The platoon lurched like a slow assembly line through the glass doors and into the dining hall. One by one each soldier grabbed a tray and a large spoon before side-stepping along the triple-railed metal ledge in front of the serving area. The drill sergeants materialized and broke the silence.
“Move it, men,” said Drill Sergeant Hammer. “We ain’t got all day. Grab a plate and move.”
“You better side-step, Libby,” yelled Drill Sergeant Womack. “And keep that head looking straight forward.”
Libby straightened his spine and tucked his chin.
“I thought you were a squad leader, Libby,” said Womack. “You should be leading by example.”
“Yes, Dill Sergeant.” Libby’s tray flipped up off the rail and his spoon flew across the room.
“Airborne!” yelled Romberg.
“Romberg, shut up,” said Hammer.
“Private Libby, how did that happen?” Womack said.
“My hand slipped, Drill Sergeant,” said Libby.
“You’re uncoordinated, aren’t you, Libby?” said Womack.
“No, I mean, yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“What’s your favorite fruit juice, Libby?” said Womack.
“I don’t know, Drill Sergeant.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway, because you won’t be getting any today.”
“No, Drill Sergeant.”
“Grab that plate and move out.”
Libby snatched the plate of eggs, potatoes, and bacon from the ledge above the serving line and side-stepped along toward the toast and fruit bins.
Gerard studied the plates on the ledge.
“Grab one and go, Private Kelderman,” yelled Womack. “This isn’t a four-star restaurant.”
Gerard took a plate with a lump of biscuit smothered by gray sauce. He moved through the line and sat at a long table in the mess hall.
“Sit on the edge of your chair, and sit up straight,” yelled Hammer.
“Eat up, ladies, we have training to get to,” Womack said.
“What the fuck is this?” Hammer said.
Each man put his spoon down and looked at Drill Sergeant Hammer.
“Keep eating!” screamed Womack. “He didn’t tell you to stop.”
“Private Parker, what’s that on your plate?” Hammer said.
Parker sat up straight. “Breakfast, Drill Sergeant.”
“Is that bread, Parker?”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“How many pieces, Parker?” said Hammer.
“Three, Drill Sergeant.”
“What? Three?” Hammer said. “Drill Sergeant Womack, this private has three pieces of bread.”
“Parker, you must be special,” Womack said.
“You tell me why everybody else only gets two pieces of bread, Parker,” said Hammer.
“Who’s your squad leader?” said Drill Sergeant Womack.
“Private Kelderman, Drill Sergeant.”
“Kelderman!” said Womack.
Gerard choked down a dry knot of biscuit. “Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“Why does Private Parker have three pieces of bread?”
“I don’t know, Drill Sergeant.”
“You said you’d been to college, Kelderman. I thought you were smart,” Womack said. “Private Parker is in your squad. It’s your duty to inform him of the rules here.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“So inform him.”
Gerard looked across the table at Parker. “Private Parker, you’re only allowed two pieces of bread.”
“You mean you didn’t know that, Parker?” said Hammer.
“Yes, Drill Sergeant, I did know,” Parker said.
“Then you fucked up, didn’t you, Parker?” said Hammer.
“You screwed up, didn’t you, Kelderman?” Womack said.
“Yes, Drill Sergeant!” chimed Parker and Gerard.
“What are you going to do now, Private Kelderman?” said Womack.
“I—I don’t know, Drill Sergeant.”
“Tell you what,” said Womack. “When Drill Sergeant Hammer and I come back here in thirty seconds, this problem had better be fixed.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” said Gerard.
The drill sergeants walked away from the table.
“Get rid of it, Parker,” said Gerard.
“Fuck you, man.”
“Eat it,” said Berkowicz. “Quick.”
“Don’t do it, man,” Snodgrass said. “They’ll know.”
“You’re some fucking platoon guide,” said Berkowicz.
“Fuck off,” said Snodgrass.
“Get rid of it, Parker,” Gerard said.
Romberg reached across the table and grabbed the bread. Parker lunged at Romberg’s hand, but Romberg stuffed the bread into his mouth.
Parker sat back down. “I’ll kill you, asshole.”
Romberg chewed.
“Problem solved,” said Snodgrass.
Gerard looked at Parker. “You got me in trouble.”
Parker snarled. “Tough shit.”
“I’m the squad leader, and you’re supposed to do what I say,” said Gerard.
Parker threw a fist across the table and punched Gerard in the jaw. Gerard’s chair tilted back and he fell on the floor with a crash.
