Drill Sergeant

Basic Training, the Army's method for turning wide-eyed civilians into trained killing machines, robots capable of acts of synchronistic and efficient wholesale violence and devastation; people will tell you that Basic Training, BOOT camp if you will, turns people into monsters. Most people who'd say such things have never had to sacrifice anything in their lives, have never had to push through adversity to accomplish something of which they never thought themselves capable. While there may be some truth to the claims civilians levy at this profession, they tend to miss the underlying goal of the training. Basic exists to produce soldiers capable of functioning under extreme stress. Basic teaches one to act, not freeze, no matter the situation, even when fear and death threaten. It is a rite of passage, and an incredibly effective one.

Basic Training is designed to be difficult, a method for sorting the weak from the strong. To that end, only the best are selected to be trainers. Drill Sergeants are the elite so they are entrusted with a huge responsibility, ushering in the next generation of citizen soldiers. That sort of power can be a corrupting influence; it takes incredibly disciplined individuals to resist the temptation to abuse the power that comes with having a group of recruits obeying your every whim. However, in an organization this large, there are bound to be some who fall through the cracks...

-Excerpt from SMA Burns address to the

Drill Sergeant Academy, C/O 2005

Red Phase

The rain fell in buckets on a summer afternoon in Ft. Jackson, South Carolina. Forty recruits rode into the unknown in a dilapidated school bus, and most were afraid. For many it was their first time away from home. Some tried to cover their fear with banter or displays of false bravado. Others were silently contemplating their fate. They all had their reasons for taking this step into adulthood be it pride, college money or a chance at a better life. Those reasons were cold comfort in the moment they were about to face. Fear dominated.

Only one person was unaffected by the crushing atmosphere of fear. Gabriel Campbell stared out the window, seemingly mesmerized by the droplets rolling down the windowpane. He was inwardly confident; his brother had gone through Basic Training the year before and all the information he'd given his little brother had checked out so far. Everything went according to plan as if read from a textbook. Gabe had no reason to think the trend would not continue. He actually managed to look bored. He knew all hell would break loose as soon as the bus came to a stop, bringing more excitement than he could ever wish for.

Still, even knowing what was coming, he was unprepared for the sheer intensity on display when the bus rumbled to as stop. "GET THE FUCK OFF MY BUS SHIT STAINS!!" said the massive man in the brown Drill Sergeant hat, a baton held in one meaty fist and a chrome garbage can in the other. Appearing as if from thin air and very pissed about that fact, he beat the can with authority while shouting at the forty recruits to move, move, MOVE! The same scene replayed on the other three buses as frightened privates stampeded into the pouring rain and intense heat. Gabe moved with the flow as unobtrusively as possible.

Try not to draw attention to yourself,

his brother's words echoed in his head. It was one of his golden rules to get out of Basic with a whole hide, along with

everything you do is going to be stupid

and

never stop running.

The cartoonishly large Drill Sergeant, Bellweather stitched on his name tape, had the new recruits line up in a semblance of a formation. The occupants of the second bus, Gabe's bus, seemed to have more difficulty performing the task; they were the last ones to form up. "WHAT THE FUCK IS THE PROBLEM SECOND PLATOON?" said the Drill Sergeant, the frustration in his voice carrying clear across the company area. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE THEY TEACHING YOU FUCKTARDS AT RECEPTION? YOU CALL THIS A FORMATION? YOU KNOW WHAT? EVERY PIECE OF SHIT GET DOWN AND BEAT YOUR FUCKING FACES RIGHT FUCKING NOW! THAT GOES FOR EVERYBODY! FOURTH, YOU MUST HAVE A BUNCH OF SHIT FOR BRAINS TOO, YOU FUCKERS WEREN'T MUCH BETTER. PUSH UNTIL I GET TIRED."

The rain continued to pour as the recruits performed push-ups in the flooded company area; water above and water below left the privates soaking wet and miserable, their bags forgotten. Drill Sergeant Bellweather, Senior Drill, continued his introduction to the accompaniment of the groans of recruits struggling with their first taste of military discipline. The other drill sergeants were probing the area looking for weakness, correcting form and doling out insults in equal measure. Their instruction was never loud enough to interrupt their senior; their menace was more personal, more direct, more intimate.

Gabriel was numb to it all, focusing on the task given to him.

