Boot Camp

The splat of mud greeted his face as he fell face-first.

“Get up!” blared a voice.

All around, crawling, desperate bodies cried out in pain as barbed wire poked through their uniforms and mud splashed into their once-white clothes.

He heard someone behind him groan.

“I can’t do this any more,” said the person behind him. They slid on his belly to his right onto a patch of grass, where many others lay, panting and holding their sides. The rain was coming down now, thick heavy pools whacking their steel helmets like a hammer onto an anvil.

He lay there for a second. Why was he here, crawling in the mud? What was the point?

Before he could contemplate further, a pair of rough hands seized him by the shoulders and raised him to their owner’s face.

“Keep moving, son!” the drill instructor spat into his face. He didn’t have time to drink in the drill instructor’s face before he was shoved back onto his belly. Would there really be a point in the war where he would be forced to crawl on his belly, through mud, and under barbed wire? Isn’t that just something from the movies?

He grabbed the next chunk of mud and pulled himself forward. Three more days and he would be out of here, serving his country on an actual battlefield.

He had signed up, with all of the eighteen-year-olds, to join the army when war broke out. Pearl Harbor was still fresh on his mind as he filled out the registration sheet. Within a week, he was shipped off to Fort Meade.

Basic army training took him four weeks. In that time, he learned how to assemble a rifle, aim and shoot a gun, administer first aid, and dig a foxhole. Truly wasn’t so bad.

When a bus came to shuttle recruits away, he thought it was shuttling them to the front lines. Instead, the bus dropped them in a parking lot deep within the wilderness.

A few bunkmates from Basic Training accompanied him. Nobody he really cared about, but just a few that he had known by name only. The concrete of the parking lot was full of cracks. A small dirt path led up toward a distant mountain miles away.

A sign above it read Welcome to Camp Lejeune. He soon regretted ever reading those words.

The group of recruits was ushered off the bus by a frowning man with a handlebar mustache. His shoulder pads looked like they’d been inflated to make him look more intimidating. They were doing much the opposite.

“My name is Drill Sergeant Smith, and I will be your commanding officer for the time being,” said the man.

A few of the recruits in the back were pointing at the drill sergeant’s mustache. One of them laughed.

In what felt like an instant, Sergeant Smith had jumped 50 feet to yell into the recruits’ faces.

“You find this funny, young man?” he screamed.

The recruits laughing immediately shut up.

`“If I hear anything from your mouth other than a Yes sir, I will personally kick you out of the military,” Smith said, “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” the recruit said.

“Everybody, out! We are going on a run,” Sergeant Smith said.

None of his commanding officers had been nice, but none had yelled at them within twenty seconds of meeting him. That couldn’t be good.

And so, the recruits pulled their backpacks out of the bus and started to follow Sergeant Smith, who led them down a mountain trail. The recruits in front of him were running in sync, bobbing up and down. After about half a mile, Sergeant Smith stopped running.

“Company, halt!” Smith ordered. With a lot of shoving and bumping, all the recruits came to a stop. From where he was standing, he could hear the first few guys in front get pushed over from other recruits knocking them down from the back.

“You all,” Smith bellowed, “have been selected to become one of the first battalions of the Marines.”

All the recruits looked around at each other. A new branch? What could the Army, the Navy, and the Air Force be lacking for them to make a whole new fourth branch?

“Now, if it were up to me,” Smith said, “all of yall’s sorry asses would be stuck in the Army. But the Navy needs a unit that’ll be able to serve as mobile infantry.”

The recruits were even more confused. Why would the Navy need infantry? What did the Navy do that was off boats?

“It’s up to me to whip y'all into shape, “ Smith said, “so cherish this moment. This is the last time you're gonna be this comfortable for a long while.”

Smith turned and ran into the forest, and the recruits followed.

In high school, he had been the fastest cross-country runner, so running came naturally to him. Soon, they reached the one-mile mark. Then the two-mile mark. Then the three. In basic training, they had to run three miles every day, but without their heavy packs on their shoulders. By the four-mile mark, most of the recruits started the lag behind. He was just barely able to stay in the mix, but he was still dead tired. By the eight-mile mark, he collapsed onto his hands and knees.

