by Dennis Foley
“At Ease!” Russell commanded. He looked up and down the trainee company, sizing them up. “Are you all ready for PT?” he challenged them.
In unison they all yelled the obligatory response, “Yes, Sergeant!”
“Good. Can’t get too much physical training. Only civilians hate PT. A day without PT is a day without sunshine. Right?”
Again in unison, “Yes, Sergeant!”
“Right!” Russell raised his voice even louder and gave the preparatory command to turn the formation for movement as a column along the roadways to the exercise area. But before he snapped the execution command of face he stopped. Instead he uttered, “As you were,” to cancel his command.
He looked over to Scotty’s platoon. “Hayes!”
Scotty was caught off guard. Listening to Russell, he was sure the morning would follow its normal course: they’d double-time to the PT area, do their calisthenics, back to the company area for breakfast and then off to training for the day. And he would just guide his platoon through it all, staying low under the radar trying not to aggravate Russell. But at the sound of his name he was unsure if he was being singled out for some infraction.
Loud enough for the entire company to hear, Russell adopted a mock tone, “You know, I’m starting to get too old for all this. Time for you young bucks to carry more of the load.”
Scotty still wasn’t sure who Russell was talking to and again decided to make no response.
Russell continued. “So I’ve decided Hayes here will drive this group of potential fighting men to PT.” He looked directly at Scotty. “Hayes. Get your ass over here and take over the company.”
A chill ran through Scotty though he was already clammy from the moist Georgia morning mist. Him, march the entire two-hundred forty man company to the PT field? A platoon was hard enough to move from place to place, but the entire company was a driving lane wide and a football field long. Could he do this? There was no way out of it. Russell wasn’t going to ask him if he wanted to do it. He had to do it and he had to do it right the first time or face Russell’s wrath and ridicule from the others.
“What the hell are you waiting for, Hayes? I’m not getting any younger here.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Scotty replied. He then ran over to Russell.
Barely three feet from him, Russell looked at Hayes for what seemed to Scotty to be an uncomfortably long time then spoke is a slightly sarcastic tone. “Hayes, do you think you can shepherd this bunch to the PT area without causing a car wreck, killing someone or bumping the formation into building?”
Scotty was lying when he answered. “Yes, Sergeant. I’ll try.”
“Try? You’ll try? Son, we don’t try around here. We do. We get shit done. We accomplish. We prevail. Now, take over this company and move them to the PT area before this company is late for lunch.”
Scotty saluted, as was customary after accepting charge of a formation of soldiers, did a well rehearsed about face and looked at the six platoons stretched out to his left and right.
But before he gave his first command he was distracted by some mumbling and motion in the second rank of his own platoon.
Fitch. He obviously had something to say under his breath about Hayes to all the other trainees around him.
Scotty had been able to figure out just who in the platoon had been behind the late night threat of a blanket party early in the training. But he also knew at least five of the forty thought he was a victim of Russell’s, six or eight who could care less one way or the other, and two dozen who had did have a problem with him causing trouble for them.
It hadn’t taken him long watching and listening around the platoon to figure out whose voice he had heard in the barracks the night he was threatened. It was Jeffery Fitch.
Scotty looked over at Russell who uncharacteristically failed to call Fitch on his misbehavior in ranks and rip into him. Instead, Russell raised an eyebrow and looked at Fitch and back to Scotty, as if to ask what he intended to do about the errant soldier. It suddenly became obvious to Scotty Sergeant Russell expected Scotty handle everything—including Fitch.
Fitch stopped talking and straightened up. The entire company waited, listening to what was happening though few could see it—all facing to the front. The only noise was the crunching of Scotty’s combat boots as he began the several long strides in the dry cinders of the company street to take him from his position to Fitch’s.
As he walked he could feel his face flush and knew every man in the company, Russell and the other cadre standing near the formation was waiting to see how he would handle Fitch. His heart pounded. His throat became dry. He was not sure yet what he would do when he got to Fitch. The thought caused his chest to tighten and his breathing became labored.