The first day is the hardest,

he thought to himself over and over, his brother's words buffeting him from the rage of his instructors. Because of this he failed to notice two very important things. The first was how much better he was doing than all but a few of the privates struggling against gravity and the extra weight of a saturated uniform. The second was of a more immediate nature, for there was a drill sergeant squatting next to his head. The words, "Shitty situational awareness will get you fucked up private," spoken softly in his ear hit Gabe with the force of a blow, interrupting his mantra and breaking his concentration. He looked to the source of the disruption and his mind split in two.

Part of him was awed by the beautiful woman squatting next to him. A lock of honey-blond hair escaped from the confines of her brown round to hang down past green eyes as deep as the sea. His eyes followed that lock of hair past a pert nose lightly dusted with freckles to a perfectly kissable mouth and finally down to a chin sculpted by angels. Even with the severe expression on her face she was gorgeous. The other part sounded suspiciously like his brother's voice in his head.

What the fuck are you doing,

it seemed to ask.

That woman will chew you up and spit you out for laughs! She's dangerous, dude. For the love of God, STOP STARING AT HER!

The part of him that thought she was beautiful won out; before he knew it he was smiling at her.

A sharp pain in his hand brought him back to reality and with it a realization that he just fucked up royally. She had stepped on his fingers, erasing his silly grin. "Nobody told you to stop pushing, maggot," she spoke through clenched teeth as her eyes turned cold as liquid nitrogen.

"Roger Drill Sergeant," he replied through clenched teeth of his own, unwilling to cry out and make things even worse. He resumed exercising, doing his best to avoid brushing up against her leg.

Great start to your military career Cam,

he thought sarcastically as he tried to regain his focus. He couldn't close his eyes though. When he tried he saw the face of his ideal woman and had to fight off a smile. Eventually she moved on, presumably to torture another hapless recruit while the senior drill gave a rundown of life for the next nine weeks or so. Cursing himself for a fool, he continued to watch her firm backside as she walked away though he managed to school his expression to something other than a smile.

Bellweather was finishing up his spiel; most of the privates had stopped pushing long before he was done. Only a handful of people were still performing push-ups when he called the group to Attention. He then had the other drill sergeants come over to him where they huddled and spoke in hushed tones. Gabriel had a sudden sense of dread. He was not so self-centered that he thought they were grouped up because of him, but he somehow knew that whatever they were talking about was bound to make him miserable. He flexed his hand, still trying to shake the pain inflicted by the boots of his dream woman.

They broke up their meeting and split up, each Drill walking in a slightly different direction. The senior walked away to the office while the other four sauntered to stand in front of one of the platoons. The woman that Gabriel knew would be haunting both his dreams and his nightmares was walking towards his platoon. "Wow! Looks like we getting a girl for a Drill Sergeant. This should be a cakewalk," said one private near the back of the formation, but Gabe simply gritted his teeth and cursed his luck.

If you get a female Drill Sergeant, you're pretty much screwed bro,

his brother's words echoed clearly in his head.

She is gonna be a super hard ass cause she feels like she got something to prove. Especially if she's pretty.

He wanted to tell the guy behind him to shut the fuck up, but She arrived at the front of the formation way too fast for his comfort. "Platoon, ATTENTION! Right FACE! Forwarrrd! MARCH!"

Each platoon marched to a different area, away from the rest of the company. She marched her platoon right to the sand pit so she could give her own introductory speech. She sought to establish her dominance early. "Stand at ease," she said, her voice crackling like a whip. "My name is Drill Sergeant Slaughter. You will address me as Drill Sergeant. If any of you fuckers call me ma'am I will shove your head so far up your ass you'll actually see the shit forming in your colon. From now until the end of your time here your ass belongs to me. It is my job to turn you retarded dog farts into something worthy of serving in my beloved Army. It is a hard job, but I am excellent at it. I take pride and pleasure in the simple things. Breaking little turds like you is a labor of love. At the end of your time here you will be some of the baddest motherfuckers on the face of this planet or you will die trying. Therefore, your only concern at this point should be striving for excellence. That is what I demand and sure as shit that is what I will get.

"Now, for the slow-mo's out there I feel that I should point some things out to you. First things first, I am a female. I have tits and a cunt. Some of your non-progressive types think that because I have tits and a cunt that I am somehow lesser, that you will be able to take liberties because you think I'm lesser. I will disabuse you of that antiquated notion. Rest assured that I can out-drink, out-fight, out-run, out-fuck and out-soldier any 3 of you. Alas, some of you have come to me not knowing how to listen. So, just so we have a perfect understanding, I will show you. PIRELLI! FRONT AND CENTER!"

