Barracks Bitch

[Assmunch]

JUMP WEEK

 

Assmunch

 

Thank God I was back in my bunk by 0215 because a Black Hat came to get us at 0300 and for the first time I wasn’t the first awake.  Potter and Battles weren’t in their bunks and I got nervous.  Our instruction for this week said there would be no PT so we were to dress in our BDU’s every day for the duration.  We would not be back to the barracks until end of duty.

When we formed up outside, there were Potter and Battles standing ready as if they’d got up before everyone else.  Lenger did a quick inspection of everyone’s uniform and equipment which by now didn’t involve much correction at all since those who were left in the course knew the drill, followed instructions, and didn’t need babysitting.  He announced the troops ready to the Sergeant Airborne.  Today we weren’t going to ruck so we didn’t have our MOLLE on our backs stuffed with 35 pounds of gear.

We double timed the mile to the parachute shed at the airfield and waited for our main parachute and reserve to be issued to us.

Weeble seemed to be doing alright even if he wasn’t his usual, happy self.  Zeus was never far from him.  I wasn’t going to ask Weeble or Lenger if Weeble checked out okay, I assumed he wouldn’t be here if Lenger judged him to need further medical attention so I dismissed another worry from my Big List of Shit I Worry About.  Three worries crossed off, only two thousand eight hundred and forty seven to go.

My dad wasn’t Infantry and I didn’t think he’d done Airborne training or even jumped out of a plane.  It would have been nice to call him after I had my first jump to tell him about it or ask if he’d gone through it.  I wondered who takes the place of your dad when he’s gone or if you just live with all the unanswered questions and keep the successes of your life quiet.  I could tell my mom, and probably would, but she wouldn’t understand how much it means to complete training like this and receive an Achievement which was both professional and personal.  I think only a guy could understand how jumping out of a plane and parachuting was a life goal of most men, at least when you’re young.  There were goalposts in every young man’s life that built you up and fed you confidence.  Throwing and catching your first baseball until you didn’t have to think about it at all.  Your first perfect spiral football throw.  Your first win.  First date that got you a kiss.  Small mile markers on the way to becoming a man.  And then the boy’s list becomes a man’s list - first car, first job.  And your dad was there for all them, listening to your excitement, encouraging you to practice, go further, do more, be better.  My dad would have loved knowing I was doing this.

I guess this was another mile marker on the path of a man’s life, an unwelcome one.  The one where you’re on your own.  As a child, your dad leads the way.  As a young man, he’s beside you.  As a man, he’s always behind you, pushing you forward and helping you exceed his own accomplishments.  And then there’s the moment you are on your own.  It was not a comfortable feeling to wish for something you can never have again.  As a man, your father was always back there to lend advice or just commiserate as you navigated life’s minefield.  Once he was gone the moment always came in which you realized you were truly on your own and the cliff you climbed had no safety line to catch you if you fell.  Maybe that feeling of self-reliance was necessary eventually for everyone, but coming to terms with it before you were ready absolutely sucked.

Lack of sleep was nothing new for me after my time in Germany.  I could operate fine without it for a couple days, as could the rest of the Bravos.  Your mind did tend to wander a bit like it was doing now.  The trick was to let it do its thing while still maintaining just enough awareness to function until you needed to pull your focus back in and concentrate on a necessary task that required full attention.  Waiting for my parachute and reserve to be issued to me wasn’t a full attention task.  I was saving my limited focus for the donning procedure.  I think Lenger was going to be my donning buddy, helping me get my parachute clipped on.  This jump was a Hollywood jump, no gear, no ruck attached to the front of the harness below our reserve.  But before that, we had to get checked over by a Jumpmaster.  And then we’d do a quick memory refresh with a mock door jump, all of it watched and checked by the Black Hats.  This was not the time to make a mistake, and absolutely no fucking around.  You could be pulled from the jump if you screwed up at this point.  There was no shrug and ‘you’ll be fine, soldier’.  No, you were pulled aside for further instruction.  But of course by this time except for the actual jump we’d done it so many times it felt automatic.

Because this was an actual jump the rules were strict and unforgivable.  Once donned and checked by a Jumpmaster you were not to touch ANY part of your equipment.  Doing so would mean….?  Yep, pulled aside for further instruction and missing your jump if they thought it necessary.  Talking was also forbidden.  I couldn’t imagine anyone getting this far in Jump School and doing something stupid like that, but I guess there was always some idiot who thought pushing the envelope was funny or would be forgiven.

No one in our stick did anything to be an asshole.  The Bravos didn’t because…well not because we weren’t assholes, but because we didn’t fuck around when things were serious.  The randoms didn’t do anything to be an asshole probably because they were now afraid of Potter.  And behind Potter stood Battles.  And behind those two were Sleeper and Zeus.  So yeah, the randoms behaved.  I also think these ones that were left wanted to make it through.  Imagine being given one of the rare slots afforded to non-infantry, non-ranger battalion, non army to go through Airborne and being a fucking idiot and getting dropped.  I couldn’t imagine the shit they’d get when they got back to their units.  Of course Infantry had tons of slots for Airborne, but we also knew how important it was.  For Infantry, at any point while you were still young enough, if you put in for Airborne and Ranger school, they found a way to get you there.  Even other Occupational Specialties in the Army were steered toward Airborne, and sometimes even Ranger School.  But Air Force, Marines, Navy, Coast Guard, Reserves…their slots were few.  The Basic Airborne Course of the Army was the only game in town for all branches of the military.  While the other branches had their own leadership courses like Ranger School, only the Army had an Airborne course.  Because of that, it wasn’t intended to be a selective training that separated the wheat from the chaff.  It was purely skills training so that soldiers had critical training that allowed the various branches to deploy a wide range of Occupational Specialties in combat.  I always thought of it like rifle qualification, combatives, or battlefield medicine… basic skills every soldier should have.

I pushed down my eagerness to get on our bird and shuffle towards the door but it would be several hours before we were even in the sky.  I wanted to ask our Sergeant Airborne at what point of further training did soldiers learn to take care of their own equipment.  This was only the basic course, and there were other more detailed Airborne courses for Rangers, Special Forces, and those who were in an actual Paratrooper regiment.  Hell, if I was this eager before I even stepped out of a plane the first time I knew I wanted to learn more.

