Execution of Justice

by Patrick Dent

  Fat Jack drew a breath to speak, but John interrupted him at once, “What's that, Officer?”

  “You will refer to me as Sergeant. And that is your attempt to go AWOL.”

  “What's AWOL, Sergeant?” John asked.

  “Absent Without Leave, now put your hands on top of your head!” This was Pockmark. His eyes bulged with anger, as if they would leap out of his face and attack John themselves if he didn't comply. Having no military experience, John didn't recognize the trademark hyperbolic rage the non commissioned officers used to express their wishes. He simply thought these were the two angriest men he'd ever met.

  “Sergeant, I'm on my way to report to Basic Training.”

  “So, why is your head already shaved, smartass? Tell me that!”

  “Our whole baseball team shaved their heads, as a prank.”

  “Bullshit! Hands on top of your head!”

  Fat Jack opened his mouth to protest, but was halted by John's steely Shut up! glare. The John had taught John many things, not the least of which was the value of silence.

  Unibrow cuffed each of them while Pockmark stood with his right hand hovering over his .45 automatic service pistol. He was in a slight crouching position. His left arm was protruding with the palm facing forward. Like those magnetic football players on the vibrating field, John thought. He noticed the gun-strap was unhooked. These people take life a bit too seriously.

  Thus began John's first day in the service of his country. So far, he didn't like what he had seen of the new world. They detained Fat Jack and him for several hours before he was even allowed to tell his story. Once the MP's had verified his paperwork, he was taken to Administration Building B for special processing, where he was further admonished for his tardiness.

  John had imagined that basic training would be action packed. Instead, it turned out to be an endless repetition of 'hurry up and wait'. For the next seven days, he was rushed from one place to another, only to spend hours waiting in line for supplies, shots, paperwork, and more shots. He wondered how long it would take his muscles to atrophy.

  He was surprised to see the other recruits were almost exclusively teenagers. He was even more surprised that most were in terrible physical condition. There were kids who couldn't do five pushups. When he thought about it, the entrance physical wasn't exactly like the Olympic tryouts. He wondered just how tough this would be. Once you learned all Sergeants and Corporals were caricatures of rage by design, it wasn't so bad.

  On day eight, he and fifty of his closest friends were herded into a bus for transportation to Ft. Benning, where the actual training would begin. John was one of the first on, so his seat was at the back, just ahead of the bathroom. The smell of chemicals and human waste made his stomach roil the entire trip.

  There were no unoccupied seats on the bus, and two unfortunate recruits were forced to stand for most of the trip. They took turns sitting in the seats of those who had temporarily gotten up to stretch or to contribute to the stench of the bathroom. John wished for a book or magazine, but the only reading materials allowed to recruits were the Soldier's Handbook and the Bible. Three hours into the six-hour trip, John managed to doze off.

  John was awakened by the sound of yet another cranky man's voice. “All right, you bunch of stupid shits! You've got exactly one minute to have your asses off this bus and in formation! Move it!”

  He rubbed his eyes and tried to move forward, but the aisle was hopelessly blocked with panic-stricken teenagers. At times his feet lost contact with the floor as the viscous mass of human flesh and camouflage poured out of the tiny opening in the front of the bus.

  Once outside, he saw there were hundreds of new recruits gathered in a large open area in the center of Sand Hill. The groups seemed to be divided into busloads, about fifty soldiers in each group. Drill Corporals herded them into formations roughly resembling platoons. In the center of the quad, four men stood in a square, each facing one group of recruits. John knew by their Smokey The Bear hats they were Drill Instructors.

  The DI facing John's group was tall, about six-four or six-five. He was lean and hard. From the expression on his face, he seemed to have recently consumed a box of razor blades and enjoyed it. In his parade rest stance, his extremities defined a perfect pentagon. He snapped to attention and marched to the front-and-center of his new platoon. When he spoke, John noticed his voice was gravelly and hoarse, a condition possibly related to his habit of screaming every word he spoke.

