Chapter Twenty

Breaking Down The Basics

Fort Leonard Wood Kentucky

1989

Salem bounded off the bus struggling to stay on his feet, into a world of chaos. There were several men screaming at the new recruits, it was dark, and he could smell the panic pouring off the men surrounding him. The long bus ride to the post was lost to him. Exhaustion and anxiety were his two main issues. They worried him, but not knowing where he was compounded his terror. As a child, plying the swamps for fish and game, he had to know how to get back home. He'd learned from a very young age to navigate the land, but now he felt completely adrift. He'd never travelled farther than sixty miles from home. Now, he was in another state, in the woods, without any bearings.

The screaming was nonstop, and the group of nearly 120 recruits jostled and shoved trying to follow the orders the Drill Instructors were screaming at them. It was difficult to understand. It seemed to him that every man was screaming for them to do something different. He finally slid into the long line in between two men, who dwarfed him, took a deep breath, and tried settle himself. He'd endured screaming all of his life, he'd survived in the midst of chaos all of his life, so this shouldn't be all that different. He stowed the small duffle bag that SSG. Hopewell had purchased and stocked for him in between his feet, and tried to stand tall. The prison Governor had demanded the men stood at his version of attention, back straight, feet together, toes outward at forty-five degrees, eyes staring down at the floor so, Salem did that; figuring it was as close as he could get.

The Drill instructors paced back and forth in front of the rag tag line of frightened men as if they were shopping for slaves. Salem tried to listen to what the Drill Instructors scolded the others for, shunting the new information away so that he might avoid their fate. Four or five times they passed him by, and he began to wonder if he was too small, that they just weren't seeing him. Finally, the Drill Instructors told them to count off in threes, in order to divide the new men into platoons. After four failed attempts, the line finally made it to him, and he shouted out 'three' as loudly as he could putting him in third platoon, and sealing his fate for the next ten weeks.

"All right all a you pieces a shit listen to me." The Drill Instructor, Salem took to be the one in charge, screamed, "When told to fall out, fall out, and fall back in behind the number painted on my road, that you so piteously sang out."

Salem groaned. He knew it was going to be another free for all. Before he could give it further thought, the man screamed for them to fall out, and he moved at a quick trot to the group of men piling in behind the large number three painted on the sidewalk. The D.I.s corralled them into four ranks, ten men to a file. Salem ended up in the second rank midway along the file. All the men around him were several years older and much larger. Then, the hazing began again, only this time the D.I.'s were going man by man, and taking names. There wasn't any way to hide this time. He closed his eyes, and tried to once again learn from the other men's mistakes.

The rank in front of him, first rank as he'd learned, stood in disarray. Several of the men were doing pushups, several were in the 'position' as the D.I.s were calling it, which was down, and ready to do pushups, not moving, but what scared Salem was that not a single man had escaped without some form of punishment. The group of D.I.s moved into the space in front of Salem's rank, and he waited for his turn.

"What the fuck are you?" The tall Drill Instructor screamed into his face making no attempt to hide his disdain. "And what's so god damned interesting on my road?"

The man was at least six feet two inches tall, and built like a football linebacker. Despite himself Salem flinched. He tried to remain calm. He figured that the man couldn't actually hurt him, so he wasn't in danger, yet his heart was pounding, and suddenly his mouth was dry. He ran through how the D.I.s taught the men in the first rank to respond, and did his best to copy them. The question, though, was not quite what he'd expected, and caught off guard he replied without thinking.

"Drill Sergeant, hungry, Drill Sergeant!"

"What? Look at me!" The man screamed thumping the brim of his hat against Salem's sweat beaded forehead.

Salem snapped his head up, looked quickly into the furious man's green eyes, and shouted,

"Drill Sergeant, hungry, Drill sergeant!"

"Get on your fucking face, get on your face, and kiss my fucking road! Hungry! Hungry? I'll give you fucking hungry. Give me fifteen, Private; begin. Hungry?"

Salem dropped into the 'position' and started to do pushups. Two more of the D.I.s joined the first man, and all three were leaning down screaming at him. All he heard though, was the initial man screaming out 'one' over and over.

"Hungry, you want to eat my food, and you can't even give me one good pushup, you little skinny assed piece a shit, one. Stay in the down. Straighten your back! Hungry! I have a mind to not feed your happy ass until you can show me fifteen good pushups, Private Hungry. Straighten your back you skinny little pussy! Private Hungry. Maybe that's what I'll call for the next day or so till you wash out! You are going to wash out right, Private Hungry. Stray-ten-your-back! Can't you follow a simple order?"

