Of all the weapons I've used - pistols, revolvers, submachine guns, laser cannons, machine guns, rifles, grenade chuckers, tanks, zip guns, mini guns, rocket launchers, and ballistic missile silos - not once on a video game did I ever have to zero a weapon. Maybe Nintendo should run the Army.
I thought rifle training would be great, as seen on Jarhead and other movies, but to simply draw our weapons from the armory, we stood in line for an hour and then we stood in a parking lot for another hour, counting how many weapons we had just drawn. Sixty people were in the platoon, meaning we had sixty weapons, and somehow we could not count to sixty. Someone was always screwing it up.
The female Drill Sergeant said to me, "How did you pass the ASVAB test to get here? I'm moving you to first squad, right in the center. Can you count to seven, Sprungli?"
Private West and I were now in the middle of the first squad, both facing Shipman, who stood like a green fencepost with eyes painted on.
"Quit looking at me, Shipman."
The fencepost spoke. "Just do the count this time, Sprungli. Say it right so we can go to the range."
I looked at Private West and she was expressing a sneer. I said, "Put that attitude away, girl."
"Just do what Shipman says," she replied. When West smiled at Shipman, he gaped back at her like Barney the Purple Dinosaur. Seeing them happy forced me to take action. This time I would purposefully yell the wrong number.
Shipman gave the command, "Count - Off!"
"One" "Two" "Three" "Four" "Five" "Six" -
My turn. I thought too hard about saying "Eight" and yelled the correct number:
"Seven!"
West followed with "Eight!" and everyone counted off correctly, meaning we could finally go to the range and start shooting.
But that's not what happened. We did not go to the range and start shooting. Instead, we drove to the range and stood under the sun and burned like day-old charcoal, waiting for a chance to get on the firing line so we could zero the weapons. All day long the Drill Sergeants walked back and forth between the targets, marking bullet holes and adjusting the settings on the rifle sights. Only three shots at a time were allowed, with at least five minutes between each round of firing. The rocks under my boots were hot, so much that I didn't have an appetite for the Pop-Tarts in my pocket. When I did reach the firing line, I had to work my lane with Private Waters and Private Shipman. They became fast friends. I thought they might sign each other's yearbook and spoon one another in the foxhole.
Shipman went first. He jumped into the hole and popped off three shots. While Shipman tried to shoot straight, I listened to Waters prattle about butterflies and caterpillars. The heat either took him to the edge that day or he needed a professional psychiatrist.
"Don't you think it's funny," he started, "that butterflies, without a care in the world, fly around on a rifle range?"
"No, Waters," I said, "I don't find it funny that butterflies fly on a rifle range. I find it beyond funny, I find it hysterical." I chortled a laugh, letting him know his humor floored me.
"Maybe it doesn't interest you, Sprungli," he said, while putting an oat stalk between his teeth, "but I think it's an amazing contrast. Here we are, the dominant culture, training to kill our own kind, and look out there, amid the singing bullets, these butterflies dance around as if a rifle range was the safest place in the world. Look at them, Sprungli. We see paper targets, silhouettes of men, while the butterflies see only the flowers of Missouri."
I asked, "Two questions. Do you think any of that grass out there is weed, and, if the answer to the first question is yes, is that what you are chewing on?"
"I wonder if the butterflies have seen all of the wars of mankind. Maybe they flew around at Gettysburg that day, just like they do here."
As he spoke, a butterfly flew near us, over us, around us, and then landed on the barrel of Private Waters' rifle, which was leaning on a rock. This nearly caused Waters to swoon with delight.
"Look, Sprungli. On my weapon, right on the tool of conquest, the butterfly uses it as perch. That's all a weapon is to him - just a place to land. He knows no fear, lodges where he pleases. Imagine."
"The artillery range is near. How do you think he would fare over there?"
Waters put his nose near the butterfly. "This little guy is not worried about empire, not concerned with when his last breath will come. When his time comes to die, he will be living unafraid."
"Were you court-ordered to join the Army?"
"No."
"Why are you in the Army, when you should be in a group home?"
"I joined to pay for school. Why else would I join?" Waters spoke quietly as he focused on the butterfly. "Actually, Sprungli, I hate to be the one to mention it, but since you are poking fun, I've been wondering about you. You like to stare in the shower a wee bit too long. None of the guys can tell if you are staring because of lust, or plain envy."
I took off my helmet and tried to smash his precious butterfly, but I missed. The insect darted away. Private Waters did not move, but chuckled quietly when I retrieved my helmet.
The Sergeant in the control tower spoke over a megaphone, "Is there a problem at firing line seventeen? Why is your Kevlar not on your head, Private?"
Drill Sergeant Pint hustled over and kicked sand onto my boots like a Minor League baseball manager to an umpire. "Sprungli, put your K-Pot back on your head and quit dicking around."
Shipman fired his rifle again. He zeroed his rifle in the first few rounds of shooting.
"You're done, Shipman," Pint said, seeming to transport himself downrange instantaneously. "Perfecto, Shipman. Beautiful. You know what you are doing with that rifle. Switch out with the next guy." Shipman crawled out of the foxhole and Waters crawled in.
The sound of bells came from somewhere behind me. Recognizing the jingling music, I turned and expected to see an ice cream truck. The sound did come from a truck, but not exactly an ice cream truck. A man leaped out of the driver's side and shoved up a side-panel, which unveiled his storefront.
This man was driving Candyland.
I could see the Kit-Kats from a mile away. My mouth began to water and my stomach writhed. Could it be a mirage? Just to control the saliva, I had to swallow repeatedly. I attempted to get a Drill Sergeant's attention, waving frantically. Finally, a female Drill Sergeant moved toward me.
