"Pick your feet up, grunt! My grandma could set her hair, cook dinner, take a dump, and still get to that hill faster than you!"

Young Lassiter picked up his pace ever-so-slightly, but his breathing was already labored and he could hardly see straight.

Another sergeant—Sergeant Brackon—sprinted up next to Lassiter and bumped him to the left. The sergeant on his left—Sergeant Herst, the one doing the most yelling—immediately shoved him back to the right. "Watch where you're going, you little puke!"

Lassiter grit his teeth and kept running, ignoring the barrage of insults just like he'd been conditioned to.

"Hey, buttwipe," Sergeant Brackon mocked, "recite the Soldier's Creed. Right now!"

Lassiter coughed laboriously in reply. His tongue, swollen from lack of water, refused to move and force out those words he had repeated over and over during the past six weeks.

Sergeant Brackon sped up and jogged backwards in front of him. "You hear me? I said recite the Soldier's Creed!"

Lassiter summoned some saliva to his arid mouth and swished it around, then spit it to the side as he ran. Finally, he began to recite: "I am an American soldier! I am a warrior and a member of a team—"

"Speak up!"
Lassiter raised his voice to a hoarse yell, his voice cracking every other word. "I serve the people of the United States, and live the Army values! I will always place the mission first! I will never accept defeat! I will never quit! I will never leave a fallen comrade—"

With those words, Sergeant Herst unceremoniously fell to the ground. Lassiter skidded to a stop (not an easy task with over one hundred pounds of gear stuffed into his backpack) and spun around to see Sergeant Herst propped up on an elbow and grinning at him. He looked like a camo pinup girl.

"Well? You gonna help him or not?" Sergeant Brackon barked beside him.

Lassiter faltered. He was already carrying a load much too heavy for him to run with, the sergeant couldn't possibly expect him to carry more, could he?

"Pick him up, soldier," Sergeant Brackon ordered. "Remember? 'I will never leave a fallen comrade.'"

"Sir, yes sir!"

He jogged over to Sergeant Herst and attempted to pull him into a sitting position, but the sergeant began exaggeratedly thrashing around and screaming.

"Oh geez," he moaned, still wearing a grin, "I've been shot! I've been shot!"

Lassiter fumbled, trying to get him to hold still so he could pull him up and over his shoulder like he'd been taught, but Sergeant Herst flailed his arms and made it impossible for him to approach.

"Is there a problem here, grunt?" Sergeant Brackon growled.

"Sir! Sergeant Herst is moving too much and I can't get ahold of him, sir!" Lassiter shouted back.

"Sergeant Herst is in shock!" Sergeant Brackon grinned devilishly and winked at his buddy on the ground, who winked back. "Soldiers in the field will often go into shock after being wounded! You need to work around that!"

"Sir, yes sir!"

Lassiter turned back to Sergeant Herst, who began thrashing and moaning again. He was having a hard time seeing still—sweat had run into his eyes and the salt had stung and nearly blinded him. The heat from the late afternoon Georgia sun was beating down on his back and soaking him with sweat, making it hard to get a grip anywhere on Sergeant Herst's body.

Finally, Lassiter managed to straddle his body and hook his arms under his armpits, pulling him into a standing position. Then, using the hold he had been taught, he swung Sergeant Herst's 200-pound body up and over his shoulder, linking his hand and leg together in a loop around his neck so he didn't fall off.

Lassiter looked to Sergeant Brackon to receive orders on what to do next, but Sergeant Brackon had begun jogging already and was more than 200 yards ahead of him.

"Guess you're gonna need to start running," Sergeant Herst taunted from his shoulder.

"Sir, yes sir!" Lassiter replied obediently, though he wasn't sure how he was going to do that. He gingerly took a step to make sure he could move without falling over. He tipped a little, but he didn't fall over. So far, so good, he thought. He took another step, then another.

"Hey, man!" Sergeant Herst whined. "I'm bleeding out here! You gotta pick up the pace, son!"

"Sir, yes sir!" Lassiter began walking faster. Sweat drenched his body and his muscles burned. The heat began making him partially hallucinate, and he could've sworn he smelled bread being made. Bread would taste good right about now. Bread and a nice tall glass of water, with ice. Yeah, that'd be nice. Maybe if he could just set this weight down—

"What're you doing, idiot? Stand back up and get running!"

Lassiter found that in his daze he had stopped and kneeled on the dirt road. "Sir, yes sir!" He stood up at a snail's pace, his breath coming in shallow gasps and his muscles screaming at him. He let out a little gasp that he hoped Sergeant Herst had not heard.

"It's only half a mile, grunt! Get me home!"

"Sir, yes sir!"

Lassiter began a light jog, though his body protested. His vision was still blurry and he felt like he was going to throw up. He was practically bent in half with all the weight on his back. It didn't help that Sergeant Herst yelled encouraging comments in his ear every few steps, like "You're an idiot," "You'll never make it, grunt," and (his personal favorite) "My fat, pregnant wife could run circles around you." And, of course, Lassiter followed each of these with a breathless, barely audible, "Sir, yes sir!"

It was getting darker outside now, and the forest flanking the dirt road began to ominously close in around them. Only a half mile, Lassiter kept telling himself as a mantra of sorts. His jog was barely more than an ambitious walk, but at this point he didn't care, he just wanted to be back at base so he could eat some tasteless food, then sleep in his urine-stained cot.

Up ahead, a structure loomed into view. Could it be?

"Hey, old boy! Looky there! Home sweet home, eh?"

"Sir, yes sir!"

Lassiter picked up his pace slightly, invigorated by the thought of a rest. Sergeant Herst was still yelling in his ear, but he couldn't hear him anymore. He focused on that dark shape, those barracks he had come to hate so much that, ironically, he now longed for.

One hundred yards to go.

His feet smacked the pavement hard with each step.

Fifty yards left.

The rest of the recruits were already there, bent over and panting. They simply stared as Lassiter lumbered his way towards them.

Ten yards left.

Five yards.

Home.

"Congratulations, grunt," Sergeant Herst mumbled in his ear, "You made it."

"Sir, yes sir!"

Lassiter carefully set Sergeant Herst back on his feet and saluted him.

"You may just be something someday, Lassiter," Sergeant Brackon said behind him. Lassiter turned to face him. "But probably not."

"Sir, yes sir!" And with that, he fell forward on the ground, passed out cold.