Dogs Of War Part 14

"My job is to train you to fight, and I will do that job. This war is the big one, and the heathens are playing for keeps. Winner takes all, and we will win because G.o.d is on our side. But the heathens are tough, don't mistake that. When I joined up ten years ago, we never would have taken kids your age, but now we're fighting here and in almost every town across America, and we can't afford to be picky. So I will teach you, and you will fight them and keep on fighting until we have killed them all for the glory of G.o.d and the corps. Do you understand?"

I didn't, but I knew the answer he wanted and I was sure not going to say anything else. "Yes, Sergeant!"

He took off his hat, tucked it under his left arm, and with his right pulled a cord from around his neck over his head. It was a necklace, a dark brown leather cord holding many smaller pieces of less dark leather. He held it in front of him as he walked back and forth in front of us.

"There is nothing pretty about killing, but there is also nothing magic. The heathens are men, the devil's men, but still men, and you can kill them as easily as they can kill you. And they will kill you. Unless you kill them first. Which I will train you to do." He stopped in front of the boy next to me, a black kid a little taller than I was. "Do you know what this is, Private?"

"No, Sergeant," the kid said.

"It's my ear collection, Private." He stuck it in the kid's face. "Right ears only, one ear for each heathen I killed, more than two dozen before I got called back from South America to teach worthless pukes like you."

I couldn't help myself. I turned my head for a better look. The ears didn't look like ears, more like shrunken leather Brussels sprouts, but as I looked closer I could see the folds and bends of an ear in some of them. I wanted to grab my own ears, make sure they were still there. I felt sicker and shakier and the air seemed heavy.

"Do you have a problem, Private Burger?"

I knew I shouldn't say anything, but I couldn't help myself and as soon as I started talking I couldn't stop. "It's gross. I don't wanna see it. I don't wanna be here. I'm scared and I wish you'd stop yelling at me ..."

"Burger!" He was in my face, screaming, and I still couldn't stop.

"... and I don't know why my dad had to die and do this to me and ..."

"Burger!" He was even louder this time, but I couldn't stop.

"... I wish my mom were here and I wanna go home and ..."

He hit me in the stomach. I didn't see it coming, but one minute I was screaming and the next I had no air and I was falling down and holding my stomach. I kept trying to breathe but somehow no air seemed to get in. The road was hot and rough and sc.r.a.ped my cheek and my hands, but I couldn't get up.

"You will not panic, Private Burger. You will not talk unless I tell you to talk, and you will stop when I tell you to stop. Do you understand, Private Burger?"

I nodded my head and squeaked out a "Yes, Sergeant," that I could barely hear. I hoped it was enough for him, because I didn't think I could be any louder.

"How old are you, Burger?"

My stomach felt like a hole in my body, and my throat burned. I sucked in a little more air, enough to answer a bit more loudly. "Ten, Sergeant."

"Well if you want to live to see eleven, Burger, you better learn these things, and you better learn 'em fast. Now get up and stop dirtying my road."

Week 1, Day 4 My legs were shaking as I struggled to hold them together and six inches off the ground. The muscles in the tops of my thighs and my stomach were on fire from the strain of the leg lifts. The world narrowed into the pain in my legs, the sun blazing into my eyes, and the sound of Minola's voice. I could hear his boots clacking on the pavement, but I couldn't see him.

"Apart." His voice sounded distant, but clear.

Keeping my legs above the ground, I spread them as far as I could. Simply being able to move relieved the pain for a moment, but then it came back worse than before. I wanted to reach down and lift my legs with my hands, but the boot-print on my uniform sleeve and the dull ache in my left arm reminded me of the penalty for that particular cheat. I gritted my teeth, closed my eyes, and concentrated on blocking out the pain and keeping my legs up.

"Together."

I moved them back together, grateful again for the momentary movement. This was our tenth repet.i.tion, the last one. We always did ten. If I could hold out until Minola called the last movement, we'd be done. It was dinnertime, so I'd get to stand up, escape to the mess hall for half an hour, relax. All I had to do was finish this one.

