2013 (A long, long time ago…)
Camp Aguinaldo, Manila
I'm really starting to regret this…
"Recruit Rodriguez!" the drill sergeant screamed just right in front of him. "Front and center, on the fucking double!"
The newly bald and clean-shaven Henry Rodriguez gulped audibly as he did what he was told, stepping forward from everyone else on the line while clutching his newly-issued M16A2 tightly near his chest.
The instructor was on him in an instant, directly invading the raw recruit's personally space and snatching his service rifle with inhuman speed. That shocked Rodriguez for a bit, he was practically holding that thing with a near-deathly grip, and the man just took it like it wasn't grasped to anything at all.
Thankfully the older man didn't notice his expression, as he was busy inspecting the rifle that he'd essentially order everyone to relentlessly clean, disassemble, and reassemble these past two hours. The younger man could clearly see the higher ranking grunt peer through the rifle's meticulously scrubbed iron sights, pulling on the thing's charging handle, and then pressing on the side bolt release that rewarded him with a satisfying click.
Maybe it was just Rodriguez's wishful thinking, but he could've sworn he saw the crazy bastard smile in approval.
"Not bad, recruit." The older man spoke in a low tone. "Not bad at all." Rodriguez beamed at the man's rare praise. That was entirely unexpected.
"Thank you, si—" A sharp pain erupted in his gut, as his own rifle's plastic stock made contact with his unprotected abdomen, and the recruit instantly had his hands all over his stomach as he doubled over from the intense sensation. He honestly did not expect this one too.
"Did I give you permission to speak, recruit?" the man roared loudly as he sat down on the ground to scream at him closer. His ears were practically ringing.
"Sir, no sir." He grumbled, finding it hard to speak and breathe at the same time as he clutched a hand on his belly. Goddamn, did it hurt like a bitch…
"Say what, recruit?" The drill sergeant went even nearer to him, cupping a hand on his ear as if to prove a point.
"Sir, no sir!"
"Good man," the older man smirked as Rodriguez agonizingly stood back at attention. "now quit lying around there and get your ass back up."
"Sir…" The sergeant tossed him back the service rifle, with a lightning-fast chest pass that was so painful, it threatened to expel his tiny reserves of air left in him. Right then and there, it took a lot of his fading willpower just to stay upright and not collapse in front of the man.
Christ, I really am starting to regret this.
"Alright, everyone listen up!" the drill sergeant yelled as he want to his usual position in front of the formation. "Can someone in this sorry bunch tell me what the impressive specs of this here M16A2 assault rifle are? Anyone?"
No one in the training platoon's thirty-six recruits responded immediately to his line of questioning, with every single one of them fearful as to what might happen if they somehow incur the temperamental man's wrath; and when it was obvious that not of them was going to answer, the instructor just sighed and rolled his eyes.
"Fine, you fucks have my…'permission' to speak up." Slowly and unsurely, seven hands were raised, and the man quickly pointed to the recruit nearest to him. "You! Spit it out!"
"Uh," the answering recruit cautiously cleared his throat, "it's…uh, its barrel is about twenty inches long?"
"Are you seriously asking me if that's the right answer, recruit?"
"What?" The unfortunate recruit's eyes widened immensely. "N-n-n-no sir, what I meant to say is—"
"Are you not sure of your answer, recruit Santos?"
"Sir, I—"
"Next!" the sergeant pointed towards another recruit to answer, with the previous one bowing his head down in humiliation and trying to avoid the older man's judgmental gaze. Rodriguez could only offer his silent sympathy at his fellow rookie, but other than that, he couldn't give anything else. "You! If you say much as give me a question mark at the end of your sentence…"
"Wouldn't dream of it, sir." The next recruit calmly responded. "Shall I proceed?"
"The hell are you waiting for? An engraved invitation? Go right ahead, kid."
"The M16A2 is a semi- to full-auto assault rifle, with a rotating bolt and direct impingement gas-system, capable of firing seven hundred to nine hundred fifty rounds per minute, with an effective range of about five hundred meters point target and eight hundred meters area target."
"Hmmm, interesting." the sergeant just raised a brow at the man's statement of facts. "go on."
"It weighs three-point-twenty-six kilograms unloaded, and eight-point-seventy—"
The reciting recruit, a guy named Florencio, didn't get to finish his obviously memorized lines; as the drill instructor just faux-yawned, rolled his eyes again, and threw another equally unexpected gut punch to the poor guy's abdomen. To his credit though he still stood up on his feet, but had accidentally dropped the rifle he was holding just right after he was punched. That only served to further anger the older man even more, and he loudly ordered the dude to do thirty push-ups or else.
Needless to say, Florencio didn't stop to wonder and find out. And what Rodriguez can only assume was through sheer searing pain, his fellow recruit completed the task at hand, down to the very last count. Ahead, the sergeant just let out a predatory smile.
"Jesus, I forgot how boring facts were. Alright, enough facts for now, let's all go to the firing range."
"If anyone here can score a pretty decent shot on the damn ten-ring, then I will personally reward you with a bowl of extremely delicious and mouthwatering sorbetes. Now show me what you pukes got. Next twelve, on the firing line now!"
Okay, Henry old boy. Just make sure you actually hit your target and you'll be fine.
Rodriguez made his way towards his specified firing lane and slowly lowered himself to a prone firing position. Next, he made sure that everything in his weapon was in perfect condition before he fired; starting with yanks on the handle, the hand guard, and both the upper and lower receivers of the rifle. Satisfied, he did one last ammo check by ejecting the magazine, inspecting the rounds, then putting it back in with an affirmative click.
