“Permission to speak openly, sir?”
“Will and Kevin, remember? Please.”
“The two men in the head, I don’t understand, was that part of this?“
“Regrettably, Kevin, yes it was.”
“So this isn’t really for a position in Military Intelligence, is it, sir?”
“I don’t know, Kevin. Smart people don’t usually join the military.”
I smiled at that.
“You up for a drive?” Will rose while saying the words.
“Yes, sir.”
Will led me to a brown sedan parked outside. There was no one else waiting. He got into the driver’s seat and motioned for me to get into the passenger side.
When he turned the key a loud blast of soul music erupted from the dashboard radio. It was a black singer crooning something about fire. I could tell Will wanted to sing along but didn’t because I was in the car next to him. His shoulders bounced a little this way and that despite himself.
He didn’t say another word until the song had concluded. When it ended, he snapped off the radio and spoke.
“Ohio Players, “Fire,” gotta love that one.”
I nodded.
“Never heard of them, have you, son?”
“I was raised mostly by my grandfather, sir. He listened to country.”
Will tilted his head to the left then back to center, “Never acquired the taste for that particular sound.”
“Sure, sir.”
The drive led us to the other side of the base. Will parked in an almost abandoned lot adjacent to a multi-level brick building. There was plenty of room on either side of it. In fact, it was the only building occupying the area for at least a mile.
“We’re here,” Will said cheerfully.
I followed where he led, the whole while wondering exactly what I had gotten myself into, as if the day in day out grind of basic wasn’t bad enough.
“Three floors, Kevin. All serve a purpose. First floor is for live fire/dry fire scenario training. Second floor is the gym, and third floor is housing. Questions?”
“How many others in this unit, sir?”
Will opened his eyes wider and made a slow pass around the room with an open hand. “Just you, Kevin.”
“Not much of a unit sir.”
“It wasn’t meant to be. Without going into needless detail, I will offer this. What we do here in the next months, years perhaps, is a trial run, an experiment, if you prefer.
We either make history or fail and return to life as we knew it.”
“Sounds rather ominous sir.”
“If I told you the budget afforded this training, that would sound ominous. For you and me it’s just going to be a lot of ass breaking work.”
Will moved to the stairs signaling the question/answer period was over. Again, I followed, not an uneasy task after the previous three months of doing it in one fashion or another.
My room was simple in form and décor. There was no separation between the four walls. A full size bed, a desk and chair, a wall locker, a shelving unit filled with books and notepads, a small refrigerator, and a wash area complete with shower and toilet. I couldn’t tell by first scan, but I was sure the room was equipped with audio/video feed as well.
“Everything you need you will find in one compartment or another. The days will start very early and end very late. This is a free one, (Will paused to check his watch). It’s 1900 hours. You’ve been well fed, and I would hope, not too taxed by earlier events.”
I shifted a bit, looked away momentarily.
“I will return at 0500. Clean up, and get some sack time. The adrenaline dump and heavy food should have done their magic by now. Be dressed and ready to roll out. I do not tolerate tardiness.”
“Yes, sir.”
I didn’t ask where he was going or what I should wear in the morning.
I listened as his boots receded along the hall to parts unknown. I checked the wall locker first. It was filled with black camos and P.T. gear. There were two pairs of boots and two pairs of running shoes.
The uniform had no insignia, no patch or print to reflect it was Marine Corps issue in any way. I laid out a set of the black fatigues, along with socks and boots. I opened the fridge and was not surprised to see it was stocked with only water. I thumbed the texts along the wall and noted many familiar titles.
Books on strategy, war, combat techniques, philosophy, psychology, and various foreign languages. I turned on the shower to its hottest setting. It had been a long time since I had showered void any company. I stripped down, grabbed a toothbrush, and found a place directly underneath the scalding jets. Prior to this one, an average shower time for me had been approximately one to two minutes. A minute to scrub your ass and body clean, while fighting for a spot under a miniscule shower head while seventy other guys rallied for the same spot. Not anyone’s favorite water sport. Well, anyone this side of prison.
I finished showering, using all of the hot water, then slowly dressed for bed. I didn’t know anything, so I dressed in everything minus the boots. Those I strung loosely, prepared them right next to the bed should my wake-up come hours earlier than anticipated. Tricks played several times in basic were not lost on me here. I was used to standing at attention before entering the rack. The drill instructor on duty would finish the hygiene inspection, tell us we were all pussies, then give commands for us to get into bed.
Once there we would lie flat, still at attention, until the D.I. gave the final command, “Adjust.” From experience we never felt fully safe, but at that point you were as relaxed as you ever were in this place. It was strange. The quiet, the utter loneliness after being surrounded by breathing, snoring, farting recruits. I let myself into bed that night without the usual fanfare.
My head hit the pillow and darkness took hold of light.
There was no alarm clock in my room. It didn’t matter; I was awake a full half hour before my appointed time. No dreams last night; it was usually that way. I guessed utter exhaustion had something to do with it. I heard his steps before the faint rap fell upon my door.
