Shut Up and Dig!

by Jake Walsh

Basic training was full of new and unique games. Looking back, I was in over my head thinking I’d be able to recognize them as they were conjured and we were underhandedly immersed in them.

It was finally afternoon. We had walked all morning and half the night before to get to this place in the middle of the Missouri woods. We were told to take a knee, and our drill sergeant ordered us to set up our shelter halves and dig foxholes. E-tools came out, along with shelter halves, cord, and ponchos. Some guys began to pull “security” for the others who were working.

In the middle of us working like ants, tear gas got tossed into our area. Shit! What’s the first thing to do? Run? Get rid of the gas? Although both sound simple and logical, the point of the gas was for us to react—with signals to each other, both verbally and with arm gestures. Then, as quickly as possible, we were to secure our NBC masks and ride out the now-dissipating gas.

As you can imagine, reacting to gas is very different than practicing fitting and donning our masks back at the barracks. Our minds and our hands were nowhere close to being ready for this exercise. As a drill sergeant, this has got to be one of their favorite times. If I were a drill sergeant, I’d have a noxious amount of tear gas with me for any field time—and probably a couple of cans on hand in the barracks as well.

The gas dissipated and we got the all-clear to remove our masks. Some guys were so panicked they never got their masks on all the way. Worse, some didn’t even get them out of the carrier. I got mine on, but not right away, so my eyes were stinging and my nose was snotty like a child’s.

As soon as we put our masks away, we got back to work at a hurried pace to make up for the time lost during the gas event. I felt the need to bitch out loud, instead of digging, about how the gas got to me before I got my mask on. My eyes were bothering me a little, and I felt my squad should know about it. While continuing to dig, one guy in my squad, without breaking rhythm or making eye contact, just said: “Shut up and dig, Walsh.”

This gave me pause—the opposite effect I’m sure he intended. I realized, as the words still hung in the Missouri air, that he was saying more than just those few words. He was telling me to shut my mouth and dig, reminding me we had a job to finish. We were further behind and needed to double our efforts, which didn’t include me bitching or even talking—just digging.

He was also telling me to shut up and dig deeper within. To dig deeper inside myself, find some mettle, and use it. He was reminding me that unless I was about to positively contribute to the squad with my words, I should bite my tongue.

I had been ready to say something negative—something toxic—about how I wished the conditions were better, as if they’d magically improve with my hot air. Bitching like this may feel good in the moment, taking our minds off the seemingly insurmountable task at hand, but it saps energy and morale while not moving us any closer to our goal.

Those few words from him, at the right moment, branded these lessons into me:

1. Shut my mouth and work until the work is done. In this case, it was digging a hole.
2. Instead of talking, dig deep inside and find a way to keep moving. Use my energy to move forward, to improve my own situation—and my squad’s—by not spewing corrosive grumbles.

This day, this afternoon, this event, and the short conversation that followed stuck with me throughout my time in the Army—and have stuck with me since. Those little lessons, which I learned the hard way, have helped me continue moving forward after the Army as well. If something isn’t ideal, what can I do to make a change? The answer doesn’t end with just bitching about it.

The entire point of the gas game in basic training was to get us out of our comfort zone, to catch us off guard, to see how we reacted to the gas and how we recovered afterward. How we picked up the pieces and moved forward—or regressed or folded—that’s what the drill sergeants were watching for.

Once we were hip to that portion of the game, that’s what we started looking for in our peers, and I still do today. I actively try to surround myself with people who are objective, able to pivot, accountable for themselves and others, willing to help, quick to recover, open to feedback, honest, and willing to push themselves.

I rubbed my eyes one last time, cleared the snot from my nose, and grabbed my e-tool. I still hadn’t made eye contact with my squad mate because he was busy digging while I worked through the existential command he had barked at me. I silently dug until our hasty v-shaped foxhole was complete.

We finally talked later in the evening when it was time to eat. We each got out an MRE, and as you know, everything inside an MRE holds value to someone else—like a currency of sorts. Once everyone got their contents out, it became an open-trade market for cheese spread, pound cake, Charms, you name it—down to toilet paper and coffee crystals. I’d call out what I wanted to get rid of, and someone else would reply with what they thought was a fair deal.

It was a great meal because we were tired and starving. With our MREs, we tried digesting the experience of our first afternoon in the field while predicting what other games might come at us without warning.

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This first appeared in The Havok Journal on September 19, 2025.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.