Air Assault School: The Toughest Two Weeks in the Army. Quickly, I make my way to the waiting Blackhawk helicopter. Even with my entire combat load strapped to my back, the rotor flow threatens to push me to the ground. My face is covered in grass and other debris; motivation and determination make me run faster. When I reach the Blackhawk, the Black Shirt directs me towards one of the four repulsion lines anchored to the plane. I wrap the rope in my D-ring and climb into the cabin. I wait, crouched in the doorway, for the other three companions to finish their meeting. The Black Jersey completes the check of our connections and gives the thumbs up to the rider. Suddenly, the helicopter lifts into the air leaving my stomach somewhere below. Two weeks earlier, in the darkness of an early April morning, I am surrounded by nearly three hundred other soldiers, full of 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, 3.30am to be exact, and with a lot of shouting. Immediately we are told to form a mass formation, the shouting continues. The command is taken by the Air Assault Sergeants, otherwise called Blackshirts due to their characteristic uniform. This is their backyard and they make sure each of us understands that. One by one the soldiers are called out of the ranks to receive their roll numbers. From this point on I am no longer known as SGT Nealand, I am now Roster Number 442 or simply 442. Through the parking lot and along the dusty dirt road we are... middle of paper.... .. and out of the my lungs as I breathe, the thunderous beat in my ears begins to resonate. I look around and realize that I've fallen less than halfway to the ground. I'm live, but my work isn't done yet. I put my feet together and I make two perfect leaps to the ground below. As I pull the excess string through my D-ring, I get a dark look from one of the black shirts. It was a look that clearly spoke of my mistake, but at the same time conveyed a sense of respect. Respect for someone who didn't panic in a moment of distress, but rather someone who remembered their training and reacted accordingly. When I finished unhooking, I bent down, picked up my pride from the ground, and swept it away. It was a little dented, but I held onto it tightly as I made my way to the back of the line. Two more rejections and that day, and these two weeks would be over.