Stress by the Numbers at Prison Boot Camp

Misery, trimmed with fear and bewilderment, filled the eyes of four men as they stood in an old shower room and faced hell--an unrelenting, two-hour onslaught of screams and insults.

This was their welcome to their new home--the Swan River Correctional Training Center.

Prison boot camp.

From 5 a.m. to 10 p.m., inmates endure the constant bellow of insults and orders--how to make their beds, use the bathroom, dress, undress, fold clothes, clean the barracks, eat, march, walk, talk, stand and sleep.

“We teach them to think under stress,” drill Sgt. Rick Krantz said. “People don’t make big changes in their lives unless they’re under stress.”

Like all the others--there are 43 prison boot camps operating nationwide today, 11 years after the first ones opened in Georgia and Mississippi--Montana’s year-old camp features rigid and demanding military-style training intended to shock inmates out of their old thinking.

The purpose is to instill self-discipline and self-esteem in the inmates, said Jim Pomroy, deputy administrator of the state Corrections Division. They develop a sense of accomplishment--sometimes for the first time in their lives--from achieving something very difficult, he said.

“There’s just an expectation there that you perform,” he said. “Nothing’s tolerated.”

One attraction for state governments is cost. While the intensive boot camp program costs more money per day--$50 per inmate in Montana, compared to $42 in the prison--it’s cheaper overall because inmates don’t stay as long.

A typical 90-day stay in boot camp will cost $4,500; 10 years in prison--which some of the inmates face if they do not complete the boot camp term--cost $153,300. Boot camp graduates return to crime, and prison, at about the same rate as those who serve out their terms, corrections officials said.

The Montana program is housed in an old forest work camp where inmates once did time by killing time. A softball field, barbecue, basketball court, horseshoe pits and picnic tables remain, reminders of those gentler days.

For inmates now, those days are wispy dreams. The barbecue and the rest are off-limits. The old TV room is a counseling room. A stereo speaker that once blared rock music hangs silent.

Now, the world for these inmates is a drill sergeant and six drill instructors in military fatigues, polished boots and Smokey Bear hats who rule their lives through intimidation.

Krantz and three drill instructors rush to meet the ‘booters’--all of them volunteers--as they run to the converted shower room.

On the floor are painted footprints showing each booter where to stand and how to keep feet at a 45-degree angle. A black line across the facing wall marks where each man must keep his eyes.

The din is overwhelming as shouts, insults and orders pummel the booters.

The booters do nothing right. With a screaming, angry drill instructor nose to nose, a booter cannot help but look away from the line on the wall or step out of the painted footprints.

One drill instructor places the brim of his Smokey Bear hat on the bridge of a booter’s nose. The invasion is intimidating; the booter flinches and searches for the line on the wall.

The drill sergeants shout orders over and over. “Yes, sir!” or “No, sir!” the inmates reply, depending on the command.

“Drop, give me 10! Stand up! Drop! Stand up!”

“Don’t look at me! Don’t you move!”

“Stand at attention!”

“I can’t hear you!”

“Up against the wall!”

“Put your head down! Up! Down! Up! Down!”

To the drill instructors, it’s an act. The booters know that, but they are shaken nonetheless.

One booter is forced to get into a sitting position with his back against the wall. His legs quiver as thigh muscles strain and tighten.

Another booter must hold himself in the pushup position as two drill instructors shout into his face. His arms tremble and sweat rolls down his flushed face.

Richard McBay, a 21-year-old burglar from Missoula, is told to do pushups, but doesn’t react quickly enough. He has to do 10 more. He fails to say, “Yes, sir.” Ten more.

He bellows in agony as his arms give out.

Chad Hemphill, a 19-year-old burglar from Butte, begins to sway and tears drip from under his dark glasses.

The tiled room is an echo chamber, and the cacophony burns the ears. Amid the clamor, a counselor talks calmly with each booter about his crime. The goal is to get each man to admit his offense and take responsibility for it.

After an hour, the booters are taken one by one to a nearby room for a military haircut. Each man sits in front of a mirror and watches the transformation. His outstretched hand holds the clumps of falling hair.

Then, there is quiet for the first time in nearly two hours. Supt. Dan Maloughney addresses the exhausted and frightened booters.

He tells them they are expected to put all their energy into the program for the 90-120 days they are at the camp. Violations could get them sent back to prison.

“It’s not a program for crybabies and whiners,” he says. “There’s no room for any slackers here.”

Soothingly, Maloughney urges the booters to relax.

“It’s over now. I want you to close your eyes,” he says. “Think back. Think back to something nice and fuzzy and warm--the good times that you’ve had out there--maybe visiting with your family, your kids.”

He conjures visions of sitting in front of a crackling fire on a cold winter night, walking along a gurgling stream and watching a blazing sunset.

“And while you’re thinking of that, I want you to remember-- this is reality!”

On cue, the shouting and screaming begin again. The startled booters open their eyes to misery.