Lenger and I collected our gear from the shed when it was handed off to us and went to the area where the others waited.  One of the Cadre would come to instruct us when it was time to don our harnesses and parachutes.  At this point it wasn’t hurry up and wait, it was wait and wait.  No, sorry…that’s not right.  It was shut up, wait, stand at ease and wait.  That’s Level 3 on the Hurry Up and Wait SOP and I almost chuckled out loud with the thought that the Army probably actually had a manual for all the different Hurry Up and Wait scenarios complete with Section Headings, Paragraph labels, sub section details and inclusion and exception items.  For instance, sometimes we were required to field nap and wait. Yep, REQUIRED NAP.  Seriously.  Required. But don’t be fooled…required naps in the field were like Christmas dinner:  much anticipated and enjoyed, but never really enough of the good part to get you satisfied.  Other times it was a Ready Wait meaning you had to be on your go waiting for the order to move with your ruck, gear and weapon on your person. You could ruck flop with some Ready Waits and you’d be surprised how amazing it felt to squat down and fall to sit leaning back against your pack for even five minutes, often closing your eyes in exhaustion for a non-mandatory field nap. Then there was the Wait and Wait, like today.  All waits were serious waits when you were on duty.  Called to the LT’s…wait to be addressed - Attention Wait.  Almost all of the official Waits were silent waits, but occasionally you were left without NCO or Officer supervision and could mumble a few words to the brother near you, or if you were in command give instruction. Maybe they taught the various Waits at Sergeant’s School right after the training module on crafting the perfect Sergeant’s scowl.  No doubt there were different levels of Sergeant Scowl they learned as well.  They certainly seemed to have a specific scowl for specific purposes - disappointed, angry, disgusted, mean, pissed off… too many to actually list and while I’d seen many of them, I was absolutely sure I hadn’t seen them all.    

While I waited amusing myself I could hear the black hats calling out instructions down the line or making comments to individual soldiers.  Soon came our turn and we were told to size our harness under the watchful eyes of the black hats.  At this point my only attention was on myself and Lenger, my donning buddy, knowing that the Bravos had gone over this process since ground week and it was now ingrained.  Lenger and I adjusted our diagonal back straps and main lift webs appropriately, then our T10 main parachute was attached to the harness.  It was not our job to inspect the T10 or our gear, that was done by the Rigger who packed and readied the equipment (shout out to the Riggers - the Air Force gets you up, but they get you down), and a secondary check would be performed by our black hats and Jumpmaster.  But, we did have to look over our ACH - the Advanced Combat Helmet to ensure all pads were present and adjusted properly.  At last we were ready to don our harnesses.  I picked up Lenger’s and held it up for him to put his arms through and waited while he secured the various clips as he called them out to me, then handed him his leg straps and waited some more as he clipped and pulled.  Then I was responsible for tightening his back straps (diagonal and horizontal) securely, checking everything for snugness, and tucking the ends of all the straps into their proper retainers.  I handed Lenger his reserve parachute for him to tuck under his arm while I made sure his waistband was free of twists.  He then slid the waistband through the retainers on the back of the reserve chute.  Every step was watched by a Sergeant Airborne and by this time in our training the donning procedure should be second nature.  Lenger’s moves were confident and quick, as were my own.  We were being evaluated not just on our actions as a jumper, but also as a donning buddy.  After Lenger’s reserve parachute was clipped in by the D-rings, his waistband secured, and his kit bag attached it was my turn for donning.  We worked silently except for calling out things like ‘left leg strap’ and ‘secure’ for various straps and clips.  After that we waited for our equipment to be JMPI by a Jumpmaster.  JMPI is just another acronym for Jumpmaster Personnel Inspection.  The military loves its acronyms and jargon.  Our parachute packs had to be positioned even with our shoulders, and every strap and clip had to be aligned exactly in the proper place as well as snug.  The Jumpmaster also checked our ACH for rough edges and position of the pads as well as snugness to our heads.

It might seem like I’m trying to bore you with details when I should be regaling you with the adrenaline rush of my first jump, but I’m really not relating anything unnecessary.  You might never jump out of a plane or go sky diving after all.  However, Sergeant Walters had instilled in the Bravos that focusing too much on the ultimate goal took your attention away from the details that made it a success.  So you can thank me for the lesson - stay present with your current task and never forget that every action is a goal itself that contributes to your success.  Failures are often the result of treating the details too casually.  Giving your full attention every step of the way leaves nothing to chance.  Most of the time the only luck or chance you saw in combat was bad luck and no chance.  You can ask any dead soldier and they’ll tell you the same.  That’s one thing the Army beat into your head repeatedly: do it right, or die.  The Army wasn’t in the habit of wasting time training unnecessary details.  Everything the Army taught was intended to keep you alive.  I don’t ever want to see the Sergeant’s Scowl that comes from dead troops under their command.  That was probably the worst scowl they learned.

Once Lenger and I were squared away and got the black hat’s go, it was another round of Wait and Wait while the rest of the class finished their donning and got JMPI.  We all then received a quick run through of the actions we’d have to take on the bird all the way through the four count we would have to give before looking up to check if our main canopy had deployed.  If it hadn’t, we’d execute the deployment of our reserve.  Everything from hand position on our static lines as we handed them off to the Jumpmaster at the door, to where our hands should be on exit (on your reserve) to moving them to our slips so we could navigate and direct our descent.  Every movement was choreographed with specific timing. Then, we double timed out the shed and went through another mass exit from a mock door.

