CH.2 — Move ’em On, Head ’em Up

The Greyhound lurches to a stop beside what looks like a large garbage can spread end to end with front and center doors and oversized ball bearings for tires. Two soldiers stand watch.

“Cattle car, you ignorant peckerheads,” the biggest screams. “Shake your sorry asses and get the fuck in.”

The smaller man approaches his buddy with a look of concern. They confer.

“Uh, wait a minute, guys,” Little Man says. He sounds almost polite, as if wanting to make amends for the insult to our backsides. “Wanna do this right. Line up. Don’t matter where.”

Little Man reads from a training manual. He is more serious than a Holy Roller preacher.

“It says here that before any instructional situation, a joke will be told. Said joke will serve to prepare troops for positive learning environment. Said joke should be either funny, clever, or, preferably, both. Failure to tell joke could result in disciplinary action.”

He nods to Big Man who takes center stage.

“I got me a funny. Anybody know why it takes two hours to get from Fort Leonard Wood to St. Louis, but only 10 minutes to get the fuck back?”

We have no idea.

“Because Fort Leonard Wood sucks.”

Little man puts his manual away. The Henny Youngman rule thus obeyed, the twosome can get back to the business at hand.

“Stow your gear and get the fuck in the cattle car,” Big Man hollers.

A pause to wipe the froth.

“What sorry pieces of shit they keep sending us. Makes me want to wipe my ass just looking at you.”

It’s after midnight. We’re squeezed inside a rolling garbage can going God knows where to have God knows what done to us, and there’s a guy I don’t know sitting on my lap.

Seems a good time to review events of the day that have brought me to this moment.

Up at dawn. Parents drive me to airport. Plane is waiting. Only thing that can get me out of it now is a skyjacker. Shake hands with Dad, more or less manfully. Mom starts crying and goes on and on about how this is the last time she’ll see me alive. She asks for — and receives — a lock of my hair. Just in case.

Which is the last thing Dad wants to hear. He spent most of the previous night trying to convince me it’s not in the Army’s best interests to assassinate me. If every basic trainee is executed, Dad reasoned, how can the country carry out an effective national defense policy?

Hugs all around, and I promise to call as soon as the sergeant of the dial tone lets me.

Three-hour flight to St. Louis. Then a lengthy wait at the terminal for the Greyhound to saunter the 125 miles west on Interstate 40 to Fort Leonard Wood, Mo.

Go to bathroom. See guy in process of removing his Army clothes and putting on civvies. He feels the need to explain.

“Don’t want to go walking around the airport in uniform. They give you the finger, spit on you, throw stuff at you, ask how many Viet Cong children you killed. I don’t need that.”

Earlier, I heard a soldier talk about how much money you save on airfare if you take the military discount and wear your uniform.

“Not worth it,” Bathroom Guy replies. “I’d rather pay more than be a freak.”

“That bad?” I ask.

“Every bit,” he answers while stuffing the uniform into his garment bag.

The Fort Leonard Wood bus is announced. I fall in step with a guy who has a horrible limp. The rest of us fresh hires look like we need painkillers. This kid is smiling.

I wonder how the youngster can be in such good humor, but it isn’t in me to open my mouth.

“Wanna see something?”

Before I can reply, he raises the bottoms of his jeans. Even in the dark I can see that his left leg is at least two inches shorter than the right.

“You don’t appear, uh, able-bodied,” I stammer.

“Of course I ain’t. You think I shouldn’t be on this bus.”

I do indeed.

“Sure, I shouldn’t.”

I’m confused. If ever there’s an excuse for getting out of the Army, it’s dragging one leg after the other.

Short Leg pulls out his wallet and fans the bills.

“I went with my friend to the recruiter. My buddy got all signed up and we started to leave. Then this Army guy pulled me aside. Asked if I want to take a free plane ride. Asked if I want free meals for two days plus five bucks he kicks in himself.

“I ain’t never been more than 100 miles from my home town. Never been anywhere near an airport and this mister man’s gonna give me spending money to boot? I said, hell, yeah, what I gotta do?

“Recruiter said he’s short on his monthly quota and I can be one of his fudge factors. He put my name on the list and gave me some other guy’s paperwork.

