My body ached. The following morning I could not roll over, not even by rocking my body, but Shipman helped me dismount my bunk when the lights turned on. Everything sore and inflamed, including my throat. Continuous illness circulated through the barracks and my voice rasped from the swelling. This time I truly needed Sick-Call, but had cried wolf far too many times.
For the next five days, yelling followed Major and I everywhere. By day two I began to jump at my own shadow. It never ceased. Even in my sleep I heard the voice of Pfeffer, who spent more time with me than with his own platoon. At night, he made rounds to wake me for an outfit change. In a given night, I started in shorts and a t-shirt and woke up in full battle-rattle, even wearing my rucksack in bed. My Kevlar helmet was required at all times. Drill Sergeant Pint and Pfeffer made sure that I wore it to the dining facility, to briefings, to sleep. Every Drill Sergeant, from Alpha Company to Zebra, they all called me "Freak" and chased me from point A to point B. The helmet attracted them.
People started hounding me about getting my act together. I started to cling to Shipman, since he had my back - and him alone. Major could not help me. He had his own battles with cadre happening on the other end of the barracks.
We were waiting to get haircuts one day, when Drill Sergeant Pfeffer walked by and something tipped over inside me. I started crying in front of everyone.
"Oh my God. Check this out." Pfeffer folded his arms and laughed. I noticed his Ranger patch, blurry, through my tears. "As many times as I've seen this happen," he said, "I still love watching a good nervous breakdown."
I was hyperventilating.
"You should be happy," Pfeffer said. "Today we get to make phone calls to home."
The words picked my head up and calmed my breathing.
"Really?" I said.
Pfeffer laughed. "Everyone but you. Now how about you go take a roll in the grass for not addressing me as Drill Sergeant. You'll need a battle buddy."
"That's me, Drill Sergeant," Shipman said. There he was, right beside me. Quite a few times Shipman could have let someone else get smoked, but he stayed beside me.
Pfeffer marched the two of us behind some bushes. During the smoking, I cracked and cried the whole time, choking on dirt and wincing at pain, but Shipman kept saying, "C'mon Paul. Just do one more."
"Shipman," Pfeffer scolded, "no one asked for a goddamn cheerleader."
He ignored Pfeffer and kept saying, "C'mon buddy."
When we got back to the line of Privates waiting for haircuts, I could barely stand straight. All day long, Pint roamed the lines, back and forth, like a Space Invader, and anyone who moved a muscle was yanked out of line and sent to the bushes, where Pfeffer kept the all-day exercises going full blast.
"Just stare straight ahead," Shipman said, "and don't screw around. We'll get through the line, just maintain your discipline."
"But I'm not..."
"Shh...just be quiet," he muttered. "They'll back off soon. Just get through today. They can't keep us here past dinner. Just stare straight ahead. Don't lock your knees. Keep the blood flowing."
So that's what I did. I stared into the bricks of the squat little convenience store where the barber plied her shears.
Green, black, and brown Army camouflage patterns passed through my line of sight. The whistle blew and the dust in the air muddied the sweat on my skin. Staring straight ahead, my sight was a laser to a single pebble in a red brick. I dared not move. That pebble in the wall was all I could think about. A lot of sounds tried to distract me from it, but I started to find a zone. Pfeffer's whistle rung in my ears, but at least for once the shrill sound wasn't forcing me to move. The volume of the yelling quieted as I let my mind wander into the pebble. Somehow the pebble became fascinating.
Another group of green, black, and brown camouflage passed through my vision. I heard the voices but refused to look. Several girls were crying.
"Roll, roll. Get up. Get down, GET DOWN!! GET DOWN! I SAID DOWN! UP! DOWN! MOVE!"
I started to think of home, of Grandpa and Mom.
After a two minute haircut, I stood again on the pavement, where sweat beads rolled off my shaved head, down my nose, and fell to my dusty boots. The hot sun lapped up the sweat drops, pulling them to the sky. Stinging sweat pinched the corners of my eyes. I needed to wipe the sweat out of my eyes, to shift my feet, move them off the hot rock underfoot, but I could not, had better not, no, I would not move or look away from the red brick. Filthy and dripping, but still at attention, I stared straight ahead. More green, black, and brown patterns passed in front of me. Another group of poor bastards. It was getting brutal. The ball in the whistle never stopped bouncing until nightfall.
When my turn to make a phone call finally arrived, I rushed to the phone. "You got four minutes," said a female Drill Sergeant. I nodded, I didn't argue. With excitement I waited to hear Grandpa's voice, to hear him pick up the phone.
But no one picked up the phone at home. Only then I remembered, I was supposed to have sent a letter about when we were allowed to make phone calls. I had forgot about the letter and never mailed it. Hanging up the receiver, I choked back tears. My four minutes passed on to the next caller, and it crushed me to set the receiver on the hook.
That night, with everyone defeated from punishment, tempers flared at the slightest aggravation. Private Major got in a fight with a long-armed skinhead from Washington named Private Shockley. Shipman stepped in, spun Shockley around, pushed him down, and stuffed his head against a mirror.
"Do it, hero," Shockley said, asking for it. "Just do it, hit me!"
"Do it, Shipman," I said, wanting to see some action. "Do it!"
"I'm not getting recycled," Shipman said to us both, backing away. He let go of Shockley. "I've got more important things to worry about."
Chapter 14. Road March