Author's Note: Annie's first PT session as Short Stack, and also her first glimpse of the main Joe team.
A note on the code names: All of the quartermasters have names derived from diner lingo. Short Stack and S.O.S. have already been explained, but the others have their own meanings too. Shingle is toast; Whiskey Down is rye toast; a Murphy is a potato; Eighty-Six is flexible slang referring to either an off-menu item or an undesirable customer; and Chopper means butcher knife.
Rating: T for language.
Warning: this chapter contains adult implications and more bad language, all of which is Beach Head's fault. I never yet met a DI who kept things G-rated, especially when it comes to jodies. The Joes just have a few more interesting things to be rude about.
Disclaimer: GI Joe and all associated characters and concepts are property of Hasbro Inc, and I derive no profit from this. Please accept this in the spirit with which it is offered—as a work of respect and love, not an attempt to claim ownership or earn money from this intellectual property.
Chapter Two: Warming Up
Being part of the food service corps didn't make you exempt from the usual drills, but it did mean that your schedule was altered slightly. Breakfast was served in the main mess from 0645 to 0830, every day—prime PT times. Quartermasters, no matter how long they'd served, got early PT in the same time slot as the brand-new greenshirts. Annie was both, and there was no escape: she found herself stretching out with the rest of them at 0515, on the damp grass at the edge of the parade ground.
In the distance, she could hear what sounded like the bellow of a wounded bull, if said bull had an Alabama accent and a colorful vocabulary. It grew louder, and with it came more sounds: the thud of two dozen feet in regular rhythm, the jingle of buckles, straps and tags, and the rhythmic roar of twelve men calling out in unison. Then the Alabama voice raised again, not sounding happy.
"Who's laggin' back there?" the voice bellowed. "Is that Tunnel Rat? Get yer ass in gear, you goddamn slacker! I'm not seein' any motivation here!" It changed, falling into the rhythm of the classic seven-syllable military cadence. Annie had heard a lot of them before, but never this one.
"Tomax and Xamot had a fight-"
"Tomax and Xamot had a fight!" the small unit chanted back.
"Just like they do every night!"
"Always fighting every night!"
"'Cause each time Xamot jerks it off-"
"Each time Xamot jerks it off-"
"Tomax turns his head an' coughs!"
"Tomax turns his head and coughs!"
"This ain't a Girl Scout party, Cinderella, what the hell you laughin' at? Naughty language too much for yer delicate ears? Sound off!"
"One, two!"
"Sound off!"
"Three, four!"
Anne turned to Eighty-Six. "What the hell-?" she began.
"Tomax and Xamot? Long story."
The PT party came to a halt at the edge of the parade ground, dripping sweat but at perfect attention nevertheless. The greenshirt-quartermaster group formed up themselves, albeit with less crispness than the other, while the source of the Alabama voice—a Rottweiler of a man in a balaclava—stalked up and down the line, snapping orders. Annie took the opportunity to get a good look at the people she would be making pancakes for later.
First off, she'd been wrong in her original estimate: two of them were women, one a tall redhead, the other a slightly smaller and more slender brunette. The latter was the one currently being addressed as "Cinderella" by the PT demon, making Annie inwardly cringe: compared to that code name, Short Stack seemed positively complimentary. The ten men were as mixed a bag as she'd ever seen, even in the armed forces. Chalk one up for Eighty-Six's stories—many of the clothes on display were hardy and practical, but definitely nonregulation. The man at the end of the line, a slender Asian fellow with wiry muscles, was wearing some loose white outfit that looked more like pajamas than workout gear. And next to the redheaded woman . . . was that a mask? What the hell?
Eighty-Six discreetly elbowed her and pointed out one of them, a huge black man with shoulders that looked to Annie to be wider than some cars. "Roadblock," she said sotto voce. The name was definitely applicable, but he didn't look like a master chef to Annie. On the other hand, he did look like the kind of person who could tenderize a steak with a hard look, so Annie was definitely not going to be jumping to any conclusions on that score.