“Here’s the plan,” Short Leg says. “I fly out to camp. They see in two seconds that somebody screwed up. I get a bed for the night, a flight back home and a free adventure. Can’t beat that.”

The bus is a missile into the night. Slower than the real thing, but no less guided.

Too soon, there’s the sign. “Fort Leonard Wood, Exit 1 Mile.”

Time for one last fantasy. Abbie Hoffman is driving. He doesn’t want us to learn to kill our fellow man. He doesn’t want Short Leg to defraud the federal government. So he hits the gas and doesn’t slow down until we get to Oklahoma. When questioned by the press, he says he was just doing the Cambodia Shuffle.

But no. The bus gets off at the St. Robert ramp. Three minutes later, we’re at the front gate.

I’m expecting flashing lights, maybe even a floor show featuring dozens of helmeted sergeants in a conga line that spells outs, “Your Ass Is Mine.”

But all we see is a single soldier with the white gloves of a traffic cop.

“Go to the same place as usual?” the Greyhound driver asks. “Where they park all the cattle cars?”

A bored White Gloves just nods. Clearly, he dances for no man.

I don’t either.

The guy on my lap weighs a ton, smells like a wet sock and has a boil on the back of his neck that looks calcified.

But I can’t be bothered with that right now. Where are we going? And what will they do to us when we get there?

We pass a row of square buildings. I’m looking for something, anything to feel good about. They aren’t adobe huts. That’s a positive. The road is paved and I think I see a Pepsi machine. Maybe we’ll survive with flesh wounds.

“Out, out, out,” Little man says.

“Line the fuck up,” Big Man hollers.

“Reception center,” Boil whispers.

Penal colony, I’m thinking.

“No, no, no, goddammit.” Big Man screams at Short Leg. “Quit standing sideways.”

The kid gives it his best shot, but he’s like a grocery store cart with one wheel missing.

“What the fuck’s the matter with you?” Big Man wants to know.

Little Man, ever alert to matters of procedure, eyeballs Short Leg from top to bottom and consults his training manual. Then he whispers to his buddy.

“Uh, you, stand down,” Big Man says, significantly lowering the volume, “or at least try to.”

A soldier we haven’t seen before comes up and says something to Short Leg. They leave together. And not for limb-lengthening school, I’ll wager.

The temporary basic trainee had it pegged. Here and gone without ever seeing a bullet.

But class is in session for the rest of us.

“I say ‘Attention!’ and you WILL stand like this,” Big Man roars, looking like a steel girder in boots with a fender for a forehead.

“I say ‘Parade rest!’ and you WILL stand like this,” he goes on, striking a decidedly uncomfortable pose with hands held tightly behind his back. If I had to watch a parade like this, I wouldn’t go. Especially not at 1 o’clock in the morning.

Our gear is in front of us. For most, it’s suitcases and the occasional satchel. But one guy packed a pillow — a big, fluffy job straight from his bedroom.

Big Man is the first to notice.

“If you can’t shoot the enemy, you’ll smother him to death in his sleep, is that right, troop?”

The new hire mumbles something about how Mr. Fluffy helps his sinus drainage.

“Fuck your pillow. Fuck your nose. Fuck the hospital you were born in,” Big Man says.

The guy quivers, but stands his ground. Impressive. If Big Man told me to fuck something I’d hump it in front of the entire group. Be too scared to do anything else.

Our oppressor opens the door to a classroom.

“Major wants to see you pricks. Take a seat.”

The flight, the wait, the bus, getting screamed at — we’ve had enough for one day. We file in like a bunch of 90-year-olds. If the room was a beachhead, we couldn’t hold it against a squad of Brownie Scouts.

Unlike Big Man, the features of the reception center’s head honcho are decidedly non-Cro-Magnon. Early 40s. Jaw only medium-thick granite. Touch of gray in the temple. Touch of mashed potatoes in the gut. Except for the perfectly pleated uniform and the insignia and the horrible haircut, he could work alongside your dad at the bank.

There is no anger in his voice. No intimidation. No this-is-your-last-day-on-Earth.

The man is even smiling. God, can we keep him?

He gives us the welcome to Fort Leonard Wood bit. These barracks will be your home for a few days until we get you processed. And there’s a lot to be done. Take tests. Do paperwork. Get uniforms. Get name tags sewn on. Get shots. Get gear. Guys have been coming in all day and you’re the last one. Around 200 of you. Five platoons. One company.