At the words 'wash out' Salem started to panic. Had they decided already? Did they know what he had to lose?

"Asked you a question, Private Hungry!"

"No. Drill Sergeant, no, Drill sergeant." He screamed, gasping for breath, and willing his arms to hold him up.

The D.I dropped down into the pushup position so that he was eye to eye with Salem, and just inches from his face.

"You want to stay in my Army, Hungry?"

"Drill Sergeant, yes, Drill Sergeant!"

"Look at me when I talk to you!"

Salem's head snapped up. As an inmate the rules forbade making eye contact with any of the prison staff, so it came as a shock that he should now, and he was having a difficult time remembering to.

"Drill Sergeant, yes Drill Sergeant!"

"Will you be able to give me my pushups by 0500?"

"Drill Sergeant, yes Drill Sergeant!"

"That's in eighteen hours, Private Hungry. I'll be expecting them."

The man stood up, and moved along the rank leaving him down. Salem struggled to keep his back straight. He looked at some of the others still down, and saw that they too were struggling. Some of them were in far better shape than he was which gave him some small measure of confidence. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, another D.I. came along, and told him to recover. He did snapping back to attention, and making sure to look at the man.

"Name?"

Salem took a breath, remembering the rules instructing them how to reply.

"Drill Sergeant, Salem, Elliot, Nicholas, Regular Army, Seventeen, March, 1972, 7867, Drill Sergeant."

"How many pushups did you do, Private Hungry?"

Salem restrained his frustration, were they going to call him that forever?

"Drill Sergeant, zero, Drill Sergeant!"

"Drop, Hungry! Gimme fifteen. Are you lying to me, Hungry? You'd disrespect me by lying to me. First you sass Drill Sergeant Shabalin, now you're lying to me! How many pushups, Hungry?"

Salem's head was spinning, as he pushed. He hadn't done any. Shabalin told him he couldn't do them, what did the man want? Then, it hit him, "Drill Sergeant, one, Drill Sergeant!"

"Recover! And how many do you owe us by 0500?"

"Drill Sergeant, fifteen, Drill Sergeant!"

"And how many will we see, Private Hungry?"

"Drill Sergeant, twenty-five, Drill Sergeant!"

The man took a breath, and Salem waited for the order to drop again. Instead, the Drill Sergeant just nodded, and moved down the line. Salem was shaking. Between the physical exertion, and the screaming he was coming unglued. Every fiber of his body wanted to tell the bullies to go fuck themselves. He wanted to fight, and tear them apart, but knew that he couldn't. He'd need, as SSG. Hopewell had told him, to harness his rage, and put it to good use. Harness it, and get stronger, become a great soldier.

The day passed by in a blur of activity. Salem was poked, measured, interrogated, given shots, loaded down with more gear than he weighed, dropped for pushups at what seemed every turn, fed a dismal lunch and forced to eat it at without chewing, and then, finally, as the sun was setting he was herded into a building, assigned to an eight man room, and told to get his gear squared away.

Squared away, he thought, dropping the huge green duffle bag on the floor at the bottom of a bunk. Squared away, what the hell did that even mean? For a long while, he just stood there staring down at the pile of gear. In his entire seventeen years he'd never owned so much stuff. Four sets of uniforms, blankets, a pillow, two pairs of boots, and the list went on and on. How would he ever manage to square the mess away? He ran his hand back across his shaved head, and sighed. Maybe the others knew, maybe he could just do what they did, and get it done.

Turning around, he looked at the other men, and nearly gasped. They all looked just as lost as he was. Finally, a tall, very muscular recruit stepped into the middle of the room. Salem thought that of all of them he looked the most military. He would be the one to observe.

"Guys listen up. My name's Raymond, Willie Raymond. I'm not busting anybody's ass, or trying to take over; Drill Sergeant Shabalin will choose the squad leaders, but listen up. I'm R.O.T.C. I've done this before. Okay, this is what needs to happen. First, we all change into BDU's. Then, we make up these bunks, and then, we'll set to stowing our shit. You need help; ask me, I'm here. Now, let's get changed.

Salem dug through his duffle, retrieving a pair of pants, a green tee shirt, the outer jacket, green socks, the little bands they had called blousing garters, the belt, and finally the patrol cap, which he immediately put on his head backwards. He stripped down, switched the boxers SSG. Hopewell had bought him to the drab green Army boxers, donned the rest of the kit, and sat on the floor against the wall stretching one of the blousing garters, while watching what Raymond did with his. He copied the big man, and pulled on his boots. As he was tying the left one Raymond came over, and squatted down in front of him.

