I'll Be Your Drill, Soldier!

by Crystal Rose

  Patrick just smiled. “Now, that's funny.” He snorted, causing the others to chuckle.

  “How did you think you did?” Brendon asked them.

  “I sucked ass. I had a misfire and didn't get to finish the last fifteen rounds,” Kenneth said, glumly.

  “I used to go out shooting with my dad back home. I'm hoping I did well,” Ryan said.

  “I think I shot the shit out of the close targets, but completely missed out on the 200 meters and above,” said Brendon.

  Patrick just shrugged. “I think I did well.”

  They could hear the “pop pop pop” from the next group and lapsed into a comfortable silence.

  ***

  After they all fired, King stood up and announced the scores.

  Brody - 25, Gracin - 17, Roslin - 15 Murry - 30, and outfuckingstanding, Smith - 40 - a perfect performance!” King even shot Patrick a grin.

  The Oklahoma native grinned broadly, his blue eyes dancing. “Thank you, Drill Sergeant!”

  Ryan congratulated his friend and then pouted because it seemed that all that shooting he had done with his dad was useless.

  “It's time to indoctrinate you on the fine military cuisine called the MREs,” King said, with a grin. Three boxes were carried out and placed in front of the formation. “You will walk up to the box in a single file line and take the first one you see. If I see any of you being a bitch and picking what you want I will pull your ass out of the line and make you watch as everyone else eats their chow.”

  After everyone grabbed one of the plastic covered meals they all sat around. Surprisingly, all three of their Drill Sergeants joined them.

  Ryan read off what he had from the stamp in front of it. “Tuna a la King? I got Tuna fucking a la King? Seriously?”

  Brendon guffawed.

  “Freckles, that is the food of the Gods,” Phillip said, a small joking smile on his face. “If you don't want it we can always put it back. You don't mind waiting until dinner at the chow hall, right?”

  “No problems with the tuna for me, Drill Sergeant,” Ryan quickly said. If he didn't eat soon he was sure he would kill Murray and eat his spleen. Even thinking that caused him to pause. Well, shit, Grabowski was driving him crazy.

  “Dude! I got pork,” Brendon said happily. He began to open it, and found it was a lot easier said than done. After two minutes of fighting with the plastic he got pissed. He finally felt the plastic give. His pork steak went flying through the air and landed neatly on the ground.

  “Ouch! That sucks.” Kenneth laughed. He had his cheese opened and was spreading it across the hard cracker.

  Brendon blinked and proceeded to pick up the pork and wiped off any dirt, sloshed it under water from his canteen and then ate it.

  “I think this stuff was around when my grandfather was in the Army,” Patrick said, looking at a substance that resembled spaghetti. He took a small bite and grimaced. “Or maybe pre-civil war era.”

  “You boys don't know how easy you got it,” King said. “You have heaters. When I joined we ate this fine food cold.” The other two Sergeants nodded in agreement.

  Brendon let out a squeal and held up his treasure. “Holy shit! I have M & M's!”

  Every man in the platoon turned and glared at the blond.

  “I hate you,” Ryan muttered, thinking now would be a great time to cut out Brendon's spleen and steal the fucking M & Ms. He looked in his back and found the charms hard candy. They were like Jolly Ranchers only not as good.

  Kenneth finally opened his entrée and gagged. “What is it?” He held it open so the others could examine it.

  “A hair ball?” Ryan guessed.

  “Dog vomit,” Patrick said.

  Phillip leaned over and took Kenneth's bag. His grin was broad when he handed it back. “Egg omelet. The best damn MRE in the world.” At his pronouncement Connelly and King both gagged.

  Kenneth stared at it. Ryan could tell he was warring with himself. He could either suffer through it or eat it. A rumble from Kenneth's stomach settled the debate for him and he dug in.

  It seemed Brendon's M & Ms had made him stupid because he looked up at the Drills and opened his mouth. “What's it like? The real deal. Not all of the basic and stuff, but when we are actually doing our job.”

  A silence came over the platoon. Ryan was wondering if they could hide Brendon's body in the woods somewhere. It sounded like a damn good idea to him.

