Walker Joe 1949 at Lackland AFB, TX

BOOT CAMP

© Walker Jackson

Author's introduction: Most of this excerpt is taken from Jackson's McTrite horror mystery BLOOD TRUST. It's humorous. It's terrorfying. It actually happened.

The Receiving Headquarters

Private Jim Davis was subject to idiotic drills twenty-four hours each day, like the fire drills at three o'clock in the morning. Kitchen police (KP) was a sixteen-hour day. He always got stuck with the pots and pans detail, because the better jobs went to the first recruits on the job. There had been enough chicken dodo to last him for the rest of his life. One more training film on socially transmitted diseases would have turned him against women for an eternity. On the first day of his furlough, after basic training, he would sleep ‘til noon, and have breakfast in bed with a girl friend.

The camaraderie was spirited. Private Jim Davis met some likable young Americans, who were musicians like Davis. Bill Stevens, a drummer from Philadelphia, who was kin to Kay Starr, a big band singer, who hit it big with her recording of "Wheel of Fortune." Stan Resnik from Reading, Pennsylvania, who played trumpet and loved classical music. Stan was not kin to anyone famous, but he’d mastered the techniques for playing trumpet. There were really thirty-three other likable men in Platoon 3010. They were all kin to somebody. They all had mothers and all possessed some individual talents, but Davis hung out with the two Dutchmen, Bill and Stan.

The fire drill spawned more excitement than a three-ring circus. The Platoon or drill sergeant sounded the fire alarm at some ungodly hour of the early morning. Thirty-six recruits would bust their asses dressing and break legs leaving the barracks to line up on the road dressed in ponchos, boots, caps, and regulation underclothes. The platoon had sixty seconds to complete the drill. If anyone was found improperly dressed, the troupes were ordered back to bed only to have the ordeal repeated later. How did the platoon sergeant know the troupes were all wearing underclothes? The order was, "lift ponchos, huh!"

One night the ordeal was repeated three times. On the second try, an egghead was found naked under his poncho. Joe thought the recruit had been playing with himself when the blood curdling alarm sounded and couldn't stop. One basic training will last an eternity and one fire drill is too many. Several years later Joe watched the cancan being performed in a Paris cabaret and he remembered the "lift ponchos" notion when the girls lifted their costumes. Interestingly, the cancan girls would have been sent back to bed.

Five homespun fledging and Joe prepared to disembark the GI bus that had brought them from the train station to the Recruit Receiving Station. No one appeared overjoyed with the prospects of what waited inside. They'd all read about the GI physicals and other preliminaries. The day was Saturday, about noon, and they wished this large building were a mess hall, where  cooks were preparing gourmet treats to satisfy our youthful appetites. Two of these kids had long, wavy hair, and they fidgeted nervously, knowing most of it was going to end up on the deck. When the army barber finishes forget the little dab.

Inside, the line started at a counter running across the wide side of the rectangular room. The first quartermaster ordered them to gather their personal things and toiletries, strip to the skin, and give him all but the personal stuff for safe keeping until after boot-camp. A box was provided for our personal items.

Joe felt mortified standing in line with five other men naked as Jaybirds, while four quartermasters, fully clothed, eyed them for clothing sizes. Standing there without one stitch of clothing or towel was absolute exposure without alternatives. He tried hard not to appear nervous. He wondered why it bothered him at all. What the hell, he thought, this is the way we greet the world. He didn't know that the other recruits were just as uncomfortable; all had an inclination to implement the fig leaf pose, but too macho to do it.

The line moved slowly to the next quartermaster who passed out regulation clothing. Joe would have had to close his eyes not to notice men are endowed in varying degree of sufficiency. He mused, is it because women are all physically different? Joe's ABCs, about S-E-X, were terribly immature. His only sexual encounter had been with the girl who took him to the Senior Prom. Unfortunately, he had experienced premature ejaculation and sudden flaccidity in Audubon Park after the prom. Joe smiled thinking, close but no cigar.

He didn't know a woman could achieve sexual satisfaction from only slight penetration. He would learn this later and know that God did women a favor from the looks of two of these recruits. Now, he knew his uncomfortable feelings and apprehension stemmed from one potent instinct of the male species, egomania, and the barroom betting mentality. He would have felt less apprehensive had his dangle ended closer to his knees.