He speaks firmly for the first time. You’ll all be together — now and in basic — so get used to it. College guys, high school guys, guys who need to be led around by the hand. The Army doesn’t care who you are.

One last thing, the major says. He walks to the back of the classroom and stands in front of a section of wall that has a gaping hole in it.

“Some of you brought weapons to the base. Some of you have pills, reefer, liquor, maybe even smack. That’s OK. If I was your age I might be holding, too. But you have to get rid of it. This is your last chance. We catch you dirty from now on, you go to the stockade.”

He makes a point of turning his head.

I don’t have anything more deadly than a coin purse, but several troops mill around the wall. One drops something in and starts to leave. Then he pats himself down, realizes he’s forgotten something and goes back to the hole. He lets fly with something that makes a thud when it hits bottom.

“A .44,” Boil says as we file out of the classroom. “I saw the barrel.”

Flashlight in hand, Little Man walks us across the road.

“This is where you sleep.” He points to a two-story wooden structure where Eisenhower could have napped as a private. “This is the operations shack. That’s where we’ll be.” He points to a building barely bigger than the loudspeaker overhead. It looks like a press box, except this is war. “All your information comes from here. When to get up. When to fall in. When to report for work detail. When to go to bed. You can shit on your own.”

He leads us up the stairs. The scene is right out of “Cool Hand Luke.” Rows of bunk beds. Rows of footlockers. Smelly guys in all forms of underwear. Nobody is more than half asleep because they want to be ready when Big Man comes at them with a club in the middle of the night.

I put my suitcase under an empty bunk, kick off my shoes and start to curl up.

“Not so fast,” Little Man says. “It’s only a few hours until dawn, but we need fire guards to be the eyes and ears. One hour shifts. Carry a paddle that tells you what to do in case of fire or anything else bad that happens. You, then you, then you and then you.” I feel a finger on my foot.

“Feel free to close your eyes, but don’t get carried away,” Little Man advises.

I dream a “Gilligan’s Island” rerun. Mary Ann is walking along the beach. She gets sand in her top. Poor thing can’t go around itching. So she takes it off. She gets sand in her bottom. Doesn’t want to itch there either. So she takes if off. I watch from behind a coconut tree. She sees me, smiles and runs my way with her arms extended.

Just then my shoulder starts to hurt. Someone I don’t know has hit me really hard.

“Sorry. Tried every other way to wake you up. It’s your turn for fire guard.”

He hands me the paddle. “Now you’re the eyes and ears.”

Dutifully, I march back and forth. Then I look at the operations shack. No lights on. I look at the building where the major spoke. No lights. I survey the rest of the Missouri blackness. Nothing.

Unless the CIA has installed surveillance equipment in the butt cans, there’s no way for them to know I’m lying down. I stretch out on the front step. To keep from nodding off, I read the paddle.

“Fire is defined as an act of combustion followed by burning. Fire can maim, cripple and even kill. Be suspicious of fire when you experience a rapid increase in room temperature. Flames, usually a bright yellow, accompany fire. If the fire has progressed to this level, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO PUT IT OUT YOURSELF. Evacuate all personnel. Should fire be on your person, immediately notify your commanding officer.”

A guy gets out of bed. Scruffy. Sloppy. At least 50 pounds overweight. Dirty shirt. Dirty bandanna. Looks like he majored in rock concert.

I figure he has to go downstairs to piss, so I move my legs.

“Can’t sleep,” he says. “Want some company.”

I’m slow to answer. I try to avoid company.

“College?” he asks.

“Yeah. You?”

“Political science. Tried to go through on the five-year plan, but the Army wouldn’t let me.”

I hazard a guess. “You went early in the draft lottery?”

“Popped some popcorn, rolled a number and sat back to watch the show. The second ball that came up was my birthday. I hadn’t even reached for the salt and already I was gone.”

“God, that’s awful,” I reply. “I was number 71. At least there was time to build up some suspense. “What did you do?”

“Smoked six numbers. Couldn’t find my bed. Spent the night in the rec room. Did you protest the war?”

“Only in my head. Was too busy trying to average a ‘B’ in my coursework.”

“Chickenshit?”

“Yeah,” I admit.

