The Day They Tried to Break Me: Surviving Toxic Military Leadership at 17

How a 17-year-old faced illegal punishment at

Fort Sill's Criminal Confinement Facility—and discovered

the strength that comes from surviving toxic military leadership.

In the blistering summer of 1983, at just 17 years old, I found myself being marched to the Criminal Confinement Facility at Fort Sill, Oklahoma—a military prison meant for felons, deserters, and the irredeemable. My crime? Failing to properly square away my web gear during inspection.

It wasn't my first infraction. I had already become a target for our unforgiving drill sergeant, a man who saw weakness as rot and treated any noncompliance like betrayal. But this punishment—this was something entirely different. The CCF wasn't a slap on the wrist. It was the dark corner of the Army where soldiers awaited trial, dishonorable discharge, or worse: Fort Leavenworth.

I was no criminal. I was just a confused, scared teenager trying to survive each chaotic day of Basic Training. But none of that mattered. I believe now that I was sent there not because of my web gear, but because someone decided I needed to be broken—and that the entire platoon needed to see it happen. This wasn't training. This was surviving toxic military leadership at its worst.

Another young soldier and I were thrown into a day of hell. We crushed big rocks into small ones under the unforgiving Oklahoma sun. We low-crawled across jagged terrain, elbows and knees grinding into gravel until our uniforms were shredded and our skin was raw and bleeding. We ran obstacle courses like inmates, not recruits. Get down, get up, get down, get up. Duck walk, log drill, low crawl—for three brutal hours without pause.

By the time we limped back to our platoon that evening, our bodies were destroyed. Blood crusted our knees. Dirt was caked into our wounds. Our uniforms hung in tatters. We stood there like a pair of sorry soldiers—a hell of an example, a hell of a motivating factor for the others.

But something unexpected had changed. Somewhere in that prison yard—between the hammer swings and the crawl through pain—I stopped being afraid.

They hadn't broken me. They forged something harder.

My drill sergeant, William Ellenburg, called me into his office days later. "Private Pike, are you fucking crazy or what?" he asked. I told him no, that I didn't need medical help. What I needed was more training. He looked at me for a long time before dismissing me—but something had shifted. He'd expected the CCF to weed me out. Instead, it lit a fire.

In the decades since, I've asked seasoned soldiers, drill sergeants, and Command Sergeant Majors if they had ever heard of a soldier being thrown into a military prison simply for failing inspection gear. Every time, the answer was the same: No.

That day at CCF was illegal. It was brutal. And yet—it was the day I knew I could survive anything. Surviving toxic military leadership taught me more than any regulation or manual ever could. It taught me that you don't break when someone tries to destroy you. You adapt. You endure. You win.

Three days before graduation, I scored all "gos" on our end-of-cycle test—one of the few who did. Ellenburg addressed the platoon: "You see this Private Pike right here? I was going to kick his ass out in the third week, but today, at the end of cycle test, he got all gos. I want everybody here to applaud him."

In my departure packet was a certification titled "The Most Improved Private Award."

That piece of paper meant more to me than any medal I'd earn in my 31-year career. Because surviving toxic military leadership at 17 didn't just make me a soldier—it made me a survivor.

Jason Pike

Veteran, Bestselling Author & Inspiring Speaker

jasonpike.org