The Drill Sergeants, the Privates, and the summer were all hot that morning. Twice I was shoved, once to the ground. Three times I felt a boot in my rear, twice by the kick of Private West. Several Privates made a game out of unsnapping my canteen pouches every few minutes.
Now we had to earn our Free-Day-Away. An emergency inspection occurred that morning. The First Sergeant, usually hovering around his wet-bulb, suddenly found his voice and he started to shout at the Drill Sergeants. After a month or more of silence, suddenly he erupted in a rage.
A Drill Sergeant announced, "The First Sergeant doesn't think you've earned a Free-Day-Away. You're going to have to prove it to him. Right now, unless things improve, I don't think he's going to grant you leave for the day. In addition, there's the sexual harassment issue, which did not help your chances."
This went on for four hours. Everyone grew angry with each other. That morning, the First Sergeant finally stepped forward and revealed the cause of his fury.
"The dust covers on the bunks," he declared, "are a disgrace. Since when is the sixth spring an acceptable place to align the dust cover?!"
On our bunks, we had a blanket act a dust cover that laid over our pillows. Until today, no one ever mentioned aligning the dust cover with a particular spring underneath the bed. Even Shipman, the stickler for detail, admitted ignorance of this rule and he publicly questioned the First Sergeant for a clarification, which resulted in him getting smoked for quite some time, right in front of the company, with me by his side.
"The dust cover is placed over the pillow," the First Sergeant screamed, tapping himself on the forehead to mock us. "It's folded in half lengthwise, with the smooth edge toward the center of the bunk. The smooth edge should be aligned with the fifth spring of the bunk where it connects to the metal frame."
The morning was consumed with dust cover alignment. The First Sergeant examined dust covers and threw mattresses to the floor. Those who did not meet this new sixth-spring standard received an immediate counseling statement. An outcry went up from those people who had never received a counseling statement. For once, I did not receive a counseling statement. I was very proud and couldn't help but chuckle at those who didn't know how to properly fit a dust cover.
But other than that small victory, my morning was miserable, with everyone calling me names and moving my stuff around. The unsnapping of my canteen pouches drove me crazy. Everyone but Shipman and Waters joined in Sprungli-bashing. Private Major, who was supposed to be my friend, turned enemy, repeating "female in my bunk" while humping my bedpost with furious gyrations.
My mood sunk deeper when the First Sergeant blew a gasket and declared Free-Day-Away officially rescinded. But actually, he had already taken it away before that. I guess he took it away again. Wherever the First Sergeant was not, the Drill Sergeants popped up like Jack-in-the-Boxes to reiterate the loss of Free-Day-Away. At least twenty people started to cry at the loss of this chance to go to Free-Day-Away. The Drill Sergeants became docile as the morning wore on, expressing their doubts that we would get to enjoy Free-Day-Away. I became confused, since the Free-Day-Away was revoked, yet the Drill Sergeants continued to act like we might still get to go. With every mention of Free-Day-Away, the crying started and stopped, started and stopped. By lunch, the topic became so engrossing I nearly forgot to collect the Pop Tart tax from Shipman, West, and Waters.
Every hour, we met outside in a large formation to wait and find out if the First Sergeant had relented, and every hour a Drill Sergeant told us, almost apologetically, "That the bunks are still unsatisfactory, and Free-Day-Away is no more." Those who weren't fully in despair resumed making the bunks and cleaning the barracks. The weather was humid and the mood angry. The onslaught against me continued. The final straw came when a female threw the contents of a dust pan into my face, blaming me for all things unholy. I felt my chest beginning to shake, tears welling, and palpitations in my lower intestine, but before I could weep, we were ordered back outside into formation. We stood outside for some time before a Drill Sergeant emerged from the doorway and stood on the wooden staircase of second platoon. It was Drill Sergeant Pint.
"It was not easy, Privates," Pint said, holding his hat in his hand, "but you can thank me later. The First Sergeant is not happy, but he has decided, with great reservation, to grant you Free-Day-Away."
A roar went up from the crowd of Privates, as if Pint had just threw a touchdown pass or ordered pizza for everyone.
"At ease!" he yelled. "Don't get stupid now. We can still take away your Free-Day."
We settled down when the threat reared its head again. But a minute later, school buses began entering the company area. Sighs of elation reached the heavens. Many Privates nearly fainted. Tears fell from my eyes. I was so thankful for this Free-Day-Away.
Pint kept preaching from his staircase pulpit. "You better be ready to work when you get back Privates. You had better be motivated. Are you motivated?"
A hearty cheer came forth. "Yes, Drill Sergeant!"
"How motivated," he said, prompting a memorized response from the company.
Motivated, motivated, downright motivated
Ooh, ah
I wanna hurt somebody
Ooh, ah
I wanna kill somebody
"Excellent!" said Pint. "Enjoy your day, and show respect to the good people of Lebanon."
