CH.4 — Feeding My Own Monster

Rumor of the night: There’s a telescope in the operations shack and they keep it aimed at us.

I sleep soundly until 4 o’clock when the guy in the next bunk is informed he has fire guard. The 3 o’clock floorwalker tries to wake him in a civilized manner, but that doesn’t work so he slaps him about the face. The 4 o’clock guy calls the 3 o’clock guy a cocksucker. The 3 o’clock guy responds in kind and they square off.

Hibernation hollers that he has a knife and if he has to get out of bed, it’s not going to be any fun for anybody.

I’m thinking, hey, if the cadre has a telescope, now might be a good time to use it.

Nothing.

That proves it. The only thing they have mounted on a tripod is a fuck book.

This is only our second military morning, but we’re short-timers by reception center standards. Hundreds of fresh hires have arrived since that first night when Boil and my lap became intimate. They haven’t had haircuts, haven’t had half their blood drained, haven’t slept in Cool Hand Luke’s bed, haven’t been told they fall in like a bunch of goddamn third-graders.

And here we are, wily veterans of the eye exam and supply depot. All-knowing sages of the AP news ticker that is the operations shack. The incoming can only guess for whom the siren screams. We know.

A historian-type who looks like Mr. Peepers tells us this place was activated in 1940 at a cost of $40 million and named after Major General Leonard Wood, who won the Medal of Honor in the campaign to capture the Indian chief, Geronimo. He rattles off the names of supposedly famous soldiers who took basic here.

The pretend prof closes his notebook.

“Maybe one of you troops will follow in their footsteps.”

Nah, we’d trip.

After lunch, we’re issued our first real collector’s items.

Dog tags.

Name and serial number only. Rank is missing. Good move. No sense putting a lot of pressure on us to achieve.

We flip the things in each other’s faces like they’re toys.

Except for Boil.

“I’m not wearing mine,” he says defiantly, taking the tags off and putting them in his shirt pocket.

“Why not?” somebody asks. “It’s the first thing they’ve given us out here that’s cool.”

Boil explodes.

“Cool? Do you fucks know why dog tags are made like they are?”

We have no idea. Obviously, I wasn’t the only one who didn’t watch “Combat.”

“Do you think they gave us dog tags so we can impress bitches?” Boil yells, his face reddening.

“Hibernation” gives a yes gesture with his private parts.

Boil tries to rush him, but is held back.

“Goddammit, it’s in case we die.”

We get quiet.

“You put the dog tags in the dead soldier’s mouth, and then you kick ’em in so they’ll stay. That’s how the body is identified.”

The story comes out little by little. Boil’s father was in Korea and died at Inchon with his face blown off. Nobody would have known who he was if his buddy hadn’t put the dog tags in his teeth. And kicked.

We separate.

Which is what guys do when they don’t know what to do. Arrange ourselves in concentric circles. Leave the guy who caused it at the epicenter.

We quit playing with our dog tags. Boil will never win Mr. Congeniality, but he takes the reality-check title going away.

All of us are desperate to know what boot camp is going to be like. How much running. How much shooting. How much getting in your face.

But it’s like the entire reception center’s permanent party has taken a crash course in “no comment.” The most detailed response is an uncivil, “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Even the chaplain is in on the plot. All we get out of him is, “The Lord sows, but basic training reaps.”

Isolation is their primary weapon. We have no contact with civilians. No contact with troops on the other side of the base who have already started the basic training cycle. Like Indians on the reservation, we’re restricted to the company area. If we wander off, there’s a cadre member riding fence.

The Army should have a course outline like we had in college. This is what we’ll cover this week. This is where you’ll be sore. This is what you’ll complain about the most.

But no. They let us feed our own monster. Fuel our own fear.

I’m put on detail with a little black guy, Gaines, a sharecropper’s son from Alabama who came to Fort Leonard Wood wearing the only shoes in his possession, bedroom slippers.

Here we are cleaning butt cans. Pampered Virginia Tech college boy and a kid who’s had everything against him since the day he was born.

I tell him about the dorm, the dope, and comparative economics, and listening to Jethro Tull, and the students who took over the architecture building after the shootings at Kent State.

He tells me about living in three or four different shacks a year because his father has to move with the season. And about sleeping with five brothers in the same room. And about not seeing his first wooden floor until he went to school.