"Just so you know; no hats inside."

Salem looked up, and fought to hide his annoyance. Who the fuck was he to tell him what to do? Teaching them was one thing, but giving orders a completely different situation. Before he could reply, Raymond shook his head, and held up his hands in surrender.

"Just don't want to see you getting yelled at. The boots; look, un-lace 'em, and skip this hole here. It will help to keep you from getting blisters. You did the blousing good though. Fix those laces, and start getting your bunk set up. Oh, and here, let me fix up your rank, it's not quite right. There, that's it. Hop on that bunk as quick as you can."

Salem took off his hat, and stuffed it into his right side cargo pocket, after studying the inverted V shape that was his rank. Raymond had a different one, so Salem figured he must be the highest among the group. Sighing, he re-laced the boots, stood up, and walked in a circle. He could immediately feel the difference. SSG. Hopewell had bought him a couple of packages of Moleskins, and showed him how to use them on blisters, now Salem knew why.

As he made his bunk, he listened to Raymond moving from man to man helping them make their bunks. He never raised his voice, or gave an order, but made sure that the group was doing the tasks correctly. Once the bunks were dressed perfectly, he took the floor again, and talked them through getting their footlockers set up. In the midst of that, one of the cadres came into the room, and observed the quiet man instructing the squad, and then, left without saying anything.

Dinner was a repeat of breakfast and lunch. Stand in line, wait your turn, get some chow slopped onto your plate, sit down, and almost immediately get told to fall out to the parking lot. Salem feared that if it kept up he'd never get to eat enough to gain any weight or muscle. Back at the barracks the D.I. ordered them to fall out, and return in ten minutes to the staging area dressed for physical training. They failed to make the time, and the D.I. subsequently sent them back upstairs to fall out in nine minutes dressed back in BDU's. The process continued until the platoon could readily switch clothing in five minutes.

At 1100 hours the eight men were in their room for what they hoped would be the end of a long day. Salem sat down on the floor in the corner beside his footlocker, and tried to calm his frazzled nerves. It was all too much, and this was only the first day. He slapped his patrol cap onto his head backwards, drew his knees up to his chest, and then, after crossing his arms over the top, rested his sweat soaked forehead on them. All around him he could hear men gripping and cursing about how the D.I.s treated them. It confused him. Sure, it sucked, but they were only doing their job. He was halfway dozing when PFC. Raymond kicked at the toe of his left boot.

"Salem, you can't sleep. You need to learn to do a proper push up."

Elliot looked up at the man, and groaned; if he couldn't do them rested how did Raymond expect him to do them exhausted? As if reading his mind, Raymond spoke again.

"They break you down to build you up, Elliot. Work through it. Up on your feet now, and to my bunk, it's a bottom one, so we'll use it."

Salem followed him, and for the next two hours Raymond patiently instructed him on how to do a proper push up. First, he had Elliot do them standing up pushing off of the wall, then with his feet on his bunk, and finally regular on the floor. Salem felt the difference, and by the time they finished he was doing fifty-five good, solid push-ups, a score mid-way between the minimum forty-three and the maximum of seventy-one.

The following morning after P.T., breakfast chow, and more P.T. the D.I.s broke them into their squads, and began doing interviews with each recruit. While they waited, PFC. Raymond, now officially Salem's squad leader, helped them pack their rucksacks, and adjust them to fit properly. Salem followed his instructions, and then studied his S.M.A.R.T book while he waited. Finally, they called for him, and he trotted to the door, and entered the office as they D.I.s instructed them to do.

"Drill Sergeant, Private Salem reports." He snapped smartly while standing at 'Parade Rest'.

Drill Sergeant Toby Shabalin looked up from the file on his desk, and studied the recruit standing exactly two steps back from, and dead center of his cluttered desk. He was the first recruit to actually report correctly, and Shabalin was impressed. Salem couldn't have positioned himself any more accurately if he'd have used a tape measure. He probably was hungry, the man thought. He couldn't be more than five foot seven, and had to be at least twenty pounds under weight. He was pale, and while he was doing a fine job of trying to appear un-afraid, Shabalin, after serving as a drill instructor for nearly eight years, saw through Salem's façade, and knew the man, no, boy really he thought, was terrified. They all were though. Well most of the new men anyway. There was always those few cocky ones who thought they knew the drill. This one though, Shabalin decided, was clueless. He was clueless, but would prove to be as tough as some of the men three times his size. It was something in Salem's hazel eyes, some glint of courage, anger maybe, or both. Shabalin tried to pinpoint exactly what vibe was seeping from his smallest, youngest troop, and finally decided that time would spell it out for him. He let Salem stew longer than the men who had come before him trying to see if he would falter. This one would be difficult to break, this one, Shabalin knew, would be one of the very few men who would, once he had his boots firmly planted on the ground, be able to adapt and beat him at his own game. Twenty minutes later, when the boy had not moved a muscle, he finally addressed him.

