The white-suited cook tossed us each a cardboard box maybe eight-by-five inches and we walked back to our table.
Parker muttered, “Botulism in a box!”
“Huh?”
He tore open his box and undersized green cans and brown foil packets spilled onto the table. “C-rations. One can’s a main course, then there’s dessert and stuff. These have been in some warehouse since Vietnam! The army never throws nothin‘ away.”
He shrugged and read one of his cans. “Some of the main courses are edible. Like this one. beef with gravy.”
I tilted my box toward me, peeked in, and read a can top, stenciled ham and lima beans.
“But,” he said, “there’s one, ‘ham and lima beans.’ Recycled barf.”
“Trade boxes, Druwan?”
Fifteen minutes later I stood in line burping up lima beans, realizing that Parker was even smarter than I thought, and pushing my civilian bag forward with my foot. At the head of the line Drill Sergeant Ord sat at a table while each of us emptied out all our crap for his inspection.
Ord didn’t look up as I scooped my stuff onto the table.
“Warm now, Wander?”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
He tossed my Chipman into a big, green poly envelope labeled with my name. “You’ll get it back after Basic.”
“How’m I supposed to mail people?”
He snapped his head up.
I added, “Drill Sergeant.”
He nodded.
I figured it out. You just had to use their little suck-up words.
“You know the satellites aren’t receiving, trainee. And there are no land repeaters in these hills. Your little personal assistant is good for nothing here but stored porno and hologames. You’ll be too busy for either.”
He reached into a box and pulled out a dull green Chipboard. “This is yours to keep.”
“Some trade! Army-surplus junk that nobody’s mailed with since before the Broncos won the Worldbowl.”
“The army encourages you to write home, trainee.”
A lump swelled in my throat. The bastard probably knew I had no home to write to.
He dug through my shaving kit, tugged out the shaving-cream squirt can, and chucked it into the envelope. “You will shave daily but with this cream.” He tucked an old-fashioned, capped squeeze tube in my kit.
I was an orphan. War had taken my mother. War had taken my home. This war-loving bully had nothing better to do than take my shaving cream?
Annoyance rose in me and spilled. I raised my voice to be heard over all the sniffling and milling and whispering behind me. “Begging the drill sergeant’s pardon, why is he harassing us about this crap instead of teaching us things that might save our lives?”
The place went morgue-still. Somebody whispered, “Oh, fuck.”
Ord stared at me, then his eyebrows twitched one millimeter. “A fair question. And you asked with appropriate military courtesy, Trainee Wander.”
He stood, hands on hips, and addressed the assembled multitude. “Many of the weapons-control, vehicle, and other systems on which you will train were designed before the advent of reliable voice-recognition technology. Chipboard practice will allow you to refine or develop keyboard and handwriting skills today’s generation lacks. That may save your lives and those of your fellow soldiers.”
He held up my shaving-cream can. “Your unit may on a moment’s notice be transported anywhere in the world aboard aircraft which are, or may unexpectedly become, depressurized. Pressurized aerosols become bombs that at a minimum can ruin your gear and at a maximum could bring down an aircraft. You will be clean-shaven at all times because your gas mask will not seal against a beard. Additional questions?”
I smiled to myself. “Military courtesy” meant you could be a smart-ass and not get in trouble.
“Trainee Wander, your question indicates you believe you know better than the command structure what is best for your unit?”
Uh-oh. “No, Drill Sergeant.”
“Are you cold?”
Was there a right answer?
“It’s a bit chilly, Drill Sergeant.”
Ord nearly smiled as he nodded. “Then let’s all warm up. Platoon! Drop and give me fifty push-ups.”
Anonymous groans as fifty bellies hit the deck. I supposed that if I’d said I wasn’t cold Ord would have said how nice, the temperature was perfect for exercise. We’d be doing push-ups either way. Could Ord be a bigger dick?
“No, Wander, not you. You have earned your opportunity to lead the group. You will stand and count cadence.”
Yes, he could. I stood. “One!”
Someone hissed, “Asshole.” He wasn’t talking about Ord.
When they finished all I wanted was to crawl in some hole as far away from Drill Sergeant Ord as possible. No such luck. He held up my pill bottle and raised his eyebrows.
“Just Prozac II, Drill Sergeant.”
It went in the green envelope. What the hell? I mean, I’m no ‘Zac hack. I’d drop a couple if the Broncos lost or something, but who didn’t? It had been over-the-counter for years. They did say Prozac II was hugely stronger than the old stuff. Maybe since Mom died I did too much of it. Who wouldn’t?
Ord stood again. The platoon would lynch me for this.
“Gentlemen, there is one thing that will get you out of this army or into the stockade in a New York minute! That thing is drug abuse. Impaired performance may kill your buddies. If you are wounded in combat, the medic lacks the time, training, and material to match lifesaving drugs to those already in your system. In that case drug abuse may kill you . Nonprescription mood lighteners are regarded as severely as cocaine and the like. If you have any now, it will be packed away, no questions asked. If you have any later, you will be packed away. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant!” Fifty voices together.
After an hourlong orientation lecture we stumbled into Third Platoon’s barracks, just a long, whitewashed room lit by double-hung windows. A regular combat-infantry company was four platoons, fifty soldiers each. A training company was the same, except each platoon had no regular officers, just a drill sergeant who lived in an office at the end of the platoon’s barracks and rode everybody’s ass. Third Platoon’s drill was supposed to be a guy named Brock. Parker said he heard Brock was soft for a drill, a good deal for us. Parker probably thought a cold was a good deal because it created jobs for germs.
Upper-lower metal bunks piled with rolled-up mattresses lined the room in two rows flanking a center aisle. Each bunk pair shared a metal wall locker backed against frame walls that were just whitewashed siding, an inch of wood between us and the Pennsylvania winter.
Druwan Parker tossed his stuff on an upper bunk.
I chucked mine below. “Unless you want the lower?”
He shook his head. “Never had an upper.” He grinned. “It’s not a job. It’s an adventure.” His breath swirled as white as cotton against his cheeks.
I shucked my field jacket, then shivered. They couldn’t turn up the heat in here soon enough. The jacket was lead-heavy but as warm and windproof as Ord had said. The bad thing about Drill Sergeant Ord was he was always right. The good thing was that he was senior drill sergeant for a company of four platoons, so we wouldn’t see much of him anymore.
“Gentlemen!”
Ord’s voice froze all sound and movement.
His boots tapped down the center aisle. “Carry on. You have not been called to attention.”
Unpacking resumed.