Gaines makes me feel guilty. Nobody told him about the draft dodge that is the reserves or National Guard. He just signed up. The recruiter said, infantry? Nobody told Gaines that’s who dies. Nobody told him anything. So he said, yeah, sure, infantry. He’ll be in Vietnam before his 19th birthday.

I have found one good thing about this place. I never would have met anything like Gaines. There is no system other than the Army that requires you to mix ’n’ match with the rest of society. I learned more today cleaning butt cans than I did in a year of school. College doesn’t offer a course in how the other half lives. It should. Or else send every college senior with a high lottery number to this shithole so they can see it firsthand.

More tests. More marching practice. More worrying about getting killed by Haddox.

Another day. Another detail.

I’m given a rake and told to clean out under the barracks. My partner is a guy from Chicago named Apperson.

Tells me he’s a career criminal. Waits until 2 o’clock in the morning on Rush Street. Sees a drunk stumbling on the sidewalk trying to find his car. Sticks a razor under the guy’s throat. Steals his wallet. Waits 15 minutes for any heat to die down and repeats the process. His record for one night is five billfolds and two money belts.

Says he started young.

“In junior high, I had me a regular racket going. I was little for my age and made good use of it. Got me a box of Cracker Jack and walk down the street all innocent-like. I boost a purse, take the bills and throw the thing in the trash. Take a couple of side streets and then start munching on the Cracker Jack like a little kid. When the cops came, I put the money in the Cracker Jack box. I’d just eat around it.”

I cannot fathom such lawlessness. The worst thing I ever did at that age was put a tack in the preacher’s chair. I had to stack vestments for a month.

Apperson got arrested earlier this year for felonious assault. His probation officer talked to the judge and the judge talked to the Army.

“They work up this deal for me. I volunteer for the service. I get through basic and wherever the fuck else they send me for two years and my record’s clean.”

Thinking I might need an explanation, he provides one.

“Too many of you college boys are hopping the freight,” Apperson says, pointing to a used rubber that somehow made it under the steps. “They gotta make their quota someways. I might not be for shit, but I fill up a uniform.”

I recall Short Leg back at the airport. They thought nothing of putting the handicapped on the midnight bus to Central Missouri. Why should it surprise me they’d welcome the criminal element?

“Told ’em I was hip,” Apperson goes on. “Said I’ll join your Army. Beats pullin’ one to five.”

I rake up the rubber, but my heart’s not in it. How is this supposed to make me feel? The Army and prison — one and the same.

“So here I am,” Apperson says, “but I don’t know for how long. This ain’t exactly my scene.”

“Not mine either,” I reply evenly, “and it just got worse.”

“Yeah, might have to check out.”

I almost drop my tool. “You mean go AWOL.”

“Shit, how hard would it be? I could walk away right now.”

“But they say that’s the worst thing we can do,” I say. “You get hunted down like a convict and thrown in the stockade. I don’t like the barracks. I don’t even want to see anything with bars.”

“They only catch you if you go home. You could be three doors down and the MPs would drive right past. They dumber than we are.”

I look Apperson up and down. There’s no swagger in what he’s saying. No put-on trying to make himself look big. If the mood hits, this guy is gone.

Vietnam is bad, even if it’s just what it does to turn sons against fathers.

My dad has been pretty cool about this being a different deal from World War II. He knows what he fought for in Burma and India isn’t the same thing we’re doing in the Midwest.

But one troop told me he hasn’t had any contact with his father in more than two years and he hopes it stays that way. Seems the senior was a big hero at D-Day. Saved two guys from bleeding to death on the beach.

Mr. Gung Ho then. Mr. Gung Ho now.

The dad can’t understand why his son doesn’t want to go to Southeast Asia and gun down communists. He can’t believe something that came out of his loins tried to flunk the physical by pretending to be a spastic, and when that didn’t work, escaped to the National Guard as a file clerk.

The dad told his troop/son that he’s a coward. The troop/son told his father to fuck off. That was 1969. The kid says he doesn’t know for sure what state his father lives in and doesn’t care. Says he’d sooner look up a drill sergeant.

