Air Assault School: The Toughest Two Weeks in the Army. Quickly, I head towards the Blackhawk helicopter that is waiting for me. Even with my full combat load strapped to my back, the rotor blast threatens to topple me. My face is covered in grass and other debris; motivation and determination make me run harder. As I reach the Blackhawk, the black shirt directs me toward one of the four repulsion lines anchored to the plane. I loop the line into my D-ring and climb into the cabin. I wait, crouched in the doorway, for my three other comrades to finish their affair. The black T-shirt finishes checking our connections and gives the pilot the thumbs up. Abruptly, the helicopter lifts into the air, leaving my stomach somewhere below. Two weeks earlier, in the darkness of an April morning, I stood surrounded by nearly three hundred other soldiers, filled with excitement and uncertainty. The air is heavy with the promise of another scorching day with humidity reaching one hundred percent. This day is called Zero Day. This is the day that determines which of the nearly three hundred potential candidates will make up the next class of two hundred air assault students. The day starts early, 3:30 a.m. to be exact, and with lots of screaming. Immediately we are asked to form a mass formation, the shouting continues. The Air Assault Sergeants, otherwise known as the Blackshirts due to their distinctive uniform, take command. This is their yard and they make sure each of us understands it. One by one, soldiers are called out of the ranks to receive their roster number. From this point on I am no longer known as SGT Nealand, now I am list number 442 or simply 442. Through the parking lot and down the dusty dirt covered road we are in the middle of paper .... .. and out of my lungs as I breathe, the thunderous beats in my ears begin to return. I look around and realize I've fallen less than halfway to the ground. I'm live, but my work isn't done yet. I brought my feet together and did two perfect leaps to the ground. As I pull the excess rope through my D-ring, I receive a dark look from one of the blackshirts. It was a look that spoke loudly of my mistake, but at the same time it held a feeling of respect. Respect for someone who didn't panic in a moment of distress, but rather someone who remembered their training and reacted accordingly. As I finished unhooking, I bent down, picked up my pride from the floor, and swept it up. He was a little bruised, but I held him tight as I walked to the back of the line. Two more regrowths and this day, and these two weeks would be over.