Sergeant Major Forbes paced back and forth in front of the men; slow and deliberate. A jungle tiger watching his helpless prey.
Each of the six young men stood at perfect attention. They all knew what was coming. It was only a matter of when and where the sergeant's wrath would fall today.
"Alright, you clods. There aren't enough hours 'til judgment day to make you run that obstacle course the right way; and if you haven't noticed, there's a war on." Forbes had a voice that snapped like a whip.
"Everyone will be moving on to their next order of business. " Each Private held his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. They weren't ready to relax yet.
"Everyone, that is," he paused in his pacing to meet the eyes of his victim, "excepting Private Hitchcock." Breaking eye contact and pacing again, he began railing off orders at breakneck speed.
"Lewis. Pettigrew. Get your hides down to the shooting range on the double. Lt. Mastterson is waiting to see your progress in sniping. And Heaven help you if he doesn't like what he sees!!"
"Lawson. Ruthers. Report to Sergeant Connelly for language courses. Maybe learn something today, for a change.
"And Sommers. Get to your next lecture with Corporal Bates. He's got you dissecting one of Jerry's potato mashers today. If you screw up, I'll see you in Hell. Any questions?" His tone of voice implied there had better not be.
"Alright. You have your orders...Pettigrew! Eyes front and center!... As I was saying, you have your orders, jump to 'em. Dismissed."
A few of the commando trainees gave Hitchcock pitying glances as they passed, others studiously avoided looking at him. Pettigrew sent one last long look over his shoulder before hurrying off in the direction of the shooting range.
Forbes groaned internally. Friendships in the field were dangerous. And too costly. He'd have to talk to Lt. Mastterson about it. With a sigh he turned to his remaining charge.
Hitchcock ignored the glances being sent his way and stood at perfect attention. Trying to save face despite the smudges and scrapes that spotted him and his uniform.
"Alright, Private. Care to explain your last time-stamp?"
"Sir?" Hitchcock knew darn well what Forbes was talking about, but Forbes needed to hear him say it.
"Your time-stamp from the last run on the obstacle course. There's a full, extra 30 seconds on it. Explain."
"Lewis missed the 10 foot wall on his first jump, sir. I stopped to help him over."
"There's 10 seconds. How about the rest?"
"Ruthers' leg caught on a bramble while we were crawling under fences. I used my knife to hack away the worst branches."
"There's another 10. And?"
"Over by the pop-up targets Sommers' pistol jammed. It was an easy fix, so I swapped pistols with him, fixed it, and got my targets."
"An "easy fix" took 10 whole seconds?" Hitchcock hesitated.
"I was tired, Sir."
"All that while the clock was ticking." Hitchcock's head snapped to look Forbes in the eye. His eyes flashed.
"I shouldn't help my teammates?" He demanded.
"No. Not if impacts your performance at all." Forbes shot back.
"Lewis, Ruthers, Sommers, all of you need to be dependent on yourselves. No one else. Mastterson needs to know you can do your jobs and stay alive. Everything else is secondary."
Hitchcock's voice lost its heat. "I don't want any of these guys to die when I could've helped."
"So you plan on being there every time Lewis is too short, or Ruthers gets clumsy? And what about Sommers? The next time he forgets his small arms training, he could have half the Jerries in North Africa on his tail. Then where will he be?" Forbes raised his arms up to his chest.
"I don't know what Mastterson saw in you at Benning. I've seen your record. Trouble-maker, skirt-chaser, with an unnerving tendency to disobey orders you don't like so good. Just another punk running away from home and hiding in the ranks. Just another kid." He sneered the last remark and turned to walk away.
A quiet sound from Hitchcock had him wheeling around and coming nose to nose with the boy.
"Care to repeat that, Private?"
"I'm not kid!" Hitchcock practically shouted in the face of the sergeant major. Forbes leaned in even further. His voice quiet and challenging.
"Prove it."
He turned and stalked away before Hitch could say anything.
...
Hitch wiped sweat from his eyes and put his shoulder to the frame of the Jeep. The angry African sun glared down at him. The heat rising from the sand was terrible.
He pushed and strained and felt it move a little. But even as he let go, it sank back into the soft sand. He let himself fall against the frame until he sat on the ground.
Hitch had to stop. His hair lay limp and damp, his shirt clung to his body. His muscles protested the punishment. The sun beat down on the back of his neck. He'd been trying for so long, but it only seemed to be getting worse. He had to stop.
"...Another punk trying to run away..."
"...what Mastterson saw in you..."
"... just a kid..."
I'm not a kid.
"...Mastterson is depending on you..."
No, not the Lieutenant. Troy. Sergeant Sam Troy depended on him now.
Digging his nails into his palms, he pushed himself to his feet. Putting his shoulder to the wheel of the Jeep he pushed for all he was worth.
"I'm not a kid." Through gritted teeth. He could feel the Jeep start to budge. His body screamed at him, he ignored it.
"I'm not a kid." Louder this time, with more conviction. The Jeep started sliding back in the sand. Farther and farther.
"I'm not a kid!!!" He shouted at the world.
"Prove it."
He'd prove it. Again and again if he had to. He clenched his fists until he thought his fingers might come through. He ground his teeth and gave a tremendous shove. He dredged his body for anything that remained of his rapidly fading strength.
With a jounce, the Jeep rolled up and back onto stable ground.
Hitch collapsed to his hands and knees, trembling a little.
...
Forbes smiled secretly as he stalked away from the dumbstruck Private. He saw exactly what Lt. Mastterson had seen in the boy. And he'd be damned before he let it die.