These Boots were Made for Walkin’
Matthew Finley
It was many years ago that I was in elementary school. While I remember little of those days gone by, one thing that will stick in my mind was the sense of freedom that hung tangibly in the air at the last day of every term. In particular, I remember vividly packing every academic possession I had into my backpack, to be ignored for the next two months. That backpack seemed then to be the heaviest thing in the world, digging into my back, bending me backwards, every step seeming to make the world shake. Though I am now much older and bigger, and a thousand miles away from my hometown, it seems that carrying heavy backpacks is something I have never quite been able to escape, though now it goes by a different name. Rucking is the military art of carrying everything needed to fight a war on your back. The backpack, known as a ruck, is designed to hold everything from sleeping bags to shovels to ammunition. Often it ranges from thirty-five to fifty pounds of gear, often more.
On April 10, dozens of cadets were prepared to start rucking at Bitter Lakes, Roswell, NM. A cross-section of the entire NMMI Corps of Cadets was there- ROTC, Academy Preps, and even high schoolers had committed their weekend to the Bataan Memorial Death March. It was a cool morning, with a beautifully cool breeze that reminded me of the woods in Ohio, and the sun just hardly peeking over the horizon, grazing us with its warmth that would soon develop into blow-drier-like heat.
We stood in a horseshoe around Captain Kurt Rossi. An Army Field Artillery officer who was assigned to the Institute as an ROTC instructor, Rossi could not stray far from the combat arms lifestyle and was the sponsor for the Bataan Memorial Death March.
“It was at the Bataan Peninsula outside of Manilla where they finally surrendered to the Japanese, and the Japanese force-marched them over 65 miles to their POW camps. Now along that march, thousands of them died. They suffered from malnutrition; they weren’t fed; they didn’t have any water; the ones who fell behind were stabbed by Japanese bayonets.” Rossi slowly told us the tale of the New Mexico National Guardsmen, many from the Old Post, who had been captured by the Japanese Imperial Army. The Japanese considered death preferrable to surrender, and those who laid down their arms endured hardship that made death seem painless. “Today we honor them. We honor those who died, and we honor those who survived.”
With that, I threw my pack on. I’d trained for months with it, and in the early morning, it seemed too easy. The ruck was just an extension of my body, so often had I thrown it on. If there was a time in New Mexico that made the oppressive heat and endless sand worth it, this was that moment. Robison, an ROTC cadet from Texas, blasted “War Pigs” by Black Sabbath, further energizing the motivated crowd. The wind cooled me off exactly where the sun warmed. It was a beautiful way to start the most painful day of my life.
The whistle blew, and we took off. Our strides were great, our smiles broad. Some people even ran, so motivated were they. The energy in the crowd of those paying tribute to the soldiers before was palpable.
The first nine miles was not anything more than I’d endured previously. Rucking once a week for ROTC toughens the feet, and I’d already done eight miles in one stretch multiple times previously. It was still early in the day, and I had two friends with me-- Royals, a fellow ROTC cadet who was about to graduate and commission, and O’Neil, who needed a buddy: she wasn’t great at rucking, as her friend had convinced her to join last minute. About halfway through the nine-mile loop, we drop our packs and talk with another ROTC cadre member, LTC Byrne. A new Yorker who’d never left behind either his accent or his proclivity to talk, I remember nothing of what he said. I was just glad to be able to take a break. By now, the sun was just beginning to start its oppressive work, like an oven just turned on. At the end of the first lap, there was nothing I hadn’t done before, if not pushing my limit.
It took us around 45 minutes to muster up the mental fortitude to pick up those rucks again. The road we followed, that had seemed so easy a few hours prior, now seemed a little more difficult. My breathing was a little more heavy, my pack digging in just enough to be noticeable on my hips and shoulders. This next lap I remember little of. We talked aimlessly, as if all of us subconsciously were trying to forget the arduousness of our task. We talked about Royals’ home in Alaska and mine back in Ohio, where the grass is greener, the snow falls thicker, and the sun is less harsh. I spent a half-hour telling the horror story of a run-down condo my family had to restore, after its previous owner had left it in a state of disrepair; and remembering those countless hours me and my dad spent alone together made me almost forget the growing burning in my right foot. The sun rose and crested, beating down on the back of my neck mercilessly. The sunburn did not compare with the odd numbness shooting through both my legs below my knees, each step pumping that same nothing through my nerves.