The terrain had shifted, so now the recruits were running uphill. He clutched his sides and wheezed. It took him a minute to catch his breath. Looking over his shoulder, he could see his fellow recruits scattered below him, clumped into a group where they also lay panting.

Before he could look away, a rough hand grasped the back of his neck.

“Let’s move, recruit,” Smith yelled into his ear.

“But the others are still-”

“That’s an order.”

He pushed himself up off the ground. He looked back one more time as most of the recruits were starting to get back up. He was starting to miss Army Basic Training.

It took him another hour to reach their destination: a group of rickety wood cabins on top of a mountain plateau. It felt like the ground was almost entirely hard rock bad for nailing cabins down into, so he didn’t like thinking about what would happen if there was a gust. He set his bag down on a log and collapsed onto the dirt, his legs shaking uncontrollably and arms numb from pumping up and down. He lay there for what seemed like days, waiting for control to come back to his limbs. The next recruit arrived thirty minutes later, red-faced and puffing. It took the slowest recruit two hours to reach the top of the plateau. He was followed by a shouting Sergeant Smith, who didn’t seem to be winded at all.

As the last recruits collapsed onto the dirt, Smith spoke up.

“That was pathetic,” he yelled, “it took us four hours to run up this mountain. Four hours!”

The recruits were all too winded to protest. It had been three, but whoever pointed that out would probably be taken behind a cabin and shot.

One recruit did not process this.

“But sir, our backpacks-”

Before he could finish, the sergeant cut him off. He walked up to the recruit, and bent over so they were seeing eye-to-eye. Sergeant Smith was 6’5”, the recruit was 5’8”.

Sergeant Smith opened his mouth and began whispering in a deep rasp.

“Do you think the enemy will care if you're tired?”

The recruit, visibly shaking, whipped his head back and forth like a whippet–I assume that’s what whippets do.

“Do you think they wouldn’t shoot you dead if they had the chance?”

Sergeant Smith’s voice was barely louder than the hiss of the breeze blowing through the camp. Everybody in the crowd of recruits knew who “they” were. The Japs. Everybody here had heard horror stories from those who survived Pearl Harbor, of the rising sun painted on the bombs that killed hundreds of Americans. The whole country was thirsty for revenge, and that was the reason many of them had signed up.

“What?” some recruit in the back said before the others could get him to shut up.

The protesting recruit melted back into the mass of people.

Sergeant Smith looked at the rest of the conscripts, who were lying on their bags.

“Set up a bunk in the cabins,” Smith said, “We run again tomorrow.”

His new name for the camp was The Restless Mountain, because whatever the time of day, the recruits were always doing something, and doing it loudly. In the morning at 0500, they would wake up and fold their sheets, brush their teeth, etc. Then, role call would take place exactly five minutes late. If you were a second late, your sheet unfolded just a hair, your teeth not smelling minty enough, Sergeant Smith would scream straight into your ear and make you do two hundred pushups. And that was just the morning. And the early part of the morning.

The activities cycled throughout the day. At midmorning, they would do sniper training, the sun burning their necks as the screaming sound of a bullet would echo right next to their ears as Sergeant Smith went up and down the row, firing his .22 revolver.

At noon, they would scramble to find cover as Sergeant Smith shot blanks at them. He wasn’t sure which would hurt more, the blank or an actual bullet.

Then, in the afternoon, they would march half a mile in the lake, full gear on, until the water was up to their chin. Sergeant Smith held his revolver above his head. He had loudly stated before the march that if someone made him drop his revolver into the water, they would march across the whole lake.

Finally, in the evening, they went on their routine seven-mile run in the mountains. If all the recruits weren't back within an hour, they would be running another five.

He couldn’t tell what the day was or what time it was. Sergeant Smith had confiscated any clocks in the camp, preventing anyone from gauging how much of this mountain they had left. Smith said time flies at this camp, but he couldn’t be sure. Clocks didn’t have wings, after all.

Days and weeks were indistinguishable. Time seemed to skip a few days, then slow to a point where each minute seemed an hour, and then would turn back the clock an hour all over again just for laughs. However, as the sun started to rise later and set earlier, he could tell they were nearing the end of the Restless Mountain.

