We Are All Enlisted
by Michael A. Hooten
Text Copyright © 2016 Michael A. Hooten
All Rights Reserved
Cover art and design is by Cedar Sanderson
© http://cedarwrites.com/art-design/
For all my shipmates
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 1
I joined the Navy to avoid combat.
Stop laughing, there was a good reason at the time. See, I was told by my Grampa that if I joined voluntarily instead of waiting for my number to come up in the draft, then I would be able to have a lot more choice in where I went. And he would know. Grampa was in the navy back in the 2030’s, but he wasn’t a typical seaman. He was a journalist. He got to see everything.
And he was right, to a certain extent—by joining, I wasn’t drafted into the Army or the Marines, and those guys definitely saw plenty of action. My grandfather said it was too bad that there wasn’t an Air Force anymore. He said when he was in, they called them the 9 to 5 military, but that branch had been made part of the Department of the Army back around the time he got out, and now their job is air support for the grunts. Not exactly low key.
So I went to the recruiting station and talked to the guys there. They tried to get me to sign on as a Navy corpsman as soon as I walked in the door, but Grampa warned me about that—the Marines still uses the Navy for all their medical personnel. So they started giving me a bunch of tests to see where I would fit in. They tagged me for nuke, which had plenty of easy billets, and even some in space. Grampa nodded, and I headed off to boot camp. That meant I got to go to Great Lakes, where they’ve churned out sailors forever. I sent Grampa a few pictures before they took my phone away, and he said it looked the same as it always had.
And that’s where two things happened. First, I got kicked out of the nukes. And second, the asteroid miners declared their independence by blowing a Navy war ship out of the sky. Everyone knows about the second, in one version or another. Someone, somewhere, probably even knows the truth. But getting kicked out of the nukes is what I know.
It happened on the second day of boot camp. The first day we got our coveralls, our seabags, and a shaved head, and then we joined our company and started getting yelled at by our company commander. That was EN1 Raymond, and in reality he never really yelled. But we were all pretty scared of him by the end of that first day anyways. He was a black guy, not big or buff like some of the Seals that ran PT—sorry, Physical Training—but he had a stare that made the most belligerent among us start looking for a way to hide. He had probably led half a dozen companies by then, and there wasn’t anything that fazed him.
After our haircuts, we were lined up, handed razors, and told to go shave. Goram, who probably outweighed EN1 Raymond by a good hundred pounds, came out with his mustache still intact. The CC stopped him, looked up and said, “What is that dead animal on your lip?”
“My moustache, sir,” Goram said.
“You were told to shave.”
“And I did, sir.”
“Did I say you could shave everything but your lip, sailor?”
You could see Goram thinking frantically. “Ah, no.”
“That’s no sir.”
“Yes sir. I mean no sir.”
“Get rid of it. Now.”
And Goram, who probably wrestled bears for fun, turned right around and scampered back to the sinks. He came out a few minutes later, fingering his bare lip and wide-eyed with the strange sensation.
We spent the rest of the day stenciling our names onto our coveralls, t-shirts, and underwear. Peterson asked why we didn’t just get them preprinted, and got to do fifty pushups in answer. None of us questioned why the Navy did things the way they did after that.
We had ninety guys total. We had someone of every race, but we definitely skewed Southern. You’d think that the white guys and the black guys and the hispanic guys might have issues, but no, it was the Yankees versus the Rebels, no matter what their color, and then everyone else. Even the one guy that was Moonborn, Ramirez, was lumped in with those that weren’t replaying the Civil War somehow. And since we were all on Earth, we were all destined for the Terrestrial Navy, either ships, subs, or an air wing. We were assured that if we did get a space side billet, we would get the training we needed. We were also assured that the chances of that happening were about the same as getting a blowjob from the CO. And yes, that is a quote, but I’m not going to say from who. His military career is in the toilet as it is.
We spent the morning of our second day learning how to exercise, put things away, and make our racks. The racks were only two high, but the lockers were built into the bed, under the mattress, just like they are on a ship. We could fit all our gear, including the bag, inside if we folded it right, and still have one open compartment out of four. When some brave soul asked what the empty space was for, petty officer Raymond just shook his head. “Someday, if you’re very lucky, you’ll be on a ship,” he explained patiently. “And if you’re even more lucky, you might get to go on liberty. If that ever happens—a very big if, with this crew—you might be inclined to wear something other than your uniform. The empty space is where you might stow such things. But for now, it had better be spotless.”
Then he lined us up, took us outside, and attempted to teach us how to march. It didn’t go well, and we learned some new exercises instead.
After lunch, we headed to the building that had classrooms inside. I’m sure it had a name, but if we were ever told, I don’t remember. After that first time, when we had classes, that’s where we went. Each of the rooms was about the same, with room for two hundred students, and flat screens staged in key locations that allowed us to be informed of how lost and confused we were no matter where we sat.
