The Firing Range. 15,000 US Army life in the 50s. (standard:action, 14776 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 09 2020	Views/Reads: 1166/826	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
This is both fiction and a detailed description of Army Basic Training in the fifties, so please don't complain about all the descriptions. They should be interesting to former and current military.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Soon the Spotters in the Pits would wave their wands with the
appropriate score. It would be noted on a form by each Coach. The scene 
would be repeated, exactly, until everyone had switched positions from 
Firer to Coach, then taken their turn in the Pits. In Basic Training, 
that was the only firing process the Trainees were put through, though 
repeatedly. Later, more difficult, courses would have to wait until 
Advanced Training, if at all, depending on their Military Occupational 
Specialties (MOSs). 

*** 

Jonah Yakov grew up a mountain man. His family owned about half a
mountain in West Virginia. Jonah's family was land rich but a great 
deal of it lay at steep angles and, as such, was virtually unusable. 
Much of the rest consisted of a thin cover of earth over stone, with 
the same result. They did own a lot of timber, again most -- being of 
small scrub trees and knotty pine -- was also of little value. Their 
large decrepit wooden house had been built eighty-years before and 
hadn't weathered well. 

Jonah and his family made a precarious living doing odd jobs for other
farmers in the area and making moonshine whiskey in their spare time. 
Jonah was average in the first endeavor but proficient in the second. 
His family's "shine" was highly sought after. 

He had eight children. True to his luck, seven were female. His one son,
Abraham, grew up small and slight for his age of seventeen. Abraham was 
the most intelligent of the children. Although Jonah wanted to send him 
to college, the first in his family history, he didn't have enough 
money to spare. 

In 1954, there were few opportunities for college in that small mountain
community. Chances for scholarships were few and far between. If you 
were that poor, even finishing high school was rare. A male child would 
be expected to work to help support his family, while a female would be 
urged to marry and move away as soon as possible after the age of 
thirteen or fourteen. 

*** 

“Damn, Abe, ya missed 'at last 'un. What a hell's wrong with ya taday?
Ya knows we can't 'ford misses,” Jonah laughingly chided his son, then 
ten-years-old. The year was 1947 and the two were hunting rabbits on 
the lonely mountainside. Even at that age, Abe rarely missed with a 
light single-shot .22 rifle. 

“Sorry Pa, he turned too quick.” 

“Ya gotta watch his legs. They always skips a little afore changin'
directions. You gotta read yer target. Trust yer aim an don't use them 
damned iron sights. They limits yer view. I gotta file them damn things 
off afore they screw ya up completely. Yer' eyes an brain knows where 
ta aim.” 

“Jimmy says school is starting next week, can I go?” 

“Ya don't need it. Ya can read some a'ready, can't ya? 'At's all ya
needs; long as ya can read a Bible at church on'a Sundays.” 

“Better than Jimmy, and he goes every year,” Abe replied. “But I wanna
learn other things too, like they all go on trips together, like caves 
and woods and stuff.” 

“Where a hell ya think ya is now? An we got us a couple a caves on'a
mountain.” 

“Not as big as the one Jimmy told me about, where you can walk for
hours.” 

“Don't argue, boy. Jimmy don't got a mother an seven sisters ta look out
fer.” 

*** 

At seventeen, Abraham yearned to join the army. He had already missed
two wars and wanted to be there for the next one. His father was, at 
first, against it. Abe persisted and told his father that he could both 
get a free education from it -- and a good paycheck. A good one for 
them, in any case. He promised to send money back home. 

His father eventually gave in and signed papers to let Abraham join the
army early, before eighteen. 

*** 

David Summers had a quite different background. He was raised in an
upper-middle-class family. Dave had never been into sports, probably 
due to a weight problem. He was genetically prone to being overweight 
and didn't fight it. His family encouraged him to eat, thinking it was 
unhealthy to limit yourself. They wanted fat and healthy children. 

Dave was popular in school -- as the class clown. Of course, that was
only with the boys. The older he became, and the larger he grew, the 
more he realized that he had a real problem. 

“Father, I think I'll join the military. At the very least it will slim
me down.” 

“Why would you do that? Our family is all big-boned. Nothing wrong with
that,” his father replied. “It helps in my sales job. Everyone loves a 
jolly fat man.” His father used all those old platitudes and excuses. 
Even the one of “If you want to lose a few pounds, you just have to go 
on a diet is all.” 

“It would help me in other ways. I'd have more self-confidence and see
the world -- or at least more of this country. Ohio's so boring.” 

“Get a job and it won't be boring. It's your fault you quit college with
only a year to go. You could have your MBA by now if you'd only 
waited.” 

“That's my point, exactly. I never finish anything. I become bored and
quit anything I try. The army wouldn't be so easy to quit.” 

Despite the opinion of his family, David waited until he was eighteen
and joined up on his own signature. 

*** 

Staff Sergeant Tony Masters hadn't always been a career soldier. He had
been drafted during the Second World War. He had used the excuse of 
going to military schools to avoid the brunt of the action, a habit 
that had eventually caught up with him. 

When Tony first went in, WWII had been going in our favor and the army
didn't need any more officers, so he was relegated to being just 
another enlisted man. It made him angry. With a civilian degree in 
Social Science, he had expected a commission as a lieutenant. Despite 
an exceptional score on the entrance exams he was soon sporting a slick 
sleeve as a private. 

He hated Basic Training the same as everyone else. Being a stoic man, he
simply endured it, trying every way he could to make things as easy on 
himself as possible. Being somewhat of an artist, he spent a good deal 
of his time as a "Jock Strap." That was a derogatory designation 
reserved for the few individuals lucky enough to have skills valued by 
the Basic Training Unit itself. Jockstraps included trainees with such 
skills as sports -- each company competed with the others in various 
competitions -- artistic painting, carpentry, plumbing, and barbering. 

Company commanders always had use for skilled labor. For example, if a
carpenter was needed for an unofficial company project, it was cheaper 
to look for a trainee with those skills than to hire a professional. 
Barbers were in great demand. Subsequently, Private Masters spent a 
good deal of his time painting murals in battalion dayrooms. He was 
excused from quite a few grueling details, such as marching and 
physical training. He even managed to avoid much of the marksmanship 
training. He didn't have to go out in the sun and rain with the rest of 
the recruits. Instead, he worked regular hours in the battalion area, 
associating mostly with the permanent staff. 

Later, the Korean War came along. When young Tony actually found himself
in combat he was at a disadvantage. He couldn't march, throw grenades, 
clean a rifle, or even shoot as well as most of his contemporaries. To 
his surprise, he survived. 

After the war, remembering his own handicaps, Tony jumped at the chance
to train recruits himself. Initially, he'd had big ideas on how to do 
it, forgetting that the army had its own ways to do things. There was 
the wrong way, the right way, and the army way. He was forced to adopt 
the army way, to his eternal consternation. 

Tony, by then Staff Sergeant Masters, wanted to help save new recruits
from his own initial handicaps. He believed in strict training of 
everyone, with no fake painting or cutting hair bullcrap for his 
students. He intended to train them to stay alive in the next war. 

*** 

“Al-right kiddies, out of the fuckin' bus, and get into some kind of
fuckin' line. Come on asshole, hurry it up. 

“Leave at fuckin' bag alone! DID YOU HEAR ME, ASSHOLE? I SAID LEAVE IT,
AND I DO MEAN FUCKING NOW. 

“I order men and they send me fuckin little giiiirls. You call that a
fuckin' line? 

"Come on. Oh, my God! Do I deserve you bastards? Straighten it up, and
for God's sake try to stand up straight.” The drill sergeant tried to 
get his new charges to stand in a straight line, a seemingly impossible 
task. One which by dint of long experience, skill, and the grace of 
god, he finally accomplished. 

The sergeant walked up and down the line a few times, hands clasped
behind his back. 

“Welcome to the US Army, gentlemen. You are standing on United States
Government soil. You will soon be wearing clothing graciously given you 
by that same government. This is government property, the clothing will 
be government property. YOU are also government property. I am that 
government's representative. 

"That means YOU belong to ME. I will, never, for a moment, let you
forget that FACT.” He turned to glare at their individual faces, 
waiting until each pair of eyes lowered to the ground before going on 
to the next. “You are at the Fort Knox Military Training Facility. 

"This place is called the Reception Station. It will be your home until
you receive your Basic Training assignments. It may be a few days, or a 
few months. You can think of this as a sort of kindergarten. My job is 
to teach you basics like how to walk in a straight line and see that 
you have food and clothing. Today you will get your hair cut to 
military standards, be issued clothing, get a nice advance on your pay, 
buy toilet articles, and ... be ... fed if we have time. If you want to 
eat, you'd better snap ass. 

"Tomorrow you will see some entertaining movies and learn to march.
After that you will learn how to wait. You will find that waiting is a 
necessary skill in this mans army. You will wait until orders are given 
to report to your Basic Training Unit.” 

He stopped to get his breath and glare some more, along with a
surreptitious glance at his watch. 

“I guarantee you that you will not be bored during your stay here. You
will have an opportunity to learn your way around the mess hall, on KP 
duty. You will also acquire valuable experience on such diverse 
subjects as painting stones, cleaning, guard duty, digging ditches and, 
of course, in policing up the area. 

“Now, I would like you people to sort yourselves out, with the smaller
men in front and the larger ones in the rear.” After a bit of shoving, 
yelling, and leading his charges into a semblance of order, he stepped 
alongside the formation, shaking his head at his own handiwork. 

Standing there, an unhappy look on his face, he continued. “I would like
to march you down to the PX, but I know.... Yes, by god I know, that it 
will not be possible. I would have a complete cluster-fuck if I tried, 
and the commanding officer is looking out his window. So we will do it 
the har.... 

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU GRINNING ABOUT, LITTLE GIRL? Don't be shy, honey,
come on and step out here. I want a good look at you, sweet thing.” 

A burly 6' 2" 220lb young man stepped out of the formation. He was
scowling and looked ready and able to break the smaller drill 
instructor in half. 

“Aww, is sweetums' angry? Come on hoss'. You feelin' frisky? Then jump.”


The big guy took a swing at the DI, who ducked. From the back, the
recruits could see the sergeant's shoulder dip and jerk as he 
apparently hit the guy a few licks. The big recruit grabbed his gut and 
fell to the ground. The DI shook his head and, with the guy still lying 
there, clutching his guts and groaning up a storm, turned to the 
others. 

The sergeant waited a minute, walking slowly around the groaning man,
then nudged him, not too gently, with the toe of a highly-polished 
boot. 

"Let's go, fat-boy. On your fucking feet." 

The big man made quite a show of getting to his knees, shaking his head
and struggling to shaky legs. He finally stood, a picture of dejection. 


“Nuff' fun, ladies. Now it's my turn to have a little laugh. You, what's
your name, Sonny?” the sergeant asked another recruit, in a gentle 
voice. 

“David Summers, sir.” 

“Thank you ‘David Summers Sir'." The sergeant nodded his head and
continued, "Now ‘David Summers Sir,' do you see that building over 
there?" The sergeant pointed at a wooden, two-story barracks building 
about forty-feet away. 

“Yes, sir. I see it, sir.” 

“Good for you, young man. Now please, pretty please, squat down.” 

After the man complied, sweat beginning to form on his brow, the DI
ordered, “Now I want you to flap your arms and quack like a duck. Humor 
me. Come on and do it. I have a reason.” 

Looking around to see if anyone was laughing, the man did so. 

“Good boy, David Summers Sir. Now see how fast you can get in the door
of that barracks.” 

Dave Summers quacked and duck-walked toward the building, with half the
group trying not to grin. The sergeant waited patiently until Dave was 
halfway to the barracks, by then in agony and falling over a couple of 
times as weak ankles gave way from the effort. 

“Useless, useless. I think I'll flunk him out already. It'll be doing
that fatass a favor, since he'll never make it through basic training," 
the sergeant told the others in confidence, a sad note in his voice, 
"Now, I want all you other girlies to see if you can beat him there, 
carrying your luggage.  You, and you." the DI pointed at two men who 
looked to be in reasonable physical condition. "You two take David 
Summers Sir's luggage with you. 

"Get unpacked and don't leave the building. I'll see you in a little
while. Let's go, squat, flap your little wings and, MOVE OUT.” 

The entire group headed toward the barracks in a milling, quacking mob,
some already falling over and bumping into each other as they 
struggled. Suitcases came open, items falling out. Paper sacks ripped, 
with the same effect. They were too involved in the effort to notice 
the beaten man still standing with the sergeant, both of them grinning. 


Instead, the man that had been knocked down, along with the drill
sergeant, walked together to the post exchange. Drill Sergeant Masters 
and his friend, Sergeant Adams -- not really a private, but the Mess 
Sergeant from "D" company -- took time to down a couple of beers. They 
were laughing over the subterfuge. It was a little trick to get instant 
respect. After that demonstration, none of the recruits would dare to 
physically challenge the drill sergeant. 

*** 

The inside of the wooden barracks from early WWII consisted of one long
room with hard bare-metal bunks stacked two high lining both sides. 
There were thirty pairs along each side, separated by a seven-foot 
space down the center of the room. Wooden shelves extended along the 
walls behind the heads of the bunks. Two large boxlike footlockers 
stood at the foot of each pair of beds. 

Wooden support pillars were spotted every ten-feet on each side of the
aisle. One end of the building sported two small rooms on each side of 
a back door. The other end contained a large shower room with a row of 
6 toilets 1 ½ feet apart, no enclosures between them, on one side and a 
row of sinks on the other. A large communal shower-room stood at that 
end, past the toilets. 

The upstairs was the same, except for the absence of a bathroom, or
“latrine” -- as it was called. It had four small rooms at each end 
instead. 

With no further orders at the moment, the recruits broke down into
groups. Some of those were along ethnic lines, some were geographic -- 
like from the same city or state. Others were for more obscure reasons. 
For instance, they might have been sitting together on the long bus 
ride. 

A few, like Abraham Yakov, simply chose a bunk at random, unpacked a
bit, lay down and read a novel they had with them. Others started a 
poker game in the center of the room, while someone else produced a 
pair of dice and started a crap game in a corner. The new recruits 
relaxed while anxiously waiting for whatever was to come. 

That something happened a few minutes later, when a corporal and a
private, the private carrying a large burlap bag, entered the barracks. 
All eyes on them, the two walked to the center of the room and 
announced. 

“All right, gentlemen," the corporal called out in a loud commanding
voice, "this is your last chance to get rid of prohibited and illegal 
items. Your last chance for amnesty. This private is going to walk 
through the room with his bag. You will, if you're wise, put all your 
contraband in it.” He gave a stern look to the recruits, trying to make 
eye contact. “I mean everything that is not allowed in this barracks. 
You WILL be searched later.” 

“What do you consider contraband, sir?” 

“I mean those playing cards in your hand, dice, dirty books and
pictures. Also comic books, candy bars and other snacks.  Pocket 
knives, brass knuckles, firearms, women's underwear, and anything else 
you think might apply.” He couldn't help a grin. “Later, an officer 
will come in for a shakedown inspection. At that point, it's to late to 
get rid of it.” 

The private walked around the room, the bag slowly becoming heavier.
Nobody, of course, noticed that neither of them were wearing name tags 
-- and they later found that most of the items were on sale at the PX. 
Except for that incident, they had a couple of hours to talk and rest, 
while the two enterprising soldiers split their illegal loot with 
confederates. The scheme was pulled on every new group. 

*** 

“On your feet, gentlemen.” A new sergeant, one with more stripes, had
come in. It was Sergeant Masters. In transit himself, he was delegated 
to be in charge of that barracks of recruits while he waited for his 
own Drill Instructor assignment. Any instruction except keeping order 
and cleaning the barracks would be up to him. 

“Time you ladies received a haircut, and then you lucky bitches will be
issued real money; cold cash, an advance on your lordly salary,” he 
told them. “But first, since we're inside here where no real soldiers 
can see, I'm going to teach you how to walk.” He grinned. “None of that 
simpering ladylike civilian stuff, either. I'm gonna teach you how to 
walk like a soldier. We call it ‘marching'.” 

Since they were the tallest in the group, the drill sergeant ordered
recruits Dave Summers and Abraham Yakov to stand side by side in the 
center of the long aisle. He had the others form lines behind them. The 
recruits were then manhandled by Sergeant Masters into two reasonably 
straight ranks behind Dave and Abe. One by one, he grabbed them from 
behind and literally shoved them into the correct position. 

“NOW, you will all extend your left arms in front of you, and your right
arms to the side. Touch the man in front or alongside you. That is the 
distance you WILL maintain.” He walked along the line of footlockers, 
from front to rear. “Eyes Forward, gentlemen. Yes, you are still 
gentlemen, THAT IS YOUR PROBLEM. My problem is to make you into 
SOLDIERS. 

“I SAID EYES FORWARD, ASSHOLE. YOU WILL NOT LOOK TO THE RIGHT OR TO THE
LEFT. YOU WILL LOOK STRAIGHT AHEAD WHILE IN FORMATION. 

“Dave Summers will steer this formation. He IS permitted to look around,
ONLY HIM.” Stopping in front of Abe, the Sergeant asked. “And what is 
your name, young lady?” 

“Abe, Abraham, Abraham Yakov, sir,” Abe answered with a nervous smile. 

“Oh, so we got us at least one Jew. No disrespect meant, Mr. Yakov, but
I am going to be all over your ass while you are here. I am Catholic, 
so I HATE Jews.” He grinned to ease the insult, and turned to peer down 
the straight row of recruits. 

"Private Yakov has my permission to look to his left and to guide on
Dave Summers. The rest of you will follow the man directly in front of 
you. And please, please, notice who it is, since you will have this 
same position in every formation. 

“And don't feel left out, gentlemen. I'm not picking on recruit Yakov. I
am going to be on ALL your asses. I hate you all. A few months ago, I 
had a nice office job. 

"Now I gotta fuck around trying to turn YOU into soldiers. I HATE YOU.”
He glared at them all. “When I tell you to, I want you to turn around. 
I will say the words ABOUT then FACE and you will turn around together. 
About ... WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, MISTER?” He ran back to confront 
one man who had started to turn. 

“I was turning around Sergeant, like you sa....” 

“I told you to turn when I told you to turn, I did NOT tell you to turn
... YET. You understand me, mister?” The man had been nervous enough to 
begin with; now he was completely confused. 

“I -- I -- don - I'm not sure,” he stuttered with downcast eyes, afraid
to face the sergeant. 

The sergeant gave him an evil smile, and a kindly pat on the shoulder. 

“Don't cry now, honey. You'll do all right. Just take it slow. NOW GET
BACK IN LINE, AND WAIT FOR MY COMMAND.” 

Sergeant Masters drilled them for an hour and a half, marching them back
and forth, up and down the long room until they were dizzy from 
turning. They were to start processing into the army that day. But that 
would come after lunch. 

It being near that time, Sergeant Masters showed his group the way to
the mess hall. Since the recent marching lesson, they at least moved in 
some sort of order. Although doing a lot of yelling and cussing, 
Sergeant Masters was secretly satisfied. A few minutes early, he had 
decided to give them a little more of the extensive information they 
would need. 

“When I release you, you will go in that door and take a tray. If you
follow the yellow line painted on the floor, even you can't go wrong. 
After the meal you will be on your own until 1300 hrs. To a civilian 
that would be one pm. 

"I will see you back at your barracks, ladies. A few of you are
intelligent enough to find the correct building and will be expected to 
show the others where it is. I can assure you, it will not move.” He 
took time to light a cigarette. 

“Smoke if you want. This is only an informal chat. After lunch, you'll
be processed in at the Personnel Building. A bus will be waiting in 
front of the company office, called the ‘Orderly Room' to take you to 
Personnel. You'll also get haircuts at the PX, a little store at the 
Reception Center. We have our very own. 

"You will receive what is called a ‘Flying Five,' which will be taken
out of your first paycheck. You'll buy a package of toilet articles 
with the money. 

"The bus will then take you to the Clothing Depo where you'll be issued
uniforms. Contrary to rumors, they will fit. We'll then return to the 
company area. 

"Your final order for the day will be to package your civilian clothing
for pickup and storage tomorrow morning. You will not need it until you 
finish basic training. It'll be stored until then, or you can mail it 
home or throw it away. The one thing you cannot do with it, is to take 
it with you to basic training. Boxes will be available at the supply 
room for fifty cents apiece, if you need them. Suitcases are acceptable 
for the purpose. Paper bags are not.” 

When a cook finally opened and latched the mess hall doors, Sergeant
Masters made a show of knocking the hot coal off his cigarette. He then 
called their attention to the way he peeled the paper off his cigarette 
butt and spread the remaining tobacco into the wind. He rolled the 
paper into a tight little wad and dropped it on the ground. 

“You will do this whenever you smoke outside. If you have a filtered
cigarette, the filter will go into your pocket. NO, ABSOLUTELY NO, 
cigarette butts will be thrown to the ground on this post. Any NCO or 
officer who sees you toss one on the ground will bring you up on 
charges with your company commander. You can expect to spend a 
considerable amount of time policing the area, picking up trash and 
butts. That is how we keep the grounds clean, by using recruits like 
yourselves. 

"Also, you may have seen cars with differently-colored stickers on the
left side of their bumpers. The cars with red stickers WILL be saluted. 
They belong to officers and will be saluted, no matter who is driving. 
Failure to do so will bring punishment. 

"You can go in to eat now. I'll see you at 1300 hrs.” He released the
recruits and watched them crowding into the back of a line forming at 
the mess hall. 

*** 

Later, a company clerk came into the barracks with a stack of
mimeographed orders for the group. They went something like this: 

1. All lights will be and stay out by 2200 hrs. 2. No smoking in bed. 3.
No gambling. 4. No fighting 5. Beds will be made in the morning before 
breakfast. 6. The barracks will be kept clean. 7. All Officers and NCOs 
will be saluted and addressed as "Sir." 8. All permanent party 
personnel, meaning anyone with even one stripe on their sleeves, will 
be addressed by rank and be obeyed. 9. All automobiles with red 
stickers on the bumpers will be saluted -- even if not driven by an 
Officer. 10. All trash will go into trash cans, which will be emptied 
into dumpsters every morning. 11. No cigarette butts will be thrown on 
floors or grounds. 12. You will come to attention when any Officer or 
NCO comes into the room. 13. All recruits will be restricted to the 
area of the Reception Center and be available at any time if called on 
the Public Address system. 14. Any complaints will be addressed at the 
Orderly Room. 15. You will comport yourselves in a military manner at 
all time. 16. Breakfast is from 0600 to 0730. Lunch from 1100 to 1230, 
Supper from 1700 to 1830. You are not allowed in the mess hall at any 
other time, except for duty. 

Most of the rules were simple and self-explanatory. A bus took them to
the small Reception Station PX, where three barbers waited outside. 
Three straight chairs were sitting there on the grass, with small 
tables between them. It was like shearing sheep, taking an average of 
three swipes per man to cut their hair to an approximate length of half 
an inch. They would be charged for the haircut. 

In a chair nearby, behind another small folding table, sat a master
sergeant with an armed soldier standing behind him. He offered a paper 
for each recruit to sign, whereupon he dispensed a single five-dollar 
bill to each of them. The bill was taken to another table; one stacked 
with paper bags. The bags contained: toothbrush, a container of 
powdered tooth paste, a stick of shaving cream, a new safety razor, 
three packs of double-edged razor blades, a comb, deodorant stick, 
three bars of soap, and other hygienic items. The recruit would pay 
four-dollars and thirty-cents for the bag and haircut, which left them 
a remainder of seventy-cents until payday. Hence the nickname of 
‘Flying Five' -- you got it and, in about a minute, it flew away. 

When all of them were shorn and had their bag of toiletries, they filed
back onto the bus for a trip to the Personnel Office across post. 
There, they handed in the personnel files they had brought from the 
Recruiting Office in their home towns to be processed into permanent 
files -- which would later contain test results, military history, and 
other personal information. They had other paperwork to fill out, some 
of it due to mistakes, omissions, or outright lies by the recruiter. 
The next day, they would spend all morning there, finishing up the 
process. 

Next was the Clothing Depository, where they filed down a
fifty-foot-long counter. The first thing was to be assaulted by a 
series of soldiers with tape-measures, including one who measured their 
feet for boots. The measurements were written to a card which was then 
pinned to their shirt front by a large safety pin. 

Starting at one end of the counter, they were issued a duffel bag -- a
large bag made of heavy canvas -- along with a single empty paper sack. 
Next came olive-drab underwear and socks, six pair. 

Each clerk first looked at the card on their chest and then reached back
for the correct size of the article he was giving out. They worked 
their way up from shirts, to pants, then on down the line to dress -- 
or formal -- uniforms. 

The last item was footwear, two pairs of combat boots and one of
dress-shoes. They were then given time to try uniforms on. Any changes 
would have to be made then, before they left the building. While 
dressing, they were required to empty their civilian pockets onto the 
counter where a soldier validated the articles and contraband was taken 
away. Cards and dice were okay, but not that pair of brass knuckles or 
six-inch switch blade. 

During that process they came to the crucial step of donning a uniform
for the first time. When they left the building, they at least looked 
like soldiers. Finished, the bus left them out in the company area and, 
except for processing civilian clothing for storage, they were released 
for the day. 

Sergeant Tony Masters gave a final talk before he let them go, mostly
going over the list of rules. He told them that he would be back at 
0800 hrs the next morning and answered questions. 

He was not as emphatic as that morning, since his place in the new
pecking order was, by then, firmly established. This step, indeed 
everything he was to do, had a purpose. He wanted to weed-out any 
troublemakers. By apparently letting his guard down, he would be better 
able to spot them now, rather than later. 

One of his duties as a drill instructor, unpublished, was to eliminate
or fail unqualified or unwanted recruits. It was an ongoing process, 
all the way through any advanced training. At each step, someone would 
be looking for people who would either cause trouble in the future or 
not have enough inner fortitude to make a decent soldier. Everyone of 
them was basically a rifleman and had to be able to function in that 
capacity if needed. Bodies could be built up, but not minds. 

Before he was done for the day, he would go back to the Personnel Office
for information on his charges. They would have had time to process it 
by then and would, hopefully, have the information waiting for him. 
That info would include results of the entrance tests, handicaps, and 
past criminal histories on each recruit. When they left his charge to 
enter basic training, he would have added his own notes to an 
unofficial record that was passed on to his successor. 

*** 

“What do you think about it, Abe?” Dave asked his new buddy. Marching
next to each other all day, they had become somewhat friendly. “I mean 
the whole thing. I'm still a little confused by all this shit. And we 
have one hell of a long way to go.” 

“It's different all right,” Abe answered. “Guess we just have to get
used to it. It's not as hard work as at home, though. I feel kinda 
frisky. You wanna go to that PX place and get a beer or something?” 

“Sure. I'm tired from all that marching stuff. A beer sounds good.” 

In their new uniforms, they walked over to the PX, boots uncomfortable
on their feet. The place was packed with recruits from other units. To 
Dave, it looked somewhat like a soda fountain back home. A counter ran 
along one side of the room with small items on facing shelves. A few 
displays of items such as comic and paperback books sat on the counter 
itself. To Abe's regret there was no beer, but plenty of soft drinks. 
Later, they would find that most PXs did serve low-test beer. 

“Guess they don't want us to get drunk,” Abe offered as they lined up
for sodas. 

“Better buy a large one when we get to the counter, Abe. It will take a
long wait to get another one.” 

When they'd advanced to the front of the line, Dave ordered three
hamburgers and two large orders of fries. “The hell with the mess hall 
tonight.”. 

“I'd be careful with that, buddy. They're going to slim you down here.” 

“I'll cut down tomorrow, but eat well tonight.” 

“I'm hungry too but I figure I have to watch my money. Who knows when
we'll get more.” 

“Don't worry about it. They furnish us with everything we need. I hear
we can't spend any money when we get to basic anyway. Someone told me 
they take it from you there.” 

“Look over there. Remember those two with the bag?” Abe pointed at a
display of comic books. They could also see a table of men playing 
poker in one corner of the room. So much for rumors. Most of the items 
that had been collected from the barracks were available in the PX. It 
had been two enterprising soldiers taking advantage of new recruits. 

When they returned to the barracks, they found more card and dice games
going on. They also found out that many of the men were at a building 
called a Day Room. It was sort of a large living-room with television, 
couches, chairs, games and other entertainment -- even a couple of pool 
tables. Dave moved his things to an empty bunk next to Abe's and the 
two talked and read novels. Neither felt like socializing that evening. 


Having no electricity at home, Abe was used to going to bed early and
tried to sleep. Between the excitement of the day and noise and light 
in the barracks, he found it impossible. The lights went out promptly 
at ten pm and then he slept. He woke when they snapped on about 
midnight, along with the sound of a pack of drunks coming in. 

Four drunken recruits were banging around to wake people up. To Dave's
chagrin they ended up two bunks from him, on the side away from Abe. He 
took it for a while, but finally asked them, during a quiet moment. 

“Hey, why don't you guys keep it down a little and turn out the lights?
You'll get us in trouble on our first night.” A perfectly reasonable 
request. 

“Shut up, Fat Boy, before I come over there and kick your ass,” one
replied. 

“Leave him alone, Harry. He wants the lights off so he can suck dicks in
the dark.” That brought on another wave of laughter from the four. 

“Come on now, honey. We like to watch. Look at those lips, Joey? That
quivering comes with practice," the one called Harry said. 

Three of them came over and kicked Dave's bunk. When he didn't respond,
one reached up and tousled his head. 

“That's okay, Fatty. We won't hurt you.” 

“Cut it out,” Dave told them, out of his element, “and leave me alone.” 

“He's got a headache,” one of them whispered to the others. They laughed
and went back to their bunks, resuming the noise. 

Also being fed up, Abe stepped down out of an upper bunk. He grabbed a
bunk-adapter that had been left on a window sill to prop the glass 
open. ( A two-foot piece of hollow metal piping, four of which are used 
to attach an upper bunk to a lower one. ) 

“That's enough. You bastard's want to take me on, come ahead. We all
better get some sleep,” Abe told them, slapping the pipe repeatedly 
into his other hand. He stood at ease, the makeshift weapon ready. 

“Oh, now we know who's screwing who around here,” one of them said. 

When Abe started around the bunks, the room quieted rather quickly. 

As the four were turning to confront Abe, a head came in the door,
wearing a helmet-liner and waving a billy-club. It was a fire guard, a 
type of guard duty in the company area -- supposedly looking for fires 
and keeping order. The intruder wore a single stripe on his sleeve. 

“You assholes turn off that light and get in bed. You hear me?" 

Abe and Harry stared at each other for a few seconds. Finally, Abe
continued around the bunks, slapping the adapter in his hands with his 
eyes on the group. Walking between Harry and one of his friends, Abe 
continued down the room to the end and switched off the lights. As he 
returned to his bunk and went back to sleep, nobody bothered him. 

*** 

On their second morning at the Reception Station, Sergeant Masters
arrived after breakfast -- at eight am, 0800 hrs, the recruits jumped 
up and formed a line in front of their bunks, something they had 
learned the day before. 

“This barracks is filthy, people, just filthy. I will leave and try
again in one hour. By that time everything WILL be squared away, bunks 
made and floors swept. All your possessions WILL be stored in your 
footlockers or on shelves behind your bunks, with extra shoes and boots 
lined up under the foot of your bunks.” He paced up and down the center 
aisle. “If not, we will spend tonight cleaning. And I do mean ALL 
NIGHT.” He turned on his heels and left. After spending a half-hour in 
the mess hall with a cup of coffee he returned and, standing outside, 
called. 

“Everyone out. Right now. Lets go, gentlemen, hurry it up.” 

When they had gotten into a rough formation, he called out a name.
“Harry Johnson, get your ass up here.” 

The guy named Harry left the formation by taking two steps to the rear,
right-facing and marching down the row to the end. Right-angling his 
way to stand in front of the sergeant. He stood at attention. 

“I see that you've had military training in college, recruit Johnson. I
am making you Recruit Platoon Leader. From now on YOU will make certain 
that the barracks are kept clean, lights are out at 2200 and, in 
general, be in charge when I am absent.” He looked Harry over 
carefully. “If I find you cannot handle the job, I will find someone 
else who can.” 

Turning to the formation, he addressed them. 

“You all heard me. You will follow this man's orders as you would mine.
If you give him any trouble at all, you will be very, very, I MEAN 
VERY, sorry you did. 

"All right. Platoon Leader Johnson, get your men onto the bus. It's
parked in front of the day-room.” The sergeant turned and left. 

“Eh, I guess we better get on that bus, guys,” Harry told them, a little
embarrassed. He had flunked out of ROTC because of his attitude. 
(Reserve Officer Training Course, an elective where college students 
are commissioned as officers when graduated.) 

Sergeant Masters drove over to Personnel in his own car and was there
when they arrived. A line was formed and the remaining paperwork and 
tests completed. After each of them left the building, they were 
introduced to another army skill -- waiting for the rest to finish. The 
sergeant was busy inside, so Harry was in charge of the recruits when 
they exited. 

The sergeant came back out for a moment, seeing his recruits sitting
around the front of the building. 

“While you ladies are sitting here,” Sergeant Masters told the group,
“Platoon Leader Johnson, here, will make sure you pick up every, and I 
mean every, cigarette butt and candy wrapper around this building.” He 
finished with, “In the army, we have a saying. If it's not army gray 
and doesn't move, pick it up, and if it's too big to pick up, paint it 
gray.” He turned and walked back into the building to help process his 
troops. 

“All right. You heard the sergeant. I want Summers and Yakov to police
around the building,” Harry ordered. “The rest of us will supervise and 
make certain they do a good job.” 

It was obviously payback for the night before. Abe and Dave stood and
went about their task. It wasn't hard work, but they hated the idea 
behind it. The rest would know not to mess around with Harry. 

Dave didn't see it that way, though. “He's only picking on us because of
last night. I'm going to tell the sergeant when he gets back.” 

“Don't do it, Dave,” Abe advised him. “It will only make you out to be a
snitch. Better to pick this shit up and be quiet.” 

“Fuck that. He doesn't have the right to pick on us like this.” 

When everyone had finished, Sergeant Masters came back out. A still
fuming Dave Summers walked right up to him and told him about the 
order. 

“And just why are you telling me this, recruit?” Masters deflated Dave.
“I put Johnson in charge of this detail. It's up to him how it gets 
done. Now get back into line like a good little girl.” 

A lesson was learned. The sergeant might chew Harry out later, in
private, but had a duty to stick up for him in public. You never chewed 
out a person of authority in front of his subordinates. 

When they returned to the barracks, Sergeant Masters went in ahead of
them, along with Harry. The others, left in formation, could hear loud 
noises going on inside, which made the lot of them nervous. The two 
came back out, Harry looking a little sheepish. 

“Stand at attention, girls. That means to stand up straight for you
civilians. I told you to clean up the barracks this morning. I know I 
did. I distinctly remember the occasion. Why is it still filthy?” 

He waited but received no answer. Harry stood behind him. “I have made a
few adjustments for you. When I get here tomorrow morning I KNOW DAMNED 
WELL IT WILL BE CLEAN. Do you know how I know that fact? It will be 
clean because you are going to stay up all night to clean it. Now you 
can go back in and get busy.” He turned and left. 

When they rushed inside, they saw bunks, footlockers, and clothing
strewn around the large room. It looked like a hurricane had thrown 
things around -- obviously the source of the previous noise. With Harry 
standing around and giving orders, they did spend most of the night 
cleaning. 

Harry was too tired to screw around with Abe and Dave that night. He
knew he could lose his job if the cleaning wasn't perfect. A job like 
his came with small privileges. Harry could wander the entire post 
instead of being restricted to the Reception Station area. He also got 
out of Kitchen Police, guard, and other make-work duties. 

*** 

Sergeant Masters returned the next morning. After looking over the
spotless barracks he called for a formation out front. 

“Today you lucky ladies are going to show us what you're made of. I hope
you're rested up. We have another type of test for you today, much 
harder than yesterday. It is a PT or Physical Fitness Test. 

"You get to run a mile, crawl under ladders, and many nifty things of
that nature. The army has to know how you stack up physically. How else 
would it know if you improve later?” He looked at them and grinned. 

“Be happy, people. This is the last of your processing here at the
reception station. After today, all you have to do is enjoy your 
leisure and wait for a basic training unit to open up. Who knows, since 
I'm waiting for the same thing you might be lucky and have me as a 
drill sergeant when you get there?" 

He gave them an evil smirk as he continued. "Of course, you will have a
few little tasks to occupy you while you wait.” Another pause, drill 
sergeants learned when a pause was most effective. 

“Platoon Leader Johnson will now escort you to the bus. I have other
commitments, so you just follow his orders.” 

The sergeant left and Harry escorted the rest of the recruits to a
waiting bus. It took them to a sports field where each recruit spent 
the rest of the morning going from one station to another. Each station 
brought a different test. The number of push-ups they could accomplish, 
their timing on going hand to hand under a raised latticework were all 
noted down. Also such things as running a mile over an oval track, 
sit-ups, and other tests to determine their physical capabilities when 
entering the army. 

Of course, Dave accumulated a great many laughs of derision, him being
the chubbiest and most out of shape of the entire group. Abe, being 
used to hard physical labor at his mountain home, was one of the 
highest-scoring recruits. To someone used to running a mile uphill 
while searching for the family milk-cow in the mornings, a level track 
was no challenge at all. 

A couple of the most intelligent recruits, having heard in advance of
the purpose of the tests, only did well enough to get by. They were 
thinking ahead and knew that they would be pushed to make a certain 
amount of improvement in basic. That if they held back here, they'd 
show more improvement later. In any case, it was a tired group that 
returned to the barracks. 

As it were, much of the actual training they'd received was Sergeant
Masters's idea. Since he had to wait there for his own orders and had 
been placed in charge of that particular barracks, he figured he might 
as well keep busy. The majority of new recruits had to wait for basic 
training to learn how to march. All recruits suffered through a small 
amount of acclimation to the army at the Reception Station, but not as 
extensive as Masters's platoon. 

*** 

The next day, training was suspended until they reached their basic
training companies. They began a waiting period. It would last until 
they received further orders, which could be days or weeks. They were 
to face boredom, broken by many small tasks. 

The army didn't like to see people sitting on their asses. To that end,
a number of jobs were created. For instance, guard duty on trash 
enclosures, marching around them with a broom over your shoulder to 
keep other recruits from littering the area. 

There was also mess hall duty, which was anything the mess sergeant
could think of to keep you busy. He would typically ask for ten men and 
get twenty or thirty, simply because they were available. Wooden mess 
halls were painted several times a month. 

The orderly room would farm recruits out to other units on post for such
things as garbage-truck detail around the base. Buildings blocks away 
would be scraped and repainted, sometimes every month or two. 

Holes would be dug, only to be filled in later by another detail.
Causing recruits to wait in line endlessly was developed into an art -- 
since it kept them busy and occupied. If not on a detail, smart 
recruits found places to hide. 

They found that if they sat in the barracks they would soon be working
at a make-work task. Although they hid, permanent party personnel had 
long ago become aware of all the hiding places. It was a constant game 
-- one side hiding, the other finding. 

On his first day, Abe found himself assigned to the mess hall. A tired
mess sergeant confronted them. He had already picked out a few for 
actual KP duty, which included mostly cleanup details in the building 
itself. He then had the task of finding work for the others. If the 
first sergeant saw them sitting around, it would be his ass. 

“Are any of you people familiar with weapons?” he asked, innocently.
Several hands were raised, Abe's among them. “I need three men with 
experience using high-powered rifles.” A couple of the hands went down. 
Only Abe and one other man still had theirs raised. 

“Okay, here you go, get busy.” 

The pair were given flyswatters. All day long, they swatted flies among
the tables. Dave volunteered for a "paperwork job" and ended up moving 
heavy boxes of papers from one building, across the company area, to 
another -- one at a time. A few days later, he saw another half-dozen 
recruits moving them back to the original building. 

Harry, being in charge, wore a sleeve-band with sergeant's insignia on
it and was pretty much left alone. He spent time picking on Dave and a 
few other susceptible recruits. To stay out of the barracks, Harry 
spent time at the PX and hobnobbed with the permanent party people. 
That activity continued for weeks, the group becoming ever more antsy 
as they waited. 

Once, the monotony was broken briefly when a new group of recruits moved
into the upstairs of their barracks. Now that they were "Old Timers," 
they enjoyed the way another sergeant had his way with the new men, 
already forgetting their own recent experiences. 

Finally, the group received their orders. They were to pack up and leave
the next morning. 

*** 

It was a short trip to their new company. Namely, Company "E" of the 6th
Basic Training Battalion. At least that was written on a sign Abe read 
as the bus pulled off the road. It also read “We Break Boys Down, Then 
Build Men”, which sounded kind of sinister to him. 

They stepped off the bus to be greeted by a very large black man wearing
what they now knew to be staff sergeant stripes, (The rankings, by pay 
grade, at that time, were: 

Private E-1, or recruit, no stripe. Called a "Slick Sleeve." Private E-2
, no stripe but finished with Basic Training and considered a real 
soldier. Private First Class, or PFC E-3, one stripe, normally at least 
a year in the army. 

Non-Commissioned-Officers, or NCOs were: Corporal E-4, two stripes. Buck
Sergeant E-5, three stripes. Staff Sergeant E-6, three stripes down and 
one stripe up. Sergeant First Class E-7, three down and two pointing 
upwards. Master Sergeant E-8, three down and three up. First Sergeant 
E-8, also three down and three up but with a diamond in the center. 
Sergeant Major E-9, also three pointed downward and three pointed 
upward, with a star in the center. 

To complicate matters, there were some NCOs never having been promoted
from a former system. They were one pay-grade below the stripes they 
still wore. For instance an E-5 with staff sergeant stripes. Also 
various Specialist ranks from E-4 to E-8, which drew the same pay as 
those above but ranked slightly below their equivalent in prestige. 
Those arm-patches and stripes were worn by "non-combat" personnel. Not 
being sure of the ranks, I won't even begin with Warrant Officers. 

In a Basic Training Company, you would find a Drill Sergeant in charge
of a platoon of about fifty or sixty recruits. He might have help from 
several other NCOs, probably a Buck Sergeant and a couple of Corporals. 
The Drill Sergeant would be an E-6 or an E-7. 

There would also be a Company Commander, usually a captain but maybe a
first lieutenant. A lieutenant would be in charge of each platoon. 
There would also be what was called a Field First Sergeant, usually a 
master sergeant, who would be in charge of training outside the company 
area while the First Sergeant had charge of trainees inside the company 
area, mostly paperwork. 

A training company would have three or four training platoons and a
headquarters platoon. There would be a number of other specialized 
officers and enlisted men assigned to each company. People were needed 
to make schedules and keep records, train the recruits in various 
specialized subjects, and other training and mess hall personnel. Those 
were called either permanent party or cadre.) 

*** 

As they exited the bus at the Basic Training company, Harry tried to win
points by calling everyone to attention. The new sergeant, totally 
ignoring Harry, stepped up and did it himself. Although the recruits 
knew a little about formations and could at least march in step, they 
were hardly experienced. 

The large sergeant shook his head, motioned Harry back into the ranks,
then wandered slowly down the formation. 

"All right you bastards. My name is Jeffers, Sergeant Jeffers. This is
where you REALLY learn what the army is about. For one thing, the army 
is MY home, and I don't like to see civilians standing around idle in 
MY home. 

“Civilians are dirty and nasty creatures. They steal. They make useless
noise. They don't even know how to stand up straight,” he told them, 
which caused a stirring in the ranks as everybody straightened their 
backs, “or even walk in a straight line. In MY army, we keep everything 
clean and neat. This formation is NOT neat.” He paused to glare at 
them. It reminded them of Sergeant Masters at the reception station. 

“Now, when I tell you, I want you to arrange yourselves with the tallest
men at your right and the shortest lined up to your left. That should 
be simple enough. You people in the front row extend left arms and 
space yourself by touching the shoulder of the man on your left. The 
other ranks will align themselves with the man in front of you. Can you 
remember all that?” 

“Yes, Sergeant.” 

“Did you say something?” 

“Yes, Sergeant.” 

“I didn't hear you.” 

“Yes, Sergeant.” Louder. 

“GODDAMN IT, ANSWER ME.” 

“YES, SERGEANT.” 

“Alright. Do it.” 

To Sergeant Jeffer's surprise, they did so in record time. What he
didn't know was of Sergeant Masters's efforts before they arrived. It 
would save them trouble in their new home. Most recruits didn't have 
that edge. 

“Alright, men, you belong to me for the next nine weeks. We have a lot
to teach you and you won't like it here. I guarantee you that. I'll be 
on your asses constantly, twenty-four-seven. It's necessary to get the 
job done.” He paused to let that information sink in while he scratched 
his balls. “You'll live army. You'll breathe army. When you shit, it'll 
be army brown. You're now in the Third Platoon. 

“When I release you, walk over to that building, the one with the large
three-dash-four painted on the side. You have the upstairs. Sergeant 
Davis'll be there to show you around. 

"Oh, and enjoy the walk. After this, you will NOT walk in the company
area, you'll RUN or MARCH only. You better not let me see you walking. 
For now, you're DISMISSED.” 

They carried their bags upstairs, only to find a buck sergeant sleeping
on the bare springs of one of the bunks. He was snoring away with a 
pint bottle of whiskey lying on his chest. The noise they made clomping 
up the stairs woke him. With a start, the bottle slid off to fall onto 
the floor with a "Clunk." The sergeant jumped to his feet, kicking the 
bottle down the edge of the room. Only the first few recruits, 
including Abe, saw it. 

“Ah ... you guys dump your stuff on an empty bunk, then go down to the
supply room and get your bedding,” he told them. “Which one of you is 
Johnson?” 

The recruits did as they were told, someone telling Harry to see the
sergeant. Harry approached and stood at attention in front of Sergeant 
Davis. 

“I'm Harry Johnson, sir,” he reported. 

“Oh, yeah. Come with me, Johnson, and bring your gear.” He walked down
the length of the barracks and showed Harry to a small room at the end. 
“This is your room, Johnson. You're the Platoon Guide for third 
Platoon. I'll fill you in. We're short on NCOs here right now. Sergeant 
Jeffers has two platoons until we get us another DI. I got the third. 
You're under me.” He grinned sheepishly. “We'll pick four Squad Leaders 
to help you out, just as soon as we get a chance. Until then, you and 
me have it all. You had some ROTC, right?” 

“Yes, sergeant.” 

“You can cut the sergeant crap, Harry. We gotta work together here. Save
that for Jeffers -- he's a lifer. I only got another six fuckin' months 
to go, is all. You can call me Tom -- when we're alone, that is.” 

“What's the setup?” 

“Well.” The sergeant sat on the edge of a bunk. “I got the room on the
right, on the other end of the barracks. A clerk rooms across from you. 
Works in personnel, named Joe Smithers. Two cooks live across from me. 
I worked last cycle with Jeffers and he's a hardass -- on my butt all 
the time. Shit rolls downhill. When he gets on mine, I get on yours.” 

He took time to light a cigarette, throwing the match into a butt can
made out of a large #10 tomato can painted red, and continued, “You 
see, Harry, you gotta help me here. Jeffers, doing double duty, leaves 
a lot of the third platoon to me. The fourth, downstairs, is his usual 
assignment. We work together and we can have it easy. The recruit squad 
leaders can do most of the work. Least until we get another platoon 
sergeant. I'm only supposed to be an assistant and the extra fuckin' 
paperwork is a bastard.” 

“What kind of privileges do I get in this job?” 

“You assign recruits to details, rather than doing them yourself -- get
out of all the cleaning and that sort of stuff. Mostly, you supervise. 
More free time, an that sorta thing. Also, this nifty room by yourself. 
You still gotta do all that basic training shit, though. Most of it you 
did in ROTC anyways. Oh, yeah, you don't have any restrictions. You can 
even go downtown after classes if you want. 

“You'll have a class ‘A' pass in the orderly room and can sign in and
off post like permanent party. Just gotta be back by one in the 
morning, is all.” 

“Sounds good to me.” 

By that time the others were dribbling in with stacks of bedding and
getting their new bunks ready. The two went back out to the large room. 


“Listen up, you guys. Johnson here is the platoon guide. You do whatever
he tells you to do, hear? Just like you did at the reception station.” 

Harry looked around the room to see all eyes on him. As he smiled, his
gaze singled out Abe and Dave. “Summers. I want you to go down and get 
my bedding for me. I'll be too busy. Bring it back to my room.” 

When Dave returned with sheets, blanket, and pillow, he found Harry
lying on a bunk reading a pocket novel. Harry had considered ordering 
Dave to make the bed, but rejected the idea as maybe exceeding his new 
authority. 

That was on a Friday morning. They had the weekend off except for
getting the barracks straight and various make-work tasks, such as 
washing windows and fire watches -- where they took turns walking 
around and inside the barrack buildings to make sure no fires started. 
Of course Harry made certain Dave and Abe were busier than the rest. 
Basic training was scheduled to start on Monday. 

*** 

Monday, at morning formation, Staff Sergeant Jeffers told them their
schedule. 

"Get into a formation if you assholes remember how. Your vacation's
over. Today we begin making soldiers out of some of you. Damned if I 
know why I should bother. From this point on, I'll do your thinking for 
you. You're in deep shit if you try to do any yourself. You'll do 
things MY way, the army way.” He took a minute to glare at them. “I saw 
several of you WALKING over the weekend. For that offense, ALL of you 
must suffer. That's the army way. One man fucks up and all suffer. It's 
up to you to watch each other, to see that it doesn't happen. 

“When we're done here, you'll go to breakfast. At 0715 I want you back
in formation. After this here formation, I want to see the following.” 
He took time to take out and unfold a paper. “Harry Johnson, William 
Jones, Alfred Thompson, Abraham Yakov, and Jerry Adams. The rest of you 
are dismissed. Get the fuck out'a here.” 

After the others had left for breakfast, Harry, Abe, and the other three
were left standing with the sergeant. He pulled a handful of black 
armbands from his back pocket. Sergeant Jeffers handed them out. One 
had a buck sergeant's chevron on it, the others sported corporal 
stripes. 

“You all know Johnson, here, is the platoon guide. You others are squad
leaders. You will be responsible for the men in your squad. I picked 
you because of your entrance grades and prior experiences. If you can't 
hack it, I'll find someone else. Johnson is in charge when there's no 
permanent party around. Even the cooks outrank him. 

“You shitholes are even lower, if possible. You report to him. Later,
Sergeant Davis will assign all of you to squads. For now, go get your 
breakfast. You have a long day ahead.” 

Jeffers turned and walked away. He would go through the same spiel with
his other platoon. He also had to find and chew Sergeant Davis out for 
missing formation. 

The mess hall was more crowded than the one at the reception station.
Harry's recruits had to wait in line longer. While they were waiting, 
the mess sergeant came out. Harry called the group to attention. 

“You guys third platoon?” 

“Yes, sergeant,” Harry answered. 

“I need two of you for KP. I was supposed to have names, but Davis never
gave'um to me.” 

“All right, sergeant,” Harry told him, and called out. “Peters and
Summers, get over here. You two are on KP today.” 

The two went in with the mess sergeant. 

After breakfast, the platoon suffered through a period of physical
training under Sergeant Davis, who had finally been roused by Sergeant 
Jeffers. Davis had been lying, hungover, on his bunk. 

Sergeant Jeffers took pleasure in standing behind Davis while the buck
sergeant went through the training exercises, sweating more than even 
Dave would have if he had been present. Sergeant Davis then marched 
them off to indoctrination classes on the makeup and goals of the US 
Army. 

While they were trying to stay awake in a hot stuffy classroom, Dave was
up to his elbows in a mess hall grease trap. Nobody had cleaned it in 
the months since the last class graduated. The grease had become dried 
and crusted. 

The grease trap was just that. Whenever greasy water was poured into any
to the sinks in the kitchen, it flowed into the trap before going into 
the post drainage system. The large cast-iron box consisted of a series 
of baffles that filtered out and trapped grease, keeping it from the 
wastewater system where it might solidify and clog sewage pipes. 

That particular grease trap was a large industrial one which held twenty
gallons of water and grease; at that point mostly dirty, rotting, evil 
smelling, slimy crap. To clean it, Dave had to first dip most of the 
liquid out with a tin can, into five-gallon buckets. Later he would use 
soap, water, and rags to finish the task. It was an unpleasant, dirty 
and smelly task. 

Another skill he learned that day was how to take the skin off of
two-hundred pounds of potatoes -- without wasting pulp -- along with 
the joys of mopping floors and washing pots and pans. Those weren't 
your normal family pots, but huge affairs -- some holding twenty 
gallons. On top of all that, he would have to make up most of the 
classes he missed. 

When his long day was finished, Dave returned to the barracks to find
that he wasn't even in Abe's squad. Abe was in charge of the first 
squad while Dave was relegated to the third. That one belonged to Bill 
Jones, one of Harry's cronies. 

“Christ you smell, Summers. Take a shower before you stink up the
barracks, fat boy,” Jones ordered him. 

“What the hell is it to you, Jones?” Dave replied. 

“I'm your fucking boss, fat ass. And I order you to get cleaned up.” 

Harry heard them and hurried over, so did Abe. Dave had not heard of the
recruit appointments yet. 

“Summers, you do what your squad leader tells you,” Harry yelled. 

“Leave the guy alone, Harry,” Abe interjected. “Nobody told him about
this squad leader crap.” 

“Ain't none of your business, Jackoff Yakov,” from Jones, with a grin.
“He's in my squad. He's my butt-buddy now.” 

Abe grabbed Jones and Harry made a move for Dave. 

“What the hell are you girlies up to?” a voice came from the doorway. 

Every head in the room swiveled to find their old nemesis, Staff
Sergeant Masters, standing there. Hands clasped behind his back, he 
strode down the length of the barracks. 

“I didn't hear anyone yell ‘attention,' girls,” he said. 

“Ten hut.” 

“Why the hell you whispering, Goddamn it. You're supposed to be
soldiers.” 

“TEN HUT.” 

“Better. Now, at ease. I want to see you four outside, right now.” He
turned in a circle, facing all the troops. “And I don't want to see 
even one fucking head at those windows.” 

When they were outside, the sergeant addressed them. 

“I just now took over this platoon, and you pussies ruined my grand
entrance. Now what the hell was going on in there? 

Jones started to speak but Sergeant Masters's glare shut him up. 

“Johnson's in charge, let him tell me.” 

“Recruit Summers refused an order to take a shower, sergeant,” Harry
told him. 

“Is that right Private Summers?” 

“Yes, sergeant.” Dave knew the routine by then. In the army, you took
responsibility for your actions, always. 

“Private Summers, you will be notified of your punishment. You WILL
learn to take orders in this man's army. 

“You handle the matter, Johnson. That's why you have that armband,” the
sergeant told them. “Jones. This should never have come to my 
attention. I have my own work to do. Either you control your men or 
take those stripes off.” He turned to an angry Abe. “Yakov, you stay 
out of Jones's business. I'll see you all in the morning.” He turned 
and left. 

Masters was, in a way, sorry for Dave. However, it wasn't possible for
him to show it. In every batch of recruits there was a Dave Summers. He 
would either lose weight and learn to take orders -- or flunk out. To 
the sergeant's thinking, everything he did had purpose. 

In that case, it was to instill confidence in his charges and respect
for the orders of the recruit NCOs. Any weaklings were better found out 
and flunked during basic training than being killed, or getting their 
comrades killed, in combat. If Dave was strong enough he would survive 
nine weeks of ridicule or learn to fight back. Otherwise, he had no 
place in Masters's army. The recruits had to learn, early on, that they 
would always follow orders -- period. 

The next few weeks were spent in marching, physical training, and
endless classes. There was little, very little, free time. When not in 
training, they were subjected to many small details, such as fire 
watch, guarding hallways, kitchen police, or simply shining boots. They 
also did a lot of cleaning, picking up of trash, and stood in endless 
lines. 

The recruits soon learned to never sit around the barracks on weekends
or they would certainly be put to work. Sunday was nominally a free day 
but the petty details went on seven days a week. The point was to 
instill instant obedience and to teach them how to work together as a 
team. The different squads, platoons, and companies were in constant 
competition. 

Abe could almost see the pounds melting off his friend. By the time they
were issued their rifles, M1A1 Garand 30-06's, Dave was rarely called 
"fat boy" anymore. 

“This is the Garand M1 rifle, It is a gas-operated, semi-automatic,
clip-fed shoulder weapon. Its magazine holds eight rounds of 30-06 
(British 308) caliber ammunition, and will fire as fast as you can 
squeeze its trigger,” the instructor intoned from memory, pointing at a 
large chart on his right. “It weights 9.5 pounds empty, 11.25 pounds 
loaded with sling. The weapon is 43.5 inches long, 42 inches longer 
than your cock.” 

The recruits sat at long tables, their new rifles lying in front of
them. Most were anxious to get on with the training and actually shoot 
the things. Abe was more interested in the lecture, since he had a 
surplus WWII M1 at home and had used it to acquire many a meal. 

“The weapon in front of you is in your care while you are here, and you
better believe that you will take tender loving care of it. You will 
learn to strip and clean it in your sleep. For the rest of your time in 
MY army, it will be your best friend. If you take care of it, it will 
take care of you.” 

The instructor approached one of the tables in front of him and picked
up the rifle lying there. 

“You all have a strip-clip along with eight dummy rounds in front of
you. Pick it up.” He watched as they, curious, picked up their clips. 
Being empty, they didn't weigh very much. They were nicknamed “Strip 
Clips" and looked like flat slightly-bent strips of steel with squared 
bases. He showed the recruits how to shove individual rounds onto the 
clip. The instructor then went around and made certain each recruit had 
done it correctly. Of course, many had not. A few were still trying in 
vain. 

“Can't you people do anything right?” He grabbed a clip from one recruit
and patiently showed him how to insert the last round. “Now we will 
take a twenty-minute smoke-break. When it is over I will expect you all 
to know how to load and unload that clip. Take your break.” 

Only a few tobacco addicts left. Most of the recruits spent the next
twenty-minutes loading and unloading the eight dummy rounds into the 
devices, rifles forgotten for the moment. Abe, and the recruits who had 
mastered the art helped the others. When the instructor returned, the 
man went on with the lecture. 

“Now I will show you, and you better watch closely, how to load your
clip into the weapon.” He picked up his rifle with one hand and pulled 
the bolt back, where it latched. He then picked up a loaded clip. 
Carefully placing one end into an exposed cavity on the top of the 
weapon, he used his thumb to shove the line of cartridges down, clip 
and cartridges sliding into the weapon's built-in magazine. He jerked 
his thumb out of the hole quickly, barely ahead of a closing bolt. 

“Now you have to be quic....” There was the slamming of a half-dozen
rifle bolts, accompanied by screams and yelps. Several recruits had 
caught their thumbs between the chamber and the closing bolts. By the 
end of basic training, most of them would have suffered the affliction 
called "M1 thumb," at least once. The rifle was unforgiving in that 
respect. 

From that point on, their rifle was a constant companion. They carried
it almost everywhere. It rarely left their side. They ate with it and 
did physical training by swinging it in rhythm. If they screwed up, 
they even slept with it. 

Harry was still on Dave's ass constantly, having taken a dislike to the
man. Dave took it stoically, getting more work details than his other 
squad members. A few of the others, taking to Harry's example, also 
picked on Dave -- although more cautiously as the large man lost weight 
and became muscular. 

Abe, being in another squad, could do little to help his friend. For one
thing, he was involved in the problems of his own charges. 

*** 

The last weeks were pretty much taken up by the firing range. Most of
the time they were driven there on the backs of trucks, but 
occasionally had to march seven miles to the range and back. 

First came the 1000 inch range. There, the pits weren't used. After each
round of firing, the recruits merely laid down their weapons and walked 
over to check targets for holes. It was used mostly to teach the 
students how to use the the rifle's sights and become used to actually 
firing the weapon under range rules. 

After a couple of days of that practice, one squad was marched back to
the "Pits" and instructed on marking and pulling targets. While they 
were thus occupied, other recruits unloaded ammunition from a truck and 
set up a dispersing point for it. An ambulance showed up to be ready 
for any injuries. Another squad was assigned to help pass out 
ammunition, making certain the firers were issued exact amounts when 
needed and various other tasks. One such was picking up spent brass 
cartridge casings on the grass around the range. 

While policing the range, Abe found a live round. Instead of putting it
in a burlap bag with the trash, he put it in his pocket to turn in 
later. However, in the excitement of the moment, he soon forgot all 
about it. 

One of the two remaining squads was to fire first while the other acted
as coaches. The firing squad took their places, one man at each firing 
point, while their coach went back to be issued ammunition for the 
firing sequence. He returned, loaded the loose rounds into a strip-clip 
for his firing buddy, and they both waited. 

A “Pick up your weapons,” command came from the control tower. 

The officers and sergeants on the firing line walked back and forth,
constantly checking on the recruits, making certain all the weapons 
were pointing downrange with the safeties on. One by one, they signaled 
the tower that all was in order. 

“Ready on the firing line. Eight rounds single shot, lock and load,”
came a command from the tower. 

Lying next to them, the coaches handed one eight-round clip to their
respective firers, who loaded the ammunition into the rifle. There was 
a loud snapping sound as most of the bolts closed in unison, with a few 
single snaps following. The officers and sergeants continued their 
patrolling of the firing line, and again signaled all was in order. 

“Commence Fi....” 

"Blam." 

“Sergeant Snyder. Get that man's name. I want it after this exercise,"
the tower officer ordered over a public address system. 

The sergeant went over to one of the recruits and chewed his ass out for
firing prematurely. He could look forward to at least an extra day of 
KP. 

“Ready on the firing line?” the tower officer intoned. He was soon
signaled that it was so. “Commence firing. Take your time but get it 
right.” 

Almost immediately, there was a loud explosion as most of the recruits
fired in unison. After that came a sporadic stream of shooting, ending 
with a few last-minute shots by the slower recruits. 

“Cease firing. Lay down your weapons.” 

Everyone did so. Targets were lowered out of sight and poles soon began
rising from the pits. Slowly, eight colored circles appeared one by one 
in front of each target, showing the scores for each shot of each 
recruit. Both Abe and Dave had eight white circles briefly waving in 
front of their targets. Perfect scores. Many of the others suffered 
through a display of red flags waving back and forth in front of their 
targets, denoting complete misses. Many of them were city boys and had 
never fired a rifle before. 

After shooting several sequences from different positions, the coaches
and firers changed places. Before that, each previous firer's rifle was 
checked by an NCO or officer to make certain no round was left in a 
chamber and that all safeties were on. At the same time, the former 
coaches lay down with their own rifles pointed downrange. 

The firing process was repeated. Next, the squads in the pits and on
detail had their turns at shooting. All of them would then return to 
the barracks and clean their weapons. 

*** 

Basic training included many inspections. Everything had to be, and
remain, clean and spotless. On Saturday morning there was always an 
inspection of the barracks. The student platoon leader, platoon 
sergeant and a lieutenant -- or the company commander or visiting 
officer -- would walk down the length of the room, checking each 
recruit and their individual areas. Also the latrine and general 
condition of the barracks was inspected. They would usually only stick 
their heads into the smaller rooms occupied by the squad leaders and 
permanent party. 

Infractions were noted down in a notebook by Sergeant Masters for later
punishment. Sometimes the inspecting officer would wear white gloves, 
wiping fingers inside drains and above window ledges, looking for dust 
or dirt -- occasionally even inside the rims of toilets. 

Daily, the recruits were inspected by Sergeant Masters. It was a
constant process with, of course, a purpose. That purpose to further 
develop teamwork. If a recruit was constantly remiss in his appearance 
or deportment -- or simply malingering -- the others in his squad were 
expected to correct him or they'd all be punished. 

It also served to sort out some of the undesirables. Every once in a
while, a recruit would be kicked out of the company. Some would be 
started over in another class while others would be given a discharge 
out of the army. The same would happen for any sickness of more than a 
few days. 

Dave was still being picked on by Harry and Jones. It was getting to
him. He wasn't a fuck-up. In fact he was one of the company's best 
shots and workers. But they kept on wearing him down for no apparent 
reason. Nothing he did was acceptable to his squad leader. Sergeant 
Masters always backed up Harry and Jones, so complaining did no good. 

*** 

“Hey, fat boy, You got the garbage detail again tomorrow.” Harry and
Jones were sitting on a footlocker, playing poker. Dave had done the 
rotating detail only three days before. His arms were still sore from 
picking up full cans and hefting them into the truck. 

“Fat ass has, indeed, found his calling.” Dave heard Jones tell the card
players. Without thinking, he calmly walked over and picked Jones up by 
the collar. 

“You cock-sucker,” Dave whispered loudly, fending off Harry's arms. He
threw Jones across the footlocker they were using as a card table. 
Money and cards flew in every direction. Harry punched Dave in the 
face, and was then grabbed by Dave and thrown on top of his buddy. The 
other recruits grabbed the angry man and restrained him. Abe wasn't 
there at the time. 

All hell broke loose over that incident. Dave spent the night in a
locked room and saw the company commander the next morning. That 
afternoon he was returned to his squad. Nobody bothered him after that 
episode, but there was talk of a courts martial for insubordination and 
assault. He might not graduate, and could even be kicked out with an 
undesirable discharge. Military justice grinds slowly but surely. 

They had less than a week to go in basic training. It was coming time
for their final test at the firing range. Abe tried but couldn't, as 
hard as he tried, cheer up his friend. Dave took to disappearing for 
hours at a time. Abe didn't really blame him for it. 

*** 

The day of the firing test, Dave was absent. Abe looked for him but the
man wasn't to be found in the company area. The recruit missed 
breakfast and was still missing at morning formation. Sergeant Masters 
was forced to turn him in as AWOL, Absent Without Official Leave. 
Worried, Abe joined the others in the long ride to the range. 

They were in formation at the 200 yard line, ammunition still boxed in
the truck, when a loud shot range out. 

Harry jerked upright. Head cloudy within a shower of blood, he spun in a
half-circle and fell. 

While the formation stood in shock, two more shots sounded. Jones and
the Company Commander were thrown backward, Jones with half his 
shoulder blown off. 

Abe could see movement from in front of one of the target frames
downrange. A sudden flash followed closely by a “Blam” came from that 
area. One of the other officers dropped. The cadre went into emergency 
action, screaming for recruits to drop to the ground, especially those 
running for the safety of the trucks. 

It was chaos, as fearful recruits ran in every direction, hurried by an
occasional shot from the unseen sniper. 

Abe dropped to the ground. He felt a sudden pain in his side. It was the
point of the live cartridge he had found a few days earlier. 

It took a few seconds to overcome panic and prior training. He had no
time to wait for a command. Without thinking, Abe inserted the single 
round into his weapon. 

Rolling over in the grass, he aimed at the spot the flashes were coming
from. Using the next flash as a target, he gently squeezed the trigger. 
His own shot closely followed the previous incoming one, almost 
sounding as one. 

Time seemed to freeze as the entire company, most behind shelter by
then, waited for another shot. When, after ten minutes, it was still 
quiet, an armed party of officers and NCO's chanced going downrange. 

They found Dave summers, dead with a hole through his neck -- almost
severing his head. Somehow, he had gotten a box of live ammunition. 
Since it was a common hunting cartridge, he probably bought it 
downtown. Revenge can be sweet ... and final. 

The End.


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