The shower room is closed so we could clean it for inspection. I absolutely cannot close my eyes with crud on my person. So I sneaked to another company’s barracks, found a floor where guys were still taking showers and went in like I was one of them. I didn’t get caught. Or at least I don’t think I did. Tomorrow, they’ll probably court-martial me for having shampoo residue from an unauthorized soap-and-water facility.

Our third daybreak in the Armed Services is less frantic. The siren is as loud as ever, but we know they probably won’t kill us unless we really deserve it. Today is like 200 men of Alpha Company going on a bunch of errands. Little Man is like a station-wagon driver, except this is war. Get ID pictures taken. Take eye exam. Get fingerprinted. Take IQ test. Take personality-profile test. Take leadership-potential test. Fill out what-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up sheet. I go with “writer.” It’s the first time I’ve ever put that word on a form. I start to use block letters, but decide it looks more believable in cursive.

The last stop is an incredibly long wait inside an airless building where a platoon of Rosie the Riveter look-alikes sew on nametags.

We survey each one from pudgy fingers to teeth that look as if they were handed out randomly and in small lots. Not a looker in the bunch. Our attention immediately turns to Cleaning Lady, but he has crumpled up his tits manifesto and stands as far away from the women as possible. So much for immersing oneself in one’s subject.

After lunch, Little Man calls a formation.

“Your processing is complete.”

I gulp. Is he going to announce what I think he’s going to announce?

“I know we said you’re shipping out tomorrow to basic training, but that’s been changed.”

Two gulps. I hate change.

“Grab your gear. Buses will be here in 30 minutes for the ride to the other side of the base.”

This is bad. The reception center has become home. I do not want to leave even an instant early. They said tomorrow. Tomorrow has been ironed in to my brain. It must be tomorrow.

I am not the only troop who doesn’t want to exit the mother ship. I lack the bravery to complain in even a whisper, but several guys grumble out loud.

“You want to get this over with, right?” Little Man says in pleasant voice.

Fearful of being labeled a troublemaker, I manage a small nod. Others holler “yes” in loud voice.

“Well, the sooner you get started, the sooner you finish.”

I grab hold of myself. Let’s examine the positives of this new development. If the move was tomorrow, I’d fret about it the entire time. The blackhead on my chin would grow into a pimple by sundown. I’d spend the overnight hours thinking about impending personal injury and destruction of the human spirit.

The Army wants me to regain my mental health a day early. The Army wants me to never see Missouri again a day early. The Army wants me to forget the military code of justice a day early.

These are good things. Very good things.

By golly, if the Army can be spontaneous, so can I. Basic training cannot be a horrible memory until it commences.

So, dehuminization, have your way with me.

Little Man continues his presentation.

Our group of 200 will be split into five platoons. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta and Echo. If you’re in Alpha and your buddy is in Echo, he goes on, you won’t have much contact except in the mess hall. But if you’re in Charlie, and he’s in Charlie, you’ll be able to finish each other’s sentences. At the company level, there’s a first sergeant and a captain. Two drill sergeants per platoon — 10 in all — plus a senior drill sergeant.

Ya wants to know if we’ll have Haddox.

“Could be. Could not be,” Little Man says. “He’s gonna have one of the platoons. Don’t know which one.”

Ya weighs in.

“Shiiit fiiire, that man tetched in the head.”

I’ll get Haddox, I think to myself. I deserve him. It’s written in eczema.

Cattle cars are parked next to the operations shack. Because our handlers know we’ll never master the Alpha and Bravo concept, there are scoreboard-sized A’s, B’s, C’s, D’s and E’s taped to the windows.

The cadre member goes down the list of names. While he’s doing that, Haddox makes his assignment official and reports to the Alpha meat wagon.

I only half-listen to the recitation. I already know where I’m going. This has to be as hard as it can be. The lackadaisical-ass way I’ve lived my life can’t be tolerated. I must be taught a lesson. Haddox has to be my teacher.

Hibernation and Cleaning Lady to Echo.

Apperson, Boil and Ya to Alpha.

Gaines and Lit Cigarette to Delta.

Three and 4 a.m. floorwalkers to Charlie. They deserve each other.

Martin to Alpha. He sees Haddox in front of the door. Remembering what happened after the haircut, Skebo tries to be especially manly. He hoists the bags on his shoulders and takes off in a trot. The unthinkable happens on the fourth stride. Ejaculation of gear. Not just a casual dribbling. Every tent peg. Every tent stake. Every item that was carefully placed. Every item that was thrown in at the last second.

