Just didn't want to steal the idea. Keep it up.
 
PV2 Byrd, congratulations, I think you have created something here a lot of guys really enjoy reading. Keep up the great work, congrats on your tags and welcome to the 506th IR.
 
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