Arriving at the clothing point, he waited anxiously to receive his regulation apparel, GI drab. The buck sergeant looked him over a few times. Joe hoped he was trying to figure out his sizes and wasn't perverted. He asked Joe the size of his head, neck, chest, waist, foot and the length of his inside leg. Joe wasn't sure about the latter and sarge came around with a tape to measure.

"Spread your legs!"

"Yessir!" He flinched. Sarge’s hands felt like polar bear claws. When sarge returned, he started gathering clothing to match Joe's sizes and lengths.

Joe waited patiently, suppressing a notion to ask the sergeant if he'd taken all the measurements necessary. He'd observed sarge's red, weepy eyes, and surmised he'd probably had one hell-of-a-night at the Non-Commissioned Officer Club, the night before. His sense of humor was apt to be soured by the crappy taste in his mouth and the fire in his belly. It wouldn't take much to infuriate this man. And Sarge might think Joe's question was stupid. He’d heard that one size fits all. Then Joe noticed the black kid among us.

Sarge assembled fatigues, khaki shirts and pants, fatigue hats, dress caps, belts, socks, ties, handkerchiefs, brasses, OD underclothes, OD towels, OD wash rags, poncho, two pairs of boots, one pair of brown dress shoes and a duffel bag, but no rubbers. That was taken care of later with the showing of several graphic films depicting sexual diseases at various stages of progression. The flicks, alone, were sufficient to suppress his desire for sex. Well, after a six-pack…

Sarge ordered them to pack everything away in duffel bags, except one complete fatigue outfit. Then, we were ordered to dress in under shorts. Slipping on the shorts, Joe wondered if his fellow recruits had lockjaw. These were the quietest and shyest five men he'd ever encountered, but he realized this was a new experience for them, and there was much uncertainty in their lives for the moment. The fact that they'd been nude had heightened our shyness.

Everyone seemed more relaxed dressed in under shorts as we continued packing our regulation clothing. The sergeant, from the clothing counter, yelled at the top of his lungs, "Hey! Recruits! When I call your name, get your butt over here and get your dog-tags. Jones, Johnston, Green..." and finally he heard "McTrite." He marched smartly across the room.

Looking at the tags, he noticed there was a tooth slot cut out on one end. The slot was there so the tag could be placed between the teeth of a battlefield dead GIs. He surmised one of the tags was for the record and the other for identification. He shivered at the thought as he placed the tags around his neck. Returning to his duffel bag to finish packing, Joe prayed the tags would never be used for the purpose intended.

Another sergeant opened the door on the left side and shouted, "OK, recruits, through here for your shower, physical, and hair cut. Make it snappy!"

Entering the shower room, Joe found soap, clean towels, wash rags, and benches to sit on in the dry-off room. He grabbed the soap and a wash cloth and was first in the shower. After regulating the water to as hot as he could stand it, He stood under it, allowing the hot water to penetrate deep into his muscles. It was heavenly. He felt a sense of privacy for the first time since he'd shed his clothes.

Joe had nearly finished washing the soap off when a sergeant screamed at the top of his lungs, "All right, you dog-faces, get the lead out. The Major is waiting for you."

Six bodies changed cadence instantly, quickly dried off, and headed in the direction the pungent voice had come from. They entered a large, mostly vacant room. There was a doctor dressed in a white apron standing near a table loaded with syringes, needles, cotton swabs, tongue depressors, vials of medicine, and etceteras. They formed another line to undergo a typical army physical. He ended up fourth in line. He tried to relax, realizing it would be a few minutes before his turn came. He'd heard a comical version of the GI physical. One doctor looks down your mouth and another looks up your lower orifice and, if they don't see each other, you pass. However, he noticed this asinine description was a farce as he observed the physical being performed on the first guy in line.