The first time, it was just our company, and all the screens were black. A petty officer in working blues, looking like a mortician, sat at the desk at the front of the class. There was a tablet in front of him, but he didn’t look at it as we filed in and found seats. We filled in from the back, and he said nothing about the vast expanse of empty space between him and us. When everyone had found a seat, EN1 Raymond told us all to stand at attention. We stood quickly at his tone, and sat just as quickly when he told us to.
“When your name is called,” he said, “go to the front of the room and sit in the chair next to petty officer Fugal. He’s going to ask you some questions, and you are going to answer them. And he will know if you’re lying. Don’t doubt me on this. This is the Moment of Truth.”
Petty Officer Fugal picked up his tablet. “Barry Adams,” he said, and Adams went up and sat in the chair. His back was to us, and all we could see was Fugal looking bored while he said something we couldn’t hear. Then I guess Adams answered him, he swiped his tablet a couple of times, and then Adams left out the side and Fugal said, “Christopher Answar.”
The room slowly emptied, until it was just me. Petty Officer Fugal said, “Peter Wright,” and I went up and took the appointed seat.
He said, “Peter Wright of Dallas, Texas, have you ever committed a felony?”
“No,” I said.
“Do you have any misdemeanors not listed on your recruitment form?” he asked. “This includes things like speeding or parking tickets.”
“Um, maybe?” I said.
Fugal looked at me sharply. “What does that mean, maybe?”
“Are you saying that you have parking tickets from North Texas State University?” Petty Officer Fugal demanded.
“Yes sir.”
He touched his tablet. “How many?” he demanded.
“Four, I think,” I said.
“I see. Did you pay them?” he asked, and punched his tablet a couple of more times when I nodded. “And you did not report this to your recruiter?”
“No sir,” I said.
“Why not?”
“I guess I forgot, sir.”
“Forgot.” He swiped his tablet, punched it a few times, then shook his head. “The nuke program doesn’t take people who ‘forget’,” he said. “Raymond!”
“Here,” said my company commander appearing suddenly at my shoulder, and the look he gave me made me want to crawl under the desk. Or the nearest rock.
“Take Seaman Wright here down to the detailers,” he said. “He’s going to need a new rating.”
So I followed EN1 Raymond out the door, down the hall, and into another room. This one looked like a typical office, with cubicles full of sailors in working blues, all with headsets on, all looking incredibly busy. Some had sailors in their blue coveralls sitting in front of them, some were typing, most were staring intently at their screens. One sat at an open desk near the door, looking bored and playing solitaire on his computer. “Watcha need?” he said without looking at either of us.
“My recruit here failed MOT,” Raymond said. “He needs a new rating.”
The secretary/receptionist/whatever pulled up a chart filled with names and colored bars. “It looks like MT1 Guiterrez will be open next. Have a seat.”
I did, and Petty Officer Raymond told the guy to page him when I was through. The guy nodded absently, already back on his game, and I wondered a bit if I could find my way back to the company on my own. I didn’t know, wasn’t sure, and the effects of the near constant exertion of two days made my brain fuzzy. I started to drift off, but fortunately, Petty Officer Guiterrez called my name at just that moment.
Guiterrez was looked me up and down when I sat in the chair next to his desk. He was dark, and had jet black hair and a pencil moustache. “So you’re not eligible for the nuke program anymore,” he said by way of greeting. He didn’t say it accusingly, and seemed nice enough. “I’m looking at your scores now, and I’ve got to see what kind of billets are open, but let me ask you this: are you interested in medicine at all?”
“I don’t want to be a corpsman,” I said.
He shrugged. “Had to try. We always need corpsmen.” He typed for a few minutes, then stared at the screen, clicking his mouse occasionally. “I think I’ve got something here. It looks like we need more fire controlmen, and that fits with your strengths. It’s an electronics intensive rating, just like nukes, so you would still have to commit to eight years active duty, but you were planning on that anyways, weren’t you?”
I nodded. “What does a fire controlman do?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I’m not quite sure,” Guiterrez said. “I know it’s an electronics rating, but what that actually means on a ship, I couldn’t tell you. Let’s see… it says they maintain the weapons systems. Does that sound like something you’d be interested in?”
I wished I could talk to my Grampa, but I just said, “Sure, why not?” And just like that, my naval career changed. Back then, I thought that would be that, and I would be set for the rest of my enlistment. I know better now.
Chapter 2
For the next three days, EN1 Raymond labored mightily to teach us the basics of military life. At least, life in the Navy. We worked out so often that we didn’t have time to be stiff or sore except when we first woke up. We learned the Navy way to fold all our clothes, make our beds, and polish our boondockers. And we learned that no matter what we did, there was always some new rule that we had violated, leading to more pushups. And eight count body builders. Look it up. I haven’t done one in ages, but I’ll bet I could if heard EN1 Raymond telling me to give him fifty of them.
Then came Monday. 1-1 day, we were told. Tuesday would be 1-2 day. And on 1-5 day, we were to have our first official inspection—and we had already been warned by people further ahead than our group that there was no way to pass. It was our rite of passage, and we were going to get inspected good and hard—and failed with even more gusto. So we went to class, marched around the grinder, and worried about how bad 1-5 day would really be.
