Chapter 14
“My name is Sergeant Major Ethan Calibre. You will call me Range Master. I will call you pissant. If you hear me say pissant, you will make eye contact with me before making any other physical motion. Have I made myself cuh-lear?”
Sergeant Calibre appeared to be about seventy years old. His hair was white, and he wore a massive handle-bar mustache that was completely out of regs. His hands and face had age spots. But he stood straight and proud, and his shoulders were almost as broad as Chun’s.
Chun’s platoon responded with an organized “Yes, Range Master.”
Except for Wrongway, who screamed, “Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
Sergeant Calibre seemingly teleported to Wrongway. “What the fuck did you just call me? Do I look like a blind, syphilitic, monkey-humping pile of unwashed asshole to you, pissant?”
“No, Drill… Master.” Wrongway’s voice cracked as he flinched.
Good grief, Wrongway. They always introduce themselves, and then you repeat what they told you to repeat. I wonder how many pushups I have to do for this.
“Private Kang.” Sergeant Aindry sneered before delivering the expected punishment, “Do pushups until Wrongway gets something right.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.” Chun dropped and started pushing.
“Apologies, Range--” Wrongway started.
“You will shut your hole, or I will fuck start you, Pissant.” Calibre slammed a finger into Wrongway’s chest.
Chun sensed Wrongway open his mouth, Calibre tensed, and Wrongway closed his mouth and nodded vigorously.
“Your name is Private Wrongway?” Calibre stepped back and spat.
Wrongway nodded again.
“Your mouth privileges are revoked for the day, Pissant Wrongway. You will keep your lips sealed, or I will sew them shut.”
Well, that makes it difficult for Wrongway to get something right.
Chun resigned himself to pushing for the rest of the day.
“You, Pissant.” Calibre’s voice sounded from above Chun. Chun craned his head to make eye contact while pushing. “Mother Earth needs a break. Stop humping her and pay attention, if you can.”
“Yes, Range Master.” Chun popped back to attention.
Now what? He didn’t do that to be nice.
Calibre returned to the bench at the front of the formation where he held up a rifle. “This is a Hornsby A11. It is chambered for .30 caliber ammunition. It features a seven-round tube magazine, bolt action, iron sights, bayonet mount, and a classic wooden stock that comes in ash, oak, maple, and if you are very special, cherry. It is a fine weapon. Much better than any of you pissants deserve.”
Calibre set the rifle down and picked up a cartridge. “This is a field-issue copper-jacketed .30 caliber by 2.62-inch cartridge. You pissants will not touch one of these cartridges during basic training. Those of you who go on to the infantry, God’s chosen, will train with these. The rest of you filth are wasting my time.”
He picked up a second cartridge. “This is a standard lead training round. It too is .30 caliber by 2.62-inches. The lead fouls the barrels, and the low-grade powder gunks up the rest. This is by design. If you useless fucks cannot clean training residue out of your rifles and maintain battle readiness at all times, you deserve to die.”
The rest of the lesson was about muzzle awareness, trigger discipline, and safety tips like not putting your ammunition in a fire.
They have to say that out loud? I guess when you have Wrongway in your unit, it pays to be specific.
The final part of the class was disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling the rifle.
Calibre focused on Chun. “Private Pissant.”
“Yes, Range Master.”
“Come up here and demonstrate today’s lesson.”
“Yes, Range Master.”
Chun marched to the bench, where Turley presented him with a rifle, and Haggle wrote Chun’s name and the rifle’s serial number in a book.
“You are the lowest quality piece of military hardware ever issued to this fine rifle, Private Kang,” Calibre said.
“Yes, Range Master.”
“This rifle has survived hundreds of pissants before you. You will care for it, love it, snuggle it when it is cold, clean it when it is dirty, sing it lullabies before you sleep, and never ever ever under any circumstances whatsoever will you leave your rifle alone. A lonely rifle is a crime. Rifles left alone are kidnapped and abused. They are sold like slaves. Thieves do not know how to clean them, care for them, and they absolutely will not sing to them at bedtime. Do you get me, Pissant?”
“Yes, Range Master.”
