Marko Kloos - Terms of Enlistment

“ Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen. Sixteen. ”

I have no idea what will happen if I am not in my exercise outfit by the time they reach zero , and I have no particular desire to find out. By the time the drill instructors have counted down to seven, I have finished tying my shoes, and I am back on my spot at the center aisle when the count is four. All of us are in position in time, although two or three stragglers only manage to take their spots in the line just before the countdown expires.

“Most of you are out of shape,” Sergeant Burke announces. “You have been sitting on your asses at home, watching the Networks and eating garbage. I have no clue how you can get fat from eating the shit they dole out to you people, but I see way too much flab in this room.”

Sergeant Burke speaks in the same cadence as Sergeant Gau before him. Except for his slight Southern accent, he sounds just like the Master Sergeant. I wonder whether they teach a special drill instructor voice.

“We are going to run you through some physical exercises now. We need to find out which ones of you are in sufficient condition to even begin getting into shape.”

He takes a step back, and the red-headed woman sergeant steps forward and takes his place. She gives us a glare that’s hard as flint.

“Pla- toon !” she barks. “In front of the building, in double row, fall in !”

We rush out and file past the drill instructors, but I have a good idea that any speed at this point will be deemed insufficient by our drill instructors, even if we managed to teleport downstairs instantly.

“That means now , boys and girls!” she shouts. “You’re not getting paid by the hour.”

We trample down the stairs like a herd of panicked mountain goats. Outside, we reform the platoon in double line as ordered.

Our drill sergeants emerge from the building at a walk. Sergeant Burke once again steps in front of the platoon, while the red-haired female sergeant takes up position on the left end of our double row. The bald-headed black sergeant mirrors her position on our right side.

“We’re going to play a game called ‘Follow the Leader.’ Sergeant Riley over there is the Leader.”

He nods towards the red-haired sergeant to our left.

“Sergeant Riley will lead the platoon on a little run. Your job is to stick with her. Sergeant Harris will bring up the rear. It is in your best interest to stay in front of Sergeant Harris, and behind Sergeant Riley at all times.”

Sergeant Riley looks like she could run a marathon, but I’m reasonably confident about my ability to keep pace with her. She’s wearing fatigues and combat boots, we’re wearing exercise clothes and running shoes, and I’ve been running the staircases back at our residence cluster for the last three months in preparation for military training.

We turn left to align the column as instructed, Sergeant Riley starts running, and the platoon follows.

After an hour, I’m not so confident about my stamina anymore.

I’m in the middle of the platoon, and Sergeant Riley is twenty yards in front of me. As far as I can tell, she’s not even breathing hard. We’ve been running in one direction since we started, and I still can’t see an end to this military base. Other platoons pass us in both directions, and all the recruits in those platoons run in perfect synchronicity. Platoon 1066, on the other hand, is a loose formation of coughing, wheezing, and gasping recruits in various states of misery. Sergeant Riley does not slow down. So far, nobody has dared to fall behind Sergeant Harris at the rear.

Finally, Sergeant Riley departs from the straight line she has been running for the last hour. There is a large vehicle park by the side of the road, and she veers onto it, skipping over the curb in a sickeningly light-footed fashion. The platoon follows, some of us only barely managing not to trip on the curb. Sergeant Riley slows down to a trot and comes to a halt when the bulk of the platoon is in the center of the square.

“Two rows, boys and girls. This is the military, not recess at school. Fall in!”

We shuffle around to line up as ordered.

“Leave plenty of space between yourself and the recruit in front of you,” she instructs the back row, and I know what’s coming next.

“Push-ups,” she announces. “I count, you follow. Don’t anyone work ahead of me, or we’ll start back at One.”

She drops into position on her hands, and looks at the platoon as we follow suit.

“One.”

She lowers herself until her chin almost touches the ground. I take a glance sideways and notice that Sergeants Harris and Burke are doing push-ups as well, and both of them are watching the platoon as they follow Sergeant Riley’s lead.

“I want to see good form here,” Sergeant Riley shouts. “Noses touching the ground with every count.”

“One,” she starts again. “Two. Three. Four. Five.”

We get to the mid-twenties before the first recruits start wavering. As soon as it is obvious that some of us have begun to struggle, the two Sergeants on either side of the platoon rise from their push-up positions and move in.

“If you can’t do thirty little push-ups, there’s really no point in sticking it out for the rest of the training,” Sergeant Burke shouts at one of the recruits as he tries to keep up with Sergeant Riley on quivering arms. “Do yourself a favor and just drop on that gut of yours.”

The recruit struggles through one more push-up on shaking arms, and lowers himself onto the ground with a groan. Sergeant Fallon just snorts with disgust and moves on.

After a while, very few of us are still keeping pace with Sergeant Riley. She keeps doing push-ups and watches as the still-active part of the platoon shrinks to four, then three, then two. The last recruit to remain on her hands and toes is Hamilton, the trim and lean girl from my mess table.

“Well,” Sergeant Riley says as she stops mid-pushup, and hops to her feet. “We’re going to have to work on that. Only one of you is in decent shape.”

She eyes Hamilton, who has remained in push-up position.

“Back on your feet,” she orders, and Hamilton obeys.

“Platoon 1066, meet your platoon leader,” Sergeant Burke says. “Recruit Hamilton here will lead our run back to the company building.”

The smile that had briefly started to form on Hamilton’s lips disappears again.

In the afternoon, we learn the basics of moving like soldiers. It’s called drill, and it involves our three instructors trying to get us to move in unison and respond to their movement commands at precisely the same moment. It’s something the more advanced platoons have mastered to perfection, but it doesn’t look so impressive when we try it for the first time.

“That sounds like shit,” Sergeant Harris opines when we march across the space in front of the building, trying to maintain unison. “You people march like a herd of spastic goats. I want to hear every left heel hit the ground at once.”

After two hours of loud and repetitive instruction, I find that drill works best when you switch off your brain entirely, and just act like a voice-controlled robot. The rest of the platoon seems to have come to the same conclusion. We still suck, but much less than in the beginning.

It’s a strange feeling to be walking in lockstep with a bunch of people dressed exactly alike. I feel like a cog in a machine, but that’s one part of the military I don’t mind. When you do exactly as you’re told, and you’re neither the best nor the worst at any task, you can disappear in the crowd and have a small measure of solitude.

For the rest of the afternoon, we sit in front of our lockers in the platoon bay again, listening to our instructors as they lecture us on subjects like the Uniform Code of Military Justice, the branches of the military, and our chain of command. Most of us are tired from the morning’s exercise and the drill session after lunch, but when the first recruit nods off, we get a demonstration on the necessity of staying alert. Sergeant Burke suddenly stops his recitation of the history and mission of the Territorial Army, straightens up, and folds his hands behind his back.