By week six of Basic Training, time stopped moving forward. Just as Drill Sergeant Pint promised, the world grew small. Every night I curled up in my bunk and wished myself away from Fort Leonard Wood. Drill Sergeant Pint and Private Shipman made sure that my boots were polished, that I did my laundry, that I ate the right things, that my cap sat two inches over my nose, that my pockets were empty and buttoned, that my rifle barrel was clean, socks folded properly, bootlaces tucked in, shoes underneath the bed, poncho hung out to dry, canteens full, ammo pouches closed, chinstrap straight, rucksack stuffed, gas-mask situated, pen in pocket, face shaved, shampoo used, soap applied, teeth brushed.
Worse yet, half of the platoon took an interest in my physical fitness. They seemed to have a fetish for watching me exercise. When the company was dismissed, Shipman requested that I do one extra set of push-ups with our rucksacks on our back. Shipman and Waters stayed behind to annoy me.
"C'mon, Sprungli. Let's do ten with our rucksacks on."
"Why?"
"So you can pass your PT test. I'm going to do it with you."
"Do it with yourself."
But he insisted. By dinner, I lacked the energy to put fork to mouth. At bedtime, I sometimes found myself fighting off sadness.
Shipman's bunk became the psychiatric ward as guys came by to drop their problems at his feet. If Shipman slept at all, it must have been only a few hours a night. A guy would receive a letter from home, a Dear John break-up note and Shipman would talk to him for two hours. A soon-to-be-Reservist would get a letter saying that his unit was getting deployed as soon as he was trained: a Hello Iraq letter. Shipman listened and then commiserated. Somebody lost their poncho again - Shipman helped them locate it or requested a new one from the Drill Sergeants. Somebody's grandmother died - Shipman offered his deepest and longest condolences. Somebody took offense at a baby joke - Shipman scolded me. Somebody felt threatened by so-and-so - Shipman weighed the options and kept notes in a log. Somebody ran out of soap - Shipman loaned his. Somebody backed up the latrine - Shipman said "breathe through your mouth." Somebody found Jesus - Shipman prayed with them. Somebody lost Jesus - Shipman asked them what was going on.
One Saturday night during week six, we had an hour to relax. The next day was called "Free-Day-Away." We were to be bussed outside of Fort Leonard Wood to a town called Lebanon where we could have candy and soda and a home-cooked meal, followed by a church service. Everyone, including me, tittered over the chance to get away from Fort Leonard Wood. But as soon as the Drills mentioned this Free-Day, they spent the whole week threatening to cancel the event. The threat gained power over us, but by Saturday night, we believed that barring some major incident, no Drill Sergeant would dream of cancelling our Free-Day-Away.
That night, Waters, Major, and I decided to play a joke on Shipman when he sleeping. After midnight, Shipman started to snore. We decided to throw him a mock towel-party. We gathered around his bed and on the count of three, Waters and I pulled the sheets down tight over his body and trapped him. Private Major aimed two flashlights into Shipman's face and said in a guttural voice, "The devil will see you now, Shipman."
Shipman fought to sit up in his bunk but the sheets restrained him. He squirmed under the blankets until we started to laugh. Before we could explain that it was a joke, Shipman was out of bed with his dukes up, ready to take us all.
"Damn, Shipman, that hurt my hand, man," Major said. "We were just fooling around."
Slowly, Shipman lowered his fists and his fighting expression reversed into a smile. "You...assholes!" he said. "I've been expecting a beating since I became Platoon Guide."
"Well," I said, "we did plan on beating you sooner. But now, no one wants your job. You can have it."
"Damn, that scared the heck out of me. Wow." He shook off a chill, like a dog after a bath.
We stayed up that night talking, telling jokes, talking about girls and home. Earlier that day we were allowed a four minute phone call home. In the end, four minutes only whetted the appetite for more minutes. I spoke with my stepbrother, who basically said, "Meh" and hung up. At least half of the people tried to go over the time limit and another half walked away from the phone with tears in their eyes. Everyone suffered a temporary mental breakdown after the phone call. Few wore a smile when they hung up the phone, because they had either lost something or were reminded of what they missed.
Love took heavy casualties that day. If the relationships at home were yet intact, they were not stable. Drill Sergeant Pint was right when he said that the sweethearts back home found new boyfriends and girlfriends. Listening to all the others talk about getting dumped almost made me glad that I didn't have a girlfriend.
Shockley, the guy who tried to fight Shipman, stopped by and shook his head. We tried to make him feel better by calling her all variations of tramp.
"Thanks guys, I appreciate it," Shockley said. "But I should have saw the rain coming before I left home."
Major said, "If it ain't rainin'..."
"We ain't trainin'," I finished.
"Drip drop, drippity drop." Shipman muttered the start of a running cadence.
A clear sign that you've been in basic training for too long is when cadences become fun to sing. It happened every day. Cadence in the shower, cadence at lunch, cadence in your dreams.
Major picked up a pair of Shipman's boots and puts his hands inside each one. He started tapping the boots on the metal of the top bunk and it sounded like a running beat. He started to sing, "Drip drop." Shipman and the rest of us quietly hummed and sang the background for him.
"Now the roof gotta leak, and the rain justa fallin' my head..."
Drip, drop, drippity drop, drop
"Well my roof gotta leak, the rain justa fallin' my head..."
Drip, drop, drippity drop, drop
"Well, it hit me so hard, I might as well be dead..."
Drip, drop, drippity drop, drop
"Well, I'm sittin' here drinkin', thinkin' what I'm gonna do..."
Drip, drop, drippity drop, drop
"Yeah, I'm sittin' here smokin', thinkin' what I'm gonna do..."
Drip, drop, drippity drop, drop
"My baby's gone and left me, I'm feelin' mighty blue..."
Drip, drop, drippity drop, drop
When we were all tired, sick, and sore from the week, the best moments filled the cracks. Of course, the Drill Sergeants weren't around during those times, but that's when they could really catch someone with his pants down, and they often did. For a short time, four days in a row, things were going fairly well for me. Just that day, I received a compliment from Pint. He said, "Sprungli, we're going to get you squared away yet. Squared away like a donut."
Chapter 16. Ranger
Drill & Sanctimony Page 18