Scotty stopped abruptly, squarely in front of Fitch and forced his face up into Fitch’s eye line—only inches separating the two. He lowered his voice but spoke with emphasis and authority. Like he had seen Russell do many times. “Listen to me, you dickhead. You fuck me up here and I swear I’ll kick your ass. You got that straight?”
Scotty had no idea what he would do if Fitch didn’t tow the line or if Fitch took a swing at him or even gave him some backtalk. He also didn’t know just how much authority was his to exercise or if Russell would back him up.
Everything was silent. No one moved. No one spoke. Fitch stared through Scotty without making a response or acknowledging his words.
Out of ideas, without a next move but not wanting anyone to know it, Scotty turned and quickly walked back to his post in front of the company. His blood pulsed in his ears as he walked. He found it hard to swallow and was aware of the fact every man in the company was still watching.
He reached his position in front of the company and picked up where he had left off, preparing to move the company to the physical training field. He looked at the others. As he prepared to bark out the commands to move the huge formation out of the company area he realized he was holding his breath.
“Hayes?” Russell called out. “We going to training or not, son?” He didn’t wait for Scotty to reply. “Get this bunch out of here and do it before I retire. Now, Hayes. Move, boy. Move!”
Russell was right. The problem with Fitch was behind him, for now, and the company was still standing there waiting for a command. Waiting for him to lead them; which he did.
Scotty wiped the rain off his watch and checked the time. He pulled his shirt collar up to keep the rain from running down the back of his neck.
It was nearly two in the morning when he hung up the pay phone located in the middle of a bank of twenty of them mounted on the wall outside the PX annex in his company area. It was the only time he could call Kitty. She was home during the day when he was in training and there were no phones in the training areas. Even so, he wouldn’t be allowed to make a personal call during the duty day. His only option was to wait until she got home from work.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets to ward off the chill of the cool Georgia night and his soaked fatigue uniform. Scotty headed back to the barracks, unhappy about how the call had gone. Kitty tried to put up a good front for him, make him believe she was okay and everything at home was fine. But he pressed her until she explained the strange heaviness in her voice. She finally admitted she was getting over pneumonia but insisted she was okay and he shouldn’t worry.
Scotty knew her job, her smoking and her drinking were certainly the cause of her repeated bouts of illness. It was not her first brush with pneumonia. She didn’t mention it, but he knew pneumonia meant more expenses for medication, expenses she couldn’t afford. She was getting deeper in debt and he knew there were no better job prospects for her in Belton. As he walked to the barracks he knew at best she would eat Wheaties and milk after work.
He crossed a wide road to the city-block sized area taken up by the six two-story barracks, an orderly room and supply room belonging to G Company. As he mounted the few steps leading into his platoon’s barracks he heard h
is name. Russell! Doesn’t he ever sleep? Reflexively, Scotty snapped back a reply, “Yes, Sergeant.”
“Come over here. Hustle.”
Scotty spotted Russell standing near the corner of the barracks under the overhanging hip roof looking as freshly pressed and spit-shined at almost three in the morning as he had looked twenty-one hours earlier. He broke into a trot for the few strides he needed to take him to Russell.
Scotty stopped and assumed a rigid position of attention. It had become nearly automatic in the weeks he’d spent under Russell’s demanding eye.
“What are you doing out here at this hour, Mister Hayes?”
Scotty jabbed his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the Post Exchange. “I had to call my stepmom. She doesn’t get off work ’til late, Sergeant.”
“Give. Let me hear it. What’s your problem?”
“Oh, there’s no problem, Sergeant.”
Russell raised his hand and pointed to the roadway. “Hey, who do you think you’re bullshitting? You think you just walked across Victory Drive like a man with purpose, a smile on his face and a place to be? Cut the crap. You got a personal problem?”