We dropped ruck after lap two. After 18 miles with that pack, letting that pack hit the ground made me feel weightless, as if I’d float off any second. Those without the mental fortitude to press on for lap three have already compiled themselves here, telling themselves that “there’s no shame in stopping here; we’ve already done over a half marathon.” It is the pathetic consolation of those without the fighting spirit to get up again. To fail is human; to fail to attempt is cowardice.
I ignore their chatter as I pull my boot off. There is a small hole in the lining of my right boot; this hole would soon expand to the point of making the shoe virtually unserviceable. I do not dare do the same to my left foot; it is not bad enough to warrant the effort of putting the boot back on. For now, I take off my thick hiking socks. My right foot is swollen and red, and my hindfoot has a blister roughly three inches in diameter. I pop it if for no other reason than to take the pressure down slightly. The foot is so swollen it takes me ten minutes to put the boot back on.
An ROTC friend of mine looks over at me as I stand back up. My right foot feels like Satan is branding it; my left is not much better. “Sit back down, man. You look messed up. You don’t need to go back out.”
He said some other comments that I do not remember; I was not paying attention to him. I look out to Bitter Lakes as the sun pours down in the early afternoon, glittering in that innocently blue water, twinkling as if blissfully ignorant of the medieval torture of both of my walking appendages. A decision passes through my mind.
Should I stay or should I go?
Such a simple decision. I could fall back down, collapse into an unmoving mound, let the air on my toes serenade me into a coma. I was physically exhausted already, and dehydrated to the point of seeing black swirling in front of my vision. It wouldn’t just be the easy decision to make—and easy to make it would be. The people around me were telling me to stop, to lay down and cut my losses. It would be the sane thing to do, they said; it’s suicide to put that ruck back on and keep walking when you’ve already got a blister that big.
To this day, I do not know why I grabbed that ruck again. It could have been the echo in my mind’s ears of my grandfather’s Vietnam buddy: “If you’re half the man he was, you’d be one of the best damn men I ever met.” It could be the lyrics reverberating in my mind of The Ballad of the Green Berets, reminding me that only 3 of 100 men are insane enough to go as far as it takes to complete the mission. The Ranger Creed, too, chimed in: “Surrender is not a Ranger word.” But I think it was the words of Captain Rossi that reminded me why I was here: “The ones who fell behind were stabbed by Japanese bayonets. Today we honor them. We honor those who died, and we honor those who survived.”
Whatever the reason, I threw on that ruck again. It was a decision that changed my life-- it set the precedent that whenever something got tough, the decision I would make would be a unanimous “Keep going”.
I stepped off again, on that murderous road, for the third time. Royals and O’Neil had long gone by now, having left me to fix my feet myself. I was alone on the path at around four o’clock PM. The sun was beating down on any exposed skin, taking no mercy on the already raw flesh. Time was irrelevant; my only company was the road, that damned ruck, and the constant duel in my mind between the quitter and the soldier.
I eventually had to grab a walking stick just to stay moving. Several people passed me, asking if I was alright. I was in no uncertain terms not alright, but it did not matter. My decision was made.
Somewhere along that four-mile strip to the first checkpoint, I changed. It may have been that the sun burned away some part of me, the part that had caused so many others to surrender and not get up again for the last lap. I like to think that across that lifeless stretch of desert road, some portion of my spirit I inherited from my Vietnam infantry grandfather was able to show me what it really meant to soldier on.
I reached the first checkpoint, roughly four miles after the starting point, but could go no further. My brain screamed to carry on, but my legs would have none of it as my knees buckled, the very last hint of ability to continue gone. I fell to one side, my ruck absorbing the brunt of the weight as I landed with a thump that sounded like a sandbag. Part of me still regrets not finishing; but I know deep down that I went as far as I could physically go. Somebody, whose name I never asked and whose face I do not recall, threw me and my pack into the back of a pickup, and I rolled out into the finish camp, low crawling over to my friends. It was about time my arms put in work today. I pulled off those boots again, and almost instantly passed out under the knowledge that I could physically go no further. Later, my friend Vincent awoke me for chow. Everybody there was given a burger, and my sense of accomplishment mingled with my sense of taste. It was not a very good burger, but I’d earned it, and that made it some of the best food I’ve ever tasted.