 

******************

The loud roaring hum and vibration of the C-130 engines matched the thrumming of my nerves.  It wasn’t until we climbed into the air that it began to hit me and I’m sure I wasn’t alone.  Some of the brothers hid their nervousness with smiles, some with serious wide-eyed stares.  If you think we’re all tough, capable, without a single worry you’d be wrong.  I wasn’t worried about the parachute part, and not about the landing part.  I was worried about that first look I’d get as I shuffled to the door and saw the earth 1250 feet below.  We’d been shown tapes in class of what it looked like and it didn’t seem too panic-inducing, but reality was always different.  The shuffle and count, plus the static line handoff and push by the Jumpmaster were all intended to get us out the door without thinking too much on stepping off into open air.  It was a leap of faith.  It was making your body do something your brain wanted to rebel against.  The uncertainties of the first time threatened to build a nightmare experience that could paralyze me with fear.  Fuck it.  Just fuck it.  I recognized that I was taking short, shallow breaths.  I closed my eyes and breathed, deep and slow.  This was going to happen.  I controlled only my own actions and nothing more.  I was trained, I was ready, I had the skill and knowledge.  Hundreds of thousands of soldiers had done this exact thing too many times to count.  It wasn’t about what could go wrong, it was about doing everything right.  I felt that all too familiar flash pervade my body, that tingle of crucial insight.  This was about Perspective.  Doubts, uncertainty, unknowns…all were useless indulgences that served no purpose here.  More than anything else I felt, I WANTED to jump.  I wanted this.  I needed to know what losing my Legs was all about, how earning my wings meant more than just getting an achievement.  I imagined myself years older, donning my harness and parachute like an expert, shuffling through the hold of the plane and casually stepping out the door as if I were jumping into a pool off a diving board.  It really was no different.

I opened my eyes and leaned over to Lenger.  “Breathe slow and deep, on a three count.  Just like stepping off into a swimming pool.  We got this.  You are a trained soldier.  Pass it down.”

Lenger glanced at me, then executed his deep breaths with his eyes going unfocused.  After thirty seconds or so, he looked at me again and grinned with a nod.  He leaned over to Chunk and repeated what I said.  I focused on the image in my head and found my nervousness replaced with eagerness.  The apprehension was gone.  Forget about what might or might not happen at the door, it was just a single brief moment that would pass before I knew it if I didn’t focus on it.  Like the black hats said ‘focus on your training’ and my training was a hundred other things that had to happen.

It was both too soon, and too long before the command from the Jumpmaster came.  I breathed.  We lined up down the interior of the C-130 and clipped our static lines onto the anchor line.  I had the brief thought that we looked like we were standing on a city bus.  Just headed to another day at the office.  We began to shuffle, and I knew the first guy was at the open door.  It was Demon and he insisted on being first.  I knew there was no better brother to have that honor than the guy who was always balls out rushing forward like an armed missile towards the objective.  Demon didn’t let anything stop him, he had one gear and that was all out forward.  In spite of my breathing and my determination my heart sped up as we slowly shuffled up the line.  I repeated the order of operations in my head as I shuffled - hand off static line, step, feel the push, step out, four count, look up, hands on slips… over and over.

I almost don’t remember the moment I was out the door.  I counted it as fortunate and disappointing.  Fortunate because I had been too worried about freezing up, and disappointing because it wasn’t panic-inducing at all.  The buildup to that moment, all the warnings by our instructors, the doubts you have in yourself…all that for nothing.  I had to give the Cadre credit, they knew their stuff.  All the repetition we’d been put through resulted in my body reacting automatically.  I did notice the ground far below, but the sudden grab of the wind as I stepped out with my chin to my chest and my hands on my reserve affected me more than the visual of hanging above the earth in open air.  See, that’s the funny thing about stepping out that door.  The first few moments you don’t feel like you’re falling at all, you actually feel like you’re being pushed sideways.  That weightless feeling in your stomach comes a couple seconds later.  It was all just enough to instill a thrill through your brain that washes out the fear.

But I wasn’t done and drifting rapidly to the ground didn’t happen by itself.  There was wind to contend with, a direction to navigate, other soldiers to watch.  Although the rate of our descent was fairly even, and the one second distance between us at the door was intended to space us out enough that we wouldn’t interfere or encounter a fellow Airborne, it could still happen with the right set of circumstances or lack of awareness. Maintaining a lateral distance from other parachutists was crucial to avoid stolen air that could collapse your canopy.  It actually didn’t take long to reach the ground from 1250 feet.  The average rate of descent for the T10 was 22 to 24 ft/sec.  Which meant somewhere around a single minute to reach the ground.  And a minute isn’t a long time when you’re trying to steer the thing to put down in the landing zone.  We were lucky today because the prevailing wind wasn’t strong so we didn’t have a fight to target our landing.  But it could happen, we learned in class.  But guess what?  The T10 steers like SHIT, like a motorcycle going 70 over inch deep water or turning a corner at a run in your socks on a freshly waxed barrack’s floor.  You want to turn into the wind for a gentle landing?  That’s gonna take about 20 seconds longer than the time you have.  You want to hit the center of the landing zone?  TFB, too fuckin bad Private Meteor, you get to land where ever the fuck you drop and gravity is a bitch.  Remember all that training in class about pulling on your slips, using your risers to pull the canopy down to angle it for a turn?  Hahaha, just kidding, that doesn’t work, we just wanted to give you a false sense of control.  Did you forget you’re in the Army?  You have no fucking control, you do what you’re told, and your parachute will tell you which part of the field you’re going to break your ankles on.

It didn’t stop me from trying though.  I gave it my best.  It hurt my pride that my best turned out to be the absolute worst PLF I’d done since the third day.  I think I might have actually bounced.  I did manage to keep my feet and knees together.  By the way, your ACH is NOT supposed to be one of the points of contact.  The Black Hat that came to check on me as I tried to unscramble my brain made that VERY clear.  I knew I was going to get hell for this from the brothers.  Still, I was alive, I was down without significant injury (just some bruising to my shoulder and pride), and I had the first of my five jumps completed.  I shouldn’t feel this good after my piss poor landing but I was grinning like a fool as I gathered my parachute and rapidly stuffed it into my kit to clear the landing zone.  Even though I hadn’t managed the center (which I knew wasn’t expected) I had enough maneuverability to stay inside the landing zone at Fryar Field.  That had to be one of the best experiences I’d ever had in the Army.  I jumped out of a fucking plane! And I was going to do it again every day this week.  Man, I loved the Army.

 

*******************

“That good, huh?”  Major Collins said when we met him at the gym at 1900 hrs. “It takes about 50 jumps before that goes away.  I know you’re already thinking about tomorrow’s jump, but focus on tonight.  After the others reach their meditative focus, I’ll work on helping you maintain outward awareness.”