“No, Sergeant. I mean, yes, Sergeant.” Scotty was quick to change up and make eye contact with Russell. “But it’s not a problem problem. I mean, I can handle it.”
“Stand at ease, Hayes.”
Scotty relaxed from the position of attention.
“Smoke if you got ’em.”
Scotty was surprised at Russell’s suspension of the rigid, near-scripted dialogue normally exchanged by trainees and cadremen. He searched his pockets and found the cigarettes he kept promising himself he would quit smoking and lit one up.
“Let me hear it,” Russell said.
“Well, it’s no big deal, Sergeant.
“Family problem?”
“Ah, yes. Sure. But, really, it’s not a big deal to the Army.”
“Is it important to you?”
Scotty shrugged. “Well, sure.”
“Let me tell you somethin,’ Hayes. The Army works or doesn’t ’cause of soldiers, not weapons, equipment, bands, parades, uniforms or generals. How a soldier feels about his unit, the leadership, himself and the righteousness of his mission is part of what makes him combat effective. The other part’s how he feels about things back in the world—in his personal life. That means family. That’s home. The best soldier in the Army won’t have his heart in it if he’s worried about his wife or a sick baby or some asshole putting moves on his girlfriend.
“And you need to understand how important this about you and about the men in your charge in the years to come.”
Men in your charge. Scotty was momentarily stunned at the thought soldiers might ever be in his care.
“So what’s your story, Hayes?”
“My stepmom’s having trouble.”
“Men?”
“Money. She’s a widow and doesn’t have much goin’ for her to get a good paying job. When she gets sick she can’t work and doesn’t get paid. When she can she waits tables and works in a bar. She pretty much lives off tips.” Scotty shook his head. “And Belton, Florida isn’t a place where high rollers hang out.”
“Is this a hardship case? You need to apply to get out to take care of her?”
“No. Not as if she’s an invalid or nothing. She just doesn’t make enough to pay the bills.”
“And let me guess. You’re thinkin’ you’ll just take out an allotment and send her money every month out of the big paycheck you’re getting’ from the Army. Right?”
“That’s right.” Scotty nodded. “I was thinking a little extra money each month might just make it okay for her.”
Russell took off his glossy black helmet emblazoned with a bright yellow five-stripe sergeant decal on the front and wiped the morning’s humidity from his forehead. “How much you make, Hayes?”
But before Scotty could answer, Russell did. “Seventy-eight bucks a month before taxes. That’s what you make. Just how much money do you think you can part with and still get to the end of your month?”
Scotty hung his head, silent.
“You might be able to get away with it for a few months, but soon you got to pick up the tab for new uniforms, new boots and the costs keep rising. Not like you can take on a second job. Uncle Sam’s got your ass for at least twenty hours a day for the next year or so.”
“But I’ve got a place to sleep, clothing and food and she’s only got…”
“You want to be able to afford money for your family you’ll have to find a way to make more.”
“How do I do that? I’m just a Private E-1.”
“You know how much more a three-stripe buck sergeant makes? How’s a hundred forty-five a month sound?” Russell waved his helmet off in the general direction of the Main Post. “You know they’ll pay you an extra sixty-five a month just to jump out of perfectly good airplanes. All you have to do is go through Airborne School first? Son, you lean into it a little and you could more than triple your pay in no time. But you got to step up and take on more responsibility. You got to get your head out of your ass and you’ve got to work—hard.”
“But I’m just a draftee. I got just over twenty-two months left in the Army.”
Russell put his helmet back on and crossed his arms over his chest. “Aha! So you thinkin’ you’ve got no money now and you aren’t going to stay around or try hard enough to make more. Then you’re gonna get out and find yourself on the street with no job and no real skills to sell. That your plan? How’s that going help your step mother?”
“But, Sarge, I can’t…”
“You can do anything you want, Hayes. You want to lead or follow? You want to be able to step up to your obligations or not? Up to you, son.”