I have long since recovered from those painful blisters and achy joints: those were gone by the end of the month. But the decision that I made at around 16:00 on 10 April, 2021, at Bitter Lakes, New Mexico-- the one choice to press on-- has remained with me, and I believe it will continue to do so.
On April 10, dozens of cadets were prepared to start rucking at Bitter Lakes, Roswell, NM. A cross-section of the entire NMMI Corps of Cadets was there- ROTC, Academy Preps, and even high schoolers had committed their weekend to the Bataan Memorial Death March. It was a cool morning, with a beautifully cool breeze that reminded me of the woods in Ohio, and the sun just hardly peeking over the horizon, grazing us with its warmth that would soon develop into blow-drier-like heat.
We stood in a horseshoe around Captain Kurt Rossi. An Army Field Artillery officer who was assigned to the Institute as an ROTC instructor, Rossi could not stray far from the combat arms lifestyle and was the sponsor for the Bataan Memorial Death March.
“It was at the Bataan Peninsula outside of Manilla where they finally surrendered to the Japanese, and the Japanese force-marched them over 65 miles to their POW camps. Now along that march, thousands of them died. They suffered from malnutrition; they weren’t fed; they didn’t have any water; the ones who fell behind were stabbed by Japanese bayonets.” Rossi slowly told us the tale of the New Mexico National Guardsmen, many from the Old Post, who had been captured by the Japanese Imperial Army. The Japanese considered death preferrable to surrender, and those who laid down their arms endured hardship that made death seem painless. “Today we honor them. We honor those who died, and we honor those who survived.”
With that, I threw my pack on. I’d trained for months with it, and in the early morning, it seemed too easy. The ruck was just an extension of my body, so often had I thrown it on. If there was a time in New Mexico that made the oppressive heat and endless sand worth it, this was that moment. Robison, an ROTC cadet from Texas, blasted “War Pigs” by Black Sabbath, further energizing the motivated crowd. The wind cooled me off exactly where the sun warmed. It was a beautiful way to start the most painful day of my life.
The whistle blew, and we took off. Our strides were great, our smiles broad. Some people even ran, so motivated were they. The energy in the crowd of those paying tribute to the soldiers before was palpable.
The first nine miles was not anything more than I’d endured previously. Rucking once a week for ROTC toughens the feet, and I’d already done eight miles in one stretch multiple times previously. It was still early in the day, and I had two friends with me-- Royals, a fellow ROTC cadet who was about to graduate and commission, and O’Neil, who needed a buddy: she wasn’t great at rucking, as her friend had convinced her to join last minute. About halfway through the nine-mile loop, we drop our packs and talk with another ROTC cadre member, LTC Byrne. A new Yorker who’d never left behind either his accent or his proclivity to talk, I remember nothing of what he said. I was just glad to be able to take a break. By now, the sun was just beginning to start its oppressive work, like an oven just turned on. At the end of the first lap, there was nothing I hadn’t done before, if not pushing my limit.
It took us around 45 minutes to muster up the mental fortitude to pick up those rucks again. The road we followed, that had seemed so easy a few hours prior, now seemed a little more difficult. My breathing was a little more heavy, my pack digging in just enough to be noticeable on my hips and shoulders. This next lap I remember little of. We talked aimlessly, as if all of us subconsciously were trying to forget the arduousness of our task. We talked about Royals’ home in Alaska and mine back in Ohio, where the grass is greener, the snow falls thicker, and the sun is less harsh. I spent a half-hour telling the horror story of a run-down condo my family had to restore, after its previous owner had left it in a state of disrepair; and remembering those countless hours me and my dad spent alone together made me almost forget the growing burning in my right foot. The sun rose and crested, beating down on the back of my neck mercilessly. The sunburn did not compare with the odd numbness shooting through both my legs below my knees, each step pumping that same nothing through my nerves.
We dropped ruck after lap two. After 18 miles with that pack, letting that pack hit the ground made me feel weightless, as if I’d float off any second. Those without the mental fortitude to press on for lap three have already compiled themselves here, telling themselves that “there’s no shame in stopping here; we’ve already done over a half marathon.” It is the pathetic consolation of those without the fighting spirit to get up again. To fail is human; to fail to attempt is cowardice.