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.” I grinned back.  “I didn’t manage a good PLF though, but I think now that I know what to expect I won’t have any problems with it tomorrow.  I spent too much time on trying to maneuver into the wind for my landing and wasn’t expecting the ground to come at me that fast.”  I told him.

He grinned.  “Yes, the first time gets just about everyone. You’ll time it better tomorrow.  Alright, forget about that.  Everyone breathe.”

Our little class had grown from just five of us to a group of twenty that included Bravos, Charlies, Potter and Battles.  The major said that was big enough, and once we had the basics down we could teach any others who wanted to learn but that too many in one group diluted the necessary personal envelope.  One on one was best for anything more advanced than physical control and mental focus, and initial instruction of the basics was best with between one and 25 students.

Major Collins had explained that this type of meditation was part of martial arts training and that you could train your body for years but that someone with the proper mental focus would always be better than you.  The mind and the body worked together.  Boxers learned mental focus through repetition and intense training of individual skills.  Athletes learned to focus past their fatigue and exhaustion.  Those types of focus were just the barest tip of the iceberg.  However, something happened when inner focus and outward awareness blended together in balance.  You hit the ‘Zone’.  When you were in the zone you saw and processed everything differently, your understanding came automatically, your movements were more sure, precise, efficient.  Exceptional athletes waited to find the zone.  The best athletes made the zone happen.  Martial artists stabilized the zone and held it ready every waking moment.  For the Shaolin it wasn’t something you did, it was a state of being with every breath and every thought, every muscle and every emotion.  It was understanding and accepting the moment as one balanced place in existence.  One second, a minute, a year, a lifetime…all moments of one.  Your mind, your body, the room, the earth, the universe, all places of one.  Differences were merely of degree rather than sameness.  And matters of degree were dependent upon perception:  Big and small; strong and weak; fast and slow; here and there… degrees of perceptive reality you held in your existence for a single moment.  The past and future were not reality.  Reality IS.  You are present.  You are never in the past, never in the future, and what was, or what will be are never NOW. When you exist in the now, you act in the present moment.  If you look to the past, you are always behind the present.  If you look to the future, you are always ahead of the present.

I carefully pushed all thoughts of today, my excitement of my first jump, away.  I followed with my anticipation of tomorrow and the true expectation of earning my wings later this week.  I breathed.  I moved to yesterday, my worry over Weeble’s absence and let it float away.  My concern over Zeus followed quickly behind.  The events of the previous night began to unfold and I had to force my breathing to remain even.  I let the images come, my nervous path to the shed, my participation in the killing of two men.  The sound of the pistol as it fired.  The way Barnell’s head jerked slightly with each round, but that Delnick’s didn’t.  With every exhale I pushed the thoughts and images out.  Potter and Battles with their calm and casual surety in every move, something I recognized actually helped reconcile the vicious act in my mind.  The past had no place in the now, I let it float away.  I thought of Kevin.  He also had to leave, for now, as well as my reluctance to disappear him if only temporarily.  But the true fight was that along with the thought of him came the love I felt and pushing that away and out was hard, so difficult. It was so deep inside of me, so intertwined in who I was I didn’t want to separate it from myself.  I could erase it for the moment, but with that erasing came the pain of losing him.  The pain I’d carried for that year and a half.  Part of me knew he and his love wouldn’t be gone for good, but the subconscious feeling was no different.  I breathed. Again…I breathed.  And then I knew, I couldn’t push him, his love, my love for him away without sending myself with all of it.  That was the fight.  If he went, I went with him.  I breathed.  ‘I’ll bring you back.  I promise’ I said to the feeling, and let it and ‘me’ float away, together.  And then I pushed away the tears that tried to come.

“When you feel centered, open your eyes, Brickmann.”  Major Collins said.

I floated in the emptiness for a few more breaths.  Somewhere I knew my eyes opened, but I wasn’t looking.

Major Collins moved.  It didn’t matter how I knew that, I wasn’t watching him or listening, it just came as a recognition of something happening far away.  “Come over here with me, let’s move away from the rest.”

This was the strangest thing, the oddest feeling.  I think I moved, stood up, walked a ways across the mats and sat down again in front of the Major but I didn’t actually see any of that, or even do it.  A brief thought came through the emptiness: that I could stay here, floating, and still let a small piece of the outside intrude.  Could I manage Spectator Me?  I felt so comfortable here, it was nice to be nothing.

“We’ll start with talking.  Keep yourself in this mental state.  How do you feel?”  He asked, his voice smooth, even and soft.

“Empty.”  I heard that, my own voice responding without my thinking first.

“Describe what I’m doing.”  He said.

“You are sitting with your legs crossed, your hands are on your knees.  You are looking at me.”  With the words, I saw the image through eyes that didn’t feel like they were mine.  In spite of the weirdness of it all, it felt completely natural.

“Good.  You’re doing better than I expected.”  How he evaluated that I couldn’t say, and it wasn’t important.  There was nothing that was important or immediate.  His observation washed over me and receded into the emptiness.

“Tell me about Weeble.”

Automatic me didn’t hesitate.  Spectator me felt no alarm or concern at the request.  “Weeble completed his jump today.  He did better than me when he landed.”

“Good.  And yesterday?  Where was he?”

“He said he tripped and hit his head when he was going to the gym.  He was out cold until just before evening formation.”  Yes, that’s what happened.

“He was alone?”

“Mini Hulk was going to be right behind him, he just had to call his girl first.  He said Weeble wasn’t at the gym when he got there.”

The Major paused.  “The Cadre didn’t check the in/out log?”

“Bootlicker changed the log.”

“Nice skill, that.”  Collins remarked.  “Did Weeble get checked out by a medic?  If he got knocked out, a concussion is likely.”

“Yes Sir, Petty Officer Lenger checked him out, said he was fine.  Just a big nasty bruise.”

“Good.  So neither you or Petty Officer Lenger reported it to the Cadre?”  He asked.

“No Sir, it seemed a stupid thing to bother the Cadre over on a Sunday, and it was only going to get too many soldiers in trouble for something that ended up being nothing.”

“Sounds fair.”  The Major replied.  “Potter and Battles didn’t make it back by curfew, did they?”

Now the feeling of alarm began to creep in.  I fought to remain floating.  Then I realized fighting to do it was going to be the thing that ruined it.  I chased the feeling away.