I pay little attention while the troops fill up the cars. No reason to. Our stars are aligned. I’m the radio signal and Haddox is the receiver. I’m the wayward boy and he’s the truant officer.

A small part of me hears my name and fate. A soft “Al” and then the “Pha” like the DI is coughing up mucus.

I hurl a duffel bag with the grace of the longshoreman’s brother who’s taking his place for an hour to earn wine money. Because Skebo hasn’t had enough bad happen to him, the buckle smacks him across the face.

Meanwhile, Haddox leads us in song.

“I wanna be an Airborne Ranger,” he screams. “I wanna life that’s full of danger.”

I hold firm to the truth-in-lyrics policy. I absolutely do not desire to be an Airborne Ranger. Ergo, I cannot lend voice to the choir.

“You fucks WILL sing,” Haddox bellows. “And you WILL mean it.”

There’s maybe 60 percent participation. Most of the regular Army guys are in full throat, but the National Guard and Army Reserve troops only muster a half-hearted lip sync.

Haddox does his best Julie Andrews. The hills might not be alive but, by God, our cattle car sure is.

In between choruses, we pick out landmarks from the first night. Baker Theater. Walker Service Club. Nutter Field House. Row after row of brick barracks buildings.

We see basic trainees marching, emptying garbage cans, being inspected, falling out for mess, looking like they need medical attention. We can tell how far along in the cycle they are by the gear they’re carrying. Only a pistol belt means early in the full week. Poncho, bayonet, canteen, ammo clip and gas mask and they can see the end.

I want to see a bunch of guys playing Frisbee, or watching cartoons, or shooting hoops.

I long for just one sunbather. To hear just one car stereo blasting a Creedence Clearwater song. To see just one person with no particular place to go.

But all around us is work. And purpose. And OD green.

It feels good to be out and about, even if it’s so tight in the cattle car we’re in violation of every packaging law known to man. Like that first night, I don’t want to get where we’re going. I want to keep circling the wagons until the Fort Leonard Wood Zoning Board outlaws brick buildings and votes in Frisbees.

But Haddox guides us straight to the barracks.

“We’re ruint,” Ya whispers.

Ours is the fifth and last cattle car to arrive. In an airless gesture of togetherness, the other four platoons are made to swelter inside until we park.

When the doors fly open, too many drill sergeants in Smokey the Bear hats are on us like aphids to a vine.

Screaming aphids.

“Put your shit in this pile and come with me.”

“Not that pile, you dick.”

“What’s the chain of command? Don’t shake your head at me, boy. Gimme 25 pushups. No, gimme 30. Not only are you stupid, you’re shiftless.”

“Whose fucking tent peg is this, or am I gonna have to ram it up somebody’s ass?”

“What are your general orders? Don’t look at me like I’m a spaceman. What are they, goddammit?”

“Never mind how crowded it is. Tighten up the ranks. Make your buddy smile.”

“That’s the worst parade rest I’ve ever seen. Get it right. This ain’t the goddamn safety patrol.”

“I thought I told you to put your shit down and come with me. What’s the matter with you? If I had that much shit, I’d want to put it down. You wanna carry my shit, too?”

It’s a panic mentality. Go somewhere, even if it’s wrong. Don’t let them catch you standing still. Some guys are running to the barracks. Some are running away from the barracks. All of us are getting screamed at.

Somebody tells me to go to a room on the second floor. I carry and kick my gear to the nearest cot, wipe off an amount of sweat that would fill a pontoon boat and stand more or less at ease.

Then somebody tells me to go somewhere else. I carry and kick down the hall. Another room. Another set of floor tiles to call a hearth. I look at the footlocker. About as homey as Port-A-Potty, but it’s my dresser for the next eight weeks. And, should the enemy advance that far, my bayonet blocker.

I hear footsteps. My roommates, no doubt. Well, I was here first. The bed in the front corner is mine. They can wake up looking at my ugly red ass.

The footsteps aren’t friendlies. They’re DIs.

Move the fuck, I’m told. Where to is not important. Just move the fuck.

I slump to the floor. It’s all too much. The shouting. The confusion. The nobody-wants-me.

Let them trample me. Let them take me to the hospital. At least then I’ll have an address.