“I did. Went to the Ellipse in Washington this past May. They were gonna arrest me, but ran out of paddy wagons.”

“How come you’re here and not in Canada?” I want to know.

“Chickenshit.”

He takes a seat.

“Reserves?” he asks.

“Yes. Do I look insane?”

“Me, too. Friend of mine tried every other way to get out of it and couldn’t, so he shot off two toes. Right before he blacked out, he said he could hear them hit the floor. He was laid up for two months, but it worked. Didn’t even have to go with us to the physical.”

I don’t have the words.

“We’ll go down in history as the generation who had to aim at ourselves so we wouldn’t have to aim at the bad guys.”

“Didn’t get your name.”

“Martin, but everybody calls me Skebo.”

“Skebo?”

“It was something my old man put on me right after I was born. Apparently, I wasn’t the best-looking of babies. He got this shocked look on his face the first time he saw me and the word just blurted out.”

Skebo has long blond hair almost down to his crack, by far the longest in the barracks. Parted in the middle. straighter than a slide rule. Mine looks more like silage. Thick and lumpy.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Skebo asks.

“Write. For a newspaper, at first, and then books.”

“Sounds pretty ambitious.”

“A guy can dream,” I reply. “What about you?”

“I live at a commune in New Hampshire called the Farm. About 300 of us. Singles, marrieds, grandmothers, cats, dogs, peace, love, ganja. You can work at the sawmill, or at the free store, or at the children’s school. I teach. Everything is pooled for the common good. Groovy way to be. At night, you get out the guitar and do a little James Taylor to the girl beside you and watch the stars shine.”

“Probably can’t have a guitar in the Army unless it’s green,” I say.

“Aw, this ain’t the Army. The Army is walking point at some shit hole near Da Nang. This is just dicking around.”

We look around in time to see a troop clear out his nostrils. The wad hits the floor with a splat.

“But it’s enough for me,” I offer.

“Me, too,” my suddenly shaken companion admits.

The loudest siren I’ve ever heard pierces the night air. It’s followed by Reveille with the instrumental quality of a fourth-grade tonette band.

Guys get to half-mast in their bunks. What do they want us to do? Salute, duck for cover or nominate someone for human sacrifice?

A voice comes over the loudspeaker. It’s Big Man.

“If you turds aren’t out here in two minutes, I’ll make bowties out of your balls.”

This is the first time I’ve seen hot potato played with shirts and pants. We make a mad dash to the pavement.

“The next time you fall out, you WILL do it right,” he screams. “Get in five rows. Forty deep. Move, goddammit.”

We scatter like little kids on an Easter egg hunt. Big Man yanks a few here, plants a few there and we’re in place.

“A, B, C, D and E — that’s the rows. You pricks got that?”

We murmur as one.

“Now spread down. If you’re 5A, you stand beside 5B. If you’re 32D, you line up next to 32 E.”

“Bra sizes,” somebody says, chuckling.

“There’s no goddamn laughing in my lines. Get the fuck where you’re supposed to be and shut up.”

Even in the pre-dawn fog, I can tell I’m behind Boil. No amount of neck hair can hide his calling card.

“Look ahead of you. That’s your guy. Memorize something about him. His ass. His hat. The back of his shoes.”

I’m quietly confident. I could go 95 percent blind and find my spot.

“Everybody see where he’s supposed to be?” Big Man walks through the ranks. “You fuck this up and I don’t want to be around when they give you a loaded M-16.”

We half-march, half-stumble to breakfast. We pass by barracks inhabited by troops who arrived earlier in the week. They already have fatigues, a fact they loudly point out.

“Hey, civilians,” one hollers from the second floor, tugging on his shirt and sounding like an apprentice Big Man. “Look up here at a real soldier.”

Just days ago that asshole was one of us. Now he’s been turned into them. Please, God, I whisper, don’t let me get beaten down like that.

Breakfast is wretched. Eggs, bacon, jelly — they’re all playing run around the May Pole. Stir and the tray looks like a dirty river. It might be something I’d take in an IV, but not on a plate. I eat just enough for my stomach to remember what it’s there for.

After throwing away more food than they had at Guadalcanal, we line up outside the mess hall.

Ever the teacher, Big Man wants to see if his lesson plan has taken hold.

“Fall in, numb nuts.”