On the bus, everyone chattered about what Drill Sergeant Pint had done to convince the First Sergeant, but Waters thought it was all a game.
"You fools," Waters said, "that was all a big show, don't you get it?"
No one believed Waters. No one understood his thought process.
"I'm fairly certain," Water argued, "that the First Sergeant didn't wake up today with the fifth or sixth bedspring on his mind. I mean," he laughed, "haven't you noticed how they grant us something, then take it away, then give it back? How many times have they sent us back to red phase as punishment and threatened to extend basic training?"
We started to talk about something else, without Waters' input. He continued talking to himself.
"Do you really think the Army plans to spend additional money by keeping us here another week while a billion-dollar-a-day war is going on?"
By the end of the day, I was certain that Waters' brain had sprung a leak.
The buses carried us forty miles outside of Fort Leonard Wood, to a town of twelve thousand people and home-made pie. The sun that was so hot in the morning cooled in the afternoon, just as we escaped the Drill Sergeants.
Still, the general excitement on the bus for Free-Day-Away became subdued. Even for myself, I felt dull after so much activity that morning, so many highs and lows of the week. We were now six weeks into basic training and judging by the heads leaning against the windows and seats, emotionally wasted, like a pack of strung-out addicts desperate for a new life.
When the town came into view, I pressed my nose up to the window to take in the town of Lebanon. The streets were quiet, but a few elderly people strolled along the sidewalk, pushing walkers and limping along. The old folks reminded me of home and I had to smile about my Grandpa. The buses unloaded in front of a place called the Tabernacle Baptist Church, where more old folks were waiting. They smiled and pointed in various directions, guiding us toward different kinds of food. A woman said, "You can get a home-cooked meal inside, or you can go to the convenience store and the Bowl-a-Rena for candy..."
Before she could finish, I ran in the direction of the Bowl-a-Rena, to beat all the other Privates who wanted to order a pizza. Private Ganger, the hungry beast, tried to get her foot into the Bowl-a-Rena before me, but I pulled her backwards by the pony-tail and rushed inside.
The man at the counter took my order, but he hesitated.
"You want how many Peanut Butter Cups?"
"Six."
"A hungry fellow," he said. "You must have a strong stomach. And for you,
young lady?"
I cleared my throat. "Sir?" I moved to block his view of Private Ganger. "I wasn't finished. I would also like a forty ounce soda: half Sprite, half Coke." A picture of a pizza hung on the wall behind the man. "I'll have that exact pizza, right there. What sizes does it come in?"
The man looked at the picture. "Small, medium, and large."
"None bigger?" I asked.
"Don't they feed you?"
"...and two hot dogs, with extra mustard and relish. Please."
He whistled and rang up the charges on the cash register. As he was about to announce the price, I noticed a slushy machine and the rack of potato chips behind him. I held up my hand to quiet him.
"I'm not finished, sir."
Around me in the Bowl-a-Rena, Privates gathered in circles. Secret couples held hands openly. Private Major did not attend any of the sanctioned Free-Day-Away activities. I found out later that he had swiped a pack of Old Gold cigarettes from the convenience store and then wandered the alleys of Lebanon with his girlfriend, until they found a wood-pallet to get splinters upon.
Near the doorway of the Bowl-a-Rena, Private Shipman held a popsicle in one hand while he played a pinball game with Private West. I never saw him smile so much, nor did I ever see hands slide around a waist so often, or at such a slow pace. I watched them share the last few bites of the popsicle. Turning away, I found no better scenery, since Private Waters and Private Vang came into my view, performing some arm-locking French fry deposit into each others' mouths, like regurgitating birds. They came dangerously close to kissing several times - so close that I felt compelled to fling an ice cube at Waters.
I stuffed myself until I could eat no more. But when I finished I started to look around the room and felt alone. Most of the others had friends and girlfriends, but I only had napkins and several empty paper plates. I had scarfed everything. I noticed Private Ganger eating by herself at another table, shoveling chicken strips by the claw-full. I decided to join her. To break the ice, I stole several fries from her plate.
"Take all you want," she said, "I can share."
"Whatever, Ganger."
The way she salted every fry individually gave us something to talk about. The longer we sat together, the more we learned from each other. As we grew more intimate, I decided to ask a question that I'd long been holding inside.
"Can I ask something that's kind of personal?"
She stirred her soda. "That depends."
"It's not bad, I promise."
"Ok, go ahead."
I leaned forward, over the table, toward her pursed lips. When I was near her mouth, I finally asked Private Ganger the important question I had been keeping a secret for so long. She looked up at me and smiled.
I asked, "How did you get so many teeth?"
"What?"
"Can I see them?"
"What?" she said.
"Will you say 'ah' for me? I want to see them."
"You jerk. You jerk, Sprungli. It's not my fault my Dad never took me to the dentist. I hate you for asking."
