Pint quoted Field Manual "twenty-two-dash-five" while we stood on a huge slab of pavement covered with streaks of melting tar. We marched past iron giants, hulks from old wars, old taxes, rusting at Fort Leonard Wood. Pint took charge of the platoon, sending Shipman into the fourth squad, where he belonged.
"Troops who march in an irregular and disorderly manner," Pint warned, "are always in great danger of being defeated." He started to sound a lot like my Grandpa. "General Harold Alexander once said that a ceremonial parade, impeccably performed, can never fail to be a source of inspiration to those who watch it or take part in it. It is the noblest and proudest form of drill. It provides an occasion for men to express pride in their performance, pride in the Regiment or Corps and pride in the profession of Arms. Sprungli! You are supposed to be at the position of attention."
"It's so hot, Drill Sergeant."
"You do not speak at the position of attention." He looked over at the First Sergeant who tapped on his trusty wet-bulb. "Ok," Pint said, "everybody drink water. We're monitoring the temperature. We will only march for fifteen minutes at a time, and then we'll take a water break. Last thing I need is people passing out."
My canteens were empty. Well, that's not exactly true. One of them was empty. The other canteen contained a glob of tobacco sludge, which I knew would smell awful in the heat if opened.
"Why aren't you drinking water, Sprungli?"
"Not thirsty, Drill Sergeant."
"You're sweating like a pig." He looked up and down at me. "At ease, Sprungli. Turn around."
I turned.
"Are those sweat stains? You're entire top is white with salt. Laundry, Sprungli. Tonight, you are doing laundry. You need to shower, too. If you are sweating that bad, Sprungli, you need to drink a lot of water." Then he addressed the entire platoon. "In 1967, the Egyptian Army fought the Israelis and suffered twenty thousand heat casualties, all because they didn't drink enough water. When the other Drill Sergeants and I say 'Drink Water,' we're not trying to encourage latrine breaks. We're trying to avoid heat stroke." Then to me alone he said, "So when I say, 'Drink Water,' you friggin' drink water." He unsnapped my canteen holder, pulled out the spit-canteen, unscrewed the top, and shook it around. The slopping sound inside almost sickened me.
"Sprungli, you're almost out of water. What if I was your battle buddy and I needed a drink?"
"No, Drill Sergeant."
"No? I can't have a drink of your water? Really?"
"Don't. No, Drill Sergeant Pint, don't even..."
A gasp came from the people around me when I addressed a Drill Sergeant using his surname. Using the last name of a Drill Sergeant was ultimate taboo. The canteen stopped sloshing and one bulging eye of Pint flared like the sun. I expected to be dropped, but instead of punishing me, he did something much worse.
"What'd you call me, Sprungli?" he said.
"Please don't drink my water, Drill Sergeant."
"I hand out the don'ts around here. Shut your trap."
And he took a drink from the canteen.
I waited to see what would happen.
He started to spit. He sputtered and gagged on the tobacco toxic waste, wiping his chin with his sleeve. Next to me, Private West offered a freshwater canteen to poor Pint, who doubled over and retched his breakfast. I blew bubbles and hoped for the best. Knowing that I faced a thorough punishment, I tried to think of something nice, like root beer popsicles.
But Pint did not take me back to the barracks for a drubbing. Rather, he marched everyone around for several hours, until his voice became hoarse. He shouted commands at us so fast that we turned the wrong way, ran into each other, and argued constantly. Platoon, Attention! Port, Arms. Order, Arms. Sling, Arms. At Close Intervals, Dress Right, Dress! Right, Face! Forward, March! Column Left, March! Right Flank, March! Left Flank, March! At one point I felt convinced that he was saying whatever popped into his head. Counter-Column, March! Backward, March! Right-step, March! Step-heel-step-heel-step-heel-step!
The First Sergeant kept tapping the wet-bulb and occasionally he raised his hand to Pint, notifying him to give us a water break. Pint did not give us a break, but only put as at Mark Time and said, "You have five seconds to drink water."
When this heat-torture ended, he guided us back to the barracks, where the entire Echo Company cadre, every sergeant that could be mustered, awaited our platoon. The other platoons had returned long before and they smiled like Richards when we passed by them. They stopped smiling when a shakedown was announced. Private West said to me, "I hope you get recycled."
"But would you still love me, West?"
She pinched my arm so hard that I yelped. The sound drew Pint's attention, and he yelled my name like he was calling me out for a fight to the death.
"Sprungli!" His manic face dripped with sweat and he had that crazy shih-tzu look again. In his hand he carried a little stool. I snapped to attention and stared straight forward. Lucky for me, he was angry at the whole platoon. He dismissed us for inspection and followed us inside, shoving and yelling, "These bunks look like shit!" Mattresses flew wherever the Tasmanian Pint went. Drill Sergeant Pfeffer, the lunatic from fourth platoon, started launching everything in sight: garbage cans, chairs, brooms, loose paper, boots, gas-masks, hats, a desk, dress shoes, shorts, t-shirts, buttons, sewing kits, even his own hat. Actually, it was kind of cool - for a while. Drill Sergeant Pfeffer had his own way of speaking, of acting calm when he wasn't. Only a week earlier, he had forced sixty girls into a small janitor's closet so that they would remember where it was. In like fashion, to clean the latrine of all dust-bunnies, he made our platoon low-crawl under and around the toilets for forty-five minutes.
"Don't take offense," Pfeffer said, "don't take it personal. Just take it, Privates." His accent changed when he was truly irate. He walked up and down between the bunks, waiting for someone to make eye contact, or bump into him, or speak, or not speak. The mere idea of a Private living provided more than enough reason to enrage him.