"What is it, Sprungli?"
"I really need to use the bathroom?"
"Have you fired yet?"
"Yes, Drill Sergeant," I lied.
"Go ahead, but hurry up. You'll have to come back between firings."
"Yes, Drill Sergeant. Hurrying, Drill Sergeant."
Behind me, she said, "And don't go near the Gut Truck. I don't know what that driver thinks he's doing here. He must have the wrong range."
Gut Truck. So that was the name of this oasis on wheels.
The First Sergeant, who followed the company everywhere but said nothing, tended to his humidity-measuring wet-bulb. The First Sergeant could always be found standing by his wet-bulb, checking the temperature, tapping his instrument, pulling on his knob. To us Privates, he seemed a like a poor old man pulling around an oxygen tank. We pitied the First Sergeant. When I passed by him, I heard him speak for the first time.
"Make sure you drink plenty of liquids, soldier."
"Oh, I sure will, First Sergeant." I gave him my biggest nod, which I reserved for the elderly, and walked past him, straight toward that singing Gut Truck.
"Three Mountain Dews, please."
The guy said, "That's five dollars, Private."
"Oh, I'm not finished. I would also like seven Kit-Kats, sir."
"I doubt your Drill Sergeant would approve."
Private Major would have been proud. I greased the Gut Truck man with a twenty dollar bill and he handed over the Kit-Kats and the Dew.
"Could we maybe make an ongoing arra
ngement?"
"I don't know," he said, leaning against the truck. "That's not easy to do. What are you? In basic?" He looked at our banner. "You're still in Red Phase."
"That's right. Patriot Phase," I said proudly. "Is there a drop-off location you could regularly stash Kit-Kats at, a place where I could pick them up?"
"Could be. There could be. But it would cost you up front."
"I gotcha." I gave him an additional ten dollars.
"Ten," he whistled, "is nice, but I got risk involved, too. These Drills don't like me hangin' around the barracks."
I slapped another ten on his counter.
"I'll put a Kit-Kat underneath the staircase of your barracks. Which barracks you at?"
"Echo Company."
"Ok, kid. You'll get your candy."
I ran to the latrine, hugging my cold Mountain Dews and chocolate bars. The latrine is not the most appetizing place to eat, but it was safe. I opened the door and was greatly disappointed to see every plywood hole occupied by Privates with their pants around their ankles. Private Major was among them.
"Hey," said Major, "what the heck's happening, Sprungli? Looks like you got something to share."
"Look again, Major." I opened a candy bar and stuffed the whole thing into my mouth, chewing it for all to see.
The smell in there was awful. The heat activated something awful inside that outhouse. The condensation beaded on the plastic bottles. While I guzzled the first bottle, I held another against my forehead.
"Sprungli, I can't believe you won't share with me. I thought you was my friend?"
"Oh, I'm your friend," I said, opening another Kit-Kat, "and I'm a hungry one."
"Give me a soda," Private Major whined. "I've been sitting in here a long time. I could use something cool."
Between guzzles, I asked, "How long have you been here?"
"Since we got out here. I ain't standing out in that sun all day. Come on now, are you my boy or not?"
"Fine, you can have one."
"My nigga!"
"No," I said, "you my nigga, Major."
At that moment a Private from fourth platoon walked into the latrine, dripping in sweat from standing on the range too long.
"I can't believe my ears," he said. "What did you just call that black man right there?"
"Who, Major?" I said.
The guy looked at Private Major. "And that's ok to you, that he just called you a nigger?"
Major said, "Woah, back up. Sprungli is my boy. And can't you see I'm on the can?"
"Yeah, dawg," I said, "can't you see he's on the toilet?"
"This is a black conversation," the dude from fourth platoon said, "so why don't you just white yourself out of it."
"Oh, hell no," said Major, standing up from the latrine and starting toward the other Private. I threw in whatever insults I could to help Major's cause. Unfortunately, the argument's volume increased and drew the wrong kind of attention.
Drill Sergeant Pint busted into that latrine like the Kool-Aid man. He chased all the squatters out. Worse, he stripped me of every Kit-Kat, wrested my Mountain Dew, and all of it went down a plywood hole.
Outside we marched, onto the hot rocks, where Pint rolled us and rolled us until we nearly passed out.
"Ain't no color here but green," he said. "If I hear any of you talking about race again I will skin you alive, make y'all red."
When Pint found out that neither Major nor I had zeroed our weapons yet, he double-timed us back to our positions on the firing line and stuck us in our foxholes.
"Now the whole company got to wait for you both to finish," said Pint.
"Too easy, Drill Sergeant."
I wish I hadn't said that. With my sweaty hands, I couldn't get a grip on the rifle and for a long time everyone stood looking at me, waiting for me to finish zeroing.
After an hour, Pint said, "That's thirty rounds fired, Sprungli, and you are aiming further from the bulls-eye every time. Are you sure you didn't mean to sign up for the Coast Guard?"
It drew big laughs, big dopey laughs from everyone. My shooting entertained everybody like I was a one-man USO show. Shipman and Waters, who stood behind my foxhole laughed, too. Private Major, several firing lines down from me - even he laughed. Luckily, right when the laughing was loudest, I looked down into my foxhole and saw a helper crawling over my boot. A Black Widow spider had found her way into my foxhole. The spider seemed to be begging me to bring her into the barracks for a little fun, for some laughs of my own. Perhaps Private Waters would find my Black Widow as amazing as the butterfly. I scooped the spider inside my plastic ear-plug casing and laughed along with everybody else.
Chapter 9. Bayonets
Drill & Sanctimony Page 9