It doesn’t go well. I find Boil, but he can’t locate the guy ahead of him. I look to my right and see a total stranger. The guy who’s supposed to be at my left is two ranks back trying to pick bacon out of his teeth.

“You morons would need a map-reading class to find your peckers. We gonna start over. If you don’t do better, I’ll take you back behind the building.”

Big Man looks like a middle linebacker for the Raiders who’s been bitten by a rabid dog. I don’t want a personal briefing session and neither does anybody else.

This time, we get it pretty much right. Boil still needs to learn to play “X Marks The Ass,” but the rest of us are more or less in the right place.

“Well, congratthefuckulations. Let’s move out.”

Silently at first, but then with cadence.

“Left, left, your military left,” the DI barks. We get maybe 100 yards and a street comes up. A question comes up that isn’t in any of the drivers’ ed-books I’ve ever read. Who has the right of way with a motor vehicle and a herd of men arrive an intersection at the same time?”

“Road guard, road guard,” Big Man screams.

We keep marching. In seconds,we face the very real possibility of becoming pedestrian casualties. But better that than incur Big Man’s wrath by coming to an unauthorized halt.

“Goddammit, when I say ‘Road Guard,’ that means the top man on the left flank and the top man on the right flank run out and stand in the street and give warning that we’re about to pass.”

Skebo sprints, well, waddles into the breach. Two feet of hair flapping in the breeze, he shoots a stiff-arm at vehicular traffic. Transfixed by fear, the drivers obey. Today, hippies are taking over the crosswalks. Tomorrow, the world.

We reach the building where the medics will give us the once-over. Big Man checks his watch. We’re early.

“Do what you want,” he instructs, “but don’t move.”

With darting eyes, I take my first inventory of my comrades.

A full 25 percent of us are of color. About half wearing jeans. A couple dozen in ball caps. Two mohawks. Three ugly sets of mutton-chop sideburns. One wears a “Free The Chicago Eight” T-shirt.” Another a “Neil Young Is God” T-shirt. Three paperbacks hanging out of back pockets. Full assortment of Roman noses, pointy ears and acned chins.

I notice a too-thin kid in bedroom slippers. Skebo sees that I see.

“Bought him a Coke at the airport. Name’s Gaines. Son of a sharecropper. Those are the only shoes he has.”

We file into the building where an assembly of medical types awaits. It’s all diabolically efficient, although I don’t understand why I have to drop my pants to have my blood pressure taken. I go from station to station carrying a jar of urine. I imagine being on guard duty. The enemy sneaks up on me. The hell with a rifle, I’m holding a more powerful weapon. “Halt,” I’ll declare, “or I’ll throw this on you.”

The shots are administered in air-gun fashion, my first experience with syringe-less vaccinations. The corpsman holds the thing against your skin and a surge of science delivers the goods. You’re fine for two seconds and then everything settles in your lymph nodes and you feel like the baseball pitcher who can’t lift his arm over his head.

The heat is stifling as I move from table to table. Central Missouri may be nowhere, but the sun has sure found its way.

The nurse — one of those yawning professionals who could hold your pecker, count the wrinkles and enter the total on a form — wraps the elastic band around my upper arm. Then she gets out the longest needle I’ve ever seen. Put links on it and you could measure first-and-10 yardage. I’m thinking with a weapon like that she’s bound by law to read my vein its constitutional rights. Or maybe there’s paperwork to sign before my body can be officially violated in such manner. Surely something to delay the proceedings until I can get mentally prepared.

But no. She thrusts like my arm is a 400-year-old maple and she’s got to get deep enough to draw sap.

There’s pain, sharp at first, but fading to bruising. Then for some reason I decide to watch the blood filling the cylinder. Up, up, it shoots. Cranberry juice in color, with a touch of A1 Sauce.

I start to feel dizzy. Then dreamy. Then nothing. No fade to black. Just black.

So this is death. I’ve heard a lot about it, but this is my first time on the slab.

You think, but you don’t feel, hear or see. Hot damn! I’m going to get out of basic training!

Suddenly, it’s as if the contents of a swimming pool have been dumped on my face.

“Wake up, goddammit.” It’s Big Man, who is holding a bucket. “You fainted. Lucky you didn’t hurt somebody.”

“Got to puke. Got to puke now.”

