Chapter 1
It was just after three o'clock when the bus pulled into the makeshift camp located in the mountains of southern West Virginia. It drove down a long dirt road and came to a stop in front of a man wearing a green baklava, who stood with a rigid air of authority. The driver opened the doors and the man stepped aboard the bus. "All right, quiet down," he yelled. It seemed unnecessary since none of the fifteen greenshirts on the bus were talking, but one could guess that it was a habit learned after years of being an Army instructor. "I am your head instructor. My name is Beach Head, but you will call me Sergeant. If any of you snot rags address me as anything but Sergeant, you will wish you were born without vocal chords!" He still seemed to be speaking louder than necessary, but again, this was expected. "We will begin by assigning roommates. When I call your name, you and your roommate will exit the bus, proceed to your lot and set up your tent. If you are not finished, and gathered by the flagpole in fifteen minutes you fail. Am I clear?"
"Yes, Sergeant," the passengers all responded in unison. As the Sergeant started to call out names, one of the greenshirts turned his attention to the layout of the camp. A moderate sized, two storied farm house stood by the road. The back of the house had a large, screened in porch which connected with an open deck that extended past the corner of the house. He assumed this was where the Sergeant and his staff were housed. A few outbuildings were scattered over the property, serving as the mess hall, supply shed, latrine, and classroom. There was a wide expanse of field surrounding the house extending in all directions to the horizon, except on the south side of the house. Roughly a half mile from the back of the farm house was the tree line of a dense forest. The forest sloped upwards to the peak of a mountain.
"Brown, Mitchell…lot five!" Hearing the Sergeant yell his name brought him back from his observation, and as he stood, he looked around the bus to see who this Mitchell character would be. A 6'4" pile of blubber rose from the back row of seats and made his way toward him. The man looked like he was as dumb as a shovel, and immediately Brown felt bad about insulting the countless shovels that make a real difference in the world. Still, the men and women on this bus were supposed to be the absolute best, so the timeless 'book by its cover' cliché echoed in his mind. After the two greenshirts exited the bus, Brown began to double time it to their lot. He looked over his shoulder and saw Mitchell roll his eyes and reluctantly break into a slight jog.
Brown was no physical specimen himself: 5'11", 185 pounds, lean but muscular, certainly not ripped, but defined. He was fast, quick, and strong, but not so much that he would be competing in the Olympic Decathlon by year's end. He always said that everything about him was average. Average height, average build, average looks; nothing about him really stood out. Mentally he was gifted, but rarely used it to make himself smart. He grasped new concepts well, and mastered new technology and maneuvers easily, but only when he was forced to. He still wakes up every morning and wonders why he's in the Army. He never really enjoyed it, and he especially disliked taking orders, although, the thought of giving orders didn't appeal to him either. Still, he managed to finish at or near the top of his class in all of his training assignments. He didn't volunteer for anything, didn't care about competing or winning, and wasn't gung ho about advancing in rank, even though he had risen quickly and had been recently promoted to Corporal. He realized early on that he did just enough to keep his drill sergeants happy and off his back. He did little to bring attention to himself or his accomplishments, and his main motivation was simply to be left alone.
It was a curiosity that he was being pushed into more high level specialties. When he was approached to go on this little adventure, he said ok; the same way he said ok all of the other times he was asked to train in a new military discipline. He didn't know why he said yes all the time. He guessed that the Army was trying to find him a specialty that he would really enjoy, and decide to make a career out of it. He knew that on paper he was a good soldier, his test scores and high grades on the training exercises showed that. But his actions and lack of willingness to fall into the specifics of the system always stood out as a black spot on his evaluations. None of his instructors had a good thing to say about him. Poor attitude, lack of discipline, disrespect to authority; these were the comments most often used to describe him.
The two greenshirts arrived at their designated lot, dropped their gear, and began working to set up their home for the next six weeks. It was a standard two man Army tent, ten feet long, eight feet wide, and eight feet in height. Both of them had set up these tents so many times that once they located the proper poles, the tent quickly took shape. They expertly staked down the tent and then tossed their cots, sheets, and clothing inside before running to the flag pole in the yard behind the farm house. When they arrived with time to spare the larger greenshirt turned to his roommate and introduced himself. "PFC Daniel Mitchell," he said as he stuck out his hand.
"Corporal Travis Brown," the other spoke as he reached to shake the man's hand. Mitchell pulled his hand away and quickly saluted. "Knock that shit off," Brown said and grasped Mitchell's hand in a firm shake, "we're all the same rank here." He spoke with the experience of someone who had been in many mixed rank training courses.
The group made small talk until Beach Head called them all to attention. "Welcome to The Farm," he shouted. "For the next six weeks I will be teaching you skills that you will need to mentally survive the rigors of combat! I am going to run you into the ground, I'm going to break your spirit! You will run so long, and do so many push ups that you will want to commit suicide! After every day of training, you will lay in bed at night and dream of me suffering the nastiest, most painful death you can imagine because I am such a heartless, uncaring bastard! Guess what, I don't give a rat's ass what you think!" He screamed that last statement into the face of the closest greenshirt he could find. "If you can fight through the pain, and keep a clear head, then you will survive! If not…then when the real thing happens, you're gonna die!" He scanned the greenshirts to see if what he was saying was sinking in.
"A few things you need to know about this camp. The house is strictly off limits to you. If anyone sets foot in there you will be sent home immediately. You are allowed on the deck, and a bar has been set up for use in your down time…if I think you deserve down time." He smirked as he watched the recruits' excitement fade. "Secondly, the lot of you is representative of the best each branch of the military has to offer, but you will be treated as if you are fresh off the bus recruits going through their first week of Basic. There is no rank amongst you, and you salute only your instructors." He then walked over to the porch and pressed a button. A loud siren wailed through the afternoon calm. As the siren continued he walked back and addressed the greenshirts, "this sound will be your call to gather for training," he shouted over the noise. "Whenever you hear this you have five minutes to get your sorry asses assembled with your pack and your helmet in front of Old Glory!" He pointed to the flag, "do not be late!" Beach Head looked toward a man standing next to the siren's trigger and gave him a nod. The man turned off the racket and Beach Head continued speaking, "As of this moment, everything you do will be evaluated. If I deem you unsatisfactory, I will throw you out. If you don't want to do something, speak up and quit. It makes no difference to me. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Sergeant," the group responded.
"I think it's a nice afternoon for a run, so file in behind me and try to keep up," Beach Head ordered. He took off toward the tree line and the greenshirts ran after him. Brown waited until everyone started, and then followed the rest of the recruits along a trail that headed up the mountain. He shook his head and let out a sigh when Beach Head yelled from the front of the line, "hurry up, maggots!"