Finally, one of the recruits managed to take a look at Sergeant Smith’s calendar. There were three days to a date marked Camp Finale. Now, finally, they were going to leave at last..

He could see the grass on the other side of the barbed wire. Pushing himself to his absolute limits, he slid his knees off the ground and grasped the last handful of mud. With a heavy heave, he lifts himself off the dirt. He puts his hands on his knees and pants, waiting for the rest of the recruits to finish behind him. They do, but not after half an hour and several dropouts. Before the last recruit can even stand up, Sergeant Smith walks to the front of the mud-splattered rogue’s gallery.

“We are nearing the end of camp,” Smith says.

Only the coughs and rasps of tired recruits answer. Which is just as well, because it wasn’t a question.

“But, we have one final drill to do.”

“Another one?”

“Let's go get some Germans already!”

“Is there still time to write to our mothers?”

Everyone looks at the recruit who just spoke.

“I have a feeling many of you guys will be feeling the same way?” Sergeant Smith says.

Smith wordlessly heads back to camp. Some recruits stand there, still exhausted from crawling in the mud. But as soon as Smith turns back to glare at the stragglers, the recruits start to get up and walk toward him. But whenever he turned his back, the rest of the recruits slumped to the ground. Out of sight, out of mind.

The recruits crowd around the unlit fireplace. Backpacks lay in the hearth. Nobody wants to ask what they are for.

“Congratulations, you've made it to your last two days here.”

The recruits laugh and grin. Only nineteen remained. One had gone home sick, two had given up, and one had a near heart attack. The recruit who had the heart attack had to be carried by horse out of the camp.

“For your last task,” Sergeant Smith says, “you will need to survive in the wilderness for two days.”

The recruits start to clap and bump their fists. Compared to normal training, surviving a few days is a cakewalk.

“However,” Sergeant Smith adds, “I’ll be hunting you all down.”

Celebration was replaced with silence. Having the head sergeant hunt the recruits was normal in the military, but Sergeant Smith’s style of doing it violated the Geneva Convention and it hadn’t even been written yet.

A few recruits in the back slump onto the ground.

“However,” Smith says, “whoever wins will become company commander.”

Just like that, everyone is standing ramrod-straight.

“All you’ll have are these backpacks,” Sergeant Smith held up a rucksack, clearly packed to the brim with bricks.

Suddenly, Sergeant Smith whips out a pistol and shoots one of the recruits. When the gasp and the recruit’s scream had faded, he rolled up his sleeve to reveal the red mark of a sunken blank.

“You get shot, you lose!” Smith shouts.

Just like that, the rest of the recruits dash for the backpacks.

He chooses to instead leave the campsite and head to the hills. Hearing the pops of blanks on skin behind him, he felt that was probably a good idea.

He dashes through mulch and dirt, trying to put as much distance between him and the sergeant as possible. Sometime later, he stops behind a boulder, clutching his sides with muscle cramps. When it subsides, he climbs to the top of the boulder and looks toward the camp. He can’t see Smith, but he can see a group of six recruits sitting around the fire, holding various parts of their body and limping. Six down, twelve to go.

He picks the tallest hill and starts to climb. The only way to stay ahead of Sergeant Smith was to have him in your sights at all times, and the best way to do that is to take the high ground. Bugs and needles clung to him as he struggled through tall grass, but he kept pumping his legs. His calves started to burn as the incline picked up, and his lungs felt like they had shrunk to half their normal size.

Another hour seemed to pass before he made it to the top, but once he did, he could see the forest dropped away into hilly planes right at the edge of camp. With the hill creating a funnel to the camp and its surrounding areas, he could see the entire valley splayed in front of him. He could make out tiny dots milling around the smaller hill to the far right: other recruits trying to also get the high ground, like ants fighting to be king of their hill.

However, he also sees a man holding a revolver walking toward the hills–oh, of course. The high ground must have been an obvious hiding place.