The doctor took his blood pressure, pulse, and checked his chest several places with the stethoscope. He grabbed a tongue depressor and looked down the recruit's mouth. Next, he reached for an instrument and inspected the recruit's eyes, ears and nose. Then, he pushed around on the guy's stomach. Now, the recruit had dropped his shorts. After the doctor finished pulling on some rubber gloves on his right hand, he pushed his index finger and middle finger up the recruit's groin and asked him to turn his head and cough. Joe knew the doctor was feeling for ruptures. He'd learned this when he underwent a physical for the high school tennis team.

The Doctor dipped his middle finger in Vaseline and, after the recruit turned his backside, he proceeded to shove the middle finger up the recruit's rectum. Joe wasn't sure what the doctor hoped to discover. He turned to the sleepy eyed, towhead behind him and asked, "What the hell was that all about?"

"I'm not sure, McTrite. I think it has something to do with the prostate gland," answered Green in an accent sounding much like he was from Virginia; Oot and aboot. A few shots followed the prostate finger wave and it was over. Joe couldn't wait.

After the physicals, which was passed by all, they were ordered to dress in fatigues. After dressing, Joe felt relieved and for the first time he relaxed. He'd been miserable moping around with it all hanging out. The new fatigues felt comfortable, but fit loose as a croaker sack. GI issues you know.

Haircuts were next. Waiting in line, Joe noticed several recruits ahead with beautiful heads of hair. He saw them flinching as they watched locks of hair falling to the floor. After haircuts, all six skin heads were directed to return to the first room, where a cadre staff sergeant waited, looking like he was prepared to give a lecture, and he was. "Light 'em if you got 'em," he yelled.

His command was music to Joe's ears. He was about to have a nicotine fit. Fumbling for his pack, the recruit near offered him a smoke and a light.

"Thank, you, soldier."

"Don't mention it."

"You men have come to Fort Hood to undergo thirteen weeks of intensive and extensive training. These are going to be thirteen of the toughest weeks you'll face in your entire life. You'll think this earth is hell, but we're going to make men out of you or kill you. You will be very proud of yourself when you graduate and receive your promotion to Pfc. Are any of you recruits musicians?"

One pimply-faced brunette raised his hand. "I’ll get back to you. I'm assigning each of you a Platoon number. You will leave this place and the bus driver will take each of you to your assigned barracks. Once there, you will join thirty-five other men who are going to share all the fun -" and he laughed a dirty little snicker - "over the next thirteen weeks with you. Hey, the musician who raised his hand, what do you play?" He cleared his throat. "The skin flute?"

The recruits guffawed. Before the kid could reply sarge quickly added, "I'm only kidding, son. What's your name?"

"John Johnston." The kid's face was a beet. His blood boiled. Steam came out of facial orifices.

"OK, Private Johnston, we have a special platoon for musicians. If you like, you can volunteer for the band platoon."

Joe had heard the expression, volunteer. Later he would learn, in the service, you never volunteer unless it might be for leave. And you'll expire waiting for this offer. Usually, the platoon leader says. "I need three volunteers." Pointing he says. "You! You! And you!"

Johnston thought for a moment. "That's fine by me, Sarge. Is the skin flute Government Issue?"

This comment drew a soft chuckle from the recruits. Sarge's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. Johnston had severed a nerve. Sarge looked peeved to put it mildly. Sarge then read off six names and assigned barrack numbers to each. "Good luck, men."

GUARD DUTY

"Lee, after last night's fiasco and this morning's humiliation, I'm wound tighter than a coo coo clock. I know some menacing evil lurks ahead," drawled Private Jim Davis louder than normal, revealing his Georgia origin. The Mess Hall was crowded with three hundred hungry recruits complaining about the take-it or leave-it entree.

"I can imagine," Private Lee Carter said through a mouth full of liver, "your luck's been pretty bad, lately." His bronze face had Florida painted all over it.

"That’s putting it mildly, I'm about ready to climb the fence and haul ass."

"Forget it, Jim. We all get bad breaks occasionally."

"Lee, I hate liver and onions as much as Sergeant Taylor, but I'm starved."

"I'm less than thrilled. Mom made me eat this crap, and I finally acquired a taste for it. She made me eat spinach, too. I still hate it."

"I can't believe you guys didn't miss me in formation this morning?" Davis said, slugging down half a glass of tea.