“I believe they had a pass for the weekend, Sir.” Automatic me answered.  Fuck, Automatic me was an excellent liar.  So smooth and calm.

“Weekend passes don’t go into Duty Days.”  He sighed.  “I’m going to take a wild guess and assume Bootlicker has many skills.  Ask a question, Brickmann.”

Spectator me wasn’t interested in questions, knowing things, or getting answers.  Automatic me however apparently was.  “Are you keeping tabs on us, Sir?”

“Yes.  Next question.”

“Why?”

“So close, you need to ask better questions.  I’m to report on the progress of your Platoon.  That should have been obvious from my affirmative.”  He said.  “One more, so make it good.  And we won’t be having another question and answer session on this subject, so think it through.”

Automatic me sensed a test, and a challenge.  I’d given quite a bit of thought to the entire path of the Bravos since we were formed into a Platoon, then grouped with the Alphas, Charlies and Deltas.  OSUT, or One Station Unit Training was uncommon but not unheard of.  Rather than receiving all your training as individuals, in separate schools at separate times, then getting a duty station with a whole different unit you’d never worked with before, OSUT kept you all together and everyone went through the same training together.  However, that usually started in Basic, then Advanced Individual Training, then Unit training, then a duty station.  You’d get new Sergeants and Officers, but your unit stayed together.  We had all already done Basic, then our AIT, and were even assigned to different units doing our jobs before we’d been voluntold to go to Germany.

One question left.  Why were we specifically chosen?  What did the Army intend for us?  Were we part of a program trial the Army was testing out?  What was the purpose of our training?

Major Collins was reporting on the progress of our Platoon.  Why him?  He was a Marine, not Army.  That must mean whatever this was went beyond a simple training program.  It was either a joint operation of all branches, or it reached higher than Army Command.

Automatic me settled on a question that he didn’t like at all.  Questions like that had answers that could expose you to all sorts of unwelcome attention.  Questions like the one he wanted to ask, if they were answered, meant there was no going back and no getting out.  Anyone who walked the halls of the building he was sure Major Collins had an office in had involvement in matters of military policy.  And that meant Major Collins wasn’t calling the shots.  Regardless of the answer, I wouldn’t do anything differently than do my absolute best by my brothers and my training.

The change in my perception was so subtle I didn’t realize it had happened.  Thinking my way through the puzzle forced Spectator Me and Automatic Me to focus together, yet it was still like we overlapped rather than merged.  We nodded at Major Collins with a resigned grin.

“Can you continue to train me after Airborne?”  I asked.

He cocked an eyebrow.  “I’m impressed.  Because of that, I’ll give you a freebie but only because you already figured it out.  Knowing what you’re here for, or where you’re going isn’t going to help.  You either follow this to its conclusion, which personally I hope is a long career in the Army reaching the highest level you can climb.  Or you fail out, which means a discharge. The type of discharge depends on you.  Knowing who I am or what my mission is will also not help you complete your task.  You and the Bravos, and the Charlies, are doing a great job in spite of being ignorant.  When you get beyond the next phase, I’ll make sure there’s someone there who can keep up your mental training.  Stay tough, soldier.  A lot of us want you to succeed.  But watch your back.  You still have plenty that would like nothing more than to see you fail.”

And that was enough.  Enough to know we actually WERE specifically chosen to undergo special training that was part of a unique program to determine if we had what the Army wanted.  And the best way to prove that soldiers like us were worth it was to succeed in spectacular fashion.  Which was what I’d always intended anyway, and what the Bravos as a whole strived towards from the minute we had been thrown together.

“Now, you’ve managed to maintain focus through all that.  So let’s do some movement.  Get up.”

******************

PUTA

 

Julio didn’t really see the point in sitting on a mat with his eyes closed for 45 minutes, so he stayed in the weight room to work out.  Besides, Valentino was here too.  He knew the gym was too crowded, and the locker room too busy to repeat what they’d done last week in the shower.  And Julio wasn’t surprised when the tall blonde walked over and asked to work in with him.

“Si, guapo.  Together.”  Julio answered with a smile.  Even though he had one thing on his mind, he still pushed Valentino further into his sets, trying to get the most out of him.  Valentino was no weakling, and pushed him back on his sets.

“Don’t give up like a pussy, Julio.  Keep those elbows out.  You have three more.  That’s it.  C’mon, I’m not even helping, it’s all you bro.  One more.  Yeah…yeah, almost there…that’s it.”  Valentino encouraged in that sexy half boy, half man voice of his.

There wasn’t a single thing about Valentino that didn’t turn him on.  His voice, his smile, his ass, his pretty face.  They were in their PT shorts and tees, so Valentino’s smooth legs toyed with him constantly.  Valentino wasn’t thick or beefy, he was just right.  Enough meat in all the right places.  A proud chest with nicely defined pecs and round shoulders.  A trim waist that was exposed with every rep he pushed above his head.  The man was almost completely hairless, even his armpits barely had any hair.  Valentino was the type of blonde whose hair seemed almost white and translucent when it was in a military cut.  The tips of his hairs caught the light with a glow, like an angel.

On the next pass, Julio leaned in a whispered “You are very distracting, mi tesoro.  We must leave soon.  I know the place we will go.”

“Fuuuucckkkk, I love it when you talk like that.”  Valentino whispered back.  Then in a normal voice “We’ll finish with flys.  Five sets.”

Putting their sweats back on in the locker room became a reverse strip tease for Valentino to watch.  Julio took his time, making sure each leg was pulled up over his foot slowly before sliding upward with a back and forth movement.  When he reached his hips, he pulled the back up over his ass first, letting his bulge hook over the front waistband of the sweats which pushed it out in a large obscene mound.  He grinned at Valentino and winked.  Then, without pulling it up, he reached into his locker and grabbed his sweatshirt.

“Ay!  My arms.  It was a good workout, no?  You can help me on with the shirt, jess?  I no can lift the arms.”  He smiled.

Valentino stepped closer.  “Sure, bro.  Here, put your arms through first.” And he held the sweatshirt out while looking Julio in the eyes.  Then he stepped closer, almost touching Julio chest to chest while he pulled the sweatshirt up and over his head.  Their bulges met momentarily as he pulled the shirt down to Julio’s waist, both of them semi-hard in their shorts.

