Chapter 39: Basic and Beyond

“You’re OTHER left, Randall!” My Training Instructor bellowed in my ear as I stumbled to the right while the rest of the formation wheeled left.

Most folks instinctively know their right from their left because it is hard-wired into their systems.

My internal wiring I knew the answer but it took me a moment to recall which paw was the one I used to sign my name. The writing hand is the right hand and the other hand is what’s left.

Directional hesitation is not a desired quality in the world of close-order precession drill. I ended up first-place on my instructor’s shit list.

The Marine Corps beats boys into men. The Air Force’s kinder-gentler approach dents adolescents into adulthood with less harsh measures like Red Flag Training Days: Officials canceled strenuous training whenever the August air temperature in San Antonio, Texas exceeded a hundred in the shade.

While I appreciated the consideration, I wasn’t sure the same conditions would apply if we happened to fight a war in an unpleasantly warm place. Like Vietnam.

The rules fit right in with the basic attitude of GIs. Never run when you can walk and never walk it you can ride.

One sweltering afternoon we were being trained in our ABCs (Atomic, Biological, and Chemical Warfare) and were being briefed on the latest news on nuclear war, basic stuff like what makes ‘em go bang, who’s got ‘em, and what’ll happen when they use them.

“How do I know if I survived a nuclear attack?” A worried recruit from Cleveland asked after a fifteen-minute film of glowing mushrooms flickered to a stop.

“Well, son,” the training instructor answered in a slow southern drawl as he pointed out the window, “If you see a brilliant flash of blinding white light followed by a deafening, BOOM!”

“And you look all about and ask, ‘What the fuck was that?!?’” the instructor’s eyes went wide as he paused and searched from side to side.

His expression of startled terror melted into wise understanding as, with a stage whisper, he continued, “Congratulations. You have just survived a nuclear attack.”

I did well in the classroom portion of basic training and usually scored near the top of my class. I was middle average, aside from marching, with the physical side of the equation. I wasn’t the first to cross the finish line neither was I the last.

One day, after a disastrous session of clumsy marching, my Training Instructor ordered me to one side.

“Report to Barracks 478 and give this to the Sergeant in charge. While there, I suggest that you familiarize myself with the place. It could be your new home,” he said as he handed me a sealed envelope.

There’s an old joke about a fat stubborn mule who blocked an important intersection when it sat down and refused to move.

As a crowd of people gathered, the owner and several onlookers tried everything to get the animal to get back on its feet. They pushed, pulled, and prodded the beast to no avail. It would not budge.

After several minutes, an elderly prospector offered to help.

“I can get this mule to move by whispering in its ear,” the old guy announced.

“I bet a hundred dollars in gold you can’t do it,” a wealthy rancher challenged the prospector.

“I’ll take the bet,” the old man said as he picked up a two-by-four and approached the stubborn beast and slammed it in the side of its head with his board before whispering gently in its ear.

The dazed mule got up and trotted to the side of the road.

“Whispering works, but first you gotta get his attention,” the old man laughed as he collected his winnings.

Barracks 478 was the base punishment barracks.

I stood frozen at attention as sweat poured down my face as the Sergeant in charge read the note from my training instructor. Behind him, I could see a recruit cleaning the treads on the stairs. The kid was using a worn toothbrush to remove grains of sand from the groves in the vinyl risers.

“I see from this note that I’m supposed to show you around because you might be joining us, follow me,” the man with the stripes said as he lead me into the building.

The tour was short and memorable. In the latrine, a crew of men in white boxer shorts, plastic flip-flops and matching white t-shirts were cleaning the grout between the porcelain tiles with similar toothbrushes.

“Detail, ATTENTION!,” the Sergeant commended and the men jumped to their feet.

“Do you love it here?” He bellowed.

“Sir. Yes Sir. We love it here,” the sweating men in underwear trembled as they screamed in unison.