“What’s the matter, son?”

Crying, I look up. It’s a Smokey hat. I start to snap to.

“Never mind that. What’s wrong?”

“I can’t handle it any more. I haven’t even moved in yet, and already I can’t take it.”

I’m expecting him to kick me in the balls or, if that’s against regulations, in the face. Or maybe in both locations like one of those Chinese kick-boxers. Eyes closed, I’m thinking where I’ll fall and how much it will hurt when I feel a hand on my shoulders.

A soft hand.

“Trust me, son. It’s not that bad.”

He’s short. Maybe 5–9. Dumpy. Freckle-faced. Thick black hair on his forearms that looks freshly combed. Mustache that’s all the law allows. Nametag that says “Waldspurger.”

I try to stop crying. This man has the power of God over me and I don’t want to be a leaky valve.

“First of all, you need to relax,” the DI says softly. “And understand that 99 percent of this is bullshit. If I call you a dickhead, it’s just a word. If I say you ain’t worth diddly, it’s not you as a person, it’s you as a troop. There’s a big difference.”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this from someone who wears insignia for a living. These guys are supposed to be heartless, emotionless, mutilators, even. This man is talking to me like I just made a bad grade on his production management test, and he really wants me to do better next time.

“We all have our jobs out here,” Waldspurger says. “I’m supposed to stick it to you. You’re supposed to stick it out. It’s that simple.”

This is unbelievable. He is “supposed to” ream us out. Doesn’t he want to?

“Uh, are you one of Alpha’s drill sergeants?” I ask hopefully but timidly, staring at my shoes.

“Yes, I wasn’t with you at the reception center. They gave me a week off from the previous cycle. Went to the beach.”

I want to ask why he’s not bossing me around. I want to ask why he put his hand on my shoulder.

But I don’t dare. He is who he is, and I’m lower than sewer pipe. If I try to get too familiar, he’ll only pull rank and tell me to move the fuck.

So I just stand there, bobbing my lips. A serf to the throne.

“Did you come out here by yourself?” he wants to know.

I nod.

“Met any other trainee you can stand to be around?”

“Yes, sir. Skebo, er, Martin, sir.”

“Would it help if he was in your room?”

“Very much help, mister sir.” The words aren’t coming out like they’re supposed to, but I hope he’ll edit for content.

Waldspurger writes something on a piece of paper and sticks it in his pocket.

“I’ve got to go. Remember, it’s just eight weeks. You can stand on your head that long.”

I can’t for more than three seconds, but I appreciate his confidence.

There are almost a dozen of us without a place to stay. With our gear at our feet, we effectively block passage to all but championship hurdlers. We’re uniformed refugees, the worst kind.

Suddenly, I hear a shout.

“Get where you’re going, you shits. I’m not your mama. Look at me. Do I got tits out to there?”

It’s Waldspurger.

He looks at me until I summon the courage to make eye contact.

Then he winks.

Loud whistle. Our presence is requested on the patch of dead grass that separates the long rows of barracks. We sprint downstairs, but hit the brakes before the door. What row do we get in? Who lines up beside who? Nobody’s told us. Better to be late than wrong.

“Over here, dipshits.”

It’s Haddox. He’s standing next to the horizontal bars that flank our building.

“I AM in charge of your PT,” he barks. “You WILL do good in PT. One of the events on the PT test is the bars. Today we WILL learn the bars.”

This must be the 10th time I’ve heard him talk like this. Changing only a word or two from one sentence to the next so we cretins can follow along.

I want to yell back, “I am in charge of my brain. There is thought inside my brain. My brain could be three days dead and still be smarter than your brain. Your brain is only attached to your body by Scotch Tape. By comparison, mine is held in place by five layers of Polident. So quit talking to us like you’re Carl Jung and we’re protoplasm.”

But I keep quiet. Haddox is built like an office complex. Out here, that means he’s Jung.

“This is how you do the bars.”

The DI spits on his palms, jumps up and grabs the bar with both hands, all the while keeping his legs gymnast-straight.

There are 14 bars. I’m thinking he’ll go down and come maybe halfway back. That’s plenty to demonstrate the proper technique. He doesn’t have to take the PT test. Why should he risk pulling his shoulders out of their sockets?