  Connelly cleared his throat, wiping his mouth at the same time. “Once at your unit you'll find out that everything you're taught here will just click into place. BCT and AIT will give you basic knowledge, but at your unit is where you'll really learn your job.”

  “My advice to everyone single one of you is to keep your mouth shut and learn from those who've been there,” King added.

  “Unit cohesion is different everywhere. Some units will be squared away and others you'll want to take a bazooka and blow them the fuck away,” Grabowski said.

  It seemed that Brendon had started something. Another man asked another question and that led to another, and another. The Drill Sergeants would answer each question and for one moment they didn't look like sadistic dicks who got off on the recruits’ misery but just regular guys.

  It didn't last long.

  ***

  On the way back they were picked up by the five-tons and driven back to their barracks. Patrick was limping pretty badly when they got to their room.

  Their room was trashed.

  Personal items where lying all over the ground.

  “Oh shit!” Kenneth exclaimed. “Which one of you forgot to lock your footlocker?”

  Ryan flushed bright red. He glanced at his bed and let out a vile curse. “Oh shit. Shit. Shit. I'm dead. I'm fucking deader than dead.”

  Patrick limped over to his bed and burst out laughing. “I TOLD you not to hide them in your footlocker.”

  Lying on top of his bed were four Three Musketeers wrappers, two empty Twizzler packages, a Gummy Bear package, and a can of soda he had bought at the PX. Directly in front of the wrappers was a note:

  Thanks for the snacks, Freckles.

  Regards

  Your Friendly Drill Sergeants.

  “You left your locker open with that shit in it?” Brendon snorted.

  Ryan nodded his head. “It was the good stuff too. They ATE my food.”

  “Your contraband you mean. Right, Freckles?”

  Ryan paled and gulped.

  Grabowski entered the room and everyone went to 'Parade rest'.

  “Now, we have been over this already. It seems that Freckles didn't get it the first time.” He stated. He walked slowly toward Ryan until he was inches away from the younger man. “Drop, Gracin.”

  Ryan went down. To his surprise Brendon, Kenneth and Patrick followed suit.

  “Now, don't do that, boys. You're gonna bring a tear to my eye.” Drill Sergeant Grabowski sneered. “Down!”

  All four went down and held themselves there.

  He continued on until all four were sweating and panting. “You have fifteen minutes to get this mess squared the fuck away.”

  He got them up and walked out. His booming voice announced that inspections started in fifteen minutes.

  ***

  That evening Ryan had CQ duty. His shift was 1200 in the morning to 0100, right after Patrick. That night Phillip was staying with the privates. He was nervous as hell for some reason-- maybe because at night when his head was cleared of all of the day’s events he thought back to that freaking kiss. The Drill Sergeant hadn't brought it up and Ryan damn sure wasn't going to.

  Patrick woke him up and Ryan slipped down to the desk carrying paper and a pen. He could hear soft talking coming from the office and figured Grabowski was watching TV. Ryan would kill to be able to watch a few minutes of TV. Hell, he even missed the news. The door opened suddenly and he was confronted with Grabowski.

  “Gracin,” he was greeted.

  “Drill Sergeant, anything
I can get you?” he asked politely.

  “Nah, come on in.” Grabowski gestured for him to enter the office. It was unsurprisingly clean.

  “How is training going?” Phillip asked; as he sat down to polish his boots.

  “It's going fine, Drill Sergeant Grabowski,” Ryan said, as he stood. The other man gestured for him to sit down. Ryan's eyes strayed from the drill, who looked fine as hell in the black PT shorts and plain white shirt he had on. The office was rather big. Beside the desk there was a large cot set up. He figured that was where the three slept when they stayed the night.

  “Good,” Grabowski said with a grin. It disappeared when he opened his mouth again. “That kiss should have never happened and I'm sorry for putting you into that position.”

  Ryan's mouth fell open and he looked back at the dark-haired man. “Umm. It's cool. I know..” he said, trying not to appear like a thirteen-year-old girl. If the guy had any idea how fucked up that kiss made him he didn't wanna know.