"Exactly what the fuck are you, Private?"

The question was a well thought out one. Shabalin needed to establish the rules of their particular game, and this would be the beginning. Would Salem lie, and just give his name, this time? Or, would he again tell the honest truth, that he was hungry.

"Drill Sergeant, hungry."

Good, Shabalin thought, very good. In his left side peripheral vision, he saw Drill Sergeant Galloway and Drill Sergeant Alvarez beginning to step toward the young recruit, both clearly annoyed at what they took to be blatant insolence.

"Both of you stand down. This is between Pvt. Salem and I," he ordered curtly without raising his voice, or looking away from Salem.

In his right side peripheral vision, Salem saw Galloway immediately back up, and lean against the window sill, while Alvarez simply stopped short, seeming to want to argue the command. Before he had a chance to speak, Shabalin addressed him again, this time quite tersely.

"I gave you an order, Sgt. Alvarez; stand down."

Salem watched the irate soldier join Galloway. He knew the man was furious that Shabalin scolded him in front of a recruit, and his time in prison had taught him that when these types of power struggles occurred, it was always the third party, in this case him, that eventually took the brunt of the offended man's anger. He knew that from that day forward Alvarez would hate him. Two days in and already he had a target painted on his back. He fought down the urge to sigh in disappointment, and kept his eyes locked on Drill Sergeant, Shabalin.

"Hungry. I think, Pvt. Salem that might be, in your case, a double entendre. Am I correct?"

"Drill Sergeant, yes."

"How old are you?"

Salem wondered why he'd ask. He had it right in front of him. SSG. Hopewell's advice echoed in his memory. 'It's all a game, Elliot. You just need to figure out what game he's playing, and then play accordingly. Move, and counter, and move again. It's all a game.'

"Drill Sergeant, seventeen."

"What's your weight?"

"Drill Sergeant, one-nineteen at the reception center."

"How many push-ups did you do this morning?"

"Drill Sergeant, all good ones for P.T., fifty-five for Drill Sergeant Galloway at 0500, twenty-five after I dressed and made up my bunk, and all the ones after that until here. All good ones."

"And the two mile run?"

"Drill Sergeant, I made it, but I want to be faster. I never really ran before here."

"Sit-ups?"

"Drill Sergeant, sixty."

"Pvt., what page does the chapter concerning how to respond to a flare without warning begin on in your S.M.A.R.T book?"

"Drill Sergeant, page forty-seven, second paragraph."

"And how would you respond?"

"Drill Sergeant, drop immediately to the ground…"

"Good, stop. How many times have you read it so far, Pvt.?"

"Drill Sergeant, three and a half."

"Seventeen. What made you join my Army Pvt.?"

"I need to take care of my girls. I need to, to make a life away from where I came from. I had to get out of that…"

Shabalin held up his right hand to silence him, and Salem immediately stopped speaking.

"Girls?"

"Drill Sergeant, my wife and baby daughter."

"Horney little fucker aren't you?" Alvarez spat out chuckling derisively. "Seventeen, and married with a wife and a rug rat you couldn't feed. It's insolent losers like you that we don't need."

Salem seethed. If this was a part of the game, then he was more than willing to move. He swallowed hard forcing himself to remain still, and not launch across the office to attack the older man.

"Galloway, Alvarez dismissed." Shabalin ordered, still staring at Salem, "Get them formed up for lunch chow. Let the new platoon guide march them over, and teach him how to do the head count. Also, tell Pvt. Raymond that once he eats, to report straight back to me here."

The two men left, but as Alvarez passed by Salem he bumped into his left shoulder nearly knocking the smaller man from his stiff position of 'Parade Rest'. Salem ignored the slight, staring straight ahead at Shabalin. When the two men were gone Shabalin set aside Salem's file, and leaned back in his chair.

"Close the door, Pvt. Salem. Then, get that chair, move it to where you are standing, and have a seat."

Salem thought before he moved. He quickly sorted the situation out, and began to formulate his plan. It was skill he'd often needed in the real world, and being good at it was going to pay off in the Army. Access, decide, move…it's what keeps you alive, see the little details, and make them work for you. If he was stalking a deer, he'd see the path, see in minute details, the pattern of leaves and twigs mapping out where he'd be setting his feet down, see it, and make a silent path. The details kept you alive. They fed you.