Haddox goes down 14, comes back 14 and then does 14 more. He isn’t even breathing hard.

“Fourteen plus 14 plus 14 is 42. That’s what it takes to score the maximum points on this event.”

I’m thinking, OK, OK, guy’s made his point. He can come down now.

But Haddox continues the lecture while hanging from the bars.

“The key is strength and balance,” he says.

Never mind that. When’s he gonna drop. Guy did all those bars and now he’s talking. Guy’s been up there way more than a minute. He could be Tarzan. Give him enough vines and he could swing to the other side of the base and be back before lunch.

Haddox goes on and on about proper form and keeping a good grip. He actually thinks any reasonably conditioned troop should be able to dangle until the bars rust.

Finally, he lets go. I’m watching to see what he grabs first. To see what hurts. To see where he’s vulnerable.

But all he does is scratch his armpits. He didn’t drop because of socket-searing pain. Just an itch. Get his pits up to speed and this guy’s a human meat hook.

I imagine Haddox in combat. Hanging from a branch. Defenseless. Enemy sharpshooter squeezes the trigger. Haddox raises his heels, bends in half, catches the round between his toes and returns to the full, upright position.

It’s our turn. Nobody does more than 26 bars. I fall down at 14. Haddox calls us all pussies. It’s easy to see why. He and Jane are on their fourth movie and here we are slipping on the first vine.

Waldspurger stands in front of the door. Clearly, he has something to say, but it’s not in him to scream to get our attention. He waits patiently until Haddox gets disgusted with us and leaves.

“Who doesn’t have a room yet?” he wants to know.

We squatters raise our hands.

“Who doesn’t want a room?”

My jaw drops. Waldspurger has told a joke. He can’t do that. This is serious business. Doing the horizontal bars. Moving the fuck. There are no punchlines here.

Waldspurger, the housing authority, reaches in his pocket and pulls out a scrap of paper. He calls out my name. He calls out Skebo’s name. Match game.

We grab our loads and head upstairs. There’s almost a bounce to our step. We have a home. We have neighbors — guys who if we don’t make it will say, “Yeah, they were really good persons. Too bad they screwed up during training and got thrown in the stockade.”

Skebo and I walk in our four-bunk bay. A large black man is in the bed furthest from the door with a tent stake in his hand. Suddenly, he lashes out at an imaginary enemy, slicing and dicing, all the while humming the theme from the movie “Shaft.” The foe dispatched, he returns to the ready position.

Home doesn’t look so good. Skebo and I check the room number, hoping to God we made a mistake. Our shoes squeak. The black man looks up, sees us and immediately flashes his weapon.

I figure I’ve got five, maybe six seconds to live. Two for him to jump across the room, two for the actually cutting up and then a proper allowance for him to remove the stake so the bleeding can begin.

How stupid we’ve been. Haddox isn’t going to kill us. Our roommate is.

I muster a greeting.

“Uh, hi.” I back up until I’m out in the hall. He can have the room. I’ll just live out here.

“Aw, shit,” the black man says, throwing the stake on the floor. “Two more.”

I bite. “Two more what?”

“White motherfuckers.”

Skebo, he of the commune and good will to all, pursues the matter.

“Er, what’s your name?”

“Why do you care, you piece of blue-eyed shit?”

“Uh, well, since we’re going to be in the same room and all.”

“Fuck you, white boy.”

That’s more than enough to break my interviewer’s pencil, but Skebo persists.

“Er, you know, what with us being thrown together and all, might as well get to know each other.”

The black guy has almost the same molecular structure as Haddox. But taller. And wider. Who’s the more homicidal? Don’t know. That game is in extra innings.

The information comes out slowly, reluctantly, and only because Skebo gives him a bag of Fritos.

William McKinley Carouthers. Regular Army. Doesn’t know his father. High school dropout. Cooks at a chicken restaurant. Hates whites. Wishes we were all dead.

“All of us?” Skebo wants to know. “That’s an awful lot of Caucasians.”

He’s being facetious. Why is he being facetious with someone who can cause his funeral? Leave the guy alone. Let him detest us. Let him hurt us. Hey, we couldn’t get out of this on a mental. Maybe we can get out on a gurney.

“We’re in the hundreds of millions,” Skebo goes on. “You’d need a natural disaster.”

Why can’t Skebo let it go? Carouthers isn’t going to live in his commune.