“Here is your standard issue cleaning kit, Private Pissant. You will now demonstrate its use to the rest of your unit.” He looked over the platoon. “How many of you pissants think this pissant will get this right?” He waited a few seconds. “Don’t be shy, ladies, if you have faith in Private Pissant, raise your hand.”
Wrongway raised his hand; no one else did.
“Excellent.” Calibre laughed as he addressed the group. “The bets are placed. If Private Pissant passes my inspection, those of you who had no faith in your teammate get to push. If he fails, those who raised their hands get to push. Private Pissant, proceed.”
“Yes, Range Master.”
Chun slung his rifle and rolled out his cleaning kit, going through the same motions Sergeant Calibre had followed. He broke the rifle down, cleaning the barrel, the magazine tube, the bolt, and the frame, checked his sights for debris, and finally gave the wood a quick polish with a hint of gun oil. Then he reassembled the rifle, locked the bolt open, and handed it to Sergeant Calibre for inspection.
The old man raised an eyebrow. “Do you have prior experience with firearms, Private Pissant?”
“No, Range Master.”
Calibre worked the bolt, checked the rest of the rifle, and returned it to Chun. “Then how did you manage to do an acceptable job, Private Pissant?”
Aindry ordered those who didn’t trust Private Kang to start pushing.
“Quality performance follows quality training, Range Master.”
Calibre chuckled and pointed to the group. “I hate suckups, Private Pissant. Get back in formation.”
“Yes, Range Master.”
Wrongway went next. He promptly set the rifle down on the table instead of rolling his cleaning kit out underneath it. Chun pushed while Wrongway dropped his bolt in the dirt, grounded the muzzle while retrieving the bolt, and then brushed the forbidden copper-jacketed cartridge while wiping the weapon down.
Is he competing against himself for last place?
Sergeant Calibre eventually produced a muzzle lock--a bright red device that fit down the barrel and latched over the front sight--and locked it on Wrongway’s rifle.
“This weapon has done nothing to deserve you, Private Pissant. Until you learn to take proper care of your weapon, it will remain child proofed. Now get the fuck out of my sight,” Calibre growled.
They went through three more attempts to earn rifles, with each man failing for one reason or another. Then they marched across the base to the mess hall, where they had a congealed mass with watery spaghetti sauce on top.
The food was far better than the atmosphere. Ordinarily the surrounding soldiers left recruit discipline up to the unit’s Drill Sergeants. Apparently, that was not the program today. Wrongway got smoked by a private, and Haggle made sure Wrongway did the dying beetles while sucking his thumb, as ordered.
Men near the child-locks were smoked for failing to correct their teammates. Today was special because everyone was issued two chocolate chip cookies, but in Chun’s unit every cookie was promptly stolen by a passing stranger.
When Wrongway got his cookies, Chun took a risk and promptly put them on his own tray. Sergeant Sand frowned at him, but let it go, and Chun went to his table with four cookies.
Chun returned Wrongway’s cookies, and the two of them sat and ate their spaghetti pudding. As with every meal, Chun put the available topping on his, to increase the calorie count. Today that was ranch dressing, which turned out to go with spaghetti slightly better than ketchup did.
* * *
“Fall in.” Turley seemed especially surly.
Chun found himself behind Wrongway.
I need to get someone recycled, so he lines up somewhere else.
“Private Wrongway,” Turley scraped.
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“About face.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.” Wrongway did a smart about-face, putting him face-to-face with Chun. Chun grimaced. Wrongway mouthed sorry at him, and Chun gave him the faintest of nods.
Sergeant Aindry exited the barracks to Chun’s right and marched to the front of the formation.
“Good morning, Sergeant Aindry,” Turley crossed his arms behind his back. “The men are in formation and ready for inspection.”
“Excellent, Sergeant Turley,” Aindry started at one side of the formation, and moved across the group, giving tips on better presentation but finding their dress and posture nearly adequate.
That’s high praise.
When he reached Wrongway he complimented the shine on Wrongway’s boots, had him adjust the angle of his cover, and moved on to Chun, who he judged slightly better than the pile of shit that used to show up in formation.
He is on edge about something. This is bad.
Aindry completed his inspection, but rather than release the men to breakfast he stood at the front of their formation, chewing his lip, almost as if he had forgotten something.