Has Sergeant Smith seen him yet? Not clear, but there was a chance he was still safe. He starts to search for more cover around him, but only hilly expanses & empty fields were to be seen. He knows he can’t stay in the hills, so he heads down to the valley. The hills funnel into the valley in a V shape, so the only way up and down the hill is the same way Sergeant Smith is heading up. He felt there was another way to escape Sergeant Smith, but if there was, he couldn’t see it. It was like poking a sleeping bear, why do it if you didn’t have to?

As he walks down, he can hear Sergeant Smith get closer and closer. Soon, the crunch of his boots became audible. As soon as he spotted the top of the Sergeant’s head, he dropped down to his hands and knees. His heart pounding, he tightened his muscles and prayed he was completely hidden, but he couldn’t be sure. Was a toe sticking out? An elbow?

Ants and grasses poke his exposed skin, drawing tiny spots of blood. He peers through the thick grass, his body pressed flat to the dirt, trying to spot Smith passing. If the training for war was this painful, he couldn’t imagine how veterans even managed to survive the real thing and come back home.

Army boots appear at the edge of his vision, sliding through the grass like a deadly viper. However, as the back boot is about to pass, a fire ant bites the back of his calf. He shifts his leg to the right to get the bug off, but the movement sways the grass behind him. The boots backpedal a step–the sergeant must have seen the movement of the grass. He must have eyes like a hawk.

The boots stay there. Each second seems to be a toll in his brain, a countdown before a blank smashes into his flesh. Holding his breath for the gunshot to reverberate across the field, he lies there in wait. One heartbeat. Then two. Finally, the boot eventually dips out of sight. Thank God.

The sounds of Smith’s boots fade from hearing after another few minutes. As he pokes his head up to check if the coast is clear, he sees the top of Sergeant Smith’s head bob along the path up the valley, near where he was hiding. It was bound to happen sooner or later, so it was better sooner when he was prepared for Sergeant Smith. Seeing no threats, he stands up and starts to walk down. It takes him half an hour to reach the bottom of the funnel, and another half hour to reach the flat plains.

He found himself thinking… How were any of those other soldiers going to escape? He knew a few of them personally by now. Jeff, a buff football player who couldn’t solve an algebraic equation to save his life. Bill, a lanky computer enthusiast who couldn’t lift a thirty pound dumbbell with both hands. Many recruits favored brains or brawn, and close to none were balanced in both.. Without the combination of the two, he didn’t think anyone with such lopsided traits would be skilled enough to evade Sergeant Smith long enough to win.

He was about to sit down and catch his breath when movement in the tall grass to his immediate left caught his eye. His heart rate immediately spikes. Did Sergeant Smith double back? Did another recruit stumble upon his hiding spot and was about to give away his position? Whoever or whatever it was, he could only do one thing: hide.

He dropped to the ground as ants and spikes cut his skin. Tiny splotches of blood start to pool on his forearms, dripping onto the dirt below him. He barely even breathes, and his skin starts to shine with a film of sweat. To his relief, only a lone fox passed. It eyed him for a moment, its orange eyes sizing him up, then walked out of sight. He slowly started to poke his head back out.

The lower hill before him is now put into focus with the orange glow of the setting sun at his back. Now standing up to get a better view, he can see a group of three recruits who managed to snag a bag from the campfire and set up a tent. Even from a few hundred feet away, he can still hear laughter and conversation. The recruits seem to be celebrating the last few days of camp, even with the Sergeant hunting them. But there was still a hunt going. How could anyone celebrate for a jot not yet finished? He thought that it was more than a little preemptive.

It took him a few minutes to convince himself that if the other recruits felt safe enough to relax to that degree, then maybe he could at least breathe for a moment. He rolls over onto his stomach and settles in for a cold watch.

Why couldn’t the sergeant give the captain rank to him in the first place? He was always the first to finish the drills, the first to wake up, the first to answer his questions. Did Sergeant Smith not notice the natural leader right in front of him, or was this a test?

He wishes he could sleep through the last few days of training, but the rank of captain dangling at the end like a carrot keeps his eyelids from shutting. As the orange sky turns black, a golden-red fire begins to burn bright right next to the tent. The recruits really didn’t care about Sergeant Smith shooting them with blanks. Or maybe they didn’t think Smith would hunt them at night. Either way, he wouldn’t think to be so careless.