“Thank you, Valentino.”  Julio said softly, and when Valentino looked him in the eye, he saw a tenderness there that almost made him steal a kiss.

Julio led the way out of the gym with Valentino a few steps behind.  He knew a place on the way back to the barracks that was secluded.  They should have 30 minutes or more to enjoy themselves before the rest of the brothers were on their way back.

“Was the jump good today, Guapo?”  He asked the beautiful blonde soldier he knew was finding a way into his heart.  There was something about him Julio felt was special.  There was a gentle light in his blue eyes, his off-level eyebrows and the slight upward curve of his lips that made his face always seem on the verge of a smile.  And he wasn’t shy or submissive and instead was engaging and willing without being forceful.  There was no uncertainty with Valentino like any move Julio made he would match him.  Julio liked the way Valentino watched him, with the occasional glance at his body that held appreciative wonder rather than lust.  And Valentino felt good, just standing close.  He had a playful confidence that welcomed Julio’s grins and winks with a matching smile.

“I loved every minute.”  Valentino responded with exhuberant energy.  “I wish we could do it naked.  Man that would be totally rad.”

Julio laughed.  “Ay no, Es loco, amigo.  My pinga… is too cold!”

Valentino laughed.  “Aw, poor pinga.  Maybe summertime would be better.”

“Jess.  Summertime.  And in da sea, not da sky.  We go naked together.  Is better.  Der is a playa…a beach, near my home.  Is perfect.”  Julio replied.

Valentino turned to smile at him.  “Are you asking me on a skinny dipping date?”

Julio smiled back.  “Maybe Jess.”

“Sounds romantic.  Throw in a full moon and some beer, and I’ll say yes.  Where are you from, Julio?”

“Puerto Rico.  Is a beautiful island.  The sea is warm.”

Valentino sighed.  “Sounds wonderful.  I’d like to.”

“Then we do it, jess?  I would like to see da light of da moon in you beautiful eyes and watch da tide come in.”

Valentino gave him a sad smile.  “You should be careful I don’t fall in love with you, Julio.  You are too perfect. You say all the right things.”

“You are gay?”  Julio asked.

Valentino shrugged.  “Yeah.  No one knows though, so don’t tell anyone.”

Julio put a hand on his shoulder.  “I no tell.  I too am gay.  My brothers know, da Bravos.  Dey all good men.  Nobody care.  You maybe tell you brothers too?”

Valentino looked off down the street.  “Maybe.  I don’t know.  The Charlies are great, I love the guys.  I got pretty lucky I think, getting moved to Germany.  I always thought the whole unit brotherhood thing was a bunch of hyped up bullshit or maybe I was just unlucky.  But my unit before was mostly dumbass fuckwits who worried more about fucking around and getting drunk, spending all their pay, and avoiding work than doing what our Sergeant and Lieutenant told us to do. I never seemed to fit in, so I kept to myself.  That wasn’t hard, I was the new guy anyway.  There were only two other guys who were underage.  There wasn’t a lot of hanging around together off duty.”

“What’s you MOS before?”  Julio asked.

“Don’t laugh.”  Valentino said.

“I no laugh at you, beautiful man.”  Julio replied sincerely.

“42L administrative specialist.  I only look like this because of the last six months in Germany.  When I joined up, it seemed like office work was the best move I could make, keep me out of the physical stuff.  I almost went Intel, and probably should have.  No one tells you the type of environment you’ll be going to though, and I didn’t want to end up in some war zone.  Man, my first month in the Charlies absolutely sucked.  Runs and patrols, sleepless nights and MRE’s?  Fuck, I was miserable.”

“But you here, you made it.  You more tough than you think.” Julio said.

Valentino laughed, actually a happy sound.  “Yeah, you got that right. I busted my ass trying to keep up with the guys, but they helped a lot too.  Lamont, our Platoon leader said one soldier’s failure is the unit’s failure and you didn’t let your brother down like that.  And while I sucked at dragging my rifle and ruck through mud, turns out I’m pretty good at organization, logistics and details that keep a unit running.  If someone had a problem I knew where to point them to keep them out of Horvath’s hairy ears.  Turns out I’m a crack shot too, got my expert badge at 300-37, thanks to Sergeant Horvath teaching me the right way.  What about you?  Were you always Infantry?”

“No.”  Julio responded.  “19K, Tank driver.  I drive da big boys.  Fix dem too.  Tree hundred from da tank was easy shot for me.”

Valentino chuckled.  “Of course you did you perfect sexy grunt.  Shit.”  He took another big breath.  “I hope you were serious about that date.  Until then, I’ll be happy to keep that big pinga warm in all this cold weather.”

Julio put his arm around Valentino’s shoulder.  “We gonna have dat date, Guapo.  I no lie to you.”

By that time they were at the turnoff to the secluded place.

[laguyinhou]

Thanks for explaining why our Drill Sergeant was an absolute asshole about straps. 

[Assmunch]

6 hours ago, laguyinhou said:

Thanks for explaining why our Drill Sergeant was an absolute asshole about straps. 

That’s probably another training module in Sergeant’s School - Proper Use and Implementation of Asshole Trait (When used with Shouting Skill (see Section 13D) and Scowl (See Section 4A thru 4Q))

[daddybear54]

I've been waiting for the purpose behind the Bravos to begin to emerge. Interesting way to go about it. Thanks for the fascinating description of his mental states while talking to Collins.

[Assmunch]

3 hours ago, daddybear54 said:

I've been waiting for the purpose behind the Bravos to begin to emerge. Interesting way to go about it. Thanks for the fascinating description of his mental states while talking to Collins.