“Sergeant Turley.”
“Yes, Sergeant Aindry.”
“What do you make of this formation?”
“If we moved the minimum standard down a bit, they would almost pass inspection, Sergeant Aindry.”
Aindry paced back and forth, rechecking random men until he reached Wrongway.
“Private Wrongway.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“There is something different about you today.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.” A rivulet of sweat ran down Wrongway’s face.
I know how you feel. Except for the sweating.
“Did you change your hair, Private Wrongway?”
“No, Drill Sergeant.”
Aindry glared at Wrongway’s back. “Damn it all, there’s something different.” He performed random checks on a couple more soldiers, then returned to Wrongway.
“Did you pluck your eyebrows, Wrongway?”
“No, Drill Sergeant.”
“Well, then I give up.” Aindry put his face next to Wrongway’s. “What is different about you today, Wrongway?”
“I’m facing the wrong way, Drill Sergeant.”
“By god, so you are.” Andry leaned back and sneered. “Have you received inadequate training in Dress and Ceremony, Wrongway?”
“No, Drill Sergeant.”
“Do you hate my army, Wrongway?”
“No, Drill Sergeant,” Wrongway put some emphasis behind his voice. Someone in the back of the formation giggled, and Sergeant Haggle thanked them for volunteering to run Punter’s Bluff, and they set out. The rest of the formation clenched up and managed to take the morning’s lesson seriously.
Aindry spun on Sergeant Turley, “Did you see that Wrongway was facing the wrong way again, Sergeant?”
Turley came to attention. “It’s hard to tell with Private Wrongway, Sergeant.”
“And why is that Sergeant Turley?”
“Because the front looks just like the back, Sergeant Aindry.”
“Yes, I think that must be it.”
“Private Kang.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“Did you know Wrongway was facing the wrong way?”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“Well, why didn’t you help him, Private Kang?”
“I do not like Private Wrongway, Drill Sergeant.”
“Well, on that point we agree, Private Kang. But that isn’t very charitable of us, is it?”
“No, Drill Sergeant.”
“Why don’t you push until we feel brotherly love for our poor, confused Private Wrongway?”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
Chun dropped and started pushing. The rest of the unit fell out and went to breakfast.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“Private Kang, are you hungry?” Aindry loomed over Chun as he pushed.
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“You know what, Kang? So am I. Let’s go get breakfast.”
This is another trap.
Chun kept pushing but hopped in the direction of the mess hall with each repetition.
“Try putting a bit of knee bend in it, Private, I’m in a hurry,” Aindry said. Chun pulled his feet up and frog-hopped into his next pushup, then repeated the maneuver.
“Very good Private Kang,” Aindry said. They walked and hopped along for a minute, then Aindry spoke again. “How are you doing, Kang?” It was a soft-spoken question, instead of the normal bark.
“I am somewhat weary of being punished for concocted mistakes, Drill Sergeant.”
“How are the boys treating you? It seems like you’ve been having fewer problems in your unit.”
“That is true, Drill Sergeant.”
“What’s wrong with your dog, Sergeant Aindry?” A passing captain asked.
“Nothing a little exercise won’t fix, Captain,” Aindry said with a chuckle.
“Good man, Sergeant. Carry on.”
Aindry waited until the captain was out of earshot. “We’re trying to balance the best thing for your unit and our families. It’s gotten difficult to keep an environment we can work in.”
“That seems like a cowardly way out, Drill Sergeant,” Chun said.
“That is true, Kang. Last night someone threw a brick through my living room window. It had a note on it that said we either run you out of the army, or they will run my wife and kids out.” His voice took on a quiet edge. “So, until I find them, I’m taking the coward’s way out.”
He isn’t going to arrest them if he finds them.
“I understand, Drill Sergeant. Thank you for telling me.”
“It’s the least I can do, Kang. General Park has the MPs on alert. In the meantime, I’m going to be downright abusive to you. Let me know if you have an injury or something. If you can’t do pushups, I’ll assign you extra running or something. And I’ll stash field rations around your bay. One of us will tell you where to find them. Can you get through it if we do that?”
“Yes, I can, Drill Sergeant.”
If they are going to smuggle extra rations to me, I can devote some time to finding the brick thrower.