  “Listen up! My name is Sergeant First Class Peters. Welcome to Fort Benning, second platoon. There are a few things we need to get straight right now. Effective immediately, I am your new mama, your new daddy, your new priest and your new girlfriend. Hell, you might as well say I am your new God! And my first commandment is to forget everything that slick recruiter told you about Army life, because now Uncle Sam owns your asses. And for the next thirteen weeks, that means I own your asses!

  “For instance, you were probably told you would be allowed one phone call per week. Second platoon, that is what we in the military refer to as a lie. You maggots won't even see a picture of a telephone for the next thirteen weeks. Mail privileges are also revoked until you have earned them. So you will not be defiling our fine postal system with your pathetic, worthless chicken-scratch for at least a month. I have a message, and I want you to receive it loud and clear, so pull your heads out of your asses and listen up. There are just two groups of people in America who have no constitutional rights – felons and recruits. Keep that tattooed on your puny brains, no matter how tired or scared or angry you are. Combat has no room for emotion. You will learn to control yours or you will certainly die in combat, thereby depleting the enemy's arsenal by one bullet. I don't intend to spend the next thirteen weeks training you shitheads just so you can become walking, talking bull's-eyes. Do you understand me, second platoon?”

  “Yes Sergeant!”

  “Today, you each begin your journey from sniveling piss-ant to professional killer. And make no mistake, that's exactly what you are – hired assassins. There will be those among you who think you don't have what it takes to be a killer. You are wrong. The human mind is the most dangerous weapon ever devised by man or God. You were designed to kill. It's my job to teach you to kill better.

  “Second platoon, you are one quarter of Charlie Company, 6th Battalion, 1st Infantry Training Brigade. Charlie-six-one. Repeat it back to me!”

  “Charlie-six-one!” cried the frightened and confused group of teenagers.

  “Down, get down, get your asses DOWN! Gimme twenty-five. Sound 'em off.”

  Although their alignment was not pretty, second platoon finally managed to synchronize. They began counting off their push-ups. When they had finished, most began to resume the standing position.

  “Who told you to stand? Down, everybody back down and gimme another twenty-five!”

  This time, after completion of the task, the platoon remained in what was called the 'front leaning rest' position, with their arms fully extended at the top of a push up. The name was intended to be cruelly ironic, since it was anything but restful. As their arms quivered in isometric exertion, their sweat dripping into the dusty Georgia hardpan, they gave Sergeant Peters their undivided attention.

  “You will speak only when spoken to. When you are spoken to, every sentence will end with the rank of the superior you are addressing. And just in case you haven't figured it out yet, everyone is your superior. You will answer me only with: 'yes Sergeant', 'no Sergeant', or 'no excuse Sergeant'. Do you understand me second platoon?”

  “Yes Sergeant!” the boys answered in unison.

  “Company, a-ten-hut!”

  Although they understood the command meant for them to stand, they did not know the correct procedure for moving from the front leaning rest position to attention. Of course, they were not supposed to know. The Army's method was to punish the entire group until they invented the correct procedure by trial and error. They had to learn to th
ink under pressure. Eventually, second platoon rose in unison to attention.

  John breezed through the physical challenges. This can't be as serious as they make it sound, he thought, the entire experience must be a mind game. Within the first couple of hours, John felt he had discovered the basic rules of the game. Do exactly as you are told, no matter how ridiculous the command. Expect to be punished for the mistakes of others. Most important of all, keep your mouth shut. Otherwise, the food was pretty good and the toys were certainly cool.

  As second platoon endured their initiation rights into the US Army, John's attention kept wandering to the scrawny soldier to his immediate right. This boy had 'abuse me' written all over his face. He grimaced constantly, and reminded John of Ichabod Crane. When he wasn't whining under his breath, he was complaining to his neighbors. He was unable to do the twenty-five push ups that each punishment required. The penalty for not complying with a direct order was a 'grass drill'. Grass drills involved a tortuous non-stop regimen of running in place, push-ups, and sit-ups. Grass drills ended when the recruit collapsed. John noticed his name tag above his heart – Mastagiacomo.