Another experience I was no longer accustom to. I answered and he walked away while speaking. “I trust you slept well. You hungry?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Young men are always hungry. That’s good. You’re going to need the calories. I don’t want to drive a pickle too far up your ass this soon in the training with scary talks of sleep and food deprivation, so I won’t. I’m going to need you fresh and alert. What I teach you should learn, so the boot camp antics cease here. What you take from me will eventually save your life so always, always, pay close attention. You feel shitty on a particular day, say, ‘Hey, Will, I feel like monkey shit, can we take a break?’ and a break will be taken. Good. good?
“Yes sir.”
Will led me to, of all things, a kitchen. I was puzzled. I truly believed the first morning would start with me on a 30 degree slant getting water boarded for fourteen straight hours until I told secrets I didn’t know existed.
“You know how to cook?“
“A little sir.”
“I’m not going to ask you what you like. I promised to feed you, not that you could have it your way. Hand me two skillets from over there, and the eggs and ham from the fridge.”
I did as I was instructed. Will looked competent in this setting, not that he was adorned in apron and puffy white hat, just comfortable in his surroundings.
“Every man should know how to cook a decent breakfast, Anderson. You ever make an omelet out on the ranch?”
“Scrambled mostly sir.”
“Nothing wrong with that, it‘s just, an omelet takes a skilled hand. Anyone with one moderately functional hand and the common sense to wipe their own ass can scramble eggs. Let’s aim for something artistic here.”
Again the quizzical look overtook my features.
Will smiled before speaking, “The Samurai believed a warrior should do everything well. Did you kno
w some of the greatest warriors of all time tended gardens, wrote poetry, played musical instruments? Perhaps just before, or just after they beheaded an enemy in a blood drenched duel, but that’s beside the point. The relevant fact here is they were well rounded. Anyone can be taught to pull a trigger or take life. We call those douche bags three percenters.”
“Sir, why three. . . ?”
“It is estimated, and how this statistic was formulated or hypothesized I am unsure, but regardless, it is believed in the community which measures these things that three percent of the human population is capable of killing without remorse, without provocation. And these three percentile are assigned the label psychopath. We are not these people, Kevin. We are gentlemen, we are educated, thoughtful, considerate in deed and clear in purpose and action. What we do, and you should know straight away the day will come when you will have to eliminate a threat, is for the greater good, to save lives.”
I didn’t say anything. I just stood there like a kid all over again on my grandfather’s ranch.
Will was a smart man, intuitive. He closed the book on war and continued with the cooking lesson.
“One of the pleasures in life, a quality blade.”
Will hefted the deadly looking kitchen utensil in his right hand, first holding it in a reverse fighting grip, then casually flicking it forward to sit in his hand ready to cut and chop. I watched as he cracked six eggs, separating the yolks from two of them, and placing three each in side by side Japanese styled bowls.
Next, he chopped the ham steak into finely cubed pieces, enough to make a small handful for each omelet. The pans were already warming on the fire, olive oil reaching a searing point in each. With the delicate touch of a sushi chef, Will peeled and chopped onion and garlic and placed it in the pans alongside the ham. He salt and peppered each, then minutes later poured the egg mixture into one of the pans. The lesson was back underway.
“Watch closely, now. The eggs will bubble along the rim. You have to monitor this and raise each edge as you tilt the uncooked portion into the now vacant spot.”
Will did this several times, lifting a pocket of egg and tipping the pan just so until the uncooked egg filled in the gap. When the mix had begun to set evenly, he flipped the almost finished creation in half, folding it to reveal the perfect golden bottom. A minute later he slid it off the skillet onto a clean plate.
“Ready to give it a try?” Will said with his left hand pointing to the second pan.
“Yes, sir.”
“Hold on Kevin, I’m not asking you to field strip your rifle here; I’m furnishing you with a necessary life skill that will delight and garner envy from those around you for the rest of your life. Now again, are you ready?”
Will was smiling a master’s smile, looking down upon the novice student.
“I’m ready, sir.” I breathed out, all of the sudden feeling a bit more pressure than before. I poured and watched as the eggs collided with the ham, onion, and garlic. I raised the pan as Will had; however, my mixture rode too high and some spilled out on the range top.
Will offered encouragement, “That’s okay, son, just tip it a little less. Keep moving it now, next portion, there you go.”
I looked at my dish, looked at his. Will’s omelet could have been photographed and placed upon Good Housekeeping’s best breakfast’s edition. Mine resembled a dog’s first crap in the morning.
“It’s fine for your first time, Kevin, a valiant effort by anyone‘s measure, Rome and all that.”
We ate, and I was thankful the taste didn’t match the appearance.
Breakfast finished, Will asked another food question.
“You a coffee drinker?”
“I have. My grandfather and I always drank tea. Earl Grey, sir.”
“Your grandfather a Brit?”
“No sir. He said coffee rots the gut.”
Will laughed while standing up, “Your grandfather sounds like a wise man.”
“He was, sir.”
“I’m sorry, son. I’m sure he was a fine man.”
I nodded.