"Down."

Yes! My stomach felt like it would cramp and I wanted to grab it, but I kept my hands under my head. My legs twitched and I sucked air, glad to be done. I was sure I could not have managed another.

"Up."

I couldn't believe it. We always did ten. I wanted to shout, but I clamped my jaw shut and only grunted as I lifted my legs. I heard a lot of other grunts and gasps, but no words; we had all learned.

"I know what you pukes are thinking," Minola said from somewhere closer but still behind me. "We did ten, so we should be done. It's not fair. Well, you're right; it's not fair. Tough s.h.i.t. Sometimes you have to push a little harder. Now, apart."

Even spreading my legs brought no relief. The shaking was worse, and I wasn't sure I could go on. I had counted on stopping, and now I had nothing left. I felt tears in the corners of my eyes, and I shook my head to make them fall out. I'd be d.a.m.ned if I would cry again in front of him. I might not be able to do these leg lifts, but I would not cry. That much, I could control.

"Together."

I couldn't do it. I tried, but my legs fell, and then Minola was staring down at me.

"Stand up, Burger!"

I stood to attention and faced him.

"Why did your legs fall, Burger?"

"Sergeant, I couldn't keep them up, Sergeant!"

"Bulls.h.i.t. Look around you, boy. Do you see any other legs on the ground?"

I looked. Everyone was shaking, and some of their legs were almost touching the concrete, but all were above the ground. I couldn't believe I was the only one.

"That's right, Burger. They're doing it. You could have done it, but you gave up. You made up your mind you were done, and so you were." He stepped back. "Down! Fall in! Now!"

Everyone scrambled to line up in our usual formation. We dressed our ranks, left arms touching the guy to the left, right arms touching the guy in front, and then we snapped to attention.

Minola stood in front of us, arms crossed behind his back, the creases in his uniform, as always, so stiff they appeared to be carved from an unbelievably pure-green granite previously unknown in Florida. "It seems Burger decided to give up early on leg lifts. That means he didn't finish his exercises, so he needs to do a little more before dinner. And, as I keep trying to pound into your worthless skulls, you are supposed to be a team. If one of you doesn't finish, none of you have finished. So, you can all take a few minutes from your dinner break to double-time it down to the end of the compound and back."

Everyone groaned. I could feel them looking at me. We only had thirty minutes to eat, and this run would take ten of them. My fault, not theirs. Mine. I wanted to die. "Sergeant, request permission to speak, Sergeant!" I had to try.

For a second, I thought I saw him smile, but then it was gone. "Go ahead, Burger."

"Sergeant, this is my fault and the others should not have to run, Sergeant!"

He walked in front of me and bent into my face. "You don't get it, do you, boy? Listen to me. Read my lips. You are part of a team. If you fail, the team fails." He moved away, back in front of us. "If any of you fail, the team fails. You must be able to depend on one another absolutely, without doubt, because anything less will get you killed. Do you understand me?"

"Sergeant, yes, Sergeant!"

"Good. Left, face. Double-time, march!"

We ran in formation. I didn't see Minola in his usual spot to my left. Then, I heard his voice from behind us.

"The sooner you pukes finish this little run, the sooner you eat."

We trotted on. My legs felt like weights, but I was glad for the chance to be doing something. Maybe if I sat alone in the mess and stayed out of everyone's way, they'd forget me. Johnson and Gonzalez liked me, maybe they'd even sit with me. It wouldn't be so bad. All we had to do was make it to the storeroom at the other end of the complex, turn around, and run back. We did it many times each day. I wouldn't let them down this time. I could do this.

As we neared the storeroom and the point for our turn, I noticed a few of the bigger guys in front of me had slowed a bit. When I tried to slow, Johnson, the guy behind me, pushed me forward. I could barely keep running in the s.p.a.ce between him and them. We started into the turn, and I felt a hand in my back and I stumbled and then I was on the ground and boots were kicking me. I covered my face and curled into a ball, trying to protect myself. I don't know how many people kicked me, but it was over fast and the platoon was moving on. My shoulders and neck and legs and stomach and a.s.s hurt, and I tasted blood. The platoon was running away from me.

