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A fictional book that evolved from trying to write a memoir of my Army experiences. |
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1 “Everybody! Off the stinkin’ bus! Move your feet! Move your da-gone feet!” The recruits shuffled past Drill Sergeant C with benumbed haste. I was one of the last ones. Like the rest, I wore a clean-shaven face, a green Battle Dress Uniform and the hair cut of a chemotherapy patient. The only two things that distinguished me from the others were the name tag over my left breast pocket that read “CASE” and the enormous Army issued glasses that made my head appear tick-like in its smallness. I stepped off the bus and into the surprise party from hell. Half a dozen drill sergeants had congregated right in front of the door to make sure each new arrival received the proper welcome. The inexplicably mean drill sergeant heads came within two inches of my face, exploding a torrent of swearing and flying globs of saliva. I avoided eye contact and repeated, “Yes drill sergeant, yes drill sergeant” in as soldierly a voice as I could manage. My Army friends in Idaho had admonished me to take basic training as a game, to detach myself completely, to laugh at it even. Taking this advice was easier said than done. My trembling hands, clutched tightly to the Nike bag of things I took from home, and the raw feeling of fear in my throat, threatened to betray my stoic front. The drill sergeants soon found another private to torment and I made my escape. The buses had disgorged a total of two hundred disoriented troops on the cement “drill pad” in front of the Bravo Company barracks. Standing among them, I looked up at my new home. The three-story building before me was sterile and prison-like and marked by a big blue letter B painted that took up the entire west side. Behind that building was another exactly alike with the letter C and beyond that another with the letter D and another with the letter E. It was easy to imagine there was an infinite recession of these buildings, each populated with the same identically dressed privates and the same mean drill sergeants. The thought made me feel slightly sick. The drill sergeants divided us into four platoon formations according to numbered index cards we had been given before we boarded the bus. I belonged to second platoon. Already, I had had a chance to observe the two drill sergeants standing in front of the formation. The first, Drill Sergeant C, I had met on the bus. He was black, younger than the other drill sergeants—perhaps thirty five years old—and had a face that suggested he had intelligence to match his indignation. His enormous mouth made him the perfect yelling machine yet his fierce eyes, glaring from behind small, rectangular-framed glasses, gave him a look of self-control and precision even in outbursts. I saw the second, Drill Sergeant K, for the first time on the drill pad and I had little desire to become acquainted with him. While Drill Sergeant C openly displayed his dissatisfaction, Drill Sergeant K remained ominously calm. His physical appearance made me even more uneasy. The pitch-black complexion of his skin combined with the shadow of his tilted “brown round” hat to give him the appearance of a human silhouette with two demonically glowing white eyes implanted in it. On his feet were boots so well shined that they seemed to be carved from solid blocks of obsidian, suggesting he would only be content with the highest standards of appearance. When everyone was in the proper place the obnoxious sound of electronic feedback overrode the sound of yelling drill sergeants. “Welcome to Bravo Company, Two-Three-Nine Training Battalion,” said a stentorian, female voice though a loudspeaker, “Your place of residence for the next nine weeks—those of you crackbabies that survive that long. You will be given many orders during your stay here. This is the first: secure your duffle bags and return to formation. You have one minute, starting now.” At the sound of a whistle, the orderly ranks disseminated into anarchy. A horde of privates attacked a huge pyramid of duffle bags that had been shipped and stacked on one side of the drill pad prior to our arrival. They looked no more disciplined than hyenas fighting over a carcass. I waited for the rush to clear then started rummaging through the remaining bags looking for the one with “CASE” stenciled on it. When I found none a dozen worse-than-death scenarios invaded my head. Suppose my bag was lost somehow and I have to buy everything back. Suppose soldiers who don’t come prepared really do get held back an extra week at the reception barracks. “You have thirty seconds remaining!” boomed the loudspeaker. “Have you seen my bag?” I asked several soldiers who rush past me on their way to their square in formation. One stopped long enough to say, “‘Case?’ Oh yeah, yours was over there,” and thrust his finger behind him. I went in the direction he pointed and spotted a lone duffle bag. I raced toward it and overturned it. Lo and behold, it was mine! Never had I imaged that the sight of four stenciled letters on green canvas could bring such happiness. “Ten seconds!” I was the only soldier out of formation. Seizing the bag with both hands, I raced back to my place in second platoon, but the bag was heavy and my place was a good thirty yards away. I halted ten paces away from my goal. “Time is up! Who is that soldier still not in formation?” “That’s Private Case,” answered Drill Sergeant C. Then he added irritably, looking at me, “He’s one of mine.” “It looks like Bravo Company has Private Case to thank,” said the woman with the loudspeaker. “Private Case, you remain standing, everybody else, front leaning rest position… move!” With groans and peeved looks directed at me, the rest of Bravo Company assumed the push-up position. “When I say “down,” you say “thank you,” when I say “up” you say “Private Case… Down!” “Thank you.” “Up!” “Private Case.” “Down!” “Thank you.” “Up!” “Private Case.” This went on for about three minutes, during which time any soldier perceived to be “sandbagging” instantly attracted a posse