  “You've got potential, Gracin. Real potential.”

  “Thank you?” Ryan answered. He was dumbfounded and just not sure what to say.

  He looked toward the television set and his mouth fell open. “Holy shit! Is that a football game?”

  Phillip laughed huskily. “Yeah, my mom DVRs and then burns games for me so I can watch.”

  Ryan felt like crying. “Is that Ohio State?” Being an Ohio boy he, of course, rooted for the “Buckeyes.”

  “Ohio State versus Texas.” Phillip laughed harder when Ryan damn near started to drool. “Texas won. You like Texas, right?”

  Ryan shook his head. “I'm from Columbus, Ohio.”

  “Oh God, no wonder! It all makes perfect sense now.” Phillip smirked and picked up a pair of panty hose.

  Ryan was about to ask what made perfect sense but he saw the panty hose. He blinked and then looked away.

  “Freckles, panty hose applies the world’s best shine on these boots,” Phillip informed him. “Go grab your kit and boots. Might as well show you how it's done.”

  Ryan ran up the stairs and did what he was told. When he got back he saw that the panty hose had been cut and one leg was lying on the sofa next to where he’d been sitting.

  He spent the next forty minutes learning the value of a spit shine and panty hose.

  Chapter Four

  Morning PT runs sucked ass, especially since King was the one who ran the Alpha group that Ryan was in. He started them out slowly and increased the pace gradually. His voice was loud and strong as he started calling the cadence. A mile in and the bastard changed cadences. Ryan seriously wanted to kill him.

  “Superman is the man of steel!”

  “Superman is the man of steel,” came the cry of fifteen voices.

  “But he ain’t no match for an army drill.”

  “But he ain’t no match for an Army Drill!” The fact that King was still running without sounding winded proved to Ryan that the bastard probably was in fact, Superman.

  “Me and Supe got in a fight”

  “Me and Supe got in a fight!”

  “Hit him in the head with some kryptonite”

  “Hit him in the head with some kryptonite.” Ryan was barely able to repeat that one. Drill Sergeant King seemed like he was trying to kill them.

  They arrived at a small building and Ryan eyed it warily. He could already see other platoons in line. Each man looked like they were going to run off as soon as the Drill's back was turned.

  They were given the order to be 'at ease' so Ryan looked around and pulled at his uniform. He hated running in full dress. His feet felt like they were going to fall off and he had sweat in places he didn't realize he could sweat in. He wanted to deck Brendon because he was all smiles.

  “NBC today. I'm kinda excited!” Brendon said.

  “Oh boy, that’s so how I want to spend a day. Snot bubbles and blinded,” Patrick stated.

  “FALL IN!”

  Everyone rushed into formation and waited.

  “Today Privates, you're heading to your own personal hell. It is called The Gas Chamber,” King announced and Ryan could swear the man had a wicked gleam in his eyes.

  “You'll treat my gas chamber as if it was my fuckin' bedroom, understood? There will be no puking, snotting or crying in my bedroom. Got it?”

  Ryan was getting worried. He heard a very unmanly scream coming from the other side of the building.

  “Drill Sergeant Grabowski, anything you'd like to say?” King called.

  “One thing. Just make sure you fucks take a deep breath. I will be in the room with you and you will make me happy or we're going to be in there a long fucking time.”

  “GAS, GAS, GAS!” shouted Drill Sergeant Connelly. Everyone dove for their gas masks.

  With that said, they were placed in lines to enter the chamber. The closer they got to the building, the more the gas was affecting them. Ryan could feel his skin prickling. It seemed the sweat that was beading on him was capturing every molecule of gas and trapping it against his skin. “Dude, this sucks” he whispered to Patrick. Though he had to admit that all of them standing around with Military Issue gas masks on their faces was pretty damn funny. They all looked like they could be stand-ins for the next “Star Wars.”

  Patrick's eyes squinted sharply. “And fucking Brendon is bouncing around like a pinball.”

  “It's gonna get worse,” Kenneth said glumly. “We could always kill him and say it was an accident.” He glared at Brendon, who still hadn't calmed down.

