Maybe the heat drove everyone to madness. Maybe love springs infernal. Whatever the cause, everyone seemed to be smitten. Every day a breakup, every day a new beginning, a drama and a happy-ending. Luckily, I was above all of it, since Ganger quit speaking to me after I asked to see her teeth.
The four platoons in the company were gathered on the parade area, a giant slab of blacktop, so hot that the tar turned to gelatin. Drill Sergeant Pint parked our platoon on the blacktop, letting us cook like bacon strips.
The couples slid beside each other. At this point the norm had become open defiance to fraternization rules. At every wiggle I received a counseling statement, while the hollowness of justice ignored the quartet of West, Shipman, Waters, and Vang, who titillated each other without as much as a chiding.
Through the cracks in the blacktop, weeds grew out in various places. A fistful of snapdragons and daisies were growing in the center of our platoon. Normal, sane people ignore such growth as only a nuisance on an otherwise fine parade field. Waters, however, not only noticed it, but gathered them up as a bouquet for Vang.
One of the snapdragon's attracted a honey bee that had flown into the scene. Dazed by the heat, Waters, Vang and West watched this bee. Vang said, "Look, honey, a bee!"
Waters laughed. Worse than that - he guffawed. Shipman and West, sitting quietly beside each other, turned around and faced Waters and Vang. I sat next to West.
"Isn't it something," Waters said, as he typically began any statement, full of musing, "that flowers can grow out of concrete? It just shows you that made-made things are not as strong as nature."
I covered my ears to watch First Platoon implode on the parade field. I seemed the only soldier concerned about winning the Drill & Ceremony competition. The lovers watched the bee for another minute, until Drill Sergeant Pint walked through the ranks and interrupted them by accident. After ordering Vang to drop the bouquet, Pint crushed the flowers with his boot.
Drill Sergeant Pint watched First Platoon carefully and narrated their errors like he was Bob Costas at the Olympics.
"The judges are tough, Privates," he said, standing amid the nature lovers. The bee hovered safely around Pint's shiny boots, waiting for him to move his feet off the flower.
"Drink water," he commanded.
That morning, I had shined my boots, taking Pfeffer's words to heart, but because I spent a half hour spitting on my boots, I forgot to fill my canteens with water before we moved out.
"When you go to 'Open Ranks,'" said Pint, "move with purpose. The Command Sergeant Major will have a few questions for you. Answer with confidence and don't fudge your answers."
"Drill Sergeant?"
"Yes, Shipman."
"What if someone doesn't know the answer?"
"Haven't you been reading your Smart Book?"
"Yes, Drill Sergeant," Shipman said. "But I'm asking for everyone, Drill Sergeant."
"God have mercy on those who don't know."
I said, "Shipman knows everything."
"Is that right, Sprungli?" Pint looked down at me. "Ok genius, if you're such a smartass, what's the maximum effective range of the M-16-A2 rifle?"
The rifle was sitting next to me. I answered, "Twelve parsecs."
"The answer is five hundred fifty meters. In fact, Sprungli, if the Sergeant Major asks you anything, this is what you say to him: 'I don't know, Sergeant Major, but I'll find out and tell you the next time I see you.' Got it?"
"Sure, Drill Sergeant."
"Sure. Sure is a deodorant. Do push-ups. Oh wait, you have a profile. How could I forget. Never mind, Sprungli," said Pint, cowed at his own reminder.
"No, I'll do pushups," I said, getting down.
"You will?" said Pint. "Good, Sprungli. Good dog!" He patted my head. "Make a killer out of you yet."
I banged out some pushups to show everyone the new Sprungli. Others observed me, I could feel it, and they knew I had the option to sit, but here pushed Sprungli. Absorbing their admiration, I pushed - I did pushups until muscle failure, then put my knees down and continued to the second tier of muscle failure.
"Privates," Pint continued while I bounced off the pavement, "if men are to give their best in war they must be united." Pint quoted his favorite Field Marshall, Harold Alexander. "Discipline, through drill, seeks to instill into all ranks this sense of unity, by requiring them to obey orders as one man. A ceremonial parade, moreover, provides an occasion for men to express pride in their performance, pride in the Company and pride in the profession of arms."