In a flash, Ganger was gone, running to the bathroom, leaving her various fried foods unattended. Who knew she was so touchy? I don't know why she left, but I sampled her food and waited for her, but she ignored me when she came out of the bathroom and left the building.
Being in that heavily coupled Bowl-a-Rena only reminded me of my obvious aloneness, so I walked outside (buying an extra Twix for the walk) and I lumbered back toward the Tabernacle Baptist Church. In the distance I could see the steeple, with the dark sky behind it, and the thunder and lightning had started, meaning Free-Day-Away would soon be watered-down. Soldiers walked to and from the church, along a designated pathway. The laughing pairs of Privates increased my sadness, their happiness stealing from my own.
When I arrived at the church, I went into the hall where elderly people forked out large plates of meat, along with mashed potatoes, vegetables, all of which looked delicious. If only I hadn't feasted at the Bowl-a-Rena, I might have had more than one plate. At a table, I watched a group of Privates playing basketball. Most of the Privates sat on bleachers, talking and laughing about so many wonderful things, but what were those things to me? It dawned on me that a few others were experiencing the same rejection as me. Not everyone on the bleachers was joking and laughing. In reality, maybe only half were talking and laughing. The silent ones, heads on knees, either slept or cried - there was always crying. Some even read a book, of all things. If Waters didn't have the attention of Vang, he would have been poring over his Divine Comedy, like he did every night in his bunk when he wasn't writing poems to Private Vang.
Chasing wandering peas on my plate, I yearned for someone to join me at the table. When people passed by, I smiled at them, but three people in a row flashed a sneer or a middle finger at me. Everyone still blamed me for the latest punishment. Their looks made me feel small, made the high-ceilings of the recreation room even higher.
I needed something. Food had filled me, but I felt empty. The loneliness came on too fast. Home seemed forever away. Everyone had made friends, but I only had enemies. The Drill Sergeants singled me out as a scapegoat. I had no place now, no track to follow. At least at home I had my spot, even if it was Xbox marathons and smoking keef in the basement. I didn't know where to turn and how to proceed, but I knew for the first time that I needed some change, a path, a map for the coming aloneness. I didn't want to feel this alone. To find a simple road with a happy ending, that's all I wanted.
The music stopped playing and the old people of the Tabernacle Baptist Church started to circle the room, informing us that the time had come for the short service. Everyone started filing into the church. I didn't move until an old woman touched my shoulder and said, "Would you like to join us?"
She smiled and reminded me of home. The look on her face, the pleated skirt, and her gentle manner put the weight of Wisconsin on me.
"Here, I'll take your plate," she said. "Shall we?"
With her walking beside me, we moved into the safe and quiet church.
The pews were filled with excited Privates in camouflage. Some continued to gab and stand in the aisles, as the elderly men and women ushered them into seats toward the front of the church. Because I arrived a moment after all the others, I had to sit in the back, but the old woman stayed with me. She pointed to a seat in one of the rear rows.
The comfort of the Baptist church calmed me as much as the old woman's questions did. She asked about my day, the Army, Milwaukee, Mom and Grandpa, if I missed my friends...
"Oh, I'm sure you miss them, Paul," she said, shaking her head and creasing her brow. "I'm sure that you miss them dearly."
The church had the same feel as the one in Milwaukee, which I had stopped attending over two years ago. An organ played a slow song, one that I had heard before but had never listened to. I felt it tugging on my heart. Those slow chords stoked feelings in me. The mumble of the Privates began to quiet, lifting the music more. I sat quietly in my seat, looking at the old woman, whose smile never faded and I fought off the urge to hug her. The Privates hushed each other as the pastor, wearing a huge smile, made his way to the altar, and even though I was in the back, I swore he looked right at me several times.
"How y'all doin?" he said. "Are you feelin' Hooah?"
"Hooah!" Everyone shouted it out, with enthusiasm. The room was full of energy after the couple of hours spent relaxing. The Drill Sergeants disallowed us from saying "Hooah," claiming we hadn't earned the right to say it yet, but the pastor didn't seem to mind. After a series of questions, with each response of "Hooah" growing louder, he started talking about the word "Hooah," making me laugh.
"You can use Hooah for just about everything. You use it to say good, great, roger that, and thank you. You even use it when someone says, 'How was breakfast?' 'Hooah.' Or you use it when you're not sure how to answer som
ething, or when you're in trouble." He had a lot of these jokes, but he ended it with something that made a lot of sense. "We have a word for that here in the church, too. We don't say, 'Hooah.' We say 'Amen.'"
The pastor then transitioned into a song. I didn't plan on singing, but the old woman opened the songbook to the proper page and placed it softly in my hands. As best as I could, I followed the song and sang the words, but not always in the right place, but she sang loud enough that I picked up the tune. At the end of the song, she said, "You have a wonderful voice, Paul." She touched my shoulder.