“Yes!” yelled Romberg. “The knockout punch.” Romberg sprang up from the table, unbuttoned his camouflage shirt, pulled off his undershirt, and ran circles around the mess hall tables.
The drill sergeants rushed over. Once again every soldier in the mess hall stopped eating to watch.
“Romberg, sit your ass down.” Drill Sergeant Hammer ran after him.
Womack stood over Gerard. “Private Kelderman, why are you lying on the floor?”
Gerard stood up and groaned. He held his hand against his jaw. He glanced at Parker. Parker looked down at his tray and started shoveling his face with scrambled eggs.
“I fell, Drill Sergeant,” Gerard said.
Womack looked at Gerard’s jaw, then at Parker, then back at Gerard.
“Well get back up.” Womack pointed at Parker’s tray. “I see our little bread problem is solved.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” said Gerard.
“Knockout punch!” Romberg sprinted among the tables. “Rock and roll!”
“But there’s another problem, Kelderman.”
“What, Drill Sergeant?”
“Pull your head out, Kelderman,” Womack said. “Isn’t Romberg in your squad?”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“Did you tell him to throw off his shirt and run around the mess hall like a Victory Drive stripper?” Womack said.
Romberg jumped up onto a table and tiptoed among the trays.
“No, Drill Sergeant.”
“He’s doing a table dance, Kelderman, and you’re his squad leader,” Womack said. “How do you explain this?”
“I can’t control him, Drill Sergeant.”
“Why not, Kelderman?” said Womack. “Aren’t you the leader?”
“I’m not a leader, Drill Sergeant.”
“Yes you are.”
“I didn’t ask to be a leader,” said Gerard.
“Doesn’t matter,” Womack said. “You’re in charge. You’re responsible for every swinging Richard in your squad.”
Romberg jumped down from the table and raised his stocky arms with clenched fists. “Yes!”
Hammer picked up Romberg’s shirt and threw it at him. “Put on your shirt, Private. You’re comin’ with me.”
“Eat your chow, Kelderman,” said Womack. “I’ll deal with you later. Private Carroll, why are you just sitting there?”
“I’m done, Drill Sergeant.”
“Good God, Carroll. We’ve only been in the mess hall for two seconds, and you’re finished eating.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“You’re a human vacuum cleaner, aren’t you Carroll?”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“Is that why you’re such a fatty?” said Womack.
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“Since you’re so good at eating, I think you should be the mess hall motivator,” said Womack. “Do you know what that is?”
“No, Drill Sergeant,” Carroll said.
“That means you get to make everybody else eat faster,” said Womack. “Stand up. It’s your job to motivate your platoon mates to scarf and barf. Go to it, Carroll.”
Carroll looked around and then looked back at Drill Sergeant Womack.
“Let’s go Carroll. Tell them to eat faster.”
“Eat faster!” yelled Carroll.
“That’s it,” said Womack. “Now walk around and make sure they can hear you.”
“Eat faster! Come on, let’s move. Wiley, eat faster.”
“Hey, fuck you, man.”
Womack slammed his hands onto the table. “Private Wiley, you don’t speak to the mess hall motivator that way. Are you volunteering for the job?”
“No, Drill Sergeant.”
“Then shut up and eat,” said Womack.
Private Cooper leisurely chewed his breakfast. His calm presence and equanimity had days ago earned him a New Age nickname: Private Yanni.
“Carroll, Private Yanni is not eating fast enough. I want you to motivate him.”
“Eat faster, Cooper!”
“Get over there close to him, Carroll,” said Womack. “He can’t hear you.”
Carroll leaned over the table. “Eat, Cooper, eat.”
Cooper ate evenly, slowly chewing his hash browns.
“Louder, Carroll.”
“Faster, Cooper!”
“He can’t hear you,” said Womack.
“Eat faster, Cooper!”
The clicking and clatter of spoons at the table quickened, but Cooper kept his own pace.
“Yanni, sometimes I feel like we’re not getting through to you,” said Womack. “Are we getting through to you, Private Yanni?”
Cooper stopped eating and sat straight. “Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“Are you meditating after each bite, Yanni?”
“No, Drill Sergeant.”
“Is this food healthy enough for you?”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” Cooper said.
“Do you wish we served granola and wheat grass, Yanni?”
“No, Drill Sergeant.”
“You’re a soldier now, Yanni, so eat like one,” Womack said.