Privates scrambled like fools, tearing apart bunks, only so they could make them all over again. Others grabbed brooms and swept, doing check-downs like quarterbacks, looking over their shoulder every few seconds to see if the wrath of Pfeffer and Pint headed in their direction.
Meanwhile, Pint carried the small stool in his hand and raged through the barracks. His actions reminded me of the drug-fueled Berserkers in Doom and EverQuest.
Pfeffer strolled to Private Major's bunk. Major hadn't moved an inch.
Said Pfeffer: "Private Major got time to kill."
Major said nothing.
Pfeffer continued. "Private Major sound like a rank, don't it? One that might even be higher than mine." A few snickers came from the other soldiers. "Maybe Private Major someday become a Full-Bird Private." That brought down the barracks. A bunch of people laughed, including me.
Private Major still did not move.
Pint rushed over to assist. "Major," he screamed until he wheezed, "you wanna die out on the rocks today?"
Private Major stood at Parade Rest, with his hand still scabbed from the previous day on the rocks.
"Drill Sarn't," he said, "I believe my bed is in perfect shape, Drill Sarn't." He elongated his Sarn't and everyone, in utter amazement, observed this small act of insubordination.
A short laugh escaped both Drill Sergeants. Pint said, "Oh, you think it's made?" Without setting the stool down, Pint violently ejected the mattress onto the floor, sheets and all.
Pfeffer jumped in. "That bunk right there?" In a tone of disbelief, seemingly calm, but with rage burning in his eyes, and with his hand extended like a paddle, Pfeffer said, "Your bunk is a dag-gum mess, Private." He elongated the word, Prah-vit, in response to Private Major's subtle mockery.
"It is now, yes, Drill Saarn't."
The stool hit the floor, and Pint climbed upon it, using it as a
booster chair so that he could look into Private Major's eyes.
"Make that bed or make your grave!" he screamed. "Move it! Sprungli, you help him."
"Me?"
Giggles from the shadows abruptly died when a new tirade followed and everyone was heeled like dogs by a spontaneous workout directed by the Ranger, Drill Sergeant Pfeffer.
The deluge of words, the punishment, lasted as long as it took Private Major to redo his bed. I assisted with tightening his hospital corners. Pint and Pfeffer yelled so loud that Major and I were able to talk quietly while we snugged up the wool blanket.
With my head facing down, I mumbled, "You make nice corners. Very tight."
"Thanks Sprungli. It's 'cause I learned it in juvie," Major said.
"Are you serious?"
"Oh yes."
"Holy hell!" Pint screamed, "what is this, dag-gum happy hour?"
Perched on his stool, Pint dropped as many dag-gums into the speech as would fit. He stood on his toes so that the rest of the platoon could see him in his fervor. When the bed was made, Pint said, "Sprungli and Major: grab your field jacket, rucksack, helmet, and take your deadbeat asses outside."
Major replied, "Yes, Drill Sarnn't."
Outside on the white gravel, under the July Missouri sun, we donned all of our gear. The light reflected off the gravel into our eyes. The brightness felt like darts lancing my retinas. I couldn't look away because the barracks were painted white, too. No shade, no cool air, just heat and piercing white light.
A Humvee was parked in front of the barracks. Pfeffer got inside the vehicle. He started the engine and inspected the gages.
"Hey, Drill Sergeant Pint, we got half a tank of diesel here."
Pint said, "Front! Get down, or I'll kick you down. Both of you." We dropped to the pushup position.
Pfeffer stepped out of the Humvee onto the gravel, gently setting down one Kiwi Parade Glossed black boot at a time. Private Major and I were in a prone position.
Pint continued: "Back! Go! Front! Go! Front! Back! Front! Go! Go faster!"
Pfeffer added, "Fry, you sallies."
We tossed on the gravel like sandworms, rolling under the weight of the gear, getting up to our feet and falling back down. My mouth was too dry for bubbles.
"Go! Go! Go!" Pfeffer yelled. "We're going to do this until that Hummer runs out of fuel."
"Drill Sarn't," Major said, "it's not a good thing for a diesel engine, Drill Sarn't, to run out of fuel."
Pint rushed over, but Pfeffer stopped him with his arm. "Let me, Drill Sergeant," said Pfeffer, and then he grabbed the stool out of Pint's hand.
Pfeffer said, "I am going to bust your skull before the month is out. One thing you didn't realize about the Army, is that smartasses don't change the Army, the Army changes them. And I'll teach you that if I have to get demoted to E-1 to accomplish it. You don't know how nuts I am, Major."
Major said, "I joined the kindler, gentler Army, Drill Sarn't." Running in place, Private Major let his jaw fully slacken. "Can I get a stress card, Drill Sarnnn't?"
The stool swung heavily in the air. Private Major slumped to the ground.
Pfeffer shouted, "Front!" He laughed and put his boot on Major's rucksack.
Pint said, "Hey, battle, I think that's enough for him."
Pfeffer turned to Pint.
Pint said again, "I think that's enough for now."
Pfeffer spit on Major's back, still face down on the gravel unconscious, then he turned his eyes at me. Like a fish, I flopped onto my stomach and pushed against the earth, doing whatever pushups I had left in my arms.
I received my first Article 15 that afternoon. Major received his third.
"The first is the worst."
That's what Private Major told me when we finally got into our bunks that evening at 22:00, after five hours of continuous exercise. Through dinner and onward to the stars we did pushups and overhead-arm-claps, ran laps, and bore an onslaught of insults from various men and women.
Later that night, Major told me that my first Article 15 would be the hardest, "because that's when they go to work on you."
Chapter 13. Phone Calls
Drill & Sanctimony Page 15