He drags me outside. And just in time. I make yellow, orange and red all over the curb. My mouth feels like under the table at a cheap diner.

“Aw, quit worrying,” Big Man says. “You ain’t gonna be French-kissing nobody no how.”

We fall in for the march to the barber shop. I don’t feel so good.

“You gonna throw up again?” Big Man wants to know.

I’m afraid to open my mouth. I’m hoping he gets the message with the lake of sweat and the jerking of every muscle group in my body.

Big Man hands over the bucket he used to bring me back to life.

“Don’t get nothing on nobody,” he warns. “Don’t wanna cause no plague.”

We stampede down Caisson Drive. I’m the only one carrying an anti-digestive device.

“Your right, your right, your military right,” Big Man shouts.

I think what I’d give for a shot of Lavoris, and what those around me would be willing to kick in. Meanwhile, Boil slows down for some reason and I run the bucket up his ass.

“Watch out, dickhead,” Boil snarls.

Big Man steps in. “If anybody’s gonna call somebody a dickhead, it’s me.” He tries to get in my face, but can’t advance because of the sustained fire coming from my mouth. “Be more careful next time,” is all he can muster before being driven back.

The barber shop is beside a grove of trees. I look at Skebo and his locks that probably took three years to grow. Reviewing my military history, I think of all the old generals who always seemed to come to a grove of trees to die. In like manner, so has Skebo’s hair.

Five chairs. Five barbers. Two orderly-types with large brooms.

I feel up top. Follicles of plenty. Standing tall. Standing proud. Prepared to fall as one.

“You WILL report to the barber shop,” Big Man instructs. “You WILL NOT say smart-ass bullshit like just take a little off the top. You WILL NOT put your hands on top of your head trying to prevent the haircut. The barbers clip what they see. If it’s hands, you’d better learn how to salute with your dicks. You WILL NOT make any attempt to save your hair for some goddamn scrapbook like those pricks from the last cycle.”

The barbers are even more efficient than the medical staff. No “Where are you from?” No “Sure could use some rain.” They press their clippers against our scalps as hard as they can and go ‘round and ‘round like peeling apples. I’m deflowered in less than 20 seconds.

We’re given a few minutes to ourselves after the mass shearing. Probably to see if we can still recognize each other in a sea of bald knobs.

Boil is easy. The barber didn’t — or couldn’t — lance it.

Where’s Skebo?

Can’t tell. We all look like we just stepped out of a delousing ward. I try to remember what he was wearing. Blue shorts, I think, and flip-flops.

I go from cluster to cluster. No nature boy.

The lone troop is by the culvert where the trees gave up and everything becomes ditch.

He’s like the elderly Indian banished from the tribe. He sits on a rock and watches his flip-flops float in the stagnant water. The top of his head, which hasn’t seen the light since LBJ was in the White House, could be a beacon for light aircraft.

“I hope my shoes sink,” Skebo says. “Hair’s dead, shoes might as well be dead, too.

I rescue the footwear, but Skebo swats them away.,

“It’s all over. Flip-flops are for guys with hair. Guys who like the Doors and the Grateful Dead. If you don’t have hair, you’re country music.”

“C’mon, it’ll grow back.”

“No, it won’t. They probably sprayed defoliant.”

“They only beat you if you let them,” I reply.

Whoa, I can’t believe I said that after four years of college during which time I didn’t stand up for a thing. I’ve finally become an activist for something. Hair.

“You believe that?” Skebo asks.

“More or less. Look, will anybody you love or care about ever see you like this?”

“No.”

“Do you plan on sending snapshots or other facsimiles of yourself back home?”

“Hell, no.”

“Then why do you care what you look like out here? Look at it this way. Your hair will get some much-needed time off. Then when it comes back from vacation, it’ll be all refreshed and ready to grow.”

Skebo gets to his feet. “Didn’t work, but nice speech, man. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. You’ll probably have to give me one tomorrow.”

Big Man hollers that we are moving out.

“Now we get our jerseys,” I hear some asshole say. I want to smack him. This isn’t the baseball team. They aren’t going to give out letterman jackets.

Skebo looks like a zombie. His life’s work, his hair, is heading for the Dumpster. Might as well take the rest of him.

Naturally, Big Man makes things worse.

