From Chapter 6
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Peeking through the clouds, the golden sun warmed the afternoon air, and the hillside was alive with wildflowers. The day was muggy, and the grass was still damp from an early spring shower. The subtle fragrance of renewed life was drowned by the acrid smell of burning air.
“No—-no—no!” screamed the drill sergeant, straining to be heard over the din of weapons fire filling the air from the target range, just over the hill.
“Company halt!”
The assembly pressed and grunted its way to a clumsy mass of more or less stationary men and boys, all shuffling under the strain of standing still. The sergeant, a physical education teacher in civilian life, closed his eyes and counted to ten. Then to twenty. When his temper subsided enough to speak in coherent sentences, he strode to the front of the group and threw his daypack onto the driest available patch of ground.
“This is the most miserable, God-awful group of nitwits, fools, and bunglers I’ve seen in my entire life!” he shouted, glaring into the face of each volunteer as he walked down the line. “A bunch of third-graders would have a better sense of organization. Kindergartners have a better attention span. And a slumber-party of teenaged girls would be less inclined to jibber-jabber! What in God’s name are you morons doing that you can’t pay attention?”
As the sergeant’s shouts rose with the gentle spring breeze, Private Jack Markham of Delta Company, Isitian South-Central Militia, unshouldered his weapon and took a deep breath. It was uncommonly warm for this time of year, and all things considered, he’d rather be at home playing with his three-year old daughter. Soon, his mind drifted to his wife’s baked bread, and their summer cottage on the lake. He missed the sergeant’s order to resume marching, and was surprised to find himself suddenly at the bottom of a large pile of bodies, all cursing like spacers at the latest muddle to greet the proud lads of Delta Company, Isitian South-Central Militia.
“Jesus H. Christ— !!” hollered the sergeant, pulling the militiamen away from the mess. “I told you—the next screw-up would cost everybody! And—dammit—I’m sick and tired of yelling myself hoarse!”
As the company fell to the mud and began their penance of pushups and sweat, Jack found himself growing angrier and angrier with each ache of his muscles. The sergeant, playing on their inadequacies as well as their pain, kept drumming away at their clumsiness, insulting their manhood and intelligence, until every one of them was ready to storm Central Command itself. The Terries were the cause of it all, the sergeant kept telling them. If it weren’t for the Terries, they’d all be with their families—lounging around their living rooms and drinking beer, while their wives fed them grilled steak and buttercakes. Soon his groans blended together with those of his comrades, and he found himself wanting nothing more than to have the Terrans land—in downtown New Alexandria, if they had the balls—so that he could even the score.
© 2012 by Jeffrey Caminsky
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