They were all I had left, and now I was losing them. f.u.c.k that.

I got up and ran after them. I dusted my uniform as best I could as I ran. I didn't even try to run as Minola had taught us. I didn't care about my legs or my stomach or the blood in my mouth. I sprinted after them.

I caught them halfway back to Minola and fell into my position. No one spoke to me, and I didn't say anything.

When we were about to pa.s.s him, Minola called, "Platoon, halt!"

We stopped, everyone at attention and sucking air.

Minola looked at me but did not come closer.

"Burger."

"Sergeant, yes, Sergeant!"

"What happened to your uniform? You look even more like s.h.i.t than usual."

No one moved, but I could feel them all watching me.

"Sergeant, I tripped and fell, Sergeant!"

"I see, Burger. What made you fall?"

"Sergeant, I was clumsy, Sergeant!"

He stared at me for a minute, then looked away. "Go clean up, then join the rest at mess. Everyone else, fall out. Back here in twenty minutes."

"Sergeant, yes, Sergeant!" we all shouted.

I ran through the group to the barracks. I figured if I changed fast I could still grab a bite. No one pushed me as I cut through.

Week 3, Day 5 The ceiling fans in the old warehouse bathed us in a slight breeze that was a wonderful relief from the unrelenting heat outside. The building smelled faintly of plastics and more strongly of sweat. We sat along the edges of a large square of faded blue workout mats. We were lined up in order of size, from Hughes, who at 16 and somewhere around six-four was a little bigger than Minola and everyone's pick as the guy most likely to be able to take the Sergeant, to Gonzalez, three seats to my right and a good couple of inches shorter than I was. Minola stood, shirtless, in the center of the mats and held aloft a gleaming bayonet.

"What is the spirit of the bayonet?" he asked.

"Sergeant, to kill, Sergeant!"

Minola granted us a rare full smile. "You've learned the words. I've let you hold the weapon. Now it's time to learn to use it." He walked along the border of the mats as he talked, now keeping the bayonet at our eye level. "This war is not like any movie you've seen. We're not charging up hills. We're not humping through a jungle. We're going from door to door, down streets, into buildings, fighting the enemy in our very own cities, cities their presence disgraces. Less than a mile away from the edge of this compound are heathen neighborhoods, perfectly good houses and streets infected with the devil's servants. Up to now, we've had to put up with them, because we haven't had the manpower to deal with them. Now we do: You. It's going to be your job to clean those neighborhoods. You won't have guns, because neither we nor the enemy in those houses have any ammo for the few guns we have. Ammo is too precious for untrained pukes fighting rear actions. We have to save it for those on the front lines. Which is why," he lifted the bayonet over his head, "you must become very good at both using your bayonet on others and defending against it yourself."

He put the bayonet in a bag at one edge of the mats and pulled out a black rubber replica. "So none of you darlings accidentally slices himself and messes up my nice mats, we'll practice with this rubber version. You attack, I'll defend. Who wants to start?"

n.o.body spoke.

"Don't be shy, boys. This is your chance to hit me with something hard. Surely at least one of you babies has wanted to hit me."

Everyone had wanted that, and he knew it, but no one said a word. I sure wasn't going to volunteer. I had learned that lesson, and so had everyone else.

Minola laughed, a sound I rarely heard and one I was pretty sure I didn't like. "Okay, then, I'll pick. Hughes, on your feet, front and center."

"Sergeant, yes, Sergeant." Hughes went to the center of the mat and stood at attention in front of Minola.

"Relax, Hughes. When you're on this mat, you can stand any way you want. Take this weapon, and let me know when you're ready."

Hughes took the practice bayonet, backed away, and checked it out. He flipped it from hand to hand a few times, smiled, and settled into a half crouch.

Minola, in a similar but slightly wider stance, never looked away from him. His face was calm, his mouth slightly open. The muscles in his chest and stomach moved in and out in an unchanging, slow rhythm as he breathed.