"Yeah! It's really strange. Might'a been 'cause Sergeant Taylor went back to sleep after the CQ woke his grumpy ass. He panicked when he saw First Sarge Owens approaching. Did my heart good to see him between shit and sweat."

"Yeah! He shakes like a waltzing ferret around Owens. And I know why. Owens' is nuttier than a fruitcake. He's more gung-ho than Taylor."

Hearing gung-ho, Davis' eyes darkened with malice. The bizarre events of the last fifteen hours pushed everything else from his thoughts.

This balmy Texas afternoon was smothery. The atmospheric humidity 90 percent and climbing. Intense thunderstorms were forecast. It conjured visions of dread. The humidity in Davis’ underwear had already exceeded 100 percent.

Promptly at 7 p.m. two troupe trucks arrived. Sergeant Taylor, the barracks’ drill sergeant, ordered the platoon to grab rifles and form on the road out front. Taylor followed minutes later. He swaggered to within six feet of the recruits standing roughly in formation.

A wiry, medium built man, he stood five-feet-nine inches above the ground. His egg-shaped face featured high cheekbones, a beak nose, and dull stupid eyes. Davis estimated he'd left his mother's womb twenty-eight years earlier and had landed smack on top of his head. Wasn't that he was stupid, Davis didn't like him, neither did the other thirty-one recruits. They didn’t know that drill sergeants were trained to be impersonal and intimidating.

Taylor wore a cap and two-piece fatigues and carried an 18-inch pointer under his left armpit. The fatigues were starched and pressed to knife-edges. His shoes were spit shined. Even the buttons on his fatigues were polished. And he felt certain his pants zipper had been pressed and shined. Sergeant Taylor was one sharply dressed son-of-a-gun.

He stopped six feet from the platoon and started slapping his right thigh with the pointer. Davis eagerly watched.

"Whack!"

Damn, he missed.

"Whack!"

Damn, he missed again.

"Whack!"

He can’t hit the side of a barn with a base fiddle much less . . .

Davis and thirty-one recruits had held their breath. The disappointing sign in unison told the story. Taylor had stuck the pointer under his left armpit. All thirty-two recruits had thought of a more desirable place.

A tenor in tights fittingly described the product of Taylor’s vocal cords, and the troops gritted their teeth to deny a grin. Davis didn’t think he was queer, as in homosexual, but he was strange. He loved Stan Kenton's big band. Maaan, that band was way out in space.

"Tonight you men will get a taste of what guard duty is all about. It's serious duty. You might be protecting valuable property, guarding vital secrets, meetings, locations and equipment. In the battle zone, you might be standing watch while the rest of your Company sleeps or eats chow. This duty is crucial to the success of missions. And the safety of many is at risk. Vacating a post is a court marshal offense punishable by death by firing squad, unless the men get you first." After a few more minor details, he finally wound down. He took a deep breath and barked, ‘Mount your truck!"

Davis’ squad headed for the second truck as assigned. Two minutes later quads had pilled into trucks, which were started with loud growls, and they headed in opposite directions.

Passing the women's training area, thoughts of all those young, shapely, sweet smelling ladies intruded on Davis' thoughts. He hadn't touched a woman in eight weeks and it took little more than a stiff wind these days to set off his pocket pal.

Maybe my guard post will be nearby. Although, in this darkness, the chances are slim to none that I will see anything.

The truck rolled on. Soon they reached a power distribution center. When the truck stopped, two recruits grabbed rifles and alighted. It went on like this ‘til Davis’ turn came. He gripped his rifle as the truck pulled to another squeaky stop. He moved to the rear and jumped to the ground. Looking around, Davis viewed an amp theater where some of the special USO events were staged. He'd seen Gene Krupa's big band here earlier.

The sun escaped the horizon. Twilight followed dusk and the surroundings faded into a black hole. Not one sliver of moon lightened the night and perhaps this was a godsend. The presence of a moon would produce creepy shadows. Davis could not ignore the ominous black clouds moving toward the theater. A feeling of dread suddenly possessed him. He thought of friendlier things, his home in Georgia and the girl friend he’d left behind.

The time was a few minutes past eight. His assignment was to guard the theater, the area surrounding it, and keep it secure ‘til shortly after midnight. He knew USO shows, during World War Two, were staged in similar facilities.