I ignore their chatter as I pull my boot off. There is a small hole in the lining of my right boot; this hole would soon expand to the point of making the shoe virtually unserviceable. I do not dare do the same to my left foot; it is not bad enough to warrant the effort of putting the boot back on. For now, I take off my thick hiking socks. My right foot is swollen and red, and my hindfoot has a blister roughly three inches in diameter. I pop it if for no other reason than to take the pressure down slightly. The foot is so swollen it takes me ten minutes to put the boot back on.
An ROTC friend of mine looks over at me as I stand back up. My right foot feels like Satan is branding it; my left is not much better. “Sit back down, man. You look messed up. You don’t need to go back out.”
He said some other comments that I do not remember; I was not paying attention to him. I look out to Bitter Lakes as the sun pours down in the early afternoon, glittering in that innocently blue water, twinkling as if blissfully ignorant of the medieval torture of both of my walking appendages. A decision passes through my mind.
Should I stay or should I go?
Such a simple decision. I could fall back down, collapse into an unmoving mound, let the air on my toes serenade me into a coma. I was physically exhausted already, and dehydrated to the point of seeing black swirling in front of my vision. It wouldn’t just be the easy decision to make—and easy to make it would be. The people around me were telling me to stop, to lay down and cut my losses. It would be the sane thing to do, they said; it’s suicide to put that ruck back on and keep walking when you’ve already got a blister that big.
To this day, I do not know why I grabbed that ruck again. It could have been the echo in my mind’s ears of my grandfather’s Vietnam buddy: “If you’re half the man he was, you’d be one of the best damn men I ever met.” It could be the lyrics reverberating in my mind of The Ballad of the Green Berets, reminding me that only 3 of 100 men are insane enough to go as far as it takes to complete the mission. The Ranger Creed, too, chimed in: “Surrender is not a Ranger word.” But I think it was the words of Captain Rossi that reminded me why I was here: “The ones who fell behind were stabbed by Japanese bayonets. Today we honor them. We honor those who died, and we honor those who survived.”
Whatever the reason, I threw on that ruck again. It was a decision that changed my life-- it set the precedent that whenever something got tough, the decision I would make would be a unanimous “Keep going”.
I stepped off again, on that murderous road, for the third time. Royals and O’Neil had long gone by now, having left me to fix my feet myself. I was alone on the path at around four o’clock PM. The sun was beating down on any exposed skin, taking no mercy on the already raw flesh. Time was irrelevant; my only company was the road, that damned ruck, and the constant duel in my mind between the quitter and the soldier.
I eventually had to grab a walking stick just to stay moving. Several people passed me, asking if I was alright. I was in no uncertain terms not alright, but it did not matter. My decision was made.
Somewhere along that four-mile strip to the first checkpoint, I changed. It may have been that the sun burned away some part of me, the part that had caused so many others to surrender and not get up again for the last lap. I like to think that across that lifeless stretch of desert road, some portion of my spirit I inherited from my Vietnam infantry grandfather was able to show me what it really meant to soldier on.
I reached the first checkpoint, roughly four miles after the starting point, but could go no further. My brain screamed to carry on, but my legs would have none of it as my knees buckled, the very last hint of ability to continue gone. I fell to one side, my ruck absorbing the brunt of the weight as I landed with a thump that sounded like a sandbag. Part of me still regrets not finishing; but I know deep down that I went as far as I could physically go. Somebody, whose name I never asked and whose face I do not recall, threw me and my pack into the back of a pickup, and I rolled out into the finish camp, low crawling over to my friends. It was about time my arms put in work today. I pulled off those boots again, and almost instantly passed out under the knowledge that I could physically go no further. Later, my friend Vincent awoke me for chow. Everybody there was given a burger, and my sense of accomplishment mingled with my sense of taste. It was not a very good burger, but I’d earned it, and that made it some of the best food I’ve ever tasted.
I have long since recovered from those painful blisters and achy joints: those were gone by the end of the month. But the decision that I made at around 16:00 on 10 April, 2021, at Bitter Lakes, New Mexico-- the one choice to press on-- has remained with me, and I believe it will continue to do so.
Matthew Finley is an ROTC cadet from Cincinnati, Ohio. He is currently studying mechanical engineering, and hopes to branch Infantry upon commissioning as
a Second Lieutenant. His hobbies include writing, playing the electric bass, and studying military leadership.
a Second Lieutenant. His hobbies include writing, playing the electric bass, and studying military leadership.