Kurt Schlichter: Indian Country

“Are those my men, First Sergeant?” Turnbull said, puffing out his chest. Top, who was also a fan of Stripes , smiled.

“ Those are your men, sir.”

Turnbull laughed a little, and for the first time in months it didn’t hurt. That was good. He was healing nicely. No one could say the same about the guys who had hurt him. There was no coming back from what Turnbull did to them.

He and Top walked toward the struggling recruits – they did not get the rank or title of “Private” until they graduated – carefully observing the circus. The new soldiers were in only week six of their fourteen week Basic Combat Training course. Turnbull’s own Basic was as part of the old US Army, and it had been only ten weeks long. A lot of that time had been devoted to diversity and sexual harassment training. Those subjects had gotten less than a minute here: On Day One, Top told the assembled cluster of newly-shorn recent civilians, “You screw up and you’re out.” Once the first knucklehead grabbed a female’s breast and got dragged through the company area after one of the drill instructors knocked him out with a right cross, the entire unit became crystal clear on the Army’s harassment policy.

In the post-Split US Army, Basic was also harder than before. It was more serious, and where the old Basic had been designed to pass recruits, this one was designed to force them to choose whether or not to succeed. The old Basic meant to prepare warriors. The new Basic meant to do that too, but also to ensure that each recruit had to want it.

You didn’t just get full citizenship by virtue of being born in the US anymore. The right to vote and hold public office had to be earned. These recruits were at the very beginning of their two-year citizenship service. If they volunteered, they could try no matter what their physical condition. If they performed to the standard – modified where need be for recruits like the one in the wheelchair – they graduated. But if the suck got the better of them, well, there was always The Bell.

Turnbull looked it over, a brass bell with a little rope hanging down from the clapper. The drill sergeants ensured that the recruits carried it with them everywhere. It was always there as they trained, beckoning the weak-hearted. A drill sergeant would jump your shit for anything – a look, a pause, a bootlace out of place – but if a recruit was headed toward The Bell, no drill sergeant would do anything more than watch.

Ring it, and you were gone – after you talked to the company commander.

“Anyone ring out today, Top?” asked Turnbull, his right hand dropping to his holster to ensure his service SIG 320 was still there. Constantly check your stuff – that habit was ingrained in him. Like all non-recruits, he carried his weapon at all times, on duty and off.

“Nope, none yet,” replied the first sergeant with a hint of pride. When a recruit failed, he felt the failure even if he didn’t show it. Top was a big, mean-looking NCO with a 101st Airborne patch on his right shoulder and a Combat Infantryman Badge on his chest from the pre-Split Army – though he saw action long before enlisting while growing up on the mean streets of Detroit. The recruits were scared of him, but they were scared of everyone. But what distinguished Top was the respect bordering on fear of the drill sergeant cadre.

When Turnbull had arrived a few months before to take command of the company while recuperating from his latest Middle Eastern escapade, it took him about three seconds to know two things. First, he might have orders into the CO slot, but the sergeants owned Alpha Company, 2-80th Field Artillery. Second, if he let Top do his job, this company command tour was going to be the easiest assignment he had ever had.

“Think we’ll make the average pass rate?” asked Turnbull, still getting into the swing of this training unit gig.

“I’d say about seventy-five percent,” Top replied. “The Army’s a shock to a lot of them, especially the ones coming from the blue states. They are all gung ho to vote, but then they see what they have to do to earn it and they think again.”

Over at the eight foot wall obstacle, a fat kid fell on one of his buddies, sending them both sprawling on the ground. They picked themselves up, and this time they got over by working together.

“Jessup’s down 12 pounds,” Top said. “He might just make it. Now sir, watch Marshall there.”

Marshall was a strong, good-looking college grad whose attitude always called in fire on his own position. Turnbull had read his record – his family had money and came from the blue after the Split. Marshall was either going to be a leader or a pain in the ass.

Marshall and a couple others ran to the base of the wall just as Autry, the recruit in the wheelchair, rolled up. Marshall ignored him and pulled himself up and over.

Top was off like a shot.

“Marshall! Get your ass over here!”

The recruit trotted over after seeming to ponder whether to bother responding, then assumed something remotely like the position of attention.

“Yes, First Sergeant?”

“Why’d you leave your buddy behind?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you ‘huh’ me, recruit! Autry. You left him.”

“So?”

Turnbull put his hand on Top’s shoulder to keep him from committing manslaughter. The First Sergeant continued.

“Recruit, you talk to me like that again and I will put my boot so far up your ass that you’ll taste shoe leather.”

“I don’t think so,” Marshall said, turning and walking to The Bell. He grabbed the rope and clanged it.

“My office,” Turnbull said.

The company commander’s office was on the ground floor of the main building in the Alpha company area. A large counter and admin area blocked access to Turnbull’s front door; several NCOs were there working. Inside his office, which was completely bare except for the desk and chairs, was a second door in the back leading into Top’s identical office next door.

Turnbull closed the front door, walked over and sat at his desk. He put the DA Form 444 his clerk had prepared down in front of him, along with a blue pen. He had expressed that he needed a DA 444 and it had appeared – the power of command. He wondered whatever happened to Colonel Deloitte, who had taught him about how being a commander worked.

Sitting down, he realized that nothing hurt – that was a change. He had been healing from his injuries here in the rear with the gear, and it was certainly nice not having all sorts of people trying to put holes in him for once, but lately he had been starting to feel ready to get back into the game. Dealing with assholes like Marshall was already getting old.

There was a rap on his door that brought his attention back to his present problem.

“Enter!” Turnbull shouted.

First Sergeant came in and formally reported; Turnbull returned his salute. Marshall walked in next with a smirk on his face, slouching as he stood before the desk.

“I’m technically a civilian now, so I don’t have to ‘sir’ you, right? Or salute?”

“True,” Turnbull said. “You don’t have to do anything. Except listen.”

“To what?” Marshall said insolently. Turnbull wondered if this punk understood the risk he was taking disrespecting Top’s commander – the only thing keeping him out of a full body cast was First Sergeant’s professionalism.

“To me try and talk you out of quitting.”

“Go ahead and try.”

“Yeah, don’t expect me to put my heart into it because I think you’re a little shit and exactly the reason why now we make people earn the right to vote in the United States. But the Army still has regs, and since this is a big decision for you – because you won’t get a second chance to serve if you bail – the regs say I have to make sure you understand the implications of your decision.”