We are about to get to the meat of it, as Major Collins reports to his Superior and when Sergeants Horvath and Walters join the Bravos and Charlies at Ranger School.  Assmunch has unknowingly been training his mind for years with how he learned to just forget people were there, and closing off parts of his emotions to focus entirely on a goal.  The sports helped start him off.  When I played, there was an intense focus during a play where you never heard the cheering of the crowd, never saw them in the stands and your whole awareness was focused on the players around you.  And we all do some tasks so automatically that we can’t remember doing them - ‘did I lock the door when I left?’ , or driving home after a tough day at work and you’re going through what happened so intensely that you arrive home without a memory of getting there.  Factory workers who do repetitive line work.  Long distance runners. That aspect to focus has always fascinated me - that your brain doesn’t truly need your conscious awareness to perform tasks it knows well.  In essence, YOU go away somewhere else (daydreaming) and automatic you takes care of things.  Philosophers and scientists have tried to define the different states of conscious thought, hypnosis, psychotherapy, dream studies, but I think the Martial Arts Masters, and Buddhists understand it better than anyone, as well as how to utilize the mind best.  It’s all about learning to choose how you focus and where you send your mind.  Anyway, Assmunch has a unique way of altering his awareness that he’s going to need when he becomes a Ranger.

[laguyinhou]

18 hours ago, Assmunch said:

That’s probably another training module in Sergeant’s School - Proper Use and Implementation of Asshole Trait (When used with Shouting Skill (see Section 13D) and Scowl (See Section 4A thru 4Q))

He was Ranger/Airborne/Air Assault/Pathfinder. As he'd say, "Rangers lead the way... After we cut them a fucking path" 

[Assmunch]

Thanks for being patient, and sorry for the long wait for this continuing chapter.  It’s been a struggle to get back into the head space to write about the Bravos.  When we left off Puta and Valentino left the gym early so they could find a place to spend some time alone in the evening before everyone went back to the barracks.  Earlier that day, they’d completed their first jump in the third week of the Basic Airborne Course.

 

PUTA

 

There were a couple areas on the way back to the barracks that would work.  The barracks were just off Eubanks Field and the training area they spent nearly all their time at every day.  There was a group of buildings in between the gym and the barracks: a Credit Union, the Elementary School, and Carey Pool.  The pool was closed in the winter, which meant no one would be there.

Puta went to a side door of the building that served as the entrance to the pool and held the mens and womens locker rooms as well as the check in office.  He made quick work of the locked door in the dark, leading Valentino inside.  He turned to secure the door and Valentino moved to grab him from behind, encompassing him with his arms while he kissed Julio’s neck.  It felt good to have Valentino’s warm, hard body pressed against him.

“God, you are so sexy Julio.  I want you so bad.”  Valentino moaned into his shoulder.

Julio arched his head back to allow his blonde pretty boy full access to his throat and body.

“Jess beautiful, we want each other.  Is good, no?”  Julio raised his arms so he could pull Valentino’s head tighter into his neck while the blonde ran his hands along the muscles of his torso.  Valentino pulled Julio’s sweatshirt and tee shirt up to remove it, then removed his own, throwing them on the concrete floor nearby.  Julio turned around so he could deliver a deep-tongued kiss upon his lover’s full pink lips.  Valentino moaned.

Julio felt like Valentino was just the perfect size for him, fitting exactly into his arms, molding to his body where their chests and stomachs rubbed together with every heaving breath.  Julio brought his hands up to rub the close-cropped blonde hair on Valentino’s head, hair that was tight, stiff and slightly wiry which told Julio if it were longer Valentino would have beautiful curly blonde rings.  The future possibility of running his fingers through hair like that sent a cascade of warmth down Julio’s spine.  He imagined the beautiful soldier lying on a blanket on the sand of the beach by his home, his tanned golden skin shimmering with the wetness of the ocean, clad only in a skimpy bikini swimsuit.  Red.  Yes, a red silky swimsuit would look perfect, thin enough to reveal the outline and features of his cock, balls and ass.  He wanted to watch Valentino emerge from the surf in that suit, seeing how it suctioned to his body to reveal everything as the late afternoon sun sunk towards the horizon behind his tight, lithe body and illuminated his wide shoulders and narrow hips, his long toned thighs, flaring calves and sure solid feet as he walked up the beach toward him, the ocean dribbling down over each muscle, limb and bone.  Valentino was unlike so many of his other conquests.  He was only minimally passive to Julio’s movements.  He possessed a fiery passion that equaled Julio’s hot blooded desire.  Valentino’s sculpted hands sought out every inch of Julio’s body with his long fingers and wide palms which massaged and pressed into him as if he were trying to discover how deep he could work them into Julio’s soft brown skin and hard developed muscles.  Simply being touched by Valentino was a sexual act in itself and there was a moment when Julio wondered if he were the conquest rather than the other way around.  He could feel Valentino’s need in every movement, his enjoyment in every moan and when Valentino’s hands went inside the waistband of his sweats above his ass he found he wasn’t worried about it.  The blonde wasn’t after his ass to fuck it and Julio knew Valentino was exclusively a receiver.  It wouldn’t have made any difference anyway.  Julio approached every man with one thing in mind - Julio was doing the fucking.

He then descended in a squat to cup the blonde’s firm ass as he ran his mouth over the hard covered mound in the front.  Even through three layers of cloth Julio applied pressure to the swollen buried cock as Valentino moaned.  Careful not to get the front of Valentino’s sweats wet with spit, Julio softly traced the 6 inches of hardness with his mouth before  pulling the waistband down to mid thigh, releasing the soldier’s dripping cock and relaxed balls.  They could take their time in this hidden place and Julio was determined to enjoy it fully.

He slowly cupped and massaged Valentino’s beautiful balls that were sparsely covered with light blonde hairs.  Valentino didn’t have a thick mat of pubic hair, and instead it was light and thin, just enough to frame the sexy circumcised pinga.  While the balls were in his palm Julio extended his index finger back to rub the blonde’s hole, then slowly licked the shaft and head, tasting the sweet pre-cum that was smeared around the tip.

“You tasting so good, mi tesoro.”  Julio moaned.

“Fuck, Julio… suck my dick.  God that feels amazing.”  Valentino said in his deep voice.  It turned Julio on that Valentino, although sexually passive, he was still incredibly masculine.  He leaned slightly forward to allow Julio better access to his hole.  “God, keep doing that.”

With his other hand Julio rubbed and groped along Valentino’s abdomen and torso, then moved around behind to grab one of the full and firm ass cheeks to spread the blonde’s ass apart while he fingered the tight puckered opening with an ever increasing pressure.  He gently kissed and licked the head of Valentino’s throbbing cock, tasting more pre-cum before  he surrounded it with his mouth and slowly sucked it inside.