"All right!" the PT demon bawled at the twelve ramrod-straight soldiers. "Yer all gonna run your lazy asses down to the firing field an' put yerselves into the tender care of Sgt. Slaughter. He swears he's finally come up with an obstacle course that'll beat mine, and he's just dyin' to put you all through it. If anyone's plannin' on laughin,' do it now, 'cause we all know how damn touchy he is. Fall out!"
Just like that, the line dissolved from a military unit into . . . into groups of friends, Annie thought. All twelve of them took off at a dead sprint across the field, but the redhead and Cinderella drifted towards each other, and both the weird masked man and the Asian fellow fell into step on either side of them. The little one—Tunnel Rat? What kind of a name was that?—immediately picked up what sounded like an interrupted conversation with a taller man in desert-print cammies. Three more, judging by their chatter, were motor-pool jockeys. But Annie couldn't hear much, because all twelve were jogging off across the parade ground again, and the PT demon was coming to a halt in front of her group.
"For those of you who ain't been around here long-!" he began. Annie tried not to flinch. If Roadblock could tenderize a steak with a look, this one could probably turn it into hamburger with his lung power alone. He didn't pause, he merely broke off in mid-shout. "The name's Beach Head! It's my job to get you all into fightin' shape, and I don't care how many feelings I have to bruise or pushups I have to hand out to do it! You're in the big leagues now, boys and girls—G.I. Joe is the best, end of story. Anybody who ain't willing to work for the privilege can wash out right now. Any takers?"
He stalked up and down the line, leveling a glare at each one of them in turn. Annie's fellow greenshirts wore their feelings clear on their faces—some worried, some confident, one even flamboyantly bored. The experienced members of the quartermaster corps, unwillingly lumped in with the new recruits by an accident of time slot, met the stare unflinchingly: Beach Head's speech was probably so familiar as to roll right off them. Annie, caught uncomfortably between the two groups, couldn't quite suppress the feeling that she was facing the largest, scariest, and most unsatisfied customer ever.
"Name!" Beach Head bellowed at the first greenshirt in line. The man came promptly to attention with a near-audible snap.
"Spit-Shine, sergeant!" Annie could believe it: she'd never seen anybody so clean and put together this early in the morning.
"Specialization?"
"Undercover, sergeant!"
"Spit-Shine, then—what the hell d'you think yer doin'? Goin' on a tour of the countryside? Get up early to put that pretty crease in yer pants, did you? Listen up, greenie: there's clean, and then there's wastin' time that a real Joe would be usin' to get some sleep. You ain't on an undercover mission now, an' if you're worryin' about starchin' yer shirts before PT, then you ain't Joe material. Fifty situps oughtta take the crease outta them pants."
Annie blinked. Was "Beach Head" for real? In what universe did Army officers punish their recruits for being too clean? She had the distinct sensation that she was in the Twilight Zone. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Eighty-Six flash her a quick grin. The feeling of disorientation grew stronger.
Beach Head moved down the line, intimidating the socks off her fellow greenshirts and, she couldn't help noticing, yelling their names—and their particular faults—loud enough for any passing soldiers to hear and note. When he came to her, standing stiffly between the quartermasters and the greenshirts, she quailed a little as she wondered what he'd find wrong with her. She tried to peek down, checking for protruding underwear or toilet paper stuck to a shoe. There didn't seem to be anything--
"Name!"
"Short Stack, sergeant!"
"New cook?"
"Yes, sergeant!"
"What's today's menu?"
Annie blinked. That wasn't the kind of thing PT instructors said. "Sir?"
The shout almost jolted her off her feet. "I ain't a damn sir, I'm a sergeant! And I asked you a question, midget! We already got a mute around here, we don't need a damn deaf QM! Answer the question!"
"Yes, sergeant! Breakfast—pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, fruit salad-"
Beach Head interrupted. "That's enough! In case you ain't noticed, Shortie, we here are what we like t'call a 'military operation.' And that means payin' attention when someone asks you a question! Damn well better hope you cook better'n you listen; the local spooks don't take kindly to bein' poisoned."
