Afterward, the Drills released us for an afternoon of family time. Grandpa and I went to eat at a restaurant outside of the Fort.
Before the waiter even asked, I said, "A plate of buffalo chicken wings, please." Then I fished my GameBoy out of my backpack and started up a new game. Finally, I could play it without looking over my shoulder.
"Paul," said Grandpa, "after losing all that weight, are you really going to start eating junk again? And playing video games?"
"Oh right," I said. "Waiter? I'll take a Diet Coke, too. And yes, Grandpa, I intend to play games now that I'm out of Basic Training."
Grandpa sighed and said, "Well, at least you didn't get kicked out. I was worried, you know." Before long, he started into his usual talk, rambling on about Milwaukee and the local news, the latest kidnappings and traffic problems.
"Paul, did you hear me?" he said. "I can never tell when you're listening."
"Yeah, Grandpa, I heard you."
The buffalo chicken wings arrived in no time. I have to admit, they were delicious, and messy. As fast I could eat them, I gnawed like a dog on rawhide.
"Awful manners," Grandpa said. "Awful, even for a soldier. But you still look good. At least there's that."
Suddenly I stopped was I was doing, mid-wing, because I smelled a familiar scent, that of a flowery field. A hand fell onto my shoulder, and when I turned, there was West, and behind her, Shipman, both wearing civilian clothes.
"Congratulations, Sprungli," said Shipman. "You made it to the end."
"What are you doing here?" I asked, aware of the wing sauce on my face. Wings always made me feel like I needed a shower.
Shipman said, "I'm out, Sprungli."
"Out?"
"I guess the Army doesn't want me after all." He laughed. "They gave me a general discharge, calling it 'Failure to Soldierize.' When the Colonel ruled on my file, with all of those counseling statements in there, the ones that you earned for me, they discarded me. Even Pfeffer could't keep me in once the Colonel read my file. I mean, you must have had ten counseling statements, and Pint promised to put a statement in my folder for every one you received, remember?"
West and Shipman laughed.
Grandpa said, "You don't really look like the type of person that fails to soldierize."
"Apparently I am."
I asked West. "You're not getting out of the Army, too, are you?"
"Not yet, but very soon, I will be. I confessed to the charges of seducing Pint and Shipman, and after they kicked out Darius, they decided to make an example of both of us. The paperwork is processing. Pfeffer let us walk through graduation today, but after this, we are homeward bound."
"We'll be a cautionary tale for others," said Shipman. "I think that's the idea. But none of it would have been possible without you, Paul."
West hugged close to Shipman's arm and he smiled at her.
"We couldn't have arranged it better ourselves," said Shipman. "I'll be going back to Champaign to work at the bank. But I'm glad I ran into you today, Paul, because I wanted to thank you."
"Thank me?" I said, picking up another wing.
"Yes, for setting up the whole fiasco. And Emily is going to move to Champaign, right?"
"I'm going to give it a try."
Shipman kissed her on the cheek and she closed her eyes.
Before they left, West stopped to ask me, "Is that the envelope you received at the ceremony today, Sprungli?"
"Yes," I said, growing angry and envious of their happy ending, now that my plan to expose their relationship backfired but somehow worked, yet ultimately made their perfect lives more perfect. "Why do you ask?"
"That's funny," she said, with a curious brow. "The Privates who graduated got a certificate, not an envelope. Darius and I have the same envelope that you received."
"You mean," I said, "I'm getting discharged, too?"
Grandpa sat up closer to the table, frowning at the idea.
"I don’t know what it means," said West. "I just noticed it. Have you opened it yet?"
The envelope became red with barbecue sauce as I slid my finger down the fold. The thought that I could return to gaming full-time in Grandpa's basement made me forget about my valorous final week at Basic Training. But to escape the Army now, the mere idea of it lifted my spirits, the possibility of going back to my favorite TV and Taco Bell…
I stopped fantasizing and dived straight into denial. Out of the envelope fell a picture of Drill Sergeant Pfeffer, right onto my hot wings. A smiling photo of Pfeffer, all teeth and gums.
"What the heck is this?" I said.
I picked up his picture and turned it over in my hand. Pfeffer had written something on the back of his face. I read aloud:
"I heard you like to play jokes. Me too. Await orders from me. You have been recycled to Delta Company. See you next week for Red Phase. Basic Training. Zero Day. You are not slipping through the cracks of my Army. You are a NO-GO. Love, Pfeffer."
I was speechless.
Shipman and West stared at me for a moment. West covered her mouth. She said, "I'm sorry, I have to go now." A giggle escaped from her before she turned to leave. She yanked on Shipman's arm. He said, "Best of luck, Paul."
Together, hands locked, they walked out, staring at each other like two sunflowers, and I heard them burst into laughter as they exited the restaurant.
"Well," Grandpa said, watching Shipman leave. "I don't believe that a guy like that failed to soldierize..."
"He failed to soldierize!" I yelled, hitting my plate and scattering bones. "Didn't you hear him say it himself?" I took a bite of a stray chicken wing, trying to digest Pfeffer's words. "I've been through a lot and I worked hard and I deserve to feel like a hero for a day."
"A hero?" Grandpa said. "I'm not sure getting through Basic Training makes you a hero..."
The idea of Red Phase, all over again, of the rifle ranges and latrine crawling and dew on the grass and POSH training and Free-Day-Away and cattle cars and sick calls and gas chambers and night fire and bayonet training and three minute meals - and worst of all, the psychotic Pfeffer as lead Drill Sergeant of Delta Company. I felt ill. But not knowing what else to do, with nowhere to run, I stuffed wings into my mouth.
"No," Grandpa said, "That doesn't work for me, kid. The same goes for anything else. What you see is not what you get. Finishing training doesn't make you a soldier. Carrying the Good Book doesn't make you decent. Growing a beard won't make you a scholar, cooking doesn't make you a gourmet, and wearing a uniform doesn't make you a hero. An accomplishment, yes, it is an accomplishment. But hero? I beg to differ on the definition, you might say."
I chewed wildly and started to retort, but when I opened my mouth I inhaled, and the buffalo chicken wing was vacuumed into my mouth and down my esophagus, bone and all. By impulse, I tried to cough it up, but in doing so I inhaled the wing further, tucking the gristle deeper into my throat.
I started to rock in my chair, and grabbed my throat, but Grandpa said, "I'm trying to say something. Do me the courtesy of listening."
Slapping at the table with one hand, smacking my knee with the other, I tried to blow a bubble, and failing that I put my hands to my throat and stood.
I fell onto the floor and gagged on the buffalo chicken wing. Flopping like a fish, I began to fade, I could feel myself disappearing like Mega Man on his last life with no cheat code for the villain, in this case a chicken wing. Before I passed out I felt Grandpa grab my waist and I heard him say:
"Dear God, we've created a monster."
###
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Dedicated to all those who serve in the US military, particularly those who train the raw materials, the Sprunglis.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Peter Anthony published his first novel A Town Called Immaculate in 2007 with Macmillan New Writing. He has worked as a sports writer, magazine contributo
r, and software engineer. He lives in Minnesota.
www.peteranthonybooks.com
https://www.facebook.com/peteranthonybooks
https://twitter.com/#!/PeterAnthonyBks
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends