“Is there a problem?” Masterson’s voice boomed, causing Jacob to turn on his heels and nearly fall.
“No, Drill Sergeant,” he shouted, running back to his place in formation.
Jacob stopped in his place next to Jesse just as the younger man’s name was called. Jacob watched as his new friend ran to the back of the truck. When Jacob heard a similar argument, he dared turn his head slightly and watched as Jesse was handed a large machine gun, much heavier than the other men’s weapons. Suddenly Jacob felt relief, his own M14 losing the extra weight he was worried about just moments earlier. Jesse returned to the formation. Breathing hard in frustration, he stopped and fell in.
More men took their turns at the truck, receiving weapons and returning to the formation before Masterson broke them into two equal lines and formed them up on opposite sides of the road. He moved them out, cautioning them to walk spread apart. Jacob was on the right-hand side of the road, the fifth man back from the front. He could see Jesse on the other side of the street, only two men ahead of him. The drill sergeants stomped down the lines, yelling at them to keep their weapons up off their chests and muzzles pointed out at the sides of the road as they patrolled.
“From this moment on, everywhere you go, you will move tactically,” Masterson said. “If you pass training, when you report to your units, you will move tactically. If you fail to be tactical, The Darkness will kill you. This is the world we live in now. No place outside of these camp walls is safe. Do you understand, turds?”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” they shouted back.
The platoon was road marched for three miles. Jacob could tell by the heat on his feet that blisters were forming. As they moved, the drill sergeants marching at the center of the road sped them up. Sometimes shouting at them or yelling out different warnings, causing them to have to run into the tall grass at the sides of the road and drop into the thick vegetation before lying down with their weapons up and ready to fire at an imaginary enemy.
They would be shouted back to their feet, then forced to run forward for hundreds of meters to avoid a pretend artillery attack. Again, dropped and formed into a hasty ambush, they waited behind their rifles for an invisible enemy to approach from the road. As they patrolled on, phrases became more and more familiar to them. They learned their part in every battle drill. Jacob’s motions became clear; just as in his former life as an engineer when he knew how to break down and assemble a production line, he now knew what to do when attacking or under attack.
They drilled until their bodies ached and their blistered feet bled. They were fully immersed in the training, stopping at the side of the road to eat and hydrate before again moving out on the trail. Masterson called out battle drills, and the platoon reacted.
“Near ambush!”
The men at the front screamed and ran through the kill zone yelling pew, pew, pew—firing imaginary weapons as the men at the back of the patrol dove for cover before laying heavy suppressive fire, covering their teammates as they assaulted through and destroyed the enemy.
“Far ambush!”
Soldiers in the kill zone took cover and provided suppressive fire while those at the rear of the formation maneuvered around and destroyed the enemy.
They learned to break contact, to initiate contact; different patrols and traveling formations; when to ambush and when to hide; how to react to chance contacts and how to pursue and run down the enemy. After a particularly difficult round of chaotic drills, Jacob overheard Jesse laughing with the other men. “This is just like football practice.” Jacob could see that the big man was loving it, memorizing plays like it was all a game. Meanwhile, Jacob felt his own tired body breaking down… and it was only the first day.
The patrol finally ended at a long gravel road. They were halted and moved back into a formation. Jacob’s pants were covered with dirt and grass stains, the elbow of his shirt torn, and the toes of his boots scraped, the raw leather showing through. Masterson range walked back to the front of the formation and faced them to the right, marching them to a grassy field where the pickup truck and supply sergeant were waiting.
The supply sergeant was standing behind the truck with the tailgate down. Cans of ammo were stacked in the back with more soldiers positioned over them. Masterson fell them out and they formed a training circle around the back of the truck. The supply sergeant stepped forward and removed his hat, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
“Okay, Privates, you will form into three lines and draw ammo.” He pointed to three tables just behind him with soldiers standing over them. “Little guns, big guns, and bigger guns. If your weapon fires non-belt-fed 5.56 go to the first table.”
Men with the M4s and M16s fell out and ran to the first table. Jacob waited for instructions and moved to the 7.62 table with four other men while Jesse and the other machine gunners moved to the third. Jacob stood looking at the others; other than all holding scoped rifles—M14s as the supply sergeant had called them—he couldn’t find anything in common with the group he found himself in.
A man wearing a dark-red ball cap with a yellow badge paced behind Jacob’s table, picked up a clipboard, and then wended around it. Without introducing himself, he ordered the five men into a line, standing shoulder to shoulder. He tossed the clipboard back to the table before walking up and down the line. He ordered them to hold their weapons out then, one at a time, inspected each recruit’s rifle. As he walked down the line, he stopped to
