‘You can do it, come on!’ urged the fellow recruits in his Training Platoon.
Stempel struggled with all his might. But his arms — already aching from the exercise — were quivering. His heels slipped out of their clench. Now it was all he could do to keep the toes of his boots over the rope.
‘Stem-p-e-e-l? came the unmistakable voice of Staff Sergeant Giles. ‘Git over here! You’re holdin’ up the whole Goddamn platoon!’
Stempel’s toes both gave way. He swung down and barely hung on by his fingers. The rope was swinging and shaking. Another recruit behind him was holding onto the rope for dear life.
‘Stempel! What the hell’re you doin’?’ Giles screamed. ‘Jesus H. Christ, son!’
Harold knew all was lost now. His arms squeezed his head. He couldn’t draw enough air, and he began to grow faint. The yelling continued, but through his popping ears all he could hear was a droning noise of unintelligible shouts.
He tried one last time — not with the thought of succeeding, but to show he had made the effort. Bringing his knees up and dropping them, he began to rock and bicycle-kick through mid-air. His grip on the rope was down to the last joints of his fingers, and they were frozen in icy pain.
‘A-a-ah!’ he grunted as he kicked one heel upwards toward the rope. He floated as he spun through air. A stunning crash of water engulfed him. It rushed in a burning flood up his nose. He fought to regain his equilibrium. He opened his eyes underwater and saw light between his knees. He spun and propelled himself for the surface.
Bursting out of the water, he spluttered and gasped for air. His back stung terribly from the flop. He thrashed at the water for balance.
‘Stempel, git the hell over here!’ the DI shouted.
Harold lowered his head and swam. In desperation his hands clawed at the mud. With his next breath he took in a watery gulp. He coughed and spat and coughed. A yank on his blouse tugged him onto dry land.
Sergeant Giles stood in the knee-deep water. ‘Stempel! Git on yer fuckin’ feet!’ Stempel rose in utter exhaustion. ‘Hands on yer head!’
Stempel complied, still fighting the dizziness. His platoon was urging the next man to shore. But some of the fire had gone out of their shouts. By falling, Stempel had lost the tight race with a rival platoon. They paid Harold no attention whatsoever.
Sergeant Giles stepped in front of Harold. With his face close and his voice low, he said, ‘You quit on me, boy.’
‘N-no, Sergeant! No!’ Stempel spluttered — his hands still on his head.
‘You quit on yer buddies, Stempel. That makes you a quitter. You know what quitters are when they’re in the Army, Recruit? Yella-bellies. They run out and leave their buddies to die so they can save their own hides. They’re cowards, Private Stempel. Cowards.’ The tears welled up from Stempel’s chest, and he tried desperately to stem the tide. His lips grew strained and his jaw quivered. He fought to maintain some semblance of composure, but his body betrayed him. ‘You let yer buddies down,’ the DI continued. ‘You’re dead now. You’re no good to yer country, you’re no good to the Army, but most importantly, Stempel, you ain’t no good to yer buddies no more. You let ’em down. Go on back and change yer gear, Stempel. Hell, take the whole day off and think about it awhile.’
Stempel hesitated.
‘Go on!’ Giles barked.
Stempel turned and trotted off with his hands locked over his head like a prisoner — glad to be free of the DI. Tears poured down his face. Looking back, he saw the rest of his platoon race on to the next obstacle — a tall wall over which hung a rope. They would all make it over the way they were trained — as a team, each helping the others. As much as Stempel hated every second of every day of training, he hated one thing more. He hated the thought of sitting on his bunk in the barracks all day waiting for the doors to burst open upon his platoon’s return. He wasn’t a part of them. They could cut it, but he couldn’t.
‘Faulk! Git over here!’ Sergeant Giles boomed.
The remainder of his platoon filed into the barracks. Andre hustled over to the Drill Instructor. The sun was setting, and this was the only fifteen minutes of the day they had to themselves. Every bone in his body ached, but he braced himself for another physically demanding waste of time.
‘You and Stempel are both from New York, aren’t you?’ the sergeant asked in a strangely civil tone.
‘Uh — I dunno, Staff Sergeant!’ Faulk shouted.
‘You don’t know where you’re from?’
‘No, Staff Sergeant! I mean, I don’t know where Private Stempel is from, Staff Sergeant!’
‘Well, apparently you’re both from New York City, so I’m gonna buddy you two up.’ He looked up at Andre, measuring his reaction. ‘You know what that means?’
‘No, Staff Sergeant!’
‘That means I’m makin’ you responsible for gettin’ Stempel through basic.’ He again paused — again studying Andre’s face. Andre sensed that Giles was waiting, and searched his mind for some response. Giles wasn’t asking him to take care of Stempel. He was ordering him to.
‘Yes, Staff Sergeant!’
Giles nodded. ‘All right, then. Get on in there and get cleaned up. Dismissed.’
Andre took a step back, did a crisp about face, and ran toward the old wooden steps of the barracks. It was only after he got inside — passing the line of men standing naked or wrapped in a towel in line for the showers — that he began to get pissed about the order. By the time he passed Stempel’s bunk, he was totally outraged. What the hell did the DI expect? What the hell could Andre do?
Stempel was filthy. He sat on the floor so as not to soil the tightly tucked white sheets of his bunk. He must have been there for hours. He picked lethargically at the knotted laces on his boots. He seemed resigned to being trapped forever inside the waterlogged footgear. He slowly looked up at Andre. On catching his eyes he lowered his gaze and wrapped his arms around his knees — hugging them to his chest.
Andre knelt and patiently unraveled the knot.
‘As this Administration has shown,’ President Marshall shouted in a rousing climax, ‘we will not tolerate lawlessness in our streets! We will put a stop to that violence, no matter where the mission takes us, and no matter how hard that mission is! God bless the United States!’ With a wave, he stepped down from the podium and into the open arms of an aide.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir!’ the man yelled over the cheers and the marching band. Marshall held up a finger for the man to wait and stepped back up to give another wave. The roar of the crowd rose higher again. ‘Sir! I’ve got a message from the Secretary of State.’ Marshall followed him through some cloth partitions. ‘Secretary Jensen just got a communication from Beijing! The Chinese ambassador paid a visit to the Secretary of State on very short notice and delivered it verbally!’
The scene was a hubbub of noise and activity, and Marshall was totally distracted. He smiled and winked at the VIPs who still applauded as they watched him from the dais. ‘Sir!’ the junior national security staffer called out. ‘The ambassador demanded that UNRUSFOR get out of Siberia in thirty days!’
Marshall turned back to him and cupped his ear. ‘What?’ Marshall was incensed. ‘Well, fuck them! I hope Jensen kicked their butts right out of the fucking building!’ The staffer shrugged. ‘He did tell them to go to hell, didn’t he?’