“Drill Sergeant, please contact Jhon Bonga at the Bureau of Antiquities. Tell him Chun requests his aid.”
“Did you say Bureau of Antiquities, Private?”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant. I believe you will find them helpful.”
* * *
A captain named Adams met Jhon at the front gate. He was slightly overweight, but otherwise a perfect example of a bureaucrat, uniform tidy, clipboard in hand.
I hate him already.
“Jhon Bonga?”
“That’s correct, Captain Adams,” Jhon said, presenting his identification.
“Director? As in director of the agency?” Adams cocked an eyebrow and looked Jhon up and down.
“Yes, Captain.”
“I didn’t know they were giving directorships out to stovepipes. Come with me.”
Something about him really puts me on edge. Is it the racism? The sense of undeserved superiority? Maybe it’s the way he walks with his dick tucked between his legs.
Adams led him to a scar, then drove him a few hundred yards to the general’s office.
“General Park,” Jhon said with a nod.
“Director Bonga,” Park extended his hand. Jhon shook and gave him the Prime Minister’s note demanding cooperation with the bureau.
Park scanned the letter, nodded, and handed it to his assistant. “Major, copy this and file the copy. Return the original to Director Bonga.”
“Yes, sir.” The major took the letter and disappeared.
“Bad to see you again, Jhon,” Park said. There was no smile to go with the statement.
“You have a problem with racists trying run a slant out of the service, and the Prime Minister sent a stovepipe to investigate,” Jhon said.
Park had the grace to wince. “Something like that, Director. I already have my MPs investigating. This doesn’t feel like a matter that requires assistance or oversight from a civilian agency.”
“I agree,” Jhon said, “but Chun asked for me, and that is a relationship I intend to cultivate. So, I am going to find your racists, and then we’ll decide what to do about them.”
“What makes you think you’ll find them before the MPs do?” Adams asked.
“Well, if the MPs are good detectives, they might beat me. On the other hand, they may be the source of the problem. If that is the case, then Chun’s request makes a great deal of sense.” Jhon stared each of them down for a moment, and both looked away.
“I want updates on your progress, Director,” Park said.
“Of course, sir. I’m here to help, not cause unnecessary problems,” Jhon said.
“We probably don’t have the same concept of necessary,” Park said. “We’ll make the best of it. I expect any accusation against one of my soldiers to be accompanied by iron-clad evidence.” Park paused for a moment before a look of realization flashed across his face. ”Oh, and Director, if you are here to maneuver me into transferring Chun somewhere else, let me save you some trouble. Where do I sign?”
Jhon smiled. “I’ll take him off of your hands, but I was under the impression that Central wanted him to remain a military resource.”
“Fucking desk jockeys,” Park said. “Farland wants him here, so Farland should be here, in the shitstorm, getting speckled with the rest of us.”
“That’s a picture.” Jhon laughed. “As I said, get Central to sign off on it, and I’ll take Chun off of your hands.”
“I’ll remember that. Did you bring any other personnel with you?”
“No, sir. I’m expecting my driver and Chun to have some difficulty working together.”
And that’s putting it mildly.
“Given the on-base climate, I’m expecting you to get some friction. Keep that letter available to show along with your ID, and I’m loaning you Captain Adams for the duration of your stay. He will smooth things over with the people you need to talk to.” Park sat back down behind his desk.
“Captain?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Be meticulously polite to Director Bonga for the duration of his stay. That includes when he can’t hear you.”
Great. Now I’m stuck with him. Maybe I should have brought Annabeth. Adams would get mulched when she and Chun went at it. Of course, so would I, but you can’t have everything.
Adams glared at Jhon before putting on a fake smile. “Yes, General.”
* * *
“All right, Privates, gather round,” Sergeant Sand shouted. Their bay was arranged with four rows of bunk-style cots, one row against each wall. The center of the room was the ‘killzone,’ and was marked off with stripes of bright yellow paint. The other sergeants typically ordered them to toe the line, but Sand preferred to sound informal, particularly when he expected precision.
Chun toed the line and held his rifle at port arms. The rest of the bay got to their positions in less than three seconds, and Sergeant Sand nodded.