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“Chow’s over, Third Platoon,” said Womack. “Move out!”
Chairs scraped the floor. The platoon stood up and moved toward the exit.
“Squad leaders, make sure your people put their trays on the belt,” said Womack. “Push in your chair, Libby.”
The soldiers shoved out the doors of the mess hall.
“Platoon Guide, I want a formation back in the company area,” said Womack.
“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” said Snodgrass. “Move it, men.”
A stampede of combat boots shuffled out the door and down the long breezeway to the company area.
“Form up, men,” said Snodgrass. “Quick. Romberg, where have you been? You’re all wet.”
Romberg gasped. “Drill sergeant—smoked—me.”
“Get into formation,” said Snodgrass. “Squad leaders, make sure everybody’s here.”
Gerard’s squad—Fourth Squad—was lined up in the back row. He counted fourteen, including himself.
“Put that apple away, Carroll,” said Wiley. “No food outside the mess hall.”
“Someone has food?” said Snodgrass.
“Carroll smuggled an apple out of the mess hall,” Wiley said.
“Gonna fuck the whole platoon,” Parker said.
“Get rid of it, Carroll,” said Snodgrass.
“I’m still hungry,” Carroll said. “It’s in my pocket.”
“They’ll notice.” Wiley pointed. “I can see it from here.”
“Idiot,” said Libby.
“You take it.” Carroll tossed it to Libby.
Libby lobbed it to Snodgrass. Snodgrass pitched it back to Carroll. Carroll threw it to Gerard.
Drill Sergeant Womack walked around the corner. “Kelderman!”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“Get out here.”
Gerard shoved the apple into the right cargo pocket of his camouflage pants and ran forward.
“Get in the front-leaning rest position, Kelderman,” said Womack.
Gerard got down into push-up position.
“Snodgrass, you get down too.”
Snodgrass dropped to the concrete.
“Private Romberg is having a little trouble adjusting to military life,” said Womack. “Kelderman, you’re his squad leader. Snodgrass, you’re the platoon guide. When Romberg has one of his little episodes, I’m holding you responsible. It might cure him. Let’s start with push-ups.”
“One Drill Sergeant, two Drill Sergeant.”
Gerard’s arms had no trouble with the push-ups, but the half-chewed food in his stomach felt like a clot of lead.
“Okay, stand up,” said Womack. “Now run in place.”
Gerard and Snodgrass ran in place, facing the platoon.
“Stop. Get down and do push-ups until I tell you to stop.”
They dropped down and started pumping.
“Stop,” said Womack. “Get up. Run in place.”
They stood up and ran.
“Stop. Get down. Push-ups.”
Gerard leaned down. The apple rolled out of his pocket. Fifty-seven silent heads watched the apple bounce across the floor before bumping into Drill Sergeant Womack’s spit-shined left boot.
Womack looked down at the apple and then at Gerard. “Private Kelderman, are you still hungry?”
“No, Drill Sergeant,” Gerard moaned.
“Kelderman, is this the mess hall?”
“No, Drill Sergeant.”
“Then why do you have food?” said Womack.
“I—it wasn’t—” Gerard looked up at the platoon. Carroll’s eyes were wide.
“Snodgrass, get into formation,” Womack said.
Snodgrass jumped up and ran to the back.
“Push-ups, Kelderman, move. Stop. Get up. Run in place.”
Gerard ran. The fatty biscuit bounced in his gut. Sweat rolled off his bald head, down his face, and onto his shirt.
“Faster, Kelderman, move. Stop. Get down.”
Gerard slowly leaned down.
“Too slow. Get up. Run in place.”
Gerard ran, but only the heels of his heavy boots would lift off the floor. He felt dizzy. His head burned hot.
“Too slow. Get down.”
Gerard leaned over. Saliva coated the walls of his mouth an instant before the thick, knobby sauce rushed up his esophagus and forced chunks of biscuit out onto the concrete floor. He was on his hands and knees, facing the platoon, pitching forward and heaving out his entire breakfast.
“Private Kelderman, why are you barfing in my company area?” Womack said.
Gerard wiped the goop from his lips and stood up.
“Get into the latrine and clean yourself up, Kelderman,” said Womack. “Third Platoon, you have ten minutes to get up there and clean the barracks before we move out for training. Platoon Guide, get out here and make sure this puke gets cleaned up.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“Fall out!”
from The Blotter magazine
© 2019 Bob Slentz-Kesler