Bob Hope and his troupe of endowed starlets are scheduled to entertain here tomorrow. The troops have been looking forward to this for weeks. I’ve been entrusted with an important assignment.

He was earnestly trying to get into the spirit of the duty.

Civilization was several miles away and, except for one frightened jack rabbit spotted running for dear life, there was little to bridge the gap between life and loneliness.

Of course, this stupid guard duty game is play-acting. There’s no real enemy out there. Wrong! His senses screamed.

There’s the darkness, the deathly mysterious quiet, snakes, spiders, and conceivably other wild things, even more heinous, lurking in the darkness. The white amp theater, with its tall background wall, stood like a giant ghost.

Davis would have felt safer if the rifle had been loaded.

He had been preoccupied with the scenario and had forgotten about the high-energy storm inching in his direction. Sudden gusts of wind kicked-up, blasting open a stage door on the backdrop wall. It started banging driven by howling, angry wind. He walked down to secure it, fearing the noise might wake the dead. Walking toward the ghostly structure, Davis was glad to be wearing heavy, high-top boots, knowing the rattlesnake was a native Texan. He stomped hard, hoping to frighten away any deadly snakes lying in his path.

The wind powerful as he pushed against it. His existence threatened by frequent flashes of lightening that leaped from the sky with lethal intent, and the resulting thunder jolted his body. The dreadful storm inched closer -- closer -- closer. Davis knew because only two seconds elapsed between the last flash and the thunder clasps. A rule of thumb he used as a child, to decide when it was time to get under the bed, was five seconds equal one mile.

Oh! My! The storm is only two thousand feet away now.

"RRRRRRRR!"

He froze in mid stride. He slowly brought his right foot back even with his left.

What do I do now? I march backward just as fast as my legs will move.

He executed. He didn’t know he could move this fast backward.

Now, what do I do? I can stay here amidst the trees and get electrocuted or I can stomp the ground and continue.

He stomped the ground, did a column right, walked ten paces, did a column left, and continued.

Davis reached the structure and climbed the stairs to the stage. The right door had been blown open. He crept across the stage trying to avoid stumbling blocks. When he reached the door, he felt around to discover the latch tongue had sheered the female cavity. He knew, without tools, repairing the door would be impossible. He regressed. He said out loud, "The latch tongue has sheered the female cavity."

Basic Training is getting to me. I think I’m demented.

Sheets of rain fell from the sky and lightning proliferated. The new enemy had arrived. Guard duty had turned into a real nightmare. Davis reached for the poncho strung around his middle and donned it. Afraid of being struck by lightning, he scanned the large open area and saw no safer haven. The time had come to get under the bed.

The flash blinded Davis for an instant. Sixty feet from the stage a thirty-foot high oak tree lit up like a Christmas tree and split in half. Thunder rattled the tall backdrop. For a moment, the thought of it tumbling on top of him sent an urgent message to his feet.

Run, Davis run. Outrun lightening? Maaan, that will take a miracle.

Davis elected to sit in the middle of the stage with his back against the tall wall. If lightning should strike the wall, and this was highly probable it being the tallest point, he knew it wouldn't travel through the structure. He prepared mentally to weather the full brunt of the storm, which was close enough now to touch, if it didn't reach out and touch him first.

Suddenly, as he had predicted, a silver streak struck the top of the theater and split apart. Silver off shoots shrouded him. The scent of ozone filled his nostrils. His hair stood on end. He felt a burning sensation on his naked face. His ears rang. For a split instant he thought of death. He breathed deeply. He felt his pulse. He pinched his buttock. "I’m alive. I’m alive." He looked heavenly. "Thank you, God."

The hour dragged on forever. The stage door continued banging and the monotony was driving Davis insane. During a flash of lightening, he noticed the two hands of his Elgin resting near the twelve. He looked in the direction from which the truck would approach. He saw no lights.

"Where the hell are they? I’m tired of this lethal make believe. I want to have a look at my hair and face. And I’m dead tired and sleepy.

Another thirty miserable minutes passed like an eternity.

