If this is supposed to be hardship, someone forgot to tell me. After growing up on a farm, military life feels like a vacation—just with more yelling and fewer cows.
Let’s start with mornings. We wake up at 5 a.m. and call it “early.” Back home, the rooster crowed at 4, and we were already knee-deep in chores by then. Here? We fold blankets and shine boots. No manure shoveling required.
The food’s nothing special—tiny cereal portions and juice cups that look like they’re made for dolls. I miss Ma’s cooking, but I’ve mastered the art of swiping leftovers from recruits who drink too much coffee and can’t finish their meals.
Physical training? More like a light warm-up. These city boys collapse after what I’d call a casual stroll. One recruit literally fell over his own feet and had to sit out. Meanwhile, I’m over here thinking, “This is the hard part?”
Shooting drills are a joke. After hunting rabbits that zigzag through the brush, hitting a stationary target is like cheating. And they give us bullets ready to go—no mess, no fuss.
The only real struggle is combat training. Most of these guys have never wrestled anything heavier than a pillow. But there’s one guy—built like a brick wall—who’s given me a run for my money. Flipping him was a fluke; mostly, I’m just trying not to end up flattened.
All in all, this is the easiest job I’ve ever had. Tell the boys to sign up before the military wises up and makes it harder.
Love,
Your unexpectedly relaxed recruit