Recruit - Jonathan Brazee (highly illogical behavior .txt) 📗

Chapter 9

“Fucking A, Calderón, get it right!  Look at the grubbing diagram, for J’s sake!” Ryck said as he looked over Recruit Jorge Calderón’s junk-on-the-bunk. 

This was the last scheduled function in Phase 1 of recruit training, and Ryck wanted to make sure it was done right.  Recruits from the other platoons had started calling 1044 the “booger platoon,” and Drill Instructor Phantawisangtong, the platoon “heavy hat,” was on the warpath.  Du had already lost his billet as squad leader, and his replacement, Scotland Blythe, lasted less than two hours before he was relieved. 

Phase 1 had been boring—it had been a bitch, but a boring bitch.  It had been PT, close order drill, more PT, basic tactical formations, history classes, more PT, inspections, martial arts training, swimming, pugil stick bouts, more PT, and still more PT.  Ryck hated it.   He hated doing things he’d never do once he was actually in the Corps.  He hated the stupid pink safety tie that rendered his weapon inoperable, and he really hated the “pink baby” catcalls they got from the more advanced recruits.  The history classes turned out to be pretty interesting, but Ryck wanted to fire his M99, he wanted to maneuver in a PICS.  This inspection was so the DIs could check their gear for their trip to the range in the morning, their first training event of Phase 2.   No more pink babies!

Calderón was a gumball.   Every squad seemingly had a Calderón, one place where the Hollybolly tropes were reflected in real military life.  Calderón wasn’t the only one, Ryck thought, as he glanced around at the rest of the squad.  Just like in every boot camp flick and vid, they had the screwup, the rich kid trying to make good on his own, the poor kid from Nova Esperança’s favelas without a future, the heavy-worlder with a gentle soul.  Hell, Ryck himself was a living trope, the farmboy seeking fame and fortune off planet

He turned his attention back to Calderón.  Frankly, Ryck was surprised that he’d made it to T24.  Twenty-four days of difficult training, and this royal fuck-up couldn’t do anything right.  Ryck was sure he spent 80% of his squad leader time with the guy, and that was a burden.  Ryck might be a recruit squad leader, but the key word was “recruit.”  He still had to hit every training objective for himself just like everyone else.  Sometimes, he resented being held accountable for the others, but still, he liked the ego boost.  He was bound and determined to keep his billet all the way to graduation, something almost never achieved. 

Calderón placed his Goodell at the top right of his rack.  The molecular blade was supposed to go on the top left side, not the right.

“Damn it!  Can’t you fucking read?  I’ve about had it with you,” Ryck told the other recruit.  “I’ve got to get my own gear laid out, and we’ve got less than ten minutes to get it done, so you’re on your own.  King Tong’s going to fry your ass if you screw it up.”

At the mention of the nickname the platoon had given the heavy hat, Calderón looked up in alarm as if the drill instructor was already there.  Ryck just turned away, not willing to waste another precious second on that lost cause.

He hurried to get his own gear laid out and had just finished when the fire watch called the squadbay to attention and the entire DI team marched in.  Ryck jumped to the foot of his rack and came to the position of attention, hoping everyone was inspection-ready.  He’d checked the others, of course, and they had been making good progress—all except Calderón, that was.

I hope the sorry sack of shit fucks up, he thought.  And then Despiri or Tong’ll see the guy just can’t cut it and recommend him for a retention hearing.

The DIs started their inspection at the other end of the barracks.  Ryck could hear low murmurs as they spoke to the recruits being inspected.  Once, there was a huge crash coming from Second Squad’s area as gear was thrown on the floor.  King Tong was going at it but good, and Ryck pitied whoever was at the receiving end of that tirade.

It took a while as the sounds of inspections got closer and closer, but finally, Senior Drill Instructor Despiri moved in front of Ryck. 

“Recruit Lysander ready for inspection, Senior Drill Instructor Despiri!” he told the DI.

Ryck wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or worried that he’d drawn Despri.  The drill instructor didn’t scream and shout as much as the others, but he was very demanding, and his eyes missed nothing.  Ryck made an about-face and stood ready to respond to any questions the DI might ask during the inspection. He slightly broke his position to look out of the corner of his eyes at Despiri, trying to gauge the progress as the DI inspected his gear. 

“Serial number?” Despiri asked.

“4795553744, Senior Drill Instructor” he responded immediately. 

That was an easy one.  He had his M99 memorized five minutes after being issued it.

Despiri picked up Ryck’s powerpack from the rack, then turned it around to look at the back.

“Wrong.  Again, serial number?”

Ryck was confused.  DIs always asked for the weapon’s serial number, not anything else.  Ryck didn’t have a clue as to the powerpack’s serial number.

“I . . .  uh . . . this recruit does not know his powerpack’s serial number, Drill Instructor,” he stammered.

“Find out.  And if a question or order is not clear, clarify it.  You have five items with serial numbers on your rack.  I could have been asking about any one of them,” the DI said.

“Aye-aye, Senior Drill Instructor Despiri,” Ryck said. 

Despiri gave one more glance at the gear on the rack before turning to move on to Hodge’s rack.  Ryck let out a sigh of relief.  Despite getting caught by the blindside, it seemed his gear was passable.  He returned to his position of attention at the end of the rack, listening in as the DIs hit the rest of his squad.  He caught some corrections, and Lipitski stumbled over the normal combat load of M505 grenades, but it seemed like it was going well—until King Tong, of all DIs, hit Calderón’s rack.  Ryck heard the recruit report ready for inspection, and not 15 seconds later, the eruption began.  King Tong was in rare form, screaming at the top of his lungs.  Ryck could hear gear being slammed on the deck.

Serves the shithead right, he thought, a small smile creeping onto his face despite him being at attention.

“Who’s your squad leader?” King Tong shouted, despite knowing the answer, and Ryck blanched for a moment.  He knew he would be questioned, but all he had to do was be straightforward and recite the facts.  The prime fact was that Calderón was not suited to be a Marine.

Ryck heard a murmur in response, then “Recruit Lysander, front and center!” from the DI.

Ryck did a right face, then double-timed down the three racks to where King Tong waited.

Ryck didn’t even have a chance to report in before King Tong went off, “What kind of sorry-ass preparation is this?  Didn’t Recruit Calder-none know we were having a junk-on-the-bunk?  Didn’t he think it was important that his gear be squared away before you piss-poor excuses go to the field?”

Drill Instructors were not supposed to alter any recruit’s name, but no one ever complained.  Suicide by DI was not something anyone wanted to experience.

“Yes, Drill Instructor Phantawisangtong,” he said, slightly stumbling over the name.

All of the recruits practiced saying his name, afraid of messing it up, but