Scotty finished his cigarette. As if on auto-pilot he field stripped it, tearing the paper down the side and scattering the tobacco into the grass near the barracks steps then rolling up the small scrap of paper and sticking it in his pocket.
“Think it over, Hayes. You’re the man in charge of what happens to you now. You ain’t a schoolboy any more.” Russell turned to leave and stopped after two steps. He looked back at Scotty. “Oh, about Fitch. Don’t ever let ’em know you aren’t sure what you’re gonna do if they don’t do what you tell ’em to do. You tell a man you’re gonna kick his ass, better bring your lunch and be ready to follow through. The first time they call your bluff and you can’t come through you’re done.
“Now get in the barracks, we’ve got a new day starting in an hour. And you’ve got a lot to do.”
“Let’s go! Let’s go! Get out—now!” Scotty stood in the doorway to the barracks and yelled to the others. He wanted to get them out of the barracks and into formation quickly enough to keep the platoon from being penalized for moving too slowly and forming up last.
Scotty looked back inside and found only Jeffery Fitch still in the barracks, obviously taking his time just to piss him off. “Fitch!”
With a burst of speed, Fitch blew by Scotty as if he had been hustling all along. “Fuck you, Hayes.”
Scotty let it go. From the landing at the top of the barracks steps he looked out toward the horizon, over the tops of the cream colored buildings, their green shingled roofs and beyond the fifty-year old oak trees planted in the early days of Camp Benning. He looked for a sign about the day’s weather. Like a farmer, he had come to worry about what was ahead and what he needed to prepare for. But the skies weren’t giving up their plans. It was pleasant enough. Still he had learned how quickly west Georgia could turn cold, wet and nasty.
He looked back onto the company street. It was a different formation than their first, seven weeks earlier. Now the trainees were able to find their imaginary spots on the ground which placed them in four precise ranks of ten. It had become a well oiled routine at formation time. Each man could leave the barracks, run to his own spot and almost immediately find himself exactly one arm’s length from the man in front of him and
the same distance from those who flanked him.
On this morning all the trainees were weighed down with field gear they would need for a week out in the elements. Scotty gathered up his own combat gear and ran to his place in front of the platoon.
For all of them, except Sergeant Russell, it was the first time in the heavy field combat gear. Steel helmets gave them the look of boys in men’s battle garb. Their equipment rode awkwardly on their backs, hung loosely from their shoulders and each item crowded another for a place on each trainee. But not for Russell who looked prepared, organized and comfortable in the very same equipment.
To Scotty every item of Russell’s field gear had been custom tailored for him. His pack, bedroll, canteens, ammunition pouches, gas mask and even his large rubberized poncho was perfectly fitted, rolled, tied, fastened and folded to ride well on the long march ahead without hindering his movement or causing him to tire. Somehow Russell avoided the pack-horse look the trainees seemed to have mastered.
Russell, walking among the ranks, finally stopped in front of his assembled platoon. “All right! Listen up. Bivouac ain’t French for a fun camping trip, gentlemen. You better be ready for simulated combat conditions. We ain’t goin’ to be roasting marshmallows out there.” He then continued to walk through the ranks of trainees checking each man’s gear. “You think Basic’s been tough so far, don’t you?”
Silence.
He raised his voice even louder. “DON’T YOU?”
The trainees responded in unison. “No, Sergeant.”
“Bullshit. You’ve all been whining and draggin’ ass lately. Acting like a bunch of disorganized civilians. More than a handful of you’ve been riding the sick book.” He stopped in front of Fitch. He flexed his knees to get eye to eye with the shorter trainee. “You wouldn’t know anything about that. Would you, Mister Fitch?”
Fitch stumbled over his reply. “No, Sergeant.”
“In a pig’s ass, Fitch. You lay down on me this week and I’ll recycle your ass so far back you’ll be going through basic training with astronauts headed for Mars some day.”
