"You are all going to Iraq. Get used to the idea. You will be going to Iraq."
A megaphone squeaked, squelched, and pierced the parade field as a Drill Sergeant spoke into the mouthpiece. "Get Iraq into your heads."
"Stab me in the face," Private Waters said to Private Vang. "No, in the heart. Whatever you do, just kill me."
"Don't worry so much," said Private Vang. "This bayonet couldn't kill you anyway. It's plastic."
"Then I guess you'll have to jab it pretty hard. Try to pierce my breastbone in the first shot if you can."
"You should be more concerned about a buttstock-to-the-groin." Vang swung her rubber rifle upwards and aimed for the center of Private Waters. With his rubber rifle, he blocked her approach.
"Vang, what is your job going to be?" he asked.
"I'm a forty-two-lima."
"And what is that?"
"Administrative Specialist."
"So you're a secretary?"
Vang shrugged. "I guess so."
Waters, the agitator, said, "So what the heck do you need bayonet training for? So you can stab a ream of paper?"
"Hey!" She jabbed the bayonet at him several times.
"No, I'm not saying...wow, you're quick. I'm not saying you can't do it, Vang, I'm just saying, what's the point?"
"It's to make us all warriors. Why, what's your job?"
"Water Treatment Specialist."
"Maybe you can stir the water with the bayonet."
Waters laughed. "You know, you look really good holding a rifle and bayonet. There's something very sexy about it."
"Thank you!" She posed with her killing-spear like it was her senior picture.
While I listened to Waters and Vang, I stood across from Private Ganger. She was the three-toed sloth of our platoon. Luckily, next to her stood my favorite soldier, Private West. While I stabbed at the flesh vat known as Ganger, I watched West fight Shipman. They were fast, too, like Johnny Cage and Kitana in Mortal Kombat.
This was what the Army called Hell Week and I could feel myself becoming stronger every day because I went to the doctor every morning. Sick-Call became a daily affair. I leaped out of bed in the morning to get outside before the sick truck left for breakfast. Not only did I get to eat earlier, but at the doctor, they treated any illness I could imagine. My sore throat went away and the soreness in my legs began to improve, mainly because I missed the morning exercises every day.
I told Shipman, "Go to Sick-Call and you can skip morning workouts."
"That's not why I'm here, Sprungli. How can I understand what it means to be a soldier, if I don't fight through adversity?"
"Just make something up. Say you've got a compound fracture or something."
That's what I did. In the Doctor's office, I drew up a list of maladies and complaints. The Doctor said that I did not have "goiter of the ankle" and asked if I meant to say "gout." The pain in my feet, I assured him, could be symptoms of one or both conditions. After he examined my ankle, inspected my feet, and criticized the scent of my socks, he wrote with his magic pen, granting me a highly coveted 'soft-shoe profile.' No more boots for me. I wore Reebok tennis shoes all day long, skipped the exercises, and only took part in marching and the other enjoyable parts of basic training, such as bayonet practice.
My partner, Private Ganger, was also the recipient of a soft-shoe profile. She was soft all over, kin to a snail. Because she and I both arrived late after sick-call that day, we became stabbing partners.
Waters continued flirting with Vang, sickening everyone in earshot.
"Ok, my turn," he said. "Slash-to-the-throat, buttstock-to-the-head, C-130-to-Iraq."
Drill Sergeant Brown spoke into the megaphone without much vigor. "What makes the green grass grow?"
I answered with vigor. "Blood blood blood, bright red blood!"
"Oh my God this is stupid," said Waters.
The Drill Sergeant continued. "What makes the green grass green?"
"No," Waters said, "God, no. I can't even say this crap anymore..."
"Guts guts guts!" I said and stabbed at my porkie partner, Private Ganger. "Kill!"
Ganger said to me, "Are you retarded or something?"
"What?"
"I was just wondering. You remind me of my cousin. He's retarded."
"Listen up, Gang-Bang," I said, pointing at my collar. "I outrank you. I'm a PFC, that's Private First Class. You're not there yet. Respect the rank. You know the rule. Don't hate the player, hate the game."
On my left, I heard some laughing coming from Shipman and West. They were tangled together, almost cheek to cheek if not for their helmets, and Shipman's bayonet neared Private West's face.