of furious drill sergeants. At length the voice gave the command to “recover” and I slipped sheepishly back into formation. “You will now unlock your duffle bag and dump everything out in the ground in front of you,” said the loudspeaker. “If you have any unauthorized items in you duffle bag, please secure them in your personal bag or you will face repercussions.” I obediently overturned my duffle bag and the cement square I was standing in became a mound of clothes and hygiene items. I sorted through the mess for anything prohibited. I had no alcohol, tobacco or electronic devices; non-religious, non-military reading material was my downfall. I reluctantly said goodbye to the volumes of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky I packed, but I managed to slip a few smaller books inside the cargo pockets of my BDU trousers without, I think, anyone noticing. Once all the forbidden pleasures had been sorted out we made a separate pile of the personal bags. A detail of five soldiers carried the bags to the third floor where their distracting influence would be locked away for the duration of our training. The shakedown continued. The loudspeaker announced each item required for basic training and the soldiers would locate it in their pile and hold in the air until a drill sergeant had verified that everyone in their platoon was properly prepared. I rummaged through my pile to find six pairs of white socks, six pairs of black socks, three sets of BDU trousers and tops, one spare set of boots, etc. By some awful twist of fate, I made eye contact with Drill Sergeant K as he walked past me. He stopped and stepped so close to me that the brim of his hat nearly resting on the crown of my head. “You must think you’re better than me, staring me down like that, Private Case,” he said. “No, drill sergeant. Definitely not, drill sergeant.” I tried to say it with as much confidence as I could, but it was hopeless. He could sense fear in a private as keenly as a shark smells blood in water, and he knew I was fresh bait. He leaned even closer and said in a voice just above a whisper, “You’d better get it together, or it’ll be a long nine weeks, Case, do you understand me?” “Yes, Drill Sergeant.” To my relief, my wandering eye only cost me thirty pushups and momentary paralysis. As I did my pushups I could see my own distorted image reflected in Drill Sergeant K’s shoes like a funny mirror at an amusement park. How appropriate. “That was your warning,” he said before taking leave of me. “If it happens again, you’ll wish you’ve never been born.” As the last items were called off, I encountered a new difficulty—the things that I had dumped out of the duffle bag would not fit back in. I solicited the soldier nearest to me for help, a much older female with long red hair and a French accent. As the two of us took turns holding the bag open for the other to stomp the contents down, I wondered about her background and what it was that made her want to join the U.S. Army at this point in life. Even after we compressed the contents of the bag to a density approaching critical mass, however, I could not latch it close and had to carry a T-shirt and a pair of running shoes separately in my hand. If you could have observed Drill Sergeant K leading second platoon to their quarters for the first time, you would have seen an orderly rank of soldiers wearing their duffle bags like backpacks. Then you would have noticed a single soldier waddling behind in an altogether un-soldierly manner who had a pair of shoes and T-shirt draped over his shoulder and carried his unlatched duffle bag in front of him to make sure nothing fell out of it. If you could turn invisible follow them into the barracks (and you would have to turn invisible because they don’t allow civilians in there) you would have further noticed that the unsightly precaution didn’t amount to much. As I ascended a set of stairs to the male quarters, a shoe dropped. I squatted down to pick it up and something else fell. Trying to reach for both objects at once, I finally lost his balance and dropped the duffle bag, which regurgitated its contents down the stairs. “Oh, I know that isn’t Case again. That can’t possibly be Case.” It was the authoritative voice of Drill Sergeant C, who stood at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, staring down at the pathetic spectacle. I gathered everything in my arms in one big scoop and scrambled up the stairs to a sterile-looking hallway lined with rooms that had door frames, but no doors. In room 218, I found a locker that had not been claimed, shoved my overflowing duffle bag into it and fumbled for the combination lock in my cargo pocket. I stared at it blankly, realizing that I couldn’t remember the combination. By this time, the only one still left in the room was Private Floss, at the locker next to mine. “Goddamn it, hurry up you two!” came Drill Sergeant K. I turn back to the lock. My hands trembled. “Six, twenty six, eleven,” my brain told me, but yet I hesitated. I heard Floss’s locker slam shut and I knew all of Drill Sergeant K’s anger was now focused on me. “We’re all waiting on you, Case,” said Drill Sergeant K. “Your battle buddies are going to have you to blame for their shortened chow time.” The lock opened and I slid it into place. Only after I clamped it down did I see that there was a strap from the duffle bag trailing out of the bottom locker. I was about to open the locker again to tuck away the strap, but the number had already left me. “Good night in the morning! So this is the hold up.” It was Drill Sergeant C, sounding like a human volcano ready to erupt. “You better move it, Case, before I loose my boot in your fourth point of contact!” I am ignorant, to this day, of my first three points of contact, but I could make an educated guess as to the anatomical location of my fourth and had no desire to extract Drill Sergeant C’s footgear from it. Suddenly, both drill sergeants were standing inches away from me, erupting profanity. I kept staring at the lock like an idiot, overwhelmed and ignorant of the proper response. Do I give my attention to them or continue working