When the fateful day arrived, we were woken by an air horn, just like the first day we met petty officer Raymond. He stared at us while we assembled, and then gave us our orders: get dressed, get our PT done, get chow. And he would be waiting for us when we returned.
Jackson was our recruit commander when EN1 Raymond wasn't around, but he had never had to take full responsibility for us before. His voice cracked as he gave us orders, but we got through our tasks with a minimum of grief, and got back to our barracks. Jackson had us scrub everything down, polish our shoes, and shave one more time.
And then we waited.
We were there, just standing on the line, for almost an hour. Occasionally someone would complain, and would be shushed to silence. But as the minutes ticked by, more and more of us thought something was wrong. Even those of us who thought the waiting was an intentional part of the torture.
Finally Jackson stepped out in front of us. “I need a volunteer to go find petty officer Raymond,” he said.
No one met his eyes, and no one said a word.
“Come on, guys,” he pleaded. “If you get in trouble, just tell them it was my idea, and you’ll be fine.”
“Like hell we will,” someone muttered.
“You do it,” someone said. I think it was Rumbeaux, but I couldn't be sure.
“I can’t,” Jackson said. “If I’m not here when Raymond comes in, I might as well just kill myself before the SEALs get hold of me.”
The most serious punishment we knew of was IT—Intensive Training. A four to eight hour workout with the SEALs. At their pace. People were known to have to fall back to a different company while they recuperated. Jackson was an idiot, because he might have gotten one of us to say yes if he hadn’t brought it up.
He cajoled us for another thirty minutes, but no one would step forward. Finally he said, with a deep sigh, “Fine. I’ll do it. But you guys had better stay at ease until I get back.”
If you don’t know, at ease is standing with your feet shoulder width apart, hands in the small of your back. I should remember which hand had to be on top, but it’s been years since I had anyone check. Suffice it to say, it was only slightly more comfortable than standing at attention. And yet, that’s what we did, albeit with plenty of shuffling. And Wilson fainted because he locked his knees again. No one helped him, and he came to pretty quick.
Jackson finally returned, and he had the CC with him. We all snapped to attention without being told, and I’m sure I was not the only one who wondered how long Jackson would be in IT. But as unhappy as Jackson looked, it was nothing compared to Raymond. He normally showed no emotion, even when he was drilling us for our mistakes, but now he wore a frown. Any one of us would have thought we were dead if he had directed that expression towards us, but he stood at the head of the company, head slightly down, looking at some spot in the middle of the floor.
“At ease. I have news to tell you,” he began. “There has been an—incident, out in the asteroid belt. The miners have claimed their independence, and they destroyed the USS William Jefferson Clinton to prove that they were serious. We’re waiting to find out what this will mean for the country, for the military, and for you recruits. But for now, I want you to stand down. Your inspection has been postponed, and we will hopefully have it tomorrow. For today, Jackson is in charge, and will make sure that you get to chow and hit your rac
ks on time.” The look he gave Jackson with that line made me wonder what hell he had planned if the recruit failed his task.
Jackson evidently had the same thought. “Company, atennn-SHUN!” he said with determination, and saluted Raymond with as much rigidity as I had ever seen. “I’ll keep them in good order, sir!”
“I don’t doubt it,” Raymond said drily. “You have five minutes to get to lunch before they close the mess hall.”
We scrambled, and made it in time. Everyone was talking about the Clinton, and the screens that usually had information about weather and such, now had in the corner a video of the massive space ship bursting in silent explosion. I thought it was a bit gruesome, but then I realized the resolve it gave to most of us. The miners weren’t allowed to blow up our ship without us striking back. And everyone was sure we would.
But in the meantime, boot camp continued. We did have our inspection the next day, and the inspectors completely trashed our barracks. We had mattresses flipped all over the place, racks moved in every direction including horizontal, and laundry strewn over racks, light fixtures, and doors. And afterwards, we cleared a space in the middle of the room, formed a circle with everyone’s right arm around the guy next to him, and everyone’s left hand holding onto a flag in the center. Then we all sang “Proud to Be an American”, which is almost like an anthem in the military.
It was actually a very profound bonding moment, and if I seem to treat it cynically now, well, that happens over time. But I remember being in the moment, knowing that they were messing with us, and not caring. The only important thing was the company, our band of brothers. I still keep in touch with a few of those guys.
We got our tablets to help us study, and we learned about ranks, ratings, and responsibilities. The most important thing was attention to detail, which was stressed over and over. And boot camp continued despite two more warships being destroyed.
The separation from our normal lives took its toll. Persinger tried to hack his tablet to call his girlfriend—that's what he said. A lot of us thought he just wanted to look at porn. Either way, he said he was making progress when two big petty officers came in, loaded up his gear, and escorted him out. We never saw him again. At least, not in our company.
We Are All Enlisted Page 1