The recruit’s fire died out as the world around him turned pitch black. It was so late at night that even the owls & coyotes seemed to be asleep. He kept dozing off every fifteen minutes, but every time his head hit the floor, he blinked away the fatigue. Minutes pass like hours. His eyes seemed to be anchored, falling closed every time he blinked, forcing him to peel them open with his fingers. However, by the warming of the grass around him, he can tell it’s near sunrise.

Suddenly, a crack split the air. A gunshot was being fired, pre-dawn, by some sociopath, who clearly had no decency to wait until 8. Even 8:30 would have been fine.

He scans his surroundings. Nobody, nothing. Another gunshot rings through. Now, he can tell where it came from: the recruit tent.

He pokes his head above the grass. When he squints, he can make out the outlines of three bodies, groaning on the ground. A man stands over them, a revolver in his right hand. Sergeant Smith. He shouts from the valley floor, where all the recruits can hear him.

“Rise and shine, boys!”

Now, he is wide awake. Still behind the tall grass, he watches as Sergeant Smith rounds up the recruits and leads them back to the campfire.

Squinting hard, he makes out sixteen outlines of recruits. Three were somehow missing. He couldn’t tell who was who, but that didn’t matter. All he needed to know was how many people were left.

He watches Sergeant Smith’s next moves as he heads back into the hills. To his horror, Sergeant Smith turns away from the hill. Sergeant Smith starts up, his boots hitting the dirt in clouds of dust, and heads straight toward the flat plains. Exactly where he was hiding, obviously.

He starts to backtrack as Sergeant Smith approaches, looking for anywhere to escape behind him. To his sides were steep hills, which he had no chance of climbing over, and to his back lay another unclimbable hill. Boxed in.

He scrambles as far as he could get from Sergeant Smith, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough. Sergeant Smith would eventually sweep to the end of the valley, no doubt about it. What else could he do but run?

As he sprints to the back hill, he notices two boulders guarding the foot of it, with mud patches in the surrounding dirt. An idea slowly starts to form in his head.

During the first week here, all the recruits had been issued a pair of combat uniforms, standard to the Army’s, with one exception: they were perfect for camouflage. Or at least that’s what the Sergeant said. He had told them that the uniforms would hide them in any surroundings but would fail to hide them up close. Sergeant Smith hadn’t demonstrated, though, so all he could do was trust him and the uniform.

He had decided to put the uniform on during their previous exercise but had neglected to take it off before the hunt. It had really been slowing his movement for the past day, but he had no other clothes with him to change with except the undershirt he was wearing. He hadn’t used it one time to camouflage since he had got it, but the mud patches next to the boulder seemed a perfect place to test it out.

He crouches on the ground and starts to rub mud all over his body: his arms, his legs, even his face. The plan was that as Sergeant Smith walked up, he would be entirely focused on checking behind the boulders, and would miss the mud patches directly next to the boulder. However, a lot of the plan relied on luck, which he didn’t feel too much of in his current situation. In addition, he couldn’t move a single inch during the entire time Sergeant Smith was within earshot, because without cover any even tiny movement or sound would reveal his position in a heartbeat.

Lying at the foot of the boulder, mud covering every inch of his skin, he can feel the small rocks poking into his belly and his forearms. He can taste blood in his mouth as he bites his lip to minimize his breathing sounds. He can hear Sergeant Smith coming closer and closer. He can see, out of the corner of his eye, Sergeant Smith reaching the boulder. Sergeant Smith doesn’t even look at the mud patches. Smith scans the hill, but he seems to not see anything and turns back around. Any sigh of relief was immediately gulped back by the sound of pattering dirt. He turns around to find the same fox he had seen earlier right behind him, sniffing his foot. Its paws were pawing at the mud around him, and its eyes were staring straight at his head. In his peripheral vision, he can see Sergeant Smith turn around and stare at the fox. He stays as still physically as possible, preparing for the bang of a blank.