What the hell has gone wrong? Did I misunderstand the assignment? Surely I'm not expected to pull eight straight hours of this crap? I would love to get the dumbbell responsible by the throat and choke him or her giddy. Who am I kidding? I’d end up in the brig. Lowly privates jump through their butts at the whim of superiors. Why the hell did I join the army? I know. I was conned by their ad: Good pay, travel and training. Sureee, training. This is training?

I‘ll be expected to rise at five for more training classes or perhaps a new health flick, depicting some horrible new venereal disease to further suppress man’s libido. I’ll need to be fresh. I’m through with guard duty. Let the enemy have the damn theater he kidded. I’m going to take a nap.

His eyelids were heavy and light sleep came quickly.

A chorus of snarls startled Davis to wakefulness. He sprung to his feet. His eyes swept the area for no avail. He grabbed the rifle and walked to the edge of the stage. The snarls became louder and proliferated. The darkness yielded only darkness.

A flash of lightening illuminated the area. He saw a small pack of timber wolves bunched at the base of the theater. He knew why the rabbit ran for dear life.

Damn! No bullets.

He didn’t panic. He felt safe holding the higher ground. Then, he heard the creek of a step on the stairs leading to the stage.

Now I panic. Where is the lightening when I need it?

He rotated the rifle one hundred and eighty degrees and dashed to the top of the stairs. He grabbed he rifle’s barrel with both hands and raised it level with his shoulder. He saw only death below.

The wolf holds the edge with its instincts. God, please, one more streak of lightening.

He started trembling. The rifle felt like six. His stomach rolled slowly.

God, please.

His heart pounded and tore at his chest.

Flash!

He saw one sixty-pound wolf two steps below bearing long sharp teeth. He leaned down and forward and swung the rifle with as must might and agility as he could muster. He caught the wolf on the side of his head, sending it sprawling off the stairs and yelping. He retreated to the middle of the stage.

The piercing sound of a truck’s horn drew his attention. The lights were like a beacon from heaven. In seconds the snarls yielded to the pitter-patter of paws hightailing for the thicket.

Thank God! The damn army is coming to take me away from this hell.

There had been no snipers or infiltrators with sharp knives to fear, but the lightning, a pack of hungry wolves and potential encounters with poisonous snakes would suffice for beginners. Could the real thing be more perilous? Davis had no desire to find out.

He stretched, rose to his feet, lit a cigarette, and checked the time. "Damn! It's two-forty-five," he shouted at scrub oak trees. "It's high time someone showed-up."

Davis figured by the time he reached the barracks and hit the sack, it would be a little after three. He would get less than four hours of sleep, counting the catnap he'd just stolen, and he would be expected to be up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. To say he was incensed about the oversight is grossly insufficient.

The storm had moved down the road and millions of stars winked and blinked above. Davis smiled, relieved, remembering another song and bellowed it at the darkness:

"The stars at night

Are big and bright.

Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!

Deep in the heart of Texas."

Davis grabbed his rifle, rose to his feet and signaled the truck to come get him. He could’ve walked down the hill, but paranoia precluded it. The darkness crawled with predators. It had been one incredibly terrifying night. He prayed to God that he'd never be called to do guard duty in a war zone?

The truck slowed to a stop, and Davis joined the soldier in the cab. He'd hardly sat when he started his hostile attack. "Where the hell have you been?" He asked with a blistering tongue. "I was supposed to be finished with this stupidity three hours ago."

"Lighten up, guy. Mistakes happen. I'm sorry. I brought a thermos of coffee. Have a cup. I'll get you to the barracks in a jiffy."

The Pfc. came across friendly thanks to his baby face and gentle smile.

"No thanks, coffee will keep me awake. Where‘re you from?"

"Texas."

"I’m from Georgia. Did you have to pull guard duty during basic?"

"Yeah. Piece of cake. I was dropped near the women recruit area. You know their barracks don’t have blinds. Oh! My! The sites I saw."

Some people have all the luck, but I’m not mad at him anymore. It’s more like envy now.

Davis startled awake. His eyes focused on Taylor, stooping over him shaking him violently. The barrack was empty. He was panic-stricken. He'd slept through the wake up call.