"Sergeant, ready, Sergeant!"

"Then have at me, boy. Try to cut me."

Hughes, the bayonet in his right hand and that arm slightly bent, slowly edged toward Minola. He moved the bayonet from side to side in an arc about a foot and a half wide, no fast motions, everything under control. Never taking his eyes off Minola, he drew closer to the sergeant. He looked good to me, and I began to believe he might have a chance. Seeing Minola get hurt a little would be fine by me.

Minola didn't move. Nothing in his expression changed, and his breathing stayed the same.

Hughes thrust the bayonet slightly at Minola, not far, just a few inches.

Minola didn't react.

Hughes moved a little closer, and then suddenly he stabbed right at Minola's chest.

Minola wasn't there. He was to the side of where he had been, grabbing Hughes' arm, doing something with his feet, and then Hughes was on the ground and Minola was on top of him. Minola's knee pinned Hughes' back as he bent Hughes' arm backward until Hughes grunted in pain and dropped the bayonet. Still holding Hughes' arm with one hand, Minola picked up the bayonet with the other, dragged its sharper side across the back of Hughes' neck hard enough to leave a bright red line, then stood. Hughes rolled over and held his right arm with his left hand.

"Too obvious, Hughes, and too much weight on your front foot. You thought your size and a little experience with a knife would be enough-dumb. A move tike that'll work only on someone with no training, and the heathens do train. Get back in your position. Who wants to be next?"

No one volunteered, so Minola ordered Langdon, a tall, wiry kid about fourteen with hair so blond his buzzed head looked bald from a distance, onto the mat. Langdon tried a different approach, dancing back and forth a lot and thrusting the bayonet at Minola's head each time he drew closer, but he lasted only a tiny bit longer and fared no better. On one lunge Minola seemed to fall, his leg shot out, and Langdon went down. Minola was on him instantly, taking the rubber bayonet and dragging it across Langdon's throat.

Two other guys also ended up with red throats, and then Minola called my name. I thought I was going to throw up as I walked to the center of the mat. I had been in a few short fights, but always with kids my size or only a little bigger, and never with a weapon. The bayonet felt foreign and I wanted to throw it away and run, but I knew that wouldn't work. I gripped it tightly, bent my legs, and hoped he wouldn't hurt me too much. I swung the bayonet lightly in his direction, hoping he'd maybe just take it away and I could finish without having to hit the mat or feel him drag the rubber blade across my throat.

He didn't move. Though he was staring at me, I couldn't sense any reaction in his eyes or his face. I wondered what he was seeing.

I swung the knife again, a little faster this time.

He slapped my face. I never saw the hand coming. "Is that all you can do, Burger? What a worthless baby you are."

He slapped my face again. "What are you waiting for, Burger? Your mommy to come save you?"

My face burned. I was having trouble breathing, and I shook my head. I wanted to hit him, hurt him.

He slapped me again, harder than before, stinging my face and snapping back my head. "Is this how your daddy died, Burger? Does being a worthless p.u.s.s.y of a mommy's boy run in your family?"

I couldn't stand it anymore. I yelled and charged him, the bayonet aimed right at his throat. I wanted to slice it open, shut him up, not have to take any more from him, kill him.

I was on my back on the mat before I knew what had happened. He was sitting on me, his knees pinning my arms, one arm over my mouth so I could barely breathe, the other pushing the bayonet into my throat. I was afraid he was really going to hurt me.

Without breathing hard, with no emotion in his voice, Minola said, "Anger can help you, but only if you control it. Burger got mad and lost control. I stayed in control." He dragged the bayonet across my throat, then got off me. "Now, he's dead, and I'm alive. Back to your position, Burger." As Minola talked, he walked the perimeter of the mat, locking eyes briefly with each of the guys in the platoon. "You may think you're better than Burger, that you'd never get mad or lose control. You're not. Everyone loses it if the wrong thing happens to them. I can and will tell you never to get mad, to stay under control at all times. I can even teach you how best to maintain that control by focusing on your target and keeping your breathing easy.