But I forget. Skebo is a sociology major. The big black man has become his research project.

“Do you think it’s OK to hate whites?”

He’s trying to tap Carouthers’ subconscious. But what if the guy doesn’t have one? What if that id is a 2-by-4?

“Hell, yes. Caucasians are devils.” Carouthers fingers the tent stake. If he throws it, I’m leaving. I don’t care what they say.

“Cut me one once.”

Oh, God.

“We was in gym class. He’s putting on his pants. I’m putting on my pants. Caucasian looking at me and talking to his white buddy. He bettter not be calling me no nigger.”

I look at Carouthers. If I call him a nigger, I’d go in the witness protection program for the rest of my life.

“First Caucasian comes over and touches the top of my head. Tells his buddy he ain’t never felt the top of a Negro’s head before.”

“And you let him?” Skebo asks.

“Fuck, no. Got my knife out. Cocksucker starts in to get his feel. Got him across the wrist. Blood flies ever which way. Thought for a second I cut that thing clean off.”

“Did you get locked up?” Skebo wants to know.

“Caucasian scared shitless. Tells PE teacher he fell down in the shower room. I was back at the Chicken House the next night like nothing happened.”

Say what you will, the troop is good at what he does. Some guys sell insurance. Some build cabinets. Some design skyscrapers. He cuts the hands off white people.

And I get to live with this person for the next two months.

Loud whistle.

Never mind that we haven’t finished moving in. We are to report to battalion headquarters. The colonel has something to say.

Another panic attack. We don’t know who to fall out beside. Worse than that, we’re mostly strangers. How can we possibly march when our heels haven’t been properly introduced?

Waldspurger to the rescue.

“Look, guys, just get in four rows, OK? Doesn’t matter where. Just remember that you’re Alpha Platoon, second battalion, second brigade. If someone asks, it’s A-2–2. Got it? Even if that’s the only Army thing you know, it should be enough for right now.”

But what about marching? Isn’t that important?

“Today, no,” Waldspurger says. “Just walk. Move your hands up and down a lot. That’ll make ’em think you know what you’re doing. And take big steps. Confident steps. Little steps are like little peckers. Remember that.”

The other four platoons are ready to take off. Alphabetically speaking, Alpha should be in the vanguard.

But Waldspurger, in his wisdom, knows we’ll look really bad if we lead the way.

“Got me two puking troops and they’re still in the can,” he hollers at the drill sergeants of the other platoons. “We’d better bring up the rear.”

Our leader waits until the other platoons are well out of sight before giving the signal to commence. I try to keep in step with the guy ahead of me. I look at his left bootlace and try to put my left bootlace in the same place.

But it doesn’t work. He walks fast. Then all of a sudden he walks slow. I’m striding. Then I’m shuffling.

“You men look like a centipede with 50 broken ankles,” Waldspurger says.

Ya concurs.

“Shit, we was in better step than this when we walked across the stage to get our GED.”

The strategy to keep our footwork to ourselves is successful. Alpha arrives at the gymnasium a football field so late the other platoons have already gone inside.

Front and center is a podium with a half-dozen officers plus a scraggly troop who looks like he’s got even less rank than me. The colonel claps his hands and a St. Bernard bigger than a PT boat trots to his side. It’s not encouraging. The dog does forward march better than we do.

“Next time you see this little fellow will be graduation day,” the head man says, patting his pal. “You’ll be 10 times the soldiers you are today.”

No way. If I’m 10 times the soldier I am right now, I’ll actually be one. And that’ll never happen. Might be 10 times a better actor. Might be 10 times better at dealing with the certifiable. But that’s all.

They show a Vince Lombardi film about doing whatever it takes to win. After we watch five defensive guys tackle the quarterback really hard, the commoner is brought forward.

“This AWOL standing to my left decided he couldn’t take it,” the colonel says, his voice picking up speed. “He thought he could just leave. Thought he wouldn’t be caught.

“But he was picked up by the MPs. He went to the stockade. He thought he was winning, but he got beat 100 to nothing. Sergeant, read the report.”

It seems the troop walked away from the post three weeks ago. He was collected two weeks and five days ago.

“Apprehension was outside his hometown Tastee-Freez,” the sergeant says. “The arrest was without incident.”