“Tea is fine, but coffee is another art form you should know. I’m going to share another secret here, Kevin. It took me years to figure this out. Here in America we are way behind the curve in true coffee consumption. Had I not traveled everywhere on the planet, I may have always been ignorant to the true treasure I will bestow upon you now.”
Again that feeling of “WTF” overtook me. The comparison to my grandfather was easy to reach, the build, the gait, the scars, the intense stare at times. The man had seen some shit but it hadn’t ruined him, hadn’t taken away his zest for other matters in life. When he spoke about things, so far food things, he was passionate and interesting. I already liked him and was compelled by what he had to say.
I viewed on as he brought together several items for display.
“Alright” He let out a focused sigh, “First, and foremost, are the beans. Fresh, whole beans, I prefer Columbian. Sometimes I’ll enrich it with an espresso bean, or a Sumatra, or even Guatemalan, single origin of course, something to darken the blend, form a richer layer, but my first love is the smooth Columbian. Next, the grinder, a burr grinder gives the most consistent cut. You add a scoop of beans, grind them, and inhale.”
Will did so and remarked, “Good Christ on Christmas morning, you getting that, Anderson?”
He put the cup of freshly ground beans under my nose. It did smell good, musk and caramel and a rich earthy aroma. Putting the beans aside, he brought forth what looked like a large glass beaker. French Press.
“Say what you will about the French, they got their coffee right.”
I listened as Will spoke. I had no idea about the French. Guess Will had an opinion, though. Again my grandfather came to mind. He would have enjoyed this man’s company. Four minutes later, exactly four minutes, Will was pouring the deep brown frothy mixture into two small cups.
“You don’t need a lot when it’s great, remember that.”
Will sipped his first. He was relaxed, eyes closing, face calm and passive. He let out an exaggerated, ahhhhh, before returning his cup to the table.
I followed suit. The blend hit my mouth like a freight train. To that point, I had only ever had a cup of diner coffee which to me tasted like hot brown water. Folgers instant was the height of my coffee consuming experience. This was fantastic. I understood the drama which had preceded the actual tasting now.
Will gave me a look like, “Right?” and finished up.
“Tomorrow you get to make it.”
If the coffee turned out like my omelet, Will would be less than pleased. He read my mind.
“I’ll walk you through it, son. It will be fine.”
I cleaned up as Will attended to other matters. When he returned, he had a yellow legal tablet with him. He laid it down before me and spoke.
“Three things. Number one, what you would fight for. Number two, what you would kill for, and number three, what you would die for. I’ll leave you alone.”
Will walked off and shut the door behind him. My initial perceptions of what lay before me were shattered. I would actually be forced to think during my time with Will. I stared at the legal pad, nothing coming to mind except a silly title for the journal. I wrote in bold capital letters atop the first page,
“MY MASTERS NOTEBOOK”
I skipped a beat in my mind, remembering all the times I had fought. Not so many real fights, but countless training sessions in which I faced odds unbelievable. I was unsure how much detail Will wanted, so I kept it as simple as the questions:
1). I would fight to protect myself and those I loved.
2). I would kill to protect myself and those I loved.
3). I would die protecting myself and those I loved.
Task complete, I looked upon the mostly empty page and sighed. I felt the burden of this particular assignment begin to fade away and was pleased at the words I had written.
Will returned and asked me t
o join him. We made our way down a flight of stairs to the gym floor. He sat me down on one of the training mats and handed me a bottle of water. Twisting the cap from one himself, he spoke.
“Hydration. Never take it for granted. When you feel thirsty, it’s already too late. Drink at least ten bottles a day when you’re with me. I will keep stock on hand on all levels of your new home. I’m sure you already checked your fridge.”
I nodded that I had and continued to drink.
“Food is great, and without it you would die. Eventually. Takes a long time to starve to death, but water, a mere couple of days without it and shit starts to go south in a hurry. Horrible way to die.”
Will’s face revealed a hint of something, perhaps a reflection of almost dying himself, or watching someone die of dehydration. He snapped back quickly.
“Guess I could have told you, we’ll workout first thing after breakfast and train afterward. From now on wear your PT gear to breakfast.”
“Yes sir.” Figures, I said internally.
We stood looking out over the large wood and brick area. It was outfitted with ropes and tires and pull-up bars and strange weights with handles attached.
“Let’s see what kind of shape you’re in, shall we?” Will offered with a smile.
I watched as Will pulled two jump ropes from a shelf. Blindly, he threw one to me.
“I won’t ask you to do anything I wouldn’t or couldn’t do myself. At least not yet.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I believe today will be the day you drop the ‘Yes, sir, No, sir’ for a more colorful vernacular.”
With that, Will began skipping rope. He began effortlessly, finding a pace that suited him. His feet were light, a true contradiction to the size heaped atop them. The rope moved in a whooshed tone akin to that which any skilled fighter would produce. I followed suit, got caught the first time and felt mild irritation at being unable to pull my feet up fast enough to miss the rope. I started again. This time, with focused effort, I kept the beat going. It would have been comforting had my feet lightly treaded the earth as Will’s did. I looked like amateur hour compared to him. After five or so minutes, Will stopped and told me to do the same.
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