"Moving Drill Sergeant," he said. Gabe recognized his voice as the one who figured they had it easy. He made his way to the front of the formation in a lackadaisical fashion. He certainly was not taking her seriously, and so was unpleasantly surprised when, without the slightest bit of warning or hesitation, she kneed him in the nuts. He collapsed in a heap, his eyes welling up with tears.

"The second thing you'll find out about me is that I fucking HATE slackers and people who take their time. When I say move, you move as if your ass is on fire. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes Drill Sergeant," the platoon said in unison.

"Get the fuck off the ground Pirelli. Quit acting like a bitch. Run around the sand pit until I finish my introduction."

"Roger, Drill Sergeant," he said with a groan as he staggered to obey.

"Ok, next thing that you must see is that I am tougher than any of you cock jockeys. HARDEN! FRONT AND CENTER!"

"Movin' Drill Sergeant," he said in a deep southern drawl, moving with decidedly more urgency than the previous call up.

"Now private, I want you to give me your best shot," she said as he arrived at the front of the formation. "Hit me." He hesitated; the size disparity was considerable. He was 6'4, 230 pounds and looked as though he was carved straight from granite while she, although very fit, couldn't have stood more than 5'4. Clearly torn, he didn't want to disobey a direct order yet he'd been taught never to hit a woman. He compromised, punching her shoulder with barely enough force to move a feather."

"Impressive, private. Tell me, were you born with a pussy or did it develop later? I said your best shot. Quit acting like I'm gonna break and FUCKING HIT ME!"

"Ok, you asked for it," his voice rumbling with reluctance. Then he cocked back and unleashed a blow that looked hard enough to fell an oak tree. He aimed his haymaker toward her chin, trying to end the farce with a knockout blow. She sidestepped the punch with almost comic ease, hit him with a vicious combination to his chiseled stomach too fast to follow. When he doubled over in pain she finished him with an elbow strike so powerful it split his cheek and left him dazed.

"ARE YOU COMPLETELY FUCKING INSANE?" she yelled at Harden as he tried to collect himself. "DID YOU THINK I WOULD JUST STAND THERE AND LET YOU TAKE A SHOT AT ME? You are a complete waste of space. Get your sorry ass back in formation now!" She turned to the assembled mass, still in shock from what they'd witnessed. The speed and ferocity of her attack got their full attention; anyone still doubting her claims had to be blind.

She saw this, but still felt the need to drive her point home. She spoke to the hushed formation, forty proto-soldiers afraid to breathe. "The lesson is, never underestimate your opponent. And for God's sake, once you've made the decision to attack, do NOT go about it half-assed. Is there any poor soul underestimating me now?"

"NO, DRILL SERGEANT!" they roared emphatically.

"Good, good. I just might make soldiers out of a few of you. Those that don't adhere to my very high standards I will annihilate. Personally. Well, all this violence and subservience has me all a-tingle. Who else wants a lesson?" The formation was as quiet as a graveyard. She smiled as if walking on sunshine. Her eyes zeroed in on her target and her eyes shone. "Campbell! You look like a strapping young man. I choose you. Front and CENTER! Let's see what you are made of.

Oh shit, I'm dead.

He moved anyway, trying his best not to make matters worse for himself or the group. If not for that misplaced smile earlier he might have avoided this scenario; as it stood, it looked to him like he was in line for some "special treatment", never a good thing for a private. Gabriel stood in front of the formation, facing what felt like a one-woman firing squad, trying not to show the fear and frustration he felt.

"Let's have a little sparring session Campbell. Give it your all now; I'll know if you are holding back." He was mesmerized by how a smile so beautiful could simultaneously hold so much malevolence. It was a challenge to clear his mind enough. He took a deep breath and set his feet in a fighting stance. He started his attack as he exhaled, throwing out a weak right hand jab as a feint. She slapped his hand away and stepped into his guard. He anticipated her move and thought to strike with his left, strong hand. She ducked the strike, shifted to her right and took another step. Her outside shoulder came up under his armpit; she swept his leg from under him as she pushed his chest. He hit the ground hard, the sand doing little to cushion his fall. She had his wrist in a painful grip while she had one knee pressing into the middle of his shoulder blades, her foot next to his head. She had immobilized him in less than 3 seconds all told.

