MAJ Montgomery J. Granger, U.S. Army (1986-2008)

I am a Mustang officer, now a retired major, spent five years enlisted as a Combat Medic and then attended OCS and had a 22 year career in the Army, including deployments to Gitmo and Iraq.

I attended Basic Training at Fort Blist(er), TX, in the fall of 1987. I consider my Drill Sergeants as near perfect human beings. I was there after completing six years of college, including a BS Ed., and MA degrees in teaching.

No direct commission, and college loan payments coming due, I saw a “Be All You Can Be” commercial with “loan repayment” in the copy. Sign me up!

I got along great with my Drill Sergeants and was a leader among the recruits, who playfully nicknamed me “Papa Smurf!” I was 23 years old! I prided myself on never being individually smoked. I wanted to set a good example for the younger men, and enjoyed helping and guiding them through the experience.

One day however, we got a new Drill Sergeant, the tallest, meanest, most impressive man I had ever seen. He was from Panama, and had a jungle expert patch, and frequently had us singing cadence in Spanish! His nickname was “The Smoke Master.” If you even looked at him sideways you were pushing up El Paso! Lucky for me (or so I thought), he was assigned to a different platoon in the company.

One day, on the parade grounds, we were doing a company round-robin training, where recruits would rotate from station to station to perform some basic skill. My platoon Sergeant, Drill Sergeant Lee, the most perfect human being I have ever known, asked me to go and get some information from The Smoke Master.

I dutifully got out my pad and pen from my top left breast BDU pocket, took down the note, and then double-timed to The Smoke Master. “Drill Sergeant, Drill Sergeant Lee asked if you would . . . .” I stopped mid-sentence from the intense and angry stare of The Smoke Master. He was drilling a hole in my upper left chest with a stare that would pierce Super Man.

I looked down at my breast pocket and noticed immediately that I had neglected to button it back after taking my note. “DROP PRIVATE!” Came the roar from The Smoke Master. The whole company exercise seemed to have come to a stop, and every eye was on Papa Smurf.

There I was, blazing sun, hot pavement on my palms, pushing up El Paso. I did ten push-ups and then requested to recover. “Permission denied! PUSH!” came the reply. Ten more. “Permission to . . . .” “DENIED. PUSH!” came the roar.

I don’t remember how many push-ups I did. The Smoke Master was true to his name. He never smoked a private less than muscle failure and humiliation. “Get up, Private!” I pathetically got myself up.

Stood at parade rest and then took a brow beating about not paying attention to detail, and how could I let myself, my family, my platoon, my company and his Army down? “No excuse, Drill Sergeant.” “Get out of my face, Private!”

I have no idea to this day what it was I was supposed to ask The Smoke Master. That was the first and last time I was ever individually smoked. I will never forget it, and I blame The Smoke Master for my OCD, which actually probably saved my life on several occasions.

“Front Towards Enemy.” Hooah!

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