However, it never comes. The sergeant glances once at the fox and walks away, back turned. Maybe the fox is his good luck charm

Even after Sergeant Smith left, he still didn’t move a muscle, not daring to hope that he had escaped notice. The fox stayed there too, now watching him with its unblinking brown eyes. Finally, with his muscles aching from lack of use, he slowly got back to his feet. The second he started to move, the fox dashed back into the tall grass, leaving him behind. He takes off his combat uniform, groaning as the uniform peels off his skin, the mud gluing the uniform to his body/

Rubbing the mud off his face, he folds his uniform and leaves it on the ground. He didn’t want to carry it for the rest of the competition, it would only slow him down.

He slowly edges down the hill, careful to keep his footsteps as light as possible. He watched the path in front of him, ready to duck into cover as soon as Sergeant Smith’s head popped up. He was now more nervous than ever, he didn’t want to take any chances. Soon, a smaller hill comes into view. He first sees the Sergeant walking up the hill, his trusty revolver illuminated in his hand by the setting sun. Then, he spots a small foxhole on the left side of the hill, with a recruit crouching inside.

Squinting back toward the campfire, he looks back to the recruits already out. He counts seventeen. Only he and the hiding recruit were left.

He stopped halfway down his hill. From his vantage point, he can see Sergeant Smith and the recruit clearly, but he is high enough on the hill to where the sun at his back blocks Sergeant Smith and the recruit from seeing him. The Sergeant starts to inspect the hill, starting on the right. He slowly scans each patch of grass, taking his time. Still, the recruit stays in his foxhole.

Why would he stay there? Did he not know the Sergeant was searching the hill?

However, as the Sergeant reaches the left side, the recruit grabs something out of sight and puts it directly over his head and foxhole.

Suddenly, the recruit seems to disappear straight into the dirt.

It takes him a few seconds to realize how he had vanished: somehow, the recruit managed to dig a foxhole while keeping the top layer of grass intact. With that top layer of grass, he was able to cover his foxhole and effectively camouflage as an undamaged patch of grass.

His heart started to sink as the Sergeant passed over the left side of the hill. There was no way he would think anything of the artificial grass. So of course, to his horror, the Sergeant immediately aligned toward his hill. Sergeant Smith must have checked all the surrounding areas, so now he was double-checking everything.

With the old uniform sitting half a mile behind him, soiled and unusable, there was no way he would be able to use the same trick again. In addition, he hadn’t eaten or drank for a day, so the chances of him having the energy to escape were still slim to none.

He starts to scramble back, trying to gain distance, but his right foot slips on a mossless rock. With a crunch, his ankle snaps like a twig as his leg folds under him from the pain and slams into the ground. He holds his leg and bites his lip to make sure he doesn’t scream and give away his position. Now there was no way he could even walk, let alone escape. Ignoring the pain as best as he could, he forces himself to sit up and watch the Sergeant walk up the hill. He grabs the rock that he slipped on and slams it on the ground. After all that hiding, after no food or water or water for that long, he was going to lose like this? To slip on a rock?

On the left side of the smaller hill, the artificial turf popped off. The other recruit's head poked out, watching the Sergeant walk away.

Suddenly, he had an idea. If he was able to make enough of a commotion, like the fox before, he might be able to direct the Sergeant’s attention to the hiding recruit. However, he was betraying one of his fellow recruits. Was it worth it, just to be commander of the company? Yes, yes it was.

After a few more seconds of contemplation, he grasped the rock he slammed on the ground in his right hand. The other recruit’s hill lay fifty yards away. There was no way he would make that throw, and there was no way the throw would be precise enough to direct the Sergeant’s attention in the right direction. However, it was this Hail Mary or lose, so it wouldn’t hurt his chances if he missed.

His legs shaking, he pushed himself onto his feet. His ankle screamed at him, shooting needles of pain up his body that dug deeper with each step he took. He may not be able to walk normally, but he knew he could hobble for at least a few steps. He wound up throwing his arm.

Black spots appeared at the edge of his vision, almost blinding him. The only thing he could see was the edge of the small hill and the recruit’s head poking out.