When the song ended, the pastor started speaking again, directly to me. Everything he said made sense. I wish I had recorded the words, because I could never repeat what he said quite as well. He said that we have two choices: to believe in God or to choose hell. The choice was quite simple, he explained, because if God does exist and you believe in Him, then you will gain everything. If you believe in God and He does not exist, then you lose nothing. But if you don't believe in Him and He does exist (and the pastor assured us that He does), then you have lost everything. With these two options, he argued, only an insensible person would choose not to believe. Believers win either way, but non-believers have the potential to suffer eternally in a burning abyss.
The pastor quoted books of the Bible, one after another, making his points even more effective. He said, "For if you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved. For it is by believing in your heart that you are made right with God."
Right with God. That was it. Not even halfway through his sermon, I knew what I needed: to get right with God.
"Anyone who believes in Him," the pastor added, "will not be disappointed. Anyone who calls on the Name of the Lord will be saved."
With the introduction already laying the Truth on the line, the pastor made some humorous statements about those who chose to go to hell. "If you want to go to hell," he chuckled, "then you can manage it rather easily. Do nothing. You will find it. Satan has you signed up - and you thought that your recruiter could tell lies! Privates, the Prince of Darkness is evil's recruiter. Yes, the scary Truth is that there are only two places you can spend eternity. You pick heaven or you get hell. If you think hell isn't real, then just wait. Wishful thinking won't make it go away. It's very simple. There are no other alternatives. There is a place of smoke and fire, burning with the flesh of those inside, and their torment continues forever, but no one hears them."
The church became rather quiet. The pastor turned off the jokes for about five minutes and assured us that no delayed-entry program existed for heaven. By the time he asked us to accept Jesus Christ, I was on the edge of my pew.
"All you have to say is, Jesus," he said, looking up at the ceiling. "I know that I'm a sinner. Please grant me Your forgiveness. Please forgive my sins and make a new person of me. You died for my sins, You shattered hell, and rose to give me life. Let me live my life for You."
His head came down slowly while his arms lifted out toward the camouflage audience. "Now I invite you," he said with a trembling voice, "to come to the front of the church if you want to accept Jesus into your heart. Can I get at least three people to choose salvation?"
The muscles in my legs stiffened. I leaped to my feet.
"I choose it!" I shouted.
The next thing I knew, I felt my feet carrying me to the altar, toward the change. An overwhelming surge of love made my legs feel rubbery and I almost stumbled, but I was lifted back to my feet by some wonderful force. I wanted to laugh and cry.
As I approached, the pastor did not stop praying and asking for more Privates to accept Jesus, and after awhile, a steady stream of Privates moved toward the altar.
At the front, I saw the face of the pastor up close and around him I witnessed the Spirit. I drank it in and held onto his hand as long as I could. Many of the other Privates exchanged smiles with me, many were crying from the overload of Spirit.
The force hit me hard, like a flash of lightning, terribly hard, as getting right with God requires. My mouth formed strange words, holy words, and my body started to writhe until I slumped to the Tabernacle Baptist Carpet and uncontrollably wormed on the floor, inch-wormed in the aisle, slithered as the demons inside me were conquered by the Spirit. Twisting violently I tried to grab onto someone's boot in the first row. I looked up and saw Private West looking down, making an ugly face at me and speaking English. I could only respond in my new voice.
"Nuq DaQ Yuj Da'pol!" I said in a foreign tongue.
She shook her boot as I climbed her leg. When I could see over the pew, I noticed Shipman standing next to West, and he spoke English. A hand stabilized me. My fingers clutched at Private West. Shipman tore me free of West's pantleg.
Everything became blurry for several seconds, but then I saw the shape of a face in front of mine. English came back to my mouth. I cried out, "What is happening?"
A harsh whisper that smelled of bleu cheese harkened down upon me.
"It's me, and I've saved your soul." The blurry lines evaporated and the pastor's face came into view. "Now rise, and stand on thy feet!" His powerful hands seized my collar. "What is your name, son?"
"Paul Sprungli."
"Bless you, Lord," the pastor howled upward. Then he jerked my collar and looked hard into my nose. "And bless you, young man, for the Lord has called upon you today."
Bubbles formed on my tongue and wafted to the heavens.
"You have been given a gift!" the pastor said, shaking me, with his silver eyes dazzling like spinning rims with chrome wheel covers. The old woman who followed me to the front of the church peeked over the pastor's shoulder. She gaped and he gritted. "With this gift of the Spirit," the pastor said, dragging me to my feet, "you must open other's eyes to the Good News. Son, you are on the right path. Turn them away from Satan, so that they may receive the forgiveness of sins. Turn them from darkness...to light!"
Chapter 18. Bus Ride
Drill & Sanctimony Page 20