  The four of them, plus Brody and Weatherly, all entered together. Ryan didn't think it was that bad until the gas clung to his uniform, burrowing deep into his skin. Damn, that was rather uncomfortable. He flinched when the door slammed and something was pressed against it.

  “Crack the seal, Privates!” He looked up and damned if Grabowski wasn't walking around the room like he was breathing fresh air. Everyone took their masks off.

  He went down the line slowly. Ryan cursed the fact that he was the last fucking man in the room. He could hear them all choking and spitting. He vaguely wondered if King could see that they did, in fact, spit in his room. Patrick was having a hard time opening his eyes. Kenneth couldn't get ‘Roslin’ out to save his life. Fucking Brendon just zipped through the bitch. Brody was actually crying and Ryan was sure his death was on the cards.

  The gas seemed to freeze right in front of his eyes only to burst right under his fucking nose. He hacked, bending over and hoping he wouldn't puke. Spitting in King's house was bad enough. He didn't want to know what happened if you puked.

  “Alright hero, open your eyes and take a deep breath. DOB, Social, full name!” Phillip barked. He sounded like he was outside, that the gas wasn't even touching him. That shit wasn't fair. Ryan cracked his eyes opened and wanted to curse. The bastard didn't even have so much as a grimace on his face.

  “Come on Freckles, we're waiting on you. You don't want your buddies to suffer any more, do you?” he asked, a smirk planted firmly on his face.

  Fucker.

  Ryan struggled to do it. “01 March 1982” He coughed out. He choked on a lump of spit that seemed to gather in the middle of his throat. He repeated his social. After another round of hacking and coughing he finally got his whole name out.

  When he was finally finished Grabowski went to the rear door and pounded on it.

  The door burst open and everyone was nearly running to get out.

  “Fucking walk!” Grabowski ordered. So instead of a slow run they did a fast walk until the air hit them.

  “Holy fucking shit! This fucking sucks!” Patrick barked as he tried to keep the snot from hitting his mouth. His face was tracked with tears and other substances that were best for them to ignore. He flapped his arms out wide like they were told to do earlier that morning.

  Kenneth ran over the top of Brody, sending the other guy straight to the ground while he stumbled and tried to rub his eyes. That was a big mistake. A split second later, Kenneth's
howls filled the small clearing.

  “Don't fucking rub your eyes, numb nuts!” barked Connelly. “Stupid fucking private!” Connelly grabbed Kenneth with one hand and his canteen with another. He began to pour the cool water over the other man's eyes.

  Ryan came out and blindly walked straight ahead or as straight as it seemed to him. He was thankful for his ugly BCGs at that moment, mainly because tears were streaming down his face. Spit came foaming out of his mouth like he was a rabid dog. He just prayed that no one would shoot him.

  He heard Brendon cursing and then a quick thump.

  “GAWD DAMNIT! FURRY YOU FUCKING RAN INTO COMMAND SERGEANT MAJOR OAK!” King shouted, as he tried to pick Brendon up off of the ground in front of a huge oak tree.

  Brendon was stuttering and muttering. Ryan resisted the urge to rub his eyes. He was thinking it might be worth the pain just to see what the hell Brendon was bitching about.

  “APOLOGIZE TO THE COMMAND SERGEANT MAJOR RIGHT THE FUCK NOW, FURRY!”

  Brendon mumbled a quick apology to the Command Sergeant Major.

  King then turned on a dime. “Furry, you fucking moron, that's a fucking tree!”

  Brendon's vision seemed to clear because he turned and stared at the tree. “It's a tree,” he repeated dumbly.

  “No shit, hero. It's a fucking tree.” With that said King left Brendon alone to attend a fresh batch of newly-inducted recruits barreling out of the chamber.

  “Gracin, flap your arms like a bird, come on. Fucking flap them!” Connelly shouted from his place beside Kenneth, who was still whimpering.

  Ryan wasn't sure what the hell for but he raised his arms and started flapping. Instantly he felt like the world’s biggest ass.

  Afterwards they were all sitting in the shade.

  “Holy hell, that fucking sucked,” Brendon muttered.