“Ooooooooohhhhhh, fuck!  Yes!  Your mouth is so warm.”  Valentino moaned.  He thrust gently with his hips, unable to decide whether he wanted his dick deeper in Julio’s mouth or his tingling asshole deeper on Julio’s thick finger.

Julio didn’t rush or speed up any of his movements, nor did he increase the pressure of his mouth.  Gently he swirled his tongue around the shaft as he softly moved his wet mouth up and down.  Although Julio could easily handle a bigger dick, he found Valentino’s size just right, not too thick or too long, perfectly straight and tapered.  It allowed him to use his lips, tongue and jaw at the same time to create a constantly changing motion and movement.

Valentino’s hands were resting on Julio’s shoulders as he writhed, lost in the pleasure of Julio’s mouth, hand and fingers.  The sensations coming from his dick, his balls and his ass battled for primacy and he couldn’t focus on any single one.  Julio’s unhurried attention, his gentleness and slow rhythmic motion everywhere drove Valentino crazy with pleasure.  He was already so sexually attracted to Julio’s masculine and confident dominance that being used as Julio’s plaything drove him completely wild.  Most men had an emotional barrier that kept them from giving up complete control, especially to another man, and Valentino was no different in spite of his sexual preference.  Julio’s dominance and aggressiveness wasn’t mean or hurtful, he didn’t seek to overpower Valentino with violence or being rough, although Valentino could imagine he’d allow Julio to do that to him if it pleased him.  No, Julio was strong but gentle, tough but loving, and fuck he knew how to push ALL the buttons from the words he said, how he said them, where he put his hands and what he did with them.  Julio took what he wanted but the way he did it made YOU want him to do it.   

Valentino was still trying to sort out in his head how gay he actually was.  He knew he was attracted to men, but the funny thing was only certain men, a certain type.  He didn’t care about dick much, which was why he was still mostly confused.  For him, it was about the guy.  It was about the attitude.  He still hadn’t had much sex because of that.  Also, being in the Army made it extremely difficult and nothing kills a boner like going to prison for screwing dudes.  Most guys weren’t worth it, no matter how good looking even if looks was low down on Valentino’s list.  But there was a particular demeanor that always got Valentino’s attention:  confidence, masculinity and a ‘do what I want’ with no apologies attitude.  It was cocky without being an asshole.  There was one guy in Basic Valentino couldn’t forget.  He wasn’t all that attractive, almost ugly in fact.  His body wasn’t anything special, and there was no single feature that stood out.  But fuck, that dude just had a way about him.  Nothing bothered him or got him upset, even when the D.I. was screaming.  He was serious but could still laugh, and didn’t do any of the juvenile things some of the other recruits did.  He took care of his shit and duties like it was no big deal when most of the other guys were whining and complaining.  He was just a solid guy.  And that turned Valentino on.

So with Julio, Valentino felt like he’d won the lottery.  Not only was Julio handsome with his brown skin, eyes, and buzz cut hair, his slightly wide nose and wide full lips, but he had a bitchin’ body.  Julio wasn’t built like Sleeper or Zeus but he still had defined muscles that thickened in all the right places.  And a beautiful uncircumcised cock that was both thick and decently long.  All that was just icing on the cake that was Julio’s amazing personality.  You could tell that if you got on his bad side he’d teach you a lesson, that he didn’t take any shit from anyone and could handle himself in just about any situation.  But there was a tenderness to him he didn’t put on display, an emotional beauty he hid from the world that he only showed to special people.  In spite of his tough no-bullshit exterior, Julio had a joy to him that Valentino felt honored to be able to see.  And right now, the fact that this amazing man was sucking HIS dick, when it should be the other way around, was bringing Valentino the the brink of orgasm.

“Shit, Julio, you’re gonna make me cum.”  He gasped.  He wanted to warn Julio so that he could pull off and Valentino didn’t shoot in his mouth.

“Man, I’m serious…it’s coming…I’m gonna shoot!  You better pull off!”

Julio just continued doing what he’d been doing for the last few minutes, neither speeding up or slowing down.

“Fuck!  Fuck!  Shit, I’m coming!  FUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKK!”  Valentino grunted, grabbing Julio’s shoulders while he jerked and spasmed, shooting his hot load of jizz into the back of Julio’s mouth.  “Fuck!  It’s still going.  Fuck!  Damn!  Fuck!”

Julio just kept gently sucking, letting Valentino take as long as he needed to expel every ounce of cum he had in his balls.  Julio took the time to savor the taste and was not disappointed.  It was sweet and incredibly satisfying.  He took small swallows to make the experience last.

When Valentino was finished and had stopped trembling, Julio released his dick and stood up, making sure his hand still gripped Valentino’s balls and his finger remained caressing his hole.

“Oh man, that was amazing.  I don’t think I’ve cum that hard ever.”  The blonde said still trying to catch his breath.

Julio smiled, his bright even teeth complimenting the amusement glistening in his gorgeous eyes.  “Estaba tan delicioso.”

Valentino laughed.  “I’m going to have to learn Spanish better, but I know enough to know what that means.  Did you swallow my cum?”

“Jess, of course.  You say Claro que si, or maybe Por supuesto.”

“Hmmm, Claro que si.”  Valentino rolled the words around on his tongue.  “I like it.  It sounds sexy.”

Julio laughed.  “I will show you real sexy now, my beautiful.”  Then he lowered them both to the cold concrete making sure Valentino’s bare skin laid on the fabric of their shirts.  Julio proceeded to make slow, gentle love to this amazing man using every considerable skill in his arsenal until his lover climaxed twice more while his fat Puerto Rican cock stretched and filled Valentino’s sweet tight hole with several thick loads of heavy Hispanic  leche, both of them kissing and breathing into each others’ mouth in an unbroken passion that ignored everything around them but the warmth of the emotion which swelled like a tidal wave.

Julio realized Valentino was so much more than a conquest.

 

***************************

 

ASSMUNCH

 

Our second Jump Day started just like the first, with the exception of being loaded down with gear for our first Combat Jump and we formed up at 0330 with our PASGT (Personnel Armor System for Ground Troops) and loaded ruck.  Lenger did a quick inspection, something Potter had taught him early on.  A Navy Corpsman usually didn’t encounter battlefield situations unless he