Though that statement sounded like it was inviting a comment, Annie knew better than to respond: she was new, but not that new.
To her inexpressible relief, Beach Head moved on without further comment. He seemed more satisfied with her fellow cooks—or less openly hostile, at any rate, since he only bellowed once and seemed primarily concerned with matters like "you beatin' your pathetic time on the laps, Murphy, you damn slug!" Then, taking a deep breath, he roared for them to "FALL OUT! NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW GOD DAMMIT!" and, with a positively boisterous swing in his step and a voice that was as fresh and clear as ever despite the yelling, proceeded to set them running at a completely murderous pace.
* * *
The quartermasters were released from PT after only forty minutes, but to Annie, it might have been years. Her arms and legs dragged her down like lead weights as she shuffled across the grass towards the chow hall. Behind her, Beach Head was still happily abusing her fellow greenshirts, a few of which had shot her baleful glances as she departed with her fellow quartermasters.
Chopper, a burly ex-biker turned sandwich specialist, aimed a grin at Annie that she thought she understood. "'I am Quartermaster,'" he recited solemnly, quoting from the QM corps' creed. "'My story is enfolded in the history of this nation. Sustainer of Armies, but getting no thanks for it. Dodger of PT. My forges burned at Valley Forge, and some jackass was probably saying we were stupid then too. But who's laughing now, huh?'"
Despite her exhaustion, Annie choked out a laugh. The sensation burned her throat a bit, but it felt good anyway. "I don't think that's quite the authorized version, Chopper," she managed to say.
Chopper shook his head. "No such thing as the authorized version in this unit, Short Stack. Or did you not see the ninjas in that lineup?"
"Oh, come on," Annie said. "I saw a guy wearing a mask. Probably dealing with a facial injury or something. Don't you think it's time to lay off the ninja stuff? I wasn't born yesterday, you know."
The disbelief definitely came through in her voice, because Whiskey Down muttered something impolite. "Didn't you get your orders? Cobra, special antiterrorism unit, the whole bit?"
"Well, yes. I mean, I know there's commandos on base, and a lot of experimental equipment and techniques and things. You just need to look at this place to know that." Annie waved a hand, indicating the broad parade ground. "But there's a difference between a commando and a ninja. General Abernathy—um, Hawk—called them 'uniquely trained combat specialists."
Whiskey Down sighed audibly. "You carry on thinking that. When are you getting your secondary briefing?"
"Er . . ." Annie mentally checked her schedule. "Four days from now."
"There you go, then. If you're going to wash out, you'll probably do it in the next four days. If you don't, then you get your secondary briefing, and Hawk fills you in on the details. Things like 'a masked commando is actually a ninja,' and 'only Breaker gets to chew gum in the monitor room.'"
" . . . right."
"Hey, this is top-secret military stuff!" S.O.S. broke in. "They're not gonna hand it out to just every recruit, not when Beach Head scares off half of 'em right away."
"Look, S.O.S. If top-secret military stuff includes the word 'ninja,' I think they could probably be handing out copies of their files at the gate. There's a reason I'm skeptical." Annie stretched, feeling her muscles creak. Though to be fair, Beach Head was an extremely eloquent argument for the overall bizarrity of the unit.
She checked her watch. 0557. Forty-five minutes to get everything fired up and start in on breakfast for between eighty and a hundred people—a tighter time frame than she was accustomed to. But then, she'd never been in any kind of "elite unit" before, and it was no surprise that they'd run a tighter ship than the other bases. Besides, elite or not, there was always a few soldiers on KP to help out.
Annie had checked the KP duty roster before heading out that morning. That was one good thing about the names: just like diner lingo, they were easy to remember. But like "shit on a shingle," memorability wasn't always good. She couldn't help wondering about the mental state of career soldiers who would, without a word of complaint, call themselves Beach Head . . . Cinderella . . . and that poor bastard on the KP roster who went by, of all things, "Mutt."
But it was time for them to get cooking. She could worry about strange names and mentally unstable soldiers later.