"What the Sam-hell are you doing in bed, Private Davis?" Taylor bellowed, in an odious voice. He glared down into his face. Taylors big red nose told the story. He was a heavy drinker.

The atmosphere had turned colder than the Arctic Circle. Taylor eyes glazed over with rage, and Davis feared this man had flipped. Sudden remembrances of Taylor’s reputation for being a hard-ass kindled feelings of panic. Everyone thought this man was schizophrenic.

Before Davis could speak in his defense, Taylor blurted, "You have one minute to put on your fatigues and join me on the back stoop. Bring a damn toothbrush." His tone became harsher with each word. Davis obeyed, dreading his consequence.

Taylor returned from the supply room with a bucket of water and soap. Private Davis had reached the back stoop minutes earlier and waited with his toothbrush poised. Taylor had fire in his eyes. He set the bucket of water and soap near Davis. Davis wanted to tell him about the seven hours of guard duty he'd pulled the night before, but Taylor’s hardened demeanor looked impenetrable. Taylor gave Davis a cold, pop-eyed stare.

"Okay, Private Davis. Here's what you're going to do for your laziness and disobedience. You're going to GI the two steps and stoop with the toothbrush on your hand and knees. When you are done, it will be clean enough to eat chow on. You got that, private."

" Yes sir, but ... "

"No buts. I don't want to here your feeble excuses." Taylor was playing hard ball, mean and nasty.

Defending his position seemed hopeless. This jerk was crazed. Davis decided to accept the unfair punishment without protest, denying this lunatic satisfaction. He fell to his knees and started brushing the first step.

Cleaning the stoop was mentally demeaning, humiliating, and physically painful. Fortunately, he'd been toughened by years of sports and farm work. He could endure the physical ordeal. Hell, Davis had picked cotton on his knees for hours. This physical task was a breeze, but the humiliation was insufferable.

At least Davis had time to think about his current world.

Joining the army has been a big mistake. The blind authority expected is way over the limits of my tolerance. Here I am cleaning a back stoop with a toothbrush for some crazy, screwed up sergeant who wouldn't allow one word of explanation. The army should be more responsible concerning who is assigned positions of authority.

Progress was extremely slow, and sweat streamed down his face. His fatigues were wet through and through. He was mad enough to cry. The summer sun blazed from the sky, and the temperature exceeded one hundred degrees. Happy thoughts of the fifteen-hour liberty, on Saturday, lifted Davis’ spirit while he scrubbed.

Taylor stood over him like a hardened prison guard, keeping the water pail full. At one point, he left and was gone for twenty minutes. When he returned, Davis had started the second step.

Where's the pervert been? I can only imagine. He went somewhere to play with himself. This sadistic act aroused him.

Bristles appeared in the swept path of the brush. He’d not seen them with the sweat in his eyes. He stopped momentarily and looked at the brush. Half of the bristles were gone. Now, he knew why progress had slowed. The idea that the brush was disintegrating spawned instant exhilaration. He pressed really hard and the rest of the bristles came out.

Davis raised the brush. "Sarge, the toothbrush has disintegrated," smirked Davis, trying to hide his glee.

Taylor reached for the toothbrush and inspected it thoroughly. "Hell, they don’t make things like they use to. Stay where you are. I think I have another used toothbrush in my room," he said, springing to the second step.

No sooner than Taylor was inside, Davis rose, grabbed the bucket of water and poured water on the second step. He grabbed the soap and soaped the middle generously. He assumed his original position and awaited Taylor’s return.

Taylor burst through the door and took two steps on the stoop. When his left foot hit the step he slipped and went sprawling on his ass. Davis looked away and choked a guffaw.

"You alright, Sarge?"

"Yeah, I think so. The cheeks of my buttocks hurt like hell. I didn’t find another brush. You’re getting off light, Davis. Go get cleaned up so you can join your platoon for chow. This will make you think twice about ever pulling a sleep-in stunt again."

Davis listened, struggling to control the contempt he felt for this pop-eyed, stupid, animal, and left for the shower. A bass voice could be heard over the sound of spraying water.

"You’re in the army now.

You’re not behind a plow.

You may have fun, you son-of-gun.

You’re in the army now."

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