"Too slow, private. Good idea trying to win with guile, trying to conceal the fact that you're a southpaw, but you're not good enough to hide that sort of thing from an experienced opponent. Good effort, but you lost and so must pay the penalty. Kiss my boot."

"Excuse me?" he asked, confused by the request/order.

In response, she ratcheted up the pressure in his wrist near the breaking point, causing a sharp intake of breath. "Lesson 3, I don't like to repeat myself," she said in a tone as smooth as silk, as deadly as a viper. "Kiss. My. Boot."

The threat was real; he had no doubt she would break his wrist if he did not comply. With no choice that wouldn't leave him injured, he turned his head to the side and kissed her boot, catching a mouthful of sandy mud for his trouble. Then he happened to look up into her face and her expression left him shaken; her face had a glow that was nearly orgasmic. With a hint of reluctance she let him up, sent him back to stand in formation.

What the fuck! She is seriously off her rocker!

"Alright kiddies," she said with a smile, looking genuinely ecstatic about the prospect of inflicting more punishment on her platoon. "Enough introductions. I'm sure I'll get to know each of you

real

well, those of you who survive at least. When I march you back to the company AO, you'll have 10 minutes to grab your bags off the bus, find a bunk, take off those wet clothes, jump into your PT's and be back down here standing in formation. If you're late you will be running in whatever you have on at the time. Platoon, ATTENTION! Right FACE! FORWAARD! MARCH!"

The recruits marched back to the company area at a faster pace than when they left despite their fatigue. No one wanted to get on the bad side of that sadistic woman. Her smile was more frightening than most men's grimaces and she made no secret that she would take the utmost pleasure in breaking them. When she told them to go they moved with something approaching light speed to do her bidding. They weren't fast enough. After five minutes the barracks door exploded open and in walked Drill Sergeant Slaughter. "FREEZE!! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY BARRACKS! YOU'RE ALL LATE!"

One of the braver, or more stupid soldiers whined, "Come on, Drill Sergeant. There's no way that was ten minutes."

"What is your name, Private," she asked in a sweet tone that the platoon was already beginning to associate with danger, the brim of her Brown Round bumping up against his nose.

Suddenly, with the spotlight on him, he lost any semblance of calm he may have possessed. "Dr-dr-dr-drilll Sergeant, m-my na..."

"Spit it OUT Private! I ain't got all day!"

"P-Private Kaseem Drill S-s-s-sargeant."

"Well, Private Cry-baby, I have a policy. You will be at least 5 minutes early to any formation I or my comrades call or I will consider you to be late. Do I need to remind you how much I hate slackers and slo-mo's?"

"No, Drill Sergeant."

"Well I'm prepared to be slightly lenient since you didn't know. PLATOON," she turned her eagle-eyed gaze on the rest of the bay. "Private Cry-baby brought up a legitimate complaint. You all didn't know about my policy. So to be fair, I'm only going to have you run 4 miles instead of the 2 I was originally going to run you. I want to be crystal clear here, THERE IS NO EXCUSE FOR IGNORANCE! THERE IS NO EXCUSE FOR FAILURE! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY BUILDING RIGHT FUCKING NOW. CRY-BABY! PUT YOUR THUMB IN YOUR FUCKING MOUTH. IF YOU REMOVE YOUR THUMB BEFORE I TELL YOU FOR ANY REASON IMMA BREAK THAT MOTHERFUCKER OFF!"

The platoon rushed out the building in various stages of undress and formed up. They were promptly punished for coming to formation out of uniform, doing Front-Back-Go's until their arms and legs were rubber. Afterward, they were released to clean the barracks, their bodies and their gear. The group was tired, footsore, and completely spent; most of them had never been subjected to that type of intense physical activity before. Even Gabriel, a multi-sport athlete in high school, was bewildered from the amount of fatigue he felt. Among all his second platoon comrades, he was the only one who made it through the entire session without faltering once and he had his background to thank for that. However, he began to think of his sexy boss as a somewhat personal challenge and being that tired from the first day of activity did not bode well for his success. The thought of failure put a solid ingot of iron in the pit of his stomach but the determination to push past his insecurities won out. No matter what she threw at him, she would not break him, even if he was the last man standing.