What Makes the Green Grass Grow?!
“Put your head down, close your eyes, and don’t look up,” a voice from the front of the bus said. “When my bus stops, I’ll give you further instructions.”
I put my head down; the bus began to creep forward. Between my fingers, I peered out the window at trees and buildings passing by. We drove for at least ten minutes. My legs began to ache from the weight on my lap. The lawns outside were perfectly manicured. Aside from the slight discomfort, I thought things were going pretty smoothly. Everything had been pleasant and calm thus far.
The brakes squealed as the bus jerked to a stop. The sound of the door swinging open resonated down the aisle as we awaited approval to raise our heads. No approval came.
Then everything changed.
“You’ve got forty-five seconds to move your nasty body, and all your shit, off my bus!” the voice yelled from the front of the bus.
From the back, all I could see was momentary glimpses of a round, brown Drill Sergeant hat levitating atop a set of fiery eyes. Those eyes looked like they belonged to Satan himself.
“Get off my fuckin’ bus! Move! Move! Move!”
I immediately regretted sitting at the back of the bus. It was surely gonna take a lot longer than a minute to get to the exit.
“Hurry up!” Satan shouted from the front of the bus. “You are moving too damn slow!”
Forty-five seconds had already passed, the recruits near the back of the bus hadn’t moved an inch and red-faced Satan, brown hat covering his horns, was getting louder and angrier!
“Goddammit! Why are you moving so SLOW?!” He bellowed at the recruits struggling to lug their duffle bags and suitcases through the narrow bus aisle.
By the time we started moving, I’d slung my black bag across my chest, slipped one of my duffels on like a backpack, and balanced the other one on top. The blond white kid with the bushy eyebrows struggled in front of me. Satan picked up on the scent of fear, zeroed in on the kid, and ratcheted his anger up another notch.
“Whyyyyyyyy are you heeere?!” He was screaming now. “You’re not gonna make it!” he blurted sharply. “Pick the bags up and stop dragging your ass!”
The kid couldn’t pick up the bags. First, he didn’t have the strength; second, he didn’t have the room to maneuver within the bus’s tight confines. Despite this, he tried all the way along the aisle. He fell down the steps, out the door, and landed on the curb. One of his duffle bags landed on top of him. I thought he’d broken something. The Drill Sergeant thought he was hurt, as well.
“Are you okay? Are you injured?” Drill Sergeant yelled, his voice a few decibels lower, leaning over blondie. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, sir,” the kid responded.
“Don’t call me, sir!” the brown-billed demon exploded again. “I ain’t no officer! I work for a living. Get off your ass and get up that hill!”
I was still standing in the doorway, last off the bus.
“We are waiting on you, Private! Get off the damn bus! You’re dead last, and everybody’s waiting-on-you!” As I tried to exit the duffle bag straddling my shoulders became wedged in the doorway. “Move! Get off the bus! Hurry up! What are you waiting on?!”
Now the Drill Sergeant stood directly in front of me. Each time I lunged forward, attempting to dislodge my duffle from the door frame, he lunged forward to scream at me. It was like a see-saw, back and forth. The bill of his hat repeatedly poked me on the nose, knocking my glasses awkwardly about my face.
I finally freed myself. Before me was a well-trampled hill, our group trekking up it bags in hand. It looked like a war zone. Someone’s suitcase had exploded. Scattered socks, underwear, and t-shirts led the way up the hill to the all-out hell the rest of the recruits were experiencing.
When I reached the top there were fire-breathing, profanity-spewing Drill Sergeants everywhere. By the time they finished with us we were psychologically overwhelmed, physically exhausted, and covered in dirt. We stood in formation, breathing heavily as the Drill Sergeants stood before us.
“I’m yo’ mama and yo’ daddy,” one said. “You eat when I say eat! You sleep when I say sleep. You move when I say move, and when I give you an order, the only words that will come out of your mouth are: ‘Yes, Drill Sergeant.’ Do you understand!”
In unison we replied, “Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
Then he yelled a question to no one particular.
“What makes the green grass grow!”
Silence! We didn’t know how to respond. I thought to myself, ‘The obvious answer is sunshine and rain,’ but none of us said anything.
“What makes the green grass grow!” he repeated.
Still, silence; everyone stared straight ahead.
He turned to another Drill Sergeant and asked, “Battle buddy, what makes the green grass grow?”
The second Drill Sergeant tilted his face up toward the sky. Arms spread wide, fingers extended, chest protruding, he took a deep breath and bellowed, “BLOOD! BLOOD MAKES THE GREEN GRASS GROW!”
The first Drill Sergeant looked back at us and again yelled, “What makes the green grass grow!”
In unison, we screamed, “BLOOD! BLOOD MAKES THE GREEN GRASS GROW!”
And just like that, we all agreed that blood, instead of sunlight and water, makes grass grow. The indoctrination had begun.
I hope you enjoyed this post — if you want to connect, you can reach me here via email at ty@typinkins.com or connect with me on social: LinkedIn, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter. Also, you can purchase my book, 23 Miles & Running, on Amazon.
