Basic Training

I went through Army Basic Combat Training between May and August 2005. I spent the majority of the time keeping my head down in an effort to keep myself as invisible as I could. Any sort of attention from the Drill Sergeants - positive or negative - resulted in a lot of exercise-induced agony. I nearly succeeded, but in the last few weeks, Drill Sergeant Deunger somehow realized I existed and decided I was his favorite.  

During one of our last combat training exercises, DS Deunger nominated me to be his Radio Telephone Operator which meant that I, a former couch potato by trade, had to run alongside my gazelle of a Drill Sergeant who ran about a 4 minute mile. As if that wasn’t awful enough, I had to do so while wearing full gear, holding a rubber M16, and carrying a 30lb radio in my rucksack. Not to mention the temperature and humidity were both in the 90s.

It wasn’t long after the exercise began that I accepted my fate. I was ready to die with honor. My legs were on fire and my lungs were on the verge of giving up. My heart rate was so high, it likely would've registered as a flatline on an EKG. I could taste bile and blood.

Seconds before I collapsed like an overworked race horse, Drill Sergeant Deunger signaled us to stop. Everyone else in my squad laid down in the prone position facing out in a circle, while Drill Sergeant Deunger and I knelt on the ground in the middle. I was concentrating, willing the stabbing in my side, calves, and thighs to subside. My breathing was ragged and my boots were digging into my ankles, making it impossible to kneel in comfortably, so I kept shifting around.

My Drill Sergeant looked at me and said, “You’re making a lot of noise over there, Gollan!”

Right on cue as if I was living in a sitcom, a loud “PPPRRRTTT!” sound involuntarily escaped my sphincter. To my horror and amusement, the sound echoed through the trees. Unable to stop myself, I started cracking up, my efforts to suppress it utterly futile. In Basic Training, you’re not allowed to laugh or even smile at the drill sergeants, so I tucked my face as far into the front of my uniform and snickered as quietly as I could.

“WHAT the HELL was THAT, Gollan!?” he asked, horrified.

“I stepped on a spider, Drill Sergeant.”

“WHAT!?”

“It was a barking spider, Drill Sergeant!”

Drill Sergeant Deunger made the final two weeks of Basic Training an embarrassing hell as he repeatedly recounted the story to any other drill sergeant nearby.

Old and Young

The old man stood near the fence, one hand resting on the pearl inlaid butt of the revolver at his hip. A brief puff of wind tousled his silver-grey hair. He brought up his hand to smooth it back down. Aside from that small movement, he was stoic and relaxed, but vigilant.

The much younger gentleman next to him was quite the opposite. He paced anxiously, frequently hiking up is loose-fitting jeans. The constant stream of one-sided conversation that flowed from his mouth began the moment their shift had started. His topics had ranged from his favorite meals, to his favorite football team. From his love of motorcycles to the crew he had once run with. From women he'd slept with to places he'd visited. Now, as they were nearing the end of their time together, the subject had shifted to the old man himself.

“I don't know why we bother keeping you around. Old people are a waste of space. You probably can't even remember who you are or where you're from. The most humane thing to do would be to put you and anyone else your age out of your misery. You can't survive long in a place like this. Seriously, what do you even bring to the table?”

The younger of the two was looking at his elder expectantly as their watch relief strolled up. The old man brought up his revolver, aimed briefly, and fired a single shot. The young man's ears rang as the .45 caliber round hit its mark. In the distance, a solitary, lurching, and fetid corpse ambling toward the gate collapsed as the bullet exploded from the back of its head.

“Well, son, for starters, I'm a pretty good shot.”