‘Oh, yes ma’am,’ the tall black man in the Smokey the Bear hat said. He nodded as he looked down at Harold’s mother. ‘Uh-huh, uh-huh,’ he said. The broad brim of his hat bounced up and down as he stood there with his arms crossed, listening intently.
‘Now, I’ve written down a few of the foods that upset his stomach,’ she said. Then she saw Harold and her husband. ‘Oh, over here! Over here!’ she shouted, waving her Kleenex.
She introduced her husband, and then said, ‘Sergeant Giles, I would like to present Harold Stempel. Harold, this is Sergeant Giles.’ Harold nodded. ‘Shake his hand, dear.’ Harold and the sergeant obeyed. ‘Sergeant Giles will be one of your Instructors here at the fort.’
‘Drill Instructor, ma’am,’ he said pleasantly, and she nodded. ‘He’ll instruct you about drills, dear.’ She turned to the tall man. ‘I think you’ll find Harold is an excellent student.’ Looking around and lowering her voice to a whisper, she said, ‘He tested in the top seventh percentile on his SATs.’
‘Don’t say?’ the man exclaimed.
After a moment of awkward silence, Gay blurted out. ‘Well, he’s all yours, then! Take care of my little boy.’
Harold hugged his mother and shook his father’s hand. ‘Now I mean it! You take care of him, Sergeant Giles,’ she said good-naturedly — shaking her finger at him in mock warning.
‘Oh, yes, ma’am,’ the DI replied — grinning. ‘We’ll take care of ole Harol’, all right. You can count on that.’
With another hug and a kiss from mother, Harold’s parents were finally gone. Harold and Sergeant Giles stood side-by-side… waving. Harold heard the Sergeant laugh one more time, and he couldn’t help but share the humor of his basket-case mom.
‘You a fuckin’ momma’s boy, ain’t you, Stempel?’ Giles said quietly.
Harold felt agitated suddenly. He looked up at the man. Giles smiled and waved once more as Harold’s mother peeked out from around a bus before being pulled on by his father. The grin was still frozen on his face.
‘You a pussy? Huh?’ he asked. He didn’t bother to even look down at Harold. ‘Do I got me a Grade A pussy for thirteen weeks, Stempel?’ Harold pondered his response. But before he could think of one, the sergeant asked another question. ‘You know what happens to pussies, don’t you, Harol’ ole chap?’ It was a rhetorical question, Harold understood, demanding no response. As the intended meaning of the jibe sank in, Harold’s lips curled in amusement at the wordplay. He nearly jumped out of his skin at the next sound — shot out of the DI’s chest through his mouth like from a cannon.
‘Answer me when I ask you a question, Private!’
Thus began Private Stempel’s boot camp.
‘What are you lookin’ at?’ was screamed straight into Stempel’s right ear. Stempel concentrated on an imaginary dot straight in front of him. ‘Answer me? came the tearing screech.
‘Nothing, sergeant!’ Stempel yelled. His shout was lost amid the screaming NCOs who roamed up and down the line of recruits. Stempel kept in line behind the red-headed guy ahead of him. An electric razor came up the side of the recruit’s head. Great masses of red hair fell to the floor in heaps.
‘What are you lookin’ at now?’ a DI shouted. Stempel winced at the pain in his right ear.
‘What is this piece of shit?’ came a new voice from Stempel’s left ear.
‘It’s the Goddamn fuck-up!’ the sergeant at his right ear responded. Stereo drill instructors. ‘Every platoon has one!’
The last shock of the red hair fell to the cold concrete floor. The air conditioning had frozen Stempel into a block of ice.
He stepped forward in his briefs — walking barefoot through thick mounds of hair.
The hot metal of the loudly buzzing razor dug roughly into the side of his head. The barber’s free hand grabbed Stempel’s chin, holding his head still. Stempel’s hair was gone in seconds.
Stempel followed the barking shouts, all of which seemed to be directed at him. It was particularly bad when the line was delayed at the counter where soldiers handed out camouflaged uniforms. ‘Thumbs along your trousers!’ someone shouted even though Stempel was wearing only jockey shorts. ‘Stand up straight!’ He stiffened, bowing his chest out and tucking his chin in. His hands were sweating profusely. ‘Close your mouth! You’ll let flies in!’ His mouth was dry. He was so thirsty.
A man with a tape measure wrapped it around his waist then down his legs. Folded uniform trousers and blouse were piled in his arms. He followed the bald redhead. Socks, boots and underwear were laid on top of his other clothes. ‘Get into your uniforms!’ thundered from somewhere. ‘You’re soldiers now!’
It took Stempel the longest to get dressed. The room was empty and the shouts receding as he finished buttoning his blouse. One DI remained with him — leaning patiently against the wall. He clutched a clipboard to his crotch. His eyes were barely visible under the wide, sharp brim of his green hat. Harold tensed as the man walked over toward him.
‘F-finished, sergeant!’ Harold shouted out, but the man blocked his way. Stempel came to attention. Their chests and faces were only inches apart. Stempel was prepared for the worst.
‘Do you know what you’re doin’ here, recruit?’ His words were so unexpectedly soft that Stempel didn’t know how to answer. He couldn’t tell what the man wanted him to say. ‘Do you understand what we’re doin’ here today — me and you?’
‘Yes, sergeant!’ Harold said loudly, but without shouting.
‘Look at me now, but I don’t ever wanta see your eyes again.’ Harold looked up into the man’s face. It was Sergeant Giles from the parking lot. ‘You gotta do this, son. You gotta do this, no matter how hard it gets. If I can break you here, I’ll be takin’ your manhood from you. I’m not sayin’ we gonna make you a man. We cain’t do that here. But if you quit, you’ll be passin’ up on maybe your one chance to be a man among men. To stand tall. To be a soldier. You catch my drift there, son?’
Harold swallowed but didn’t trust his voice. He nodded, and Giles stepped out of his way. Harold broke into a run down the hall — batting his eyes to dry the moisture. A sign was posted over the door. ‘Victory Starts Here,’ it read.
Clark waited in the French base’s icy command bunker — the telephone receiver to his ear. The ever-pleasant White House operators had put him on hold. Even though he was at the most far-flung outpost in the most remote place on earth, the small satellite dish on the roof allowed direct dialing to any phone in the world. After briefing General Dekker on the attack, the Army Chief of Staff had transferred Clark’s call to the White House on express directions from the President.
There was a click, and then Clark heard, ‘Hello? General Clark?’
Although he’d never spoken to the man, his voice was instantly familiar. ‘Hello, Mr President.’ The heads of the captains and lieutenants who filled the low-ceilinged room shot up in unison. ‘What happened out there?’ President Marshall asked.
‘A French legionnaire base was raided, sir. Fifteen dead, another forty wounded.’
‘Who did it?’ the reply finally came. The satellite delay was now quite familiar.
‘Well, sir, they didn’t leave any casualties, and we didn’t take any prisoners, so we can’t tell. But the guess is the Russian army. The attack was coordinated. They used mortars. It was a professional job, not the sort you’d expect from irregulars.’