“Present...arms.” Chun brought his rifle up so that it was pointed straight up, and he was looking around the tip of the barrel, one eye on each side.
“Inspection...arms.” Chun brought his rifle down, right hand gripping the stock directly behind the trigger guard and oriented it at forty-five degrees. He slid the bolt open, racked the rifle so that he could see that the chamber was empty, then racked it back upright, and waited.
Sergeant Sand made a circuit, checking each rifle. He made pointers to some of the men about dust, lint, or dirt, but generally seemed only mildly put out about their sloppiness. When he reached Chun, he pulled a rather large wad of lint from his pocket and placed it in the open bolt of Chun’s rifle.
“Private Kang.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“Do you see a foreign object in your rifle?”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“What is it doing there?”
“Blocking the proper function of my weapon, Drill Sergeant.”
“That is correct, Private Kang. Why did you allow a dust bunny into your rifle?”
“No excuses, Drill Sergeant.”
As long as you don’t make any excuses when I put this in your sidearm.
“Private, remove the dust bunny.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
Chun reached into his rifle’s open bolt, grabbed the dust bunny, and put it in his pocket.
“Very good, Private Kang. Now push while I finish inspection.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
Chun closed his rifle bolt and turned the rifle so that it rested on top of his hands as he dropped to the floor. Then he began pushing.
When Sergeant Sand was finished looking at rifles, uniforms, posture, and evaluating the condition of Private Whoreson’s soul, he introduced the next activity.
“Yesterday we learned about basic muzzle awareness, trigger discipline, and field maintenance. Today we will continue our lessons in muzzle awareness and trigger discipline, and we will perform full maintenance on our rifles. Full maintenance means disassembling the bolt and firing pin, as well as the trigger assembly, and properly cleaning and oiling them. Full maintenance is not recommended in the field if it can be avoided. This is because it is easy to lose small parts in the dirt, grass, or gravel under your work area. You will take great care to maintain ownership of each part of your rifle. If you lose a screw, or a spring, or God forbid an entire firing pin, you will get child-locked for a solid week.” He marched around the square, staring down each private in turn, except for Chun, who was still pushing.
Sergeant Aindry walked around the end of Chun’s bunk. Chun drew his breath together and pushed it into his right hand as Aindry trod on his fingers.
“Damn it all, Kang. You’re in the goddam way. Get your ass up and give me room to work.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
Chun popped back to his feet and stood at parade rest with the rest of the unit.
Sand demonstrated the full breakdown, cleaning, and reassembly of a rifle, then ordered each of them to do it themselves. Chun knelt in front of his footlocker, using the surface as a table, rolled out his cleaning kit, broke down his rifle, cleaned it, and reassembled it. Sergeant Aindry watched the entire process with rapt attention.
“And you don’t have prior experience with firearms, Kang?”
“No, Drill Sergeant.”
“That’s goddam amazing. Quality work, Kang. Now do it again.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
Aindry drifted away to observe someone else, and Chun began looking for an opening. He was planning on making Dover do something awful as a distraction, but then Whoreson went to the shitter and tripped when he returned. The unfortunate child sprawled over Mason’s footlocker, knocking parts of Mason’s fully disassembled weapon everywhere.
Drill Sergeants screamed. Whoreson started doing pushups, then stopped and started looking for parts, then got booted back into pushups by Sergeant Aindry. Chun drew in his breath and focused. His perception of the world sped up. He slipped up beside Sergeant Sand, checking around himself continuously. Wrongway was the only one looking at him. He flipped the strap on Sand’s holster loose, lifted the pistol, opened the slide, and deposited the dust bunny, then closed the slide, returned the pistol, and closed the strap. He made it back one step toward his bunk when Sand turned on him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Private Kang?”
“Helping look for springs and screws,” Chun said, scanning the floor.
“Did you touch me, Private?” Sand’s voice was loud, but there was a slight panic in the tone.
“Yes, Drill Sergeant. My mistake,” Chun said.
“You’re fucking right it’s your mistake,” Sand said as Chun bent and picked up the retaining pin that held the trigger assembly together. He handed the pin to Sand and returned to his footlocker while Sand stared daggers into his back.
“Holy fuck, are you crazy?” Wrongway whispered as he walked by on his way to the shitters.