With a grunt, he swung his arm to heave the rock forward as hard as he possibly could. His ankle gave out and he hit the floor hard, the air whooshing out of his lungs. He hears a slight pop in his right arm, probably from an overextension in the throw. His ribs throb from the sudden landing, and his head pounds as lights dance before his eyes.

As he lays on the ground, panting and holding his ankle, he hears the thunk of the thud hitting dirt. He also hears the shout of surprise from both the recruit and the Sergeant. The last thing he hears before passing out is the gunshot of a revolver piercing the evening air.

It’s dark when his eyes open again. Orange light flickers to his right, and he can hear voices talking softly beside him. Disoriented, he sits up. His vision is still blurry--all he can see is the outlines of bodies.

“Look who’s awake,” booms a voice.

Blinking, he squints toward it. As his vision sharpens, he sees Sergeant Smith, sporting an [adjective] smile.

“Congrats, recruit.”

“For what?” he says, looking around at the recruits surrounding him.

For some reason, they are all looking at him in a way different to how they’d seemed to view him before. Their gazes seem to suggest that he was more than just another recruit now. In fact, the recruits look at him how they would look at Sergeant Smith. Why were they doing that?

Sergeant Smith reaches into his pocket and pulls out an insignia–a silver star. He had seen mostly officers wear it back at bootcamp.

“You’re now company commander, recruit,” Sergeant Smith says.

He freezes, staring at the silver star. He was now company commander. Surprisingly, he didn’t feel any different. Not more important, or accomplished, just tired from the previous week's events/

As Sergeant Smith pinned the insignia onto his chest, the rest of the recruits started to cheer. Funny, they’d never once cheered for anything before.

He sits there in shock. Had he won the competition? Surely distracting the Sergeant with that rock hadn’t worked, had it?

Then, he starts to smile.

“Let's go get us some Germans!” he yells.

He stood on the iron gangplank of the cruise liner, shivering from sprays of water misting up from the waves below. Behind him stood the rest of the company, huddled together to ward off the cold.

After camp, the recruits were given two weeks off to spend time with their families. His new rank had been the topic of many evening meals with his family.

Then, after tearful goodbyes from the recruits’ loved ones, they were back to the Army distribution center, where they received all the gear and official uniforms. He had the commander insignia printed on his chest.

As company commander, it would be his duty to lead his company into battle. In addition, he would be responsible for the company’s needs and actions. If anything of importance happened within the company, all the praise or blame would fall on his shoulders. He didn’t mind though. Better him than anyone else. The other recruits seemed to also agree, shockingly. How had he earned their trust? He could say that he had guesses, but really he had no idea. Sergeant Smith said it was the fact that he was first all the time. He thought that just being first was not enough, so there had to be something else. If the recruits knew though, they weren’t telling him.

Then they had been issued the ship they would be on during the journey from New York to Britain. He didn’t know what they would be doing in Britain, but he had heard whispers from other companies of a possible invasion of France’s Nazi-occupied coast. He had only heard stories of the Nazi cruelty toward the Jewish, but what he had heard always angered him.

The ship their company would be on was called the Queen Mary, a former British cruise liner. Now standing on the gangplank, he felt a heavy weight form in his stomach. He didn’t know how long his company would be at war, how long he would be away from his family. However, he knew all he could do was make his country proud.

Back in his hometown, most of the men there had been drafted early in the war. Many had never come back. He knew it was his role to lead his company into battle and to die for them if necessary. To put his body on the line if necessary, because that’s what leaders do. However, like all human beings, he didn’t want to die. Was that wrong? If a Nazi was running toward you with a bayonet, would you not run away? But in all truthfulness, if the U.S. army asked him to die for his country, he would absolutely do it no question.

After hell camp, he knew he and his company were prepared for anything. Those hikes, runs, and exercises had surely prepared them to go against the Nazi tanks, bullets, and bombs. His company was a well-oiled machine, in sync and efficient. Their three-mile runs and shooting blacks at trees would easily prepare them for the front lines of a global conflict with thousands dying daily. He had no concerns.

On the ship, an officer looked at him and gestured at his company, indicating that it was their turn to board. He took a deep breath and looked back at the dock–his last look at the States for at least a long time.

“Company, move out!” he said.

He walked up the gangplank and tripped.