“Hope he got to finish his milkshake,” Skebo whispers.

The colonel retakes the podium.

“Today’s lesson, men, is don’t go AWOL. Remember, you can fuck something, anything, and be in less trouble.”

The dog barks.

“See you in eight weeks. Dismissed.”

We file out of the gym in front of Waldspurger. He confirms what we’ve already heard, that the first few days of basic training will be nothing but classes, PT and marching.

“And ragging on us,” Skebo says under his breath.

“Oh, yes,” Waldspurger adds, “and plenty of individual instruction.”

We are dispatched to personal-hygiene class where we watch a film on trenchfoot and frostbite. Shot just after the advent of talkies, it features several dozen forlorn-looking GIs who won’t be going to the 1933 prom.

Then some inverted crawl action and a spirited move-out phase in which we charge straight ahead and bounce to the ground upon command. None of us fall down hard enough. Pretend you’re sleeping on a hammock, Waldspurger suggests, and a couple of assholes cut the rope on both sides at the same time.

Then a 20-minute trot and we’re in front of the barracks.

Where Waldspurger teaches us our first marching cadence:

“The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen…

“…Was smoking pot in the boys’ latrine.”

Catchy lyrics. Good to dance to. Could be a hit.

“Left foot here, right foot there,” Waldspurger barks. “C’mon, guys, Custer’s men did it better than this and they knew they were gonna die.”

He soon gives up and sends us inside. First inspection is tomorrow morning. Low quarters and extra pair of boots shined. Brass polished. Uniforms hung up in the closet. Footlocker arranged as per boxers, socks and undershirts.

Carouthers puts on “Shaft.” In the spirit of preserving life, Skebo and I sing along.

I’m nervous about tomorrow.

Not the training. I’m thoroughly accustomed to sitting through boring classes. And I think I’m in good enough shape to handle any PT they throw at us. It’s the inspections that are going to kick my ass. The arranging of gear just so. The only things in life I’ve ever been neat about are my rejection letters from newspapers. Got them in a folder in alphabetical order on my desk back home. Every other piece of my personal property is in one of a dozen or so piles in my bedroom and in the basement.

I get called away. Some idiot told the DIs I’m interested in higher office here, and my name got put in for both platoon guide and squad leader. I miss valuable folding and shining time waiting in line to tell Waldspurger I’m definitely not leadership material, and whoever said I was created a fictional character.

Somehow he already knows this. I’m not halfway finished trying to make coherent statements in the negative, and already he’s looking down the list to see who’s next.

I return to the bay at 8:45, only 15 minutes before lights out. My footlocker and closet just sit there, but Skebo’s area looks like it was targeted by a commando unit from Good Housekeeping Magazine.

“Hey, what gives?”

“Ya,” Skebo replies.

“What about him?”

“A bunch of us were in the bathroom talking about how we aren’t ready for the inspection. Then somebody said we ought to walk down the hall and get a load of Ya’s footlocker, that it looks like some kind of religious shrine.

“Never seen anything like it. Not a blemish. Not a crease out of place. I tell you, Ya should be somebody’s wife.

“Man took a look at my shit and starts laughing. Told me I couldn’t pass inspection if Stevie Wonder was conducting it. That’s where the fifty bucks comes in.”

Ever the worrywart, I suggest that maid service is probably illegal for basic training.

“Who’s gonna know? I fork over the money, he arranges my shit for the next eight weeks. I believe he used the words ‘on retainer.’ ”

“How can you afford that kind of cash?” I ask.

A sheepish look comes over Skebo.

“Mom and Dad thought I might run into a few problems out here.”

I remember the first time I saw him at the reception center. Hair down to his ass. Flip-flops. Belly of Buddha. Roller of numbers. Yeah, he might have a little trouble out here.

“So they gave me a discretionary reservoir I can dip into.”

“Your own little slush fund, in other words.” Got to tweak the guy a little. I’ll get gigged out the ass tomorrow and he’s going to come out looking like Mr. Feather Duster.

“My parents love their little Skebo, what I can I say?”

It’s crazy, but I find strength in the guy’s lack of it. I’m going to screw up come sunrise. I know that. But at least the screwing-up will be on my own. There’s nobody I can call on. But there’s nobody I want to call on.

At least that’s how I feel now. Ask me again in the morning.