  “The man's a sadist,” Mastagiacomo commented to John, not realizing Sergeant Peters had walked up behind him.

  “Private Mastagiacomo, what exactly is a sadist?” Peters bellowed.

  “Sergeant, a sadist is a person who enjoys hurting other people.”

  “And what do you call a person who enjoys hurting himself?”

  “A masochist, Sergeant.”

  “That's what you are, Mastagee. That's what you are.”

  Three hours and hundreds of push-ups later, Sergeant Peters decided that second platoon understood his message for the day. It was time to form the squads.

  “Platoon, a-ten-hut! Listen up, second platoon. Form a single line beginning here. Fallout! I will give each of you a number. Once you have your number, you will proceed to your assigned point. Second platoon will be made up of four squads. A squad is the smallest functioning unit in the US Army - the backbone of the organization. You will bunk with your squad. You will eat with your squad. You will shit with your squad. Your squad is your team, and you will function as a team. You will live as a team, and, if you are ordered to, you will die as a team.

  “Squad one will form over there. Squad two there, three there, and four there,” Sergeant Peters said as he indicated the four corners of the D&C (drill and ceremony) area, “As each of you moves out, I want the line to move up one step. Do you understand, Charlie Company?”

  “Yes Sergeant!”

  As John reached the front, he was assigned to second squad. Four soldiers later, Sergeant Peters assigned Isabue Gibson to second squad.

  Once the squads had been formed, he gave them an afternoon of D&C (Drill & Ceremony) interspersed with punishment. When they broke for mess at eighteen hundred hours, even the weariest found a little extra pep getting into formation. John was first to arrive, so was at the front of squad two. Sergeant Peters named the first in each rank 'squad leader', figuring he had to start somewhere, and the hungriest was as good a place as any.

  They marched the one and a half miles to the mess hall. As they stood at attention, their stomachs roiling with hunger, Peters paced down each squad. He squared off on John. “Soldier. Do you have a sewing kit?”

  “No, Sergeant!”

  Peters took out his pocketknife and cut John's nametag from above his heart. “Buy one. Second squad, gimme fifty for being out of uniform!”

  At mess, John drooled as he passed through the line where PFCs heaped more and more food on his plate. Country fried steak, double mashed potatoes, green beans, and applesauce. He finished everything but the country fried steak within one minute of sitting down. He was leaning back in his chair, rubbing his belly, when he heard a commotion at the opposite end of the mess hall.

  “Sergeant!” Private Gibson shouted.

  “Drop and give me twenty-five, for not requesting permission to speak.”

  After succumbing to the inevitable, Gibson returned to the position of parade rest and shouted, “Sergeant, Private Gibson requests permission to speak!”

  “Speak,” Sergeant Peters replied.

  “Sergeant, Mastagiacomo is trying to kill himself!”

  Sergeant Peters flipped his folding metal chair on its back and sprinted toward Mastagee. He found the recruit standing behind his seat, his eyes wild with fear, furiously stabbing himself in the left wrist with a standard issue fork. He had a better chance of killing himself with his fingernails, but he had to be restrained nonetheless.

  What Sergeant Peters did next took all of one second. He stepped to the left of Mastagee, leading with his right foot. He placed his right heel just behind Mastagee's right ankle. All the while, he was folding Mastagee's right hand against its palm, and forcing it between the subject's shoulder blades, exerting pressure with his thumb. Private Mastagiacomo involuntarily dropped the fork and fell backward. Peters turned him over to the MPs, who took him away. The boys promptly regained interest in their food and the incident was forgotten. The next time John saw Mastagee, the kid had a nice shiner, courtesy of the military police, no doubt.

  Upon exiting the mess hall, John was stopped by the mess Corporal. “Boy, people in Vietnam are starving, and you are throwing good meat away!”

  “Drill Corporal, I don't eat meat,” Drake responded with military enthusiasm.

  “And, why is that, Bone Head?”

  “Because, Drill Corporal, the cow never did anything to piss me off.”