During this speech, West became preoccupied with something dangling from Drill Sergeant's Pint backside. From my push-up position, at first I thought it was another spider, but the closer I looked, I realized that it was a string dangling from Pint's pants.
West's fascination with the dangling string became an interest to those around her, including me. The string dangled like any string, but then, this was no string. It was the loose string of vindication. This string, after seven weeks of hearing the Drill Sergeants' complaints, was the equivalent of a flaw in a Crown Jewel. This string was like a Westminster dogshow winner lifting its leg on the podium, or a centerfold minus the airbrush, or Mario crashing his Kart when the checkered flag flew, or a seed in a well-packed pipe.
The string was an imperfection.
Confronted with this dangling thread, West decided to take one end of the string between her fingers and pull at it. She pulled on the string as if she wanted to remove it, giving it a short tug, but only the fabric around Pint's rear lifted and then settled again, fluffing his pants. She tugged again, slightly harder. The fabric rose and fell, airing Pint once again. On her third try, West seemed more determined. She wrapped the string around her finger, once, twice, three loops, and she pulled with force, which produced a ripping zipper sound that moved downward, unthreading the back of Pint's pants.
In disbelief, West looked at the long string in her fingers. A spool's worth. Then she gazed up at Pint, who suddenly felt a draft. In confusion, he spun around twice, giving everyone a view of his underwear. Pint, the American hero, wore boxer shorts - yet another violation of regulations. As soon as he realized what had occurred, he covered himself with the back of both hands, and then high-tailed it, backwards, away from the platoon, and he ordered West to follow him to explain the incident. She apologized repeatedly, holding the string in her hands like an injured child.
The laughing in our platoon drew Drill Sergeant Orta and Drill Sergeant Pfeffer over to our platoon. "Laugh now, knuckleheads. You're up next," Pfeffer said, and then moved back to his own platoon.
At last, it was our turn to show off our marching discipline. The heat battered my shoulders. All the pushups made me light-headed. Even after Pint had left the slab, I continued doing pushups every few minutes. The admiration of my squad became intoxicating, so I kept banging out pushups whenever my arms regained some strength.
During the competition, I had difficulty standing still while we were at the position of "Dress-Right, Dress." West grunted at me, "Stop moving." The position required me to hold my arm straight out to the side, but my arm could not stop wavering, moving up and down like a tachometer on a gear shift in Pole Position or Burnout. Somehow I fended off the dizziness and completed the competition, but I'm not sure I remembered any of it. The Sergeant Major visited me and I suddenly felt possessed. I stood at Inspection Arms.
"Soldier, what's the Second General Order?"
I said, "I will obey my special orders and perform all of my duties in a military manner."
"That's correct, Private," said the Sergeant Major.
A gasp came from my whole platoon.
The Sergeant Major leaned closer and sniffed me. He muttered, "Good answer. But…are you drunk, soldier? You're slurring your speech."
"Drunk?" I asked, feeling a laugh coming on. "Not yet," I said.
The Sergeant Major
squinted at me for a few seconds and then his chiseled face softened into a smile. "I like you, Sprungli," said the Sergeant Major. "You got the right answers and a hell of fight in you. Good job. I'm going to let your Drill Sergeants know they got a soldier in their platoon."
Once finished, we sat on the blacktop again and several Privates slapped me on the back for answering the question. Others scolded me for my second answer about being drunk. I couldn't stop laughing. In fact, I couldn't stop laughing at anything that happened. A bird flew over the parade field and I rolled over on my side until tears came out of my eyes. I stopped sweating. Sunlight began to change colors. To soothe myself, I attempted to blow bubbles, but my mouth was parched. The world turned into a stereo kaleidoscope.
"Are you ok, Sprungli?" Shipman said, holding my head in his hands. "Where's your canteen? Oh my God, you need water."
"Huh?" I said, unaware of my surroundings.
"I think you are overheated, Sprungli."
A pair of Privates escorted me to a shade tree, and they doused me with their open canteens, and I giggled as if being tickled for twenty minutes.
Chapter 21. Notes