“Whatsamatter, Samson. Without your hair, you can’t even pick up your pecker. Gimme 30 pushups. That’ll help get your strength back.”

I think back to the dorm about what Carl said. The Army senses weakness, any weakness, and they crawl all over it like fire ants.

We watch helplessly — and silently — as Skebo cranks out one bad-form pushup after the other. Don’t want to pick up an illegal-use-of-mouth penalty out here.

They route us to a warehouse. One group gets fitted for uniforms and shoes, while the rest of us report to the supply bay where we load up on the staples of war. Pistol belt. Helmet liner. Steel helmet. Field jacket. Stupid-looking winter cap like the county agent wore in the TV show, “Green Acres.” Poncho. Tent pegs. Tent stakes. Something called a shelter half that you match up with someone else’s for the bivouac.

Over in menswear we’re issued khakis, fatigues, socks, an overcoat, two pairs of boots, one pair of parade shoes and galoshes like our moms made us wear to elementary school that we took off on the bus because we were too embarrassed to let anyone see us in them.

And, finally, two duffel bags to put it all in.

I’m thinking, no way. You could miniaturize this stuff and we’d still need a cargo truck to haul it around.

But a cadre member spreads a schematic that shows the proper way to fold and place each item. Following the diagram, he easily fits everything inside the duffel bags. This guy should be a stocking stuffer when he grows up.

I’m fascinated by the pistol belt. Because I never watched “Combat” on TV, I assume you wrap the thing around your shoulders a la Pancho Villa.

But Gaines says it goes around your waist.

“Canteen, bayonet, bullets — I don’t know how, but it all clips on,” he explains.

I get it. Militarily speaking, it will be like wearing room service.

Our Army crap is supposed to go the duffel bags and our civilian clothes in the laundry bag. But because we squeeze every bit as bad as we make formation, stuff is dangling around necks and waists and stashed inside shirts.

I feel like a pack mule at the Grand Canyon. The load weighs at least 70 pounds, it’s 95 degrees and the only breeze comes from Big Man’s throat.

“Double-time. March.”

The Green Berets couldn’t run with all this on their backs. The best we can do is take six paces and then pick up what fell out.

“Goddammit, get them ditty bags stowed.”

But it’s no use. We’re a constant stream of military issue all the way back to the barracks.

“Pitiful,” Big Man says.

The wooden steps creak under the weight of dragged gear. We maneuver the bags to the side of our bunks and heave as we would a case of shot puts.

Siren.

Happy news from the operations shack, our window to the world. One hour of free time before supper. The PX is on-limits.

I fairly sprint down the hill. After a full day of doing the Army’s business, I plan to reacquaint myself with the information age. Check out the pennant races. Catch up on Nixon. See if any more dominoes have tumbled overseas.

Never have I seen a sadder-looking merchandising establishment. The word “store” only applies because there’s a cash register. All I see is brass, buttons, fake grenades, a box of Snickers from the 1960s and a giant bin full of “Property of the U.S. Army” T-shirts.

“Where’s the newspaper rack?” I ask.

“Don’t got one,” the man behind the counter says. “By the time the truck gets way out here, the pages are all ripped and falling out and shit. ‘Sides, most of the men just want fuck books.”

I’m instantly suspicious. It’s like a “Twilight Zone” episode. World peace is declared. Weapons of destruction are blown up. Flower children blanket the Earth with petals.

But because there are no newspapers in Central Missouri, we keep training as if nothing happened.

I get back to the second floor in time to see Big Man give a demonstration on the proper way to spit-shine boots.

He flicks his cigarette lighter and plays Mr. Wizard. “Gotta burn it in, boys. Makes it last longer.”

There’s joy in his eyes. Like he’s really accomplishing something. Like he’s making the world a better place.

Too many of our guys are standing around him. They should be asking about Skebo’s commune. Or listening to Crosby, Stills and Nash. Or suggesting treatment centers for Boil.

It’s like they’re losing their allegiance. They’ve only been in this place overnight and already they’ve bought into it.

“How hot should the flame be?” someone asks, actually sounding like he wants to know.

“Is it OK to do the shoelaces, too, or will they catch fire?” another troop chimes in.

What are they thinking? They shouldn’t care about having perfect shoes. They should be figuring out a way to draw a peace symbol on a tank.