Inhale. He pulled back on the M16's charging handle to chamber a round. Aim. He sighted the weapon on his paper targe,t while moderately gripping his weapon to avoid cramping the muscles on his hands while stabilizing his shots. Exhale and await command to engage.
"Shooters standby," the sergeant boomed from behind them. "commence fi—"
A single shot on the far most right of the firing line went off a bit too prematurely, and everyone including Rodriguez immediately craned their heads to the right, to see who was stupid—or brave—enough to fire early and earn first-class tickets to an unforgettable ass-kicking.
With his rifle's muzzle clearly smoking and just about proving his undeniable misconduct, recruit Santos gulped rather noticeably and slowly turned to face the drill sergeant behind him; who was in that moment already on him and practically fuming with uncontrollable anger.
"Santos…" the instructor growled through extremely gritted teeth.
"I'm sorry, sir. I—"
"What the fuck is wrong with you, you fucking cock-sucking piece of maggoty ass shit!" The drill sergeant roared as he brought a hand and relentlessly started pounding the back of Santos's head over and over and over again. "Can't you do anything right, recruit Santos?! Are you too fucking stupid for your own good, huh?!"
"But Drill Serge—"
The instructor bent low and stood the poor recruit up in an instant by vehemently grabbing the kid's collars with both hands, and staring fiercely into the kid's panicked-stricken eyes with so much hatred and contempt, everyone nearly cringed at the brutal ongoing spectacle right in front of them. Though he was a bit guilty for thinking about it at that moment, Rodriguez surely thanked his lucky stars that he wasn't on the other end of the older man's anger.
"You! Are! A! Fucking! Disgrace, recruit Santos! A fucking disgrace!" the older man continued to bellow. "Walang hiya ka! And I ought to fucking NJP your ass so goddamn hard, you'd be shitting discharge papers right about now!"
Santos was nearly at the peak of his full-blown anxiety, and the tears starting to form in his eyes didn't seem to help alleviate the drill sergeant's hate towards him. One second, he was still standing on his tip-toes, as the instructor held him almost a little bit higher off the ground; and the next, the poor trainee collapsed suddenly unto the ground, as a barely visible punch to the gut from the old man knocked his lights out into oblivion.
The training platoon didn't even bother to gasp at the brutality of it all, as recruit Santos's unconscious form just laid there for all of them to see. It was hard to ignore the lesson the brutal bastard was trying to impart on a platoon filled with fearful recruits. And it was really hard to forget, even if they had the inclination to do so.
Never, ever, ever fuck with him. Ever. If you wanted to live and get out of Basic alive.
"Medic!" the drill sergeant screamed towards the left. As if on cue, two men in basic combat fatigues, with backpacks and Red Cross armbands on their sleeves, came out of nowhere and immediately went to Santos's side, setting him upright and assessing their newfound patient. After a few moments, both of them each took an arm and slowly limped their way towards the camp's aid station, the sight of Santos' retreating backside doing nothing to ease their immensely growing fears.
The whole display lasted in less than a minute, but every single one of the aspiring soldiers knew that if they ever fucked up in the same way as Santos did, it would most likely feel more than just a single goddamn minute.
"Alright, recruits!" the drill sergeant cheerfully called out without missing a beat, as if the whole thing earlier had never happened. "Now that that sorry excuse of a rifleman is 'temporarily" indisposed at the moment, how about we try to continue to where we left off? Remember, my offer for that sorbetes still stands. And I gotta tell you boys, it is mighty good indeed. Now, commence firing!"
A good long second after the command was given (just to be safe, him and the rest of them figured), an irregular volley of semi-automatic shots began bombarding the paper targets downrange as the recruits started firing their rifles, with half of them hitting their respective marks and the other half missing. Just as expected from your standard training platoon. But whenever a single round failed to puncture the paper, Rodriguez could see the instructor cringe a little bit, as if the rounds missing their targets were the recruits' indirect way of being insubordinate to him. He waited for the inevitable to come.
But fortunately for all of the trainees in the platoon, the old man didn't blow over like a tactical nuke going off and seemed to maintain his composure. And Rodriguez was happy to keep it that way for as long as they can.
Better not push my luck, then.
Aiming the rifle again, Rodriguez made a slight adjustments to the iron sights once more, since his prior alterations a few minutes ago were basically useless; as a slight breeze was coming in from the west. He made damn sure to compensate for that.
Okay, he curled his finer around the trigger, here we go.
A slight eight pound pull on the trigger coughed out a single round, and to his—and to everyone's extreme amazement—it directly hit the small circle right above the chest, completely pulverizing the ten-ring.
It took a few seconds for this thoughts to take it all in. He hit it! He actually hit the motherfucking ten-ring! He was expecting a solid hit from somewhere in the sternum, and would've been happy nonetheless as long as the rounds hit any part of the paper target. But this, this was entirely unexpected. A few meters on his right, the drill sergeant let out a slow whistle.
"Well, I'll be damned…" the old man whispered, mainly to himself, as he squinted his eyes to get a better look on the perforated target.
And this time, he most definitely saw the brutal bastard let out a big-ass smile.
And the sorbetes that was promised as a reward? The instructor didn't exaggerate about that either. It was the most delicious thing he had ever eaten. Victory had never tasted so sweet.