And what was that I saw? I saw a squeeze of the hand, a short touch, and a soft love pat. The quiet squeeze happened when West and Shipman switched sides to charge each other again.
On my right, I heard more laughing, this time from Private Waters and Private Vang. Perhaps only a foot apart, they stood leaning against cross-checked rifles and Vang, who usually stared at the ground, looked up at Waters' face. And what were these sweet nothings? Waters spewed flattery onto Vang, asked about her home, and wished, yes, he wished that he knew more about her native land, Cambodia. A date was arranged for the next outdoor boot-shining, where they would apply Kiwi and spittle onto each other's footwear. They leaned on the rifles and did not battle each other, not at all. Instead they held each other in place like an isosceles triangle.
The Drill Sergeant continued to speak into the megaphone. "Kill! Kill! Kill!"
Private Ganger said, "I'm hungry."
"I'm starving," I said. I decided to offer her a gift. "I have some ketchup packets. Would you like one?"
The Drill Sergeant spoke again. "In war, only the strong survive."
"Sure," Ganger said, "I'll eat a ketchup packet."
She tore the top off the ketchup packet with her teeth and sucked it dry.
Soon enough, before Shipman and West could squeeze again, before Waters drowned poor Vang in sap, along came Pint, prancing along like a proud miniature schnauzer, encouraging us to stay motivated, to remain swollen with anger so that we would one day "Kill!" in epic battle. Wearing a helmet, neckless Pint reminded me of Mega Man from Mega Man 2, which was less pixelized than the original character.
"Sprungli!" he woofed. "Perform the moves in the order called out by Drill Sergeant Brown. The order was: Smash, Slash, then Buttstock. It was not Buttstock, Smash, Smash."
I performed the moves and Private Ganger tried to block me, but I was too quick for her.
"Ow!"
"Sprungli! You're not supposed to actually try to hurt her, you knucklehead, just practice the motions. On the bayonet course we have dummies you can try to kill."
"In war," I said, "only the strong shall survive."
"In that case, you'll be the first one pushing up daisies." He looked down at my feet. "Why are you wearing shoes?"
The magic document in my pocket would answer the question for me and neuter Pint of any chance to drop me.
"I have a profile." I smiled.
"Let's see it. Wipe that stupid stripe off your melon."
I reached into my pocket, and felt around for my soft-shoe-profile, but I felt nothing. Perhaps I had misplaced it. I checked my cargo pockets, my breast pockets, and every corner of my uniform.
Pint said, "Can't find it, huh?"
"It's a serious condition," I said. "If I don't take it easy, I may have to have my foot amputated, Drill Sergeant."
"Well, I don't see any profile. Start running laps around that track over there. When you find your profile, stop running. Otherwise, just keep running."
I said, "But my foot! If I am going to be a Ranger..."
"A Ranger?" Pint exploded. "A Ranger? A park ranger or a United States Army Ranger? No, Sprungli. You're going to eighty-eight-Mike school and then straight to your duty station. Y
ou're not going to Ranger school."
"What are you talking about?"
"Sprungli, you're going to be a truck driver, not a Ranger. A Motor Transport Operator. Didn't your recruiter tell you? The only Ranger you'll ever be is a Code Ranger with a specialty in Sick-Call." He laughed. "Sprungli, the Airborne Ranger. Lead the way, to the buffet." Pint turned his attention to Shipman and West. "Private West - you have CQ duty this afternoon with me in the Drill Sergeant's office."
While Pint spoke to West, I tried to absorb the shock of being lied to by my recruiter. At the office in Milwaukee, the recruiter said that after basic training in Missouri I would go straight to RIP School - Ranger Indoctrination Program - and soon after that I would join the 75th Ranger Regiment. A truck driver? Ever since playing Big Rigs on my PC, I hated trucks. Even Monster Truck Madness, with its destruction, didn't excite me for long. What kind of truck would I be driving? Would it be a nuclear missile transporting semi-truck, armed to the teeth, or would it be an Army deuce-and-a-half carting bedsheets? I had to ask. "Do truck drivers get to blow stuff up, Drill Sergeant?"
"Oh sure, lots of explosions. Only problem is, it's usually the truck that does the blowing up," said Pint, with a grin on his face. "Cheer up, Sprungli. You'll definitely be going to Iraq. Lots of truck drivers needed over there. Now start running."
Chapter 10. Fast Food