Mere seconds after 8:45 p.m. lights out, guys holler in the darkness trying to prove they’re the dominant male.

The first voice loudly proclaims he’s going to climb inside his girlfriend’s crawl space and hibernate. Another voice promises to bury his face in the next set of tits he sees, and it could be the cleaning lady for all he cares.

A lively discussion of pussy ensues, after which there is general agreement that “nooky” is a Southern expression, “poontang” is used most often in Northern climes and “She’s got the rag on,” has national understanding.

Not everyone seeks top dog status. Some just want to go to sleep.

“Y’aaalll shuuut uuup.”

This takes a full five seconds to come out. Every syllable gets its moment in the sun.

Got to be Mississippi or Alabama. You can hear the red clay commingling with the cotton patch.

“What the hell did you just get through saying?” Hibernation wants to know.

“I said y’all shut up.”

“What’s that one word?” Hibernation asks. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard.”

“You mean ‘y’all’? Means you and you and you and the rest of you.”

“Say it again,” says his tormentor.

“Y’all. Godammit. Y’all. Y’all.”

“What do you call yourself, man?” Cleaning Lady shouts.

The Southerner starts to rattle it off, but he’s interrupted.

“Ya,” Hibernation says.

A nickname is born.

It’s quiet except for the moaning of women’s names.

Then, loud and clear: “I eat lit cigarettes for money.”

It’s coming from three bunks over, one down. I can just barely see the guy, who is naked except for red socks.

“You’re shitting,” says Hibernation.

“You’d die,” Cleaning Lady weighs in.

The guy is unmoved. “Half a pack. Five dollars.”

I kick in my 50 cents, ever the sucker for a show-stopping act. The one-ring circus is set up under the swinging light bulb at the top of the stairs. Cleaning Lady furnishes the Marlboros.

“You gotta chew or give the money back,” Hibernation stipulates.

The headliner yawns and agrees.

I’ve never seen anything like it. His teeth go down on the cigarette cracker-style until there’s nothing left. Then he pops another one into his mouth without even taking a breath. He seems to find the burning end particularly succulent.

I go to sleep wondering what I could in front of a bunch of guys that they would pay to see. Some talent — bizarre or otherwise — that I alone possess.

Only one thing comes to mind. Typing.

I can bang out 65 words a minute on a timed writing if I don’t have to do numbers. Let me plug in an electric and I’ll approach 80. I can even bob and weave at the keyboard like Ray Charles.

But it’s no good. Eating lit cigarettes is manly. Typing is queer. The troops would just try to look up my dress.

Dear Dad,

Hate it here.

I’ve been meaning to talk with you in person, but haven’t gotten around to it yet. They have a place here called Phone City that has about 40 telephones, but only about half function. The lines are real long and there’s absolutely no privacy. After the second or third “I love you,” the next guy says that’s plenty and starts bugging you to hang up. I promise to call when I’m less depressed.

I’ve got to tell you about one of the drill sergeants.

This guy wasn’t born. He was poured. The doctor slapped the cement truck on its rear and said, “Congratulations, you’re the father of a brand new baby footer.” When the other kids were going to day care, he was busy supporting a high-rise.

He could be asleep and still whip six of us. All he cares about is the Army. I’ll bet he doesn’t know who the vice-president is, but the dude can quote the regulation that states the maximum allowable inches socks can ride up on our ankles.

We didn’t know what to call him, so we went with Big Man. Then somebody noticed the name tag on his shirt, Haddox, and passed it down. The weird thing is, he’s never owned up to it. Never stood in front of us and said, “The name is Haddox. Fear it.” He’s thinking, in that don’t-know-the-VP brain of his, that we’ll be even more intimidated if he bypasses the whole first-name, last-name bit.

Works with me. I start shaking when he gets anywhere near us and don’t calm down until 15 minutes after he leaves. If he ever chews me out, I’ll be like the Wicked Witch at the end of the “Wizard of Oz” movie. Full meltdown.

My goal is for this person to never have a conscious thought about me. At the end of the cycle, I want my name to come up and he says, “Hmm, that sounds vaguely familiar.” Then he mulls it over and says, “Nah, never heard of the guy.”

Oh, by the way, I passed out and thought I was dead, but I won’t go into detail because I don’t want you to worry.

Love,

Me.