on the lock? At one point, my frantically scanning eyes again met Drill Sergeant K’s. “You didn’t just eyefuck me again did you?” Drill Sergeant K said, “Well go on, Case, look me in the eyes and see what happens.” For several moments I kept my eyes fixated at the brim of his hat, on his crooked black nose. Finally I forced myself to stare directly into his eyes. Drill Sergeant K had the most unpleasant set of eyes I had ever seen—bulbous orbs that protruded unnaturally out of his skull with irises so dark that they were indistinguishable from his pupils. Once again, Drill Sergeant K invoked the image of a shark. For several seconds, I waited for something to happen, but nothing did. Drill Sergeant C was the next to speak. “Get down and knock out twenty five and open this da-gone locker.” I was only too happy to put some space between those sinister, drill sergeant heads and me by doing pushups. I only did ten, however, when Drill Sergeant C grew impatient and demanded I open the locker. By this time, I had gathered my nerves enough to open the lock with a steady hand, reposition the duffle bag, kick the locker shut, and snap on the lock. I bolted for the door, but stopped when I saw Floss was planted to the floor, looking at his feet. Something was wrong. “Feel like taking your time Private Fl—” Drill Sergeant C stopped abruptly and wrinkled his nose. That’s when I noticed the growing dark spot on Floss’s left pant leg. For several seconds, there was silence. One of the drill sergeants—I can’t remember which one—finally asked, “Private Floss, did you just take a dump in your pants?” Floss said nothing. Even though he was looking at the ground I could tell he was crying. I wanted to jump in Floss’s locker and shut myself in just to escape the shameful scene. I expected one of the drill sergeants to start laughing or call him pathetic or something but both remained silent. Drill Sergeant C glanced up at Drill Sergeant K almost imperceptibly and I realized that in doing so, he was stepping back to let a senior take control of a difficult situation. “All right Floss, get in the shower,” said Drill Sergeant K at last. He had a way of speaking that was neither judgmental nor merciful. “Case will get you some clothes and take care of your locker, won’t you Case?” It wasn’t a suggestion, but a politely worded order, so I did as he instructed. Inside the duffle bag I found a fresh pair of underwear, a new set of BDU’s and a towel. Drill Sergeant K took them to the shower room and for a moment I was alone. I just had time to catch my breath Floss emerged in his fresh uniform with both drill sergeants behind him. We raced down the stairs to the drill pad. “You’re not going to tell them, are you?” Floss asked when we were in the stairwell. “Nah, don’t worry about it. Nobody needs to know,” I said. The company marched to chow. When we reached the dining facility, or DEFAC as it was called, the banner carrier raised the company banner into the air three times, finally thrusting it into the ground. As he did this the company cried in unison, “Kill, kill, kill without mercy!” We filed into a normal looking cafeteria and where bored civilian workers served us a scoop of steamed vegetables, a scoop of cottage cheese, a square of lasagna and a scoop of a substance that chose to remain anonymous. I had only cleared the cottage cheese and about half of the main dish when I heard the words “On your feet!” Before I knew it I was standing in formation and was preparing to march back to the barracks. Standing there, I realized my canteen was missing from it’s pouch on my utility belt. I distinctly remembered having it with me as I marched to chow and setting it on my tray as I ate, but where was it now? I informed Drill Sergeant C of the problem and he reluctantly gave me one minute to pick a battle buddy and retrieve it. A minute later, the battle buddy and I came back empty-handed. Irritated, he was about to search for it himself when I felt something sloshing about my left leg and bashfully confessed I must have had it in my cargo pocket the whole time. I thought Drill Sergeant C was going to be angry, but he just displayed a look of utter befuddlement at my stupidity and said, “You mean to tell me that you’re used to a quarter gallon of water banging against your leg?” “No, drill sergeant.” He narrowed his eyes in utter incomprehension then shook his head and said, “Soldier, I think you’d better drink a little more of that water.” I obediently chugged the entire quart and fell back into formation amid opportunistic snickers at my expense. That evening the company gathered for one last formation. Drill Sergeant A from third platoon had just taken final role of us and was about to allow us our night’s rest when he told the company to do an about-face so that we faced the Alpha company barracks. “I understand that this is your first day here, so you may not be aware of the rivalry between Bravo Company and Alpha Company,” said Drill Sergeant A, “but it is a longstanding tradition. I know none of you would ever let down a tradition, would you?” “No, drill sergeant!” Bravo Company answered. “Good,” said the drill sergeant “Now who has the balls to step forward and tell Alpha Company exactly what we think of them?” Twenty seconds of silence elapsed. One brave soldier stepped in front of the formation. At the top of his lungs he yelled, “ALPHA, YOU SUCK!” His voice was so loud that a few figures appeared at the windows of the Alpha Company Barracks to see what the matter was. Bravo Company emitted a mischievous laugh. That ended the day on a light note. Even the drill sergeant was smiling as we filed into the barracks, probably out of gladness that the company commander wasn’t present. After lights out I lie in my bunk assessing my situation. What was it that had attracted me to the army to begin with? What horrors will await me in the weeks to come? I feel like a passenger on a rollercoaster feels once the seat has clamped down ominously—it’s too late to get off now, perhaps the best thing to do is to find a way to extend my hands and enjoy the ride. |
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