The Most Important Thing. David Gross
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up! Get up! You bunch of lazy numbskulls!”roared the sergeant. After a period much too long to satisfy the grumbling sergeant, every one of the sleepy boys stood by his bunk. Most of the boys slipped on their uniform pants, some stood frozen in their underwear.
“Show these ignorant sons of bitches how to make a bed, Corporal Williams!” shouted McCloskey as if Corporal Williams stood in the next county. The Corporal demonstrated the proper technique of tucking and folding. In moments, the bunk was smooth and coin-bouncing tight. The sergeant then ordered every boy follow the corporal’s lead. One soldier stood without moving.
“Why ain’t you making your bed, Private Bonehead?” shrieked the sergeant.
“The Corporal has already made my bed,” said the young private with just a hint of a smirk.
The sergeant reddened, feeling his sense of military discipline intimidated. The big-bellied sergeant snatched the bedding from the tight bed throwing it as far as he could. He yanked the mattress heaving it to the floor. He tugged a corner of the bed and flipped the metal bunk into the air. The airborne bed crashed to the floor. This last action scattered several recruits because only a few feet distance lay between the bunks.
“Now, make that bed!” hollered McCloskey ending the lecture. The boys learned a lesson about their Drill Instructor. The DI represented a figure of infinite power to the privates. Unfortunately, this Government Issue god was an angry god. The sergeant seemed to despise the privates. The bellowing DI bleated continuously over the minutest of flaws seeming incapable of satisfaction. Sergeant McCloskey demanded the floor so clean it shone with mirror brilliance. The whining DI insisted that he wanted to see his face in the floor, on the faucet, and everywhere else. With a face like McCloskey’s, this request puzzled Bradley and every other private in the company.
With the last bed tight, the sergeant ordered everyone to dress. A tinny loudspeaker played “Reveille.” Since it was Sunday, the boys wore Class A dress uniforms. Many of the boys did not know how to tie a tie.
The boys assembled outside. McCloskey taught them how to stand in formation. The boys marched to the chow hall. The chow hall offered the boys good food, and they could have all they wanted. A big sign above the chow line said, “Take what you want, but eat what you take.” Starving, Bradley, pleading for an immense helping of everything. Foregoing conversation with God as well as with the other recruits, Bradley devoured the food quickly. Contrary to the Basic Training stereotype, he thought the food delicious. Bradley’s impatience proved fortuitous because ten minutes after the boys sat for the meal, McCloskey yelled at the privates to stand. Many of the boys barely began this early morning meal. Even the wolfish Bradley had not finished one plate. The boys carried their trays away and exited the chow hall.
Sergeant McCloskey marched them to the door of the chapel. Though the boys marched and dressed in uniforms, Sunday is not a basic training day. Sunday does not count in the days required to complete basic training.
Sergeant McCloskey dismissed the boys. The sergeant did not attend church. Attending church was optional for the trainees, Bradley Gross did. The opulent church and the nondenominational service bore little resemblance to the Missionary Baptist Church and service in the hills. Just like home, the service refreshed Bradley. Afterward, he returned to his barracks. Bradley changed into his fatigues. For the rest of the day the boys relaxed.
The next day repeated the previous one. Noise and haste met dawn like every basic training morning. The uniform of the day was fatigues. Nearly every day at basic training, the uniform of the day was fatigues. Within a few minutes, the barking sergeant hurried the boys outside into the chilly morning.
All day long the boys scrambled. While trotting through the day, the boys learned new things about the military. They ceased thinking like individuals, becoming a company of soldiers thinking as a team. For the heart of basic training is cloning. The Army takes a man in all his variations and reengineers him for Army use. Basic training removes any outward roughness from each boy so that they are all the same. If a man thought of himself as a Catholic, Texan, baker, or halfback before basic training, he became a soldier afterward. It is the birth of a new life. The womb of the Fort Knox processing center delivers the confused soldier. Mother America endures no labor pains, but the ache of delivery flows to the new being—the recruit. During basic training, the birthing continues a seemingly everlasting eight weeks. Every green recruit counts the days until basic training ends. The soldier will gladly face combat or anything else to leave basic training.
Early in the first official day, McCloskey explained that basic training ended only for the good soldier. At Fort Bragg, basic training was not an absolute eight weeks. Common punishment for serious violations of regulation resulted in a “set back” in training. For example, if the trainee advanced to his thirtieth day of training and punches another recruit, he could be “set back” to day one of his training. For this star-crossed individual, Basic Training lasted an unbearable fourteen weeks. In theory, an unruly recruit could spend his entire enlistment in Basic Training.
Basic Training is an exercise in brainwashing. Take a young man and control his surroundings. Remove everything that he knew before. Keep him running. Reduce him by exhaustion and hunger. Instill new goals, friends, and virtues. Even the language of Basic Training is new. At Basic Training, every sentence ends with “and hurry up!” as if the phrase were some form of necessary punctuation. The traditional Basic Training sentence might go like this, “Hey, (insert name of private or “Dumbass” or the combination of the two—”Private Dumbass”) Profanity, Profanity, Profanity (insert task to perform) Profanity, Profanity, and hurry up!” The Army’s plans for the private always require immediate execution. The hustle is vital to the gestation period of soldier training. When the soldier graduates from Basic Training, he is a new man.
Finally, the first day of training ended. The boys collapsed in the big hut. Some used cigarettes to burn strings from their new fatigue uniforms. Some read the training material that described the ranks and insignia of the army. Some privates used Brasso to polish their belt buckles and other brass items.
Bradley and Michael Bates sat on the floor polishing their boots. The boys learned to spit shine shoes. This process began by spitting on the boots then rubbing polish continuously over one spot until it gleamed. A strap with a buckle created severe difficulty in polishing that part of the surface. Yet, with time and patience the entire boot shone with mirror polish. Spit shining seemed to take forever. Each day the boots became scuffed and dirty requiring another shining that night. The next morning at inspection, if the boots didn’t gleam the private’s ass got chewed.
Mike and Bradley had one main goal: survive Basic Training and continue with their lives. They shared much in common. Michael Bates hailed from Lee County, Kentucky. As soon as Bradley heard this, he befriended Michael. Both of the boys were quiet and respectful. They spent the entire day trying to be invisible. The invisible soldier cannot be gigged for violations of military rules. All of the boys dodged officers and NCOs (“Non-Commissioned Officer”) to avoid demerits. The invisible soldiers studied strategy, tactics, and military implements. Occasionally, they met an officer who asked a question. The boys dreaded this. If the soldier failed to respond with the proper answer, he surrendered a signed form to the inquisitor. Thus, he was gigged. Excessive demerits constituted grounds for a set back.
The corporal entered the room, approaching Michael and Bradley. Both boys tensed and quickly snapped to attention.
“I need a volunteer for KP,” spat the corporal.
“What’s KP?” asked Bradley.
“Kitchen Patrol: military lingo for washing dishes,” said Mike Bates whose father was a veteran.
“Right, Genius,” replied the Corporal, “Since you are an authority, you are the volunteer.”
“Have a heart, Corporal, I hate washing dishes,” begged Private Bates.
“What a shame, Genius, you are now our volunteer for the rest of Basic,” taunted the corporal with a sneer.
The moral to this story is that one should never mention the word dish in Basic because someone will certainly start you washing them.