  The Drill Corporal could not restrain his laughter. He was so amused, in fact, that he only made the recruit perform one hundred pushups before he let him leave without eating the country fried steak.

  Chapter Nine

  Fort Benning, Georgia

  John was jerked from a coma-like sleep by the sound of a baseball bat and a metal trashcan. He clawed at weary eyes that hadn't had time to crust over. He felt dizzy and disoriented. Must start moving. As he willed himself into action, he squinted from the bright fluorescent lights.

  “OK, Bone Heads! Drop your cocks and grab your socks! Get your lazy asses out of bed. You heard me, UP! Beauty sleep is over.” Sergeant Peters looked surprisingly fresh for a man who couldn't have had more than four hours sleep. His deep Georgia suntan was accentuated by the ruddy completion of his cheeks. When he screamed, large, crooked veins bulged in his forehead and neck.

  The recruits, three weeks into basic, knew the drill by now. They had five minutes to shit, shower, shave, and be in formation. John rapidly ran a bar of soap over his grimy body, removing approximately ten percent of the dirt and sweat. No one spoke as they rushed through their new morning motions. The routines were disrupted this morning because two of the sinks were out of order. John was still waiting for a turn to brush his teeth and shave when Sergeant Peters blew his whistle. John grimaced and double-timed it toward the quad.

  One of many difficult tasks the recruits had to learn was to fall into a perfect formation. They eventually figured out they needed a point of reference if they were to have their lines properly dressed. The point of reference became the squad leader for the first squad in each platoon. That man would choose a spot, and all others lined up relative to him. They efficiently assembled in the quad, standing at attention, awaiting their orders.

  “Platoon, stand at ease!”

  Every left foot moved eighteen inches to the side to form sixty uniform triangles of legs. Hands clasped behind backs, always with the right hand inside the left. Peters began his routine inspection, walking the length of each squad with his hands behind his back. He stopped in front of John.

  “Well, look what we have here,” he chided, “Private Drake thinks this is the Navy.” Peters pressed the brim of his hat against John's forehead. “Do I look like some goddamned squid to you, Boy?”

  “No Sergeant!” John shouted hoarsely, his voice weakened from stress and exhaustion.

  Peters addressed the platoon, �
��Do we grow beards in the United States Army, like those rump ranger squids?”

  “No Sergeant!”

  “Private Drake must think you're all a bunch of faggots! Why else would he be growing a beard?” The platoon was silent, not knowing exactly what to expect, but quite certain it wouldn't be pleasant.

  “Men, I'm offering you a chance to prove to Private Drake that you aren't queers. Wouldn't you like that, Second Platoon?”

  “Yes Sergeant!”

  Peters ordered John to retrieve his disposable razor from his rucksack. It took John no more than five seconds to produce the item. Peters snatched it and held it menacingly in front of John's face. As he addressed the platoon, he never took his eyes off John. John kept his eyes level and straight ahead, not looking the Sergeant in the eye, but not looking at the ground either. This seemed to elicit the least scorn from Peters, who tolerated neither confrontation nor fear.

  “I want the entire platoon to drop and start sounding off pushups while Private Drake shaves - dry.”

  “Yes Sergeant!”

  “You can thank Private Drake later, in private, if you like.”

  John scraped the hair off of his face, the only lubrication coming from his salty sweat and the blood generated by the task. For the next three days, his face would be raw and stinging in the Georgia heat. By the time he had finished shaving, the platoon was up to fifty-two pushups. John understood the idea behind pitting the recruits against each other. This practice ironically made them a more cohesive team. When one member of the team failed to pull his weight, the others would discipline him, usually in the form of a blanket party. A blanket party takes place in the middle of the night. Four men restrain the victim on his bunk with a blanket while a few others take turns pummeling his belly with a bar of soap in a pillowcase. John had seen a few blanket parties, but didn't think the men would bother him. They usually preyed on the weak, like Mastagee. Once Peters relieved the platoon from the front leaning rest position, he discontinued the inspection, having found his mark for the day. He resumed pacing in front of them as he spoke.