That night, in the barracks, madness reigned. With a Drill Sergeant caught fraternizing, all norms were cast aside. Pfeffer's typical tirade started, Shipman suffered a long series of smokings. West disappeared to the female barracks for interrogation. I listened to the melee, trying to muster a confession that never took form enough to speak amid the yelling and confusion.
Rumor had it that after the brief embrace, the confusion set both Pint and Shipman aflame with rage, but only Pint lashed out, giving Shipman two raccoon eyes. The story claimed that Shipman raised his fist in return, but refrained from hitting his superior.
At one point, Pfeffer relented with the physical punishment of Shipman and left the building. He told Shipman to get in his bunk and wait. The door slammed as Pfeffer walked out. A sweaty mess, Shipman leaned against my bunk and pondered his fate.
"I don't understand what Pint was doing there. I was supposed to meet West. Unless she set me up." He looked frail and defeated. "She wouldn't have done that. I know West wouldn't lie." He put his face into his hands. "What have I done?"
"Yeah, about that," I said. "That wasn't entirely a coincidence, I think. Maybe."
Shipman raised his head. "Why else would be be there unless she told him to be there?"
I scratched my scalp. "Right, right. I hear what you are saying. It's possible that Pint thought those notes were for him. It's possible."
"How? How did he know about them?" Suddenly he leaned back and said, "Oh God, you're right. I lost a couple of her notes. I wonder if he confiscated them and read them. But how," he struggled to connect his thoughts, "how could he have misconstrued it and thought she wanted to meet him?"
"Well, they were just sticking out of your pillow a few nights ago."
"They were?" he said, surprised. "Damn, they were. They were! But…" Then he stopped." How did you know that?"
"I saw them when I walked by."
"You saw them? You saw our notes? Did you read them?"
I took too long to respond.
"You did, didn't you, Sprungli."
My face grew warm. "Yeah. But I didn't mean for any of this to happen…"
"You set me up, Sprungli? You did?" His expression turned bitter. "You dirty, low-life, scumbag." Balls of fists clenched under his chin, he turned toward me but then squatted down and pushed his fists against his eyes. "I wish I knew why, Sprungli. I'm pretty sure I didn't deserve it. I may get kicked out of the Army for it. Drill Sergeant Pint, too. He will either be demoted or worse, all because of your practical joke."
I stammered, "I screwed it up. I just…I was sick of being the screwup and now I'm the screwup again."
"It was you then," Shipman said, leaning forward onto his elbows so that he appeared to be scrubbing the floor.
That's when the MPs arrived, coming into the door with Pfeffer and two other Drill Sergeants. I saw a lot of angry faces coming toward our bunk beds.
Pfeffer grabbed Shipman and Waters by the collars. "Waters, we know about you, too," Pfeffer said. "The secrets are coming out tonight. I already got your girlfriend, Waters. You're coming along to join her."
Dragged away like sacks, Shipman and Waters moved toward the door. Pfeffer yelled in Waters' ear the whole way. I heard Waters ask what he had done, and if the result would be a general discharge from the Army.
"Yeah, buddy?" yelled Pfeffer. "How's it going pal? Why don't you just call me by my first name. Call me asshole. Do it! Do it, Private! I beg you, do it! Am I not a Drill Sergeant?"
"You are, Drill Sergeant."
"You ain't getting discharged, Waters. Maybe the others, but not you. That's what you want, so you're not getting that. I have something better for you especially, Waters. Nothing opens up the pores like a good eighteen months of war. The heat in the desert will clear up your face. That's where you're going, Waters. I'm going to see to that. Iraq is gonna be your home. Lots of units need spare parts. You're not going to Water Treatment school. I'm going to reassign you to eleven bravo, infantry. And I hope one day soon you'll be driving down a Fallujah highway, looking at every little piece of litter on the shoulder wondering if it's an IED, and bam!" The room echoed. "You'll be a pile of red sand. You'll find out, Waters. I'm going to make sure you get your combat patch before you get your college money. You'll find out..."
The barracks door slammed shut. The remaining fifty-eight Privates stood in silence. Our Platoon Guide of nine weeks was gone, and suddenly without Shipman, no one knew what to say or do.
That night, using Shipman's flashlight, I read his notebook until the battery died, and became ashamed by his words. Now it was me crying in the night, sobbing on the pillow, because Shipman had written in his book that "…I know Sprungli could be a good soldier, but I'm afraid he doesn't want to be."
Chapter 25. Rights of Passage