Shabalin hadn't exactly dismissed him so, should he perform the proper courtesy for a dismissal when closing the door, or should he just turn, and close the door? It was, he figured better to ere on the side of doing too much than to slight Shabalin with a lack of manners. He came to attention, took two steps backward, performed a snappy 'about face', crossed to the battered gray green door, and closed it quietly. Then, turning to his left, he moved to the chair, hefted it, and after very carefully setting it down precisely where he'd previously been standing, cautiously took a seat.

"Again, well played. Now, please relax, and speak freely."

"Drill Sergeant, are you sending me back?"

"No. I am concerned about your weight though. Once we finish here, Pvt. Raymond will escort you to the infirmary, and you will meet with a nutritionist. He'll see about helping you bulk up a bit. Now, about how you got here. Only three men in this company are aware of the program you are participating in, and it will remain that way. Myself, First Sergeant Lucas and Captain Milovic. You are to say nothing about it to anyone, and that includes Raymond, am I clear?"

"Drill Sergeant, yes."

"Good, I was uncertain about this program at first, and to be honest Pvt., I had to give a great deal of thought to it. Your past history is worrisome on several levels. That being said, after seeing you here, and observing you, meeting you, I think if you stick with it, and give me 150% I can make you into a perfect soldier. Do you agree?"

Salem thought for a moment before answering. What had Shabalin seen in him? In the past no one had ever seen anything in him other than a boy that they could batter and use. For him the world was full of Alvarez's. Shabalins existed only in fairy tales and fiction. Only his wife, Jennifer, had seemed to see good in him, and he often, despite feeling as though he loved her, wondered about her true feelings.

She had pursued him for months before he finally gave in, and began to date her, if you could call it that. She was three years his senior, and very aggressive sexually, something Salem had no skills to deal with short of just giving in, which he readily did. He dealt the drugs that her and her socialite friends took, but he despised them, and refused to participate in anything other than getting stoned and drinking. To survive he needed a clear head. He steered clear of the Meth and the Heroin, and tried to get her away from that crowd, even going to her father, and pleading for him to send her away into treatment. The man repaid him with a sound beating, threatening to shoot him if he ever set foot on the property again. He did though, several times, taking his beatings, and trying to get his point across.

Why? That was the question he now, finally, had the answer to. Not simply, because he 'loved' her. Salem wasn't even sure what love was, at the time. She said she loved him, and he reveled in just hearing her say it, needed to hear her say it. As long as she would promise it, he'd do anything for her. He'd had no point of reference though, no one to teach him, love, not until the day he'd finally held his newborn daughter, for the first time during her first weekend visit. As soon as he smelled her sweetly scented hair, and clean cotton blanket his heart had fluttered, and he began to cry. He'd looked down into her dark eyes, and swore to her that he'd love her, and never let anyone hurt her. That was love, but what had kept driving him back to Jennifer's father was that he'd seen something in her, something good, and he desperately wanted to save her, and see that seed of goodness blossom. It wasn't necessarily love though.

"Drill Sergeant, yes. I need to, desperately want to become the best soldier I can."

"Good, Pvt. Salem, then stay hungry, and just do the work. I can't, don't want to imagine the hell you faced in that prison. That is one of the worst injustices that I have ever been made aware of, and believe me I've seen many horrible situations. Keep it to yourself. Raymond's coming in, do what he says, and return to the barracks. Send Pvt. Raymond in, dismissed."

Salem stood, replaced the chair, returned it to the spot he'd vacated, performed a proper dismissal, but just as he was turning the door knob Shabalin stopped him.

"Pvt., don't you want to ask me about Drill Sergeant, Alvarez?"

Salem turned back to face the older man, came to Parade Rest, and sighed, "Drill Sergeant, no. He's mine to manage, thank you."

"Carry on."

Once in the hallway, he crossed to where PFC. Raymond was waiting, then he again came to, Parade Rest, and addressed the older man.

"Private First Class Raymond, Pvt. Salem reports. Drill Sergeant Shabalin said to report to him, I'm to wait here for you to return."

"Look at my rank, Pvt. Salem."

Salem did and his gut hitched. Raymond read the confusion in his eyes and smiled as he squeezed his left shoulder.

"At Ease, beyond me being your squad leader, we're all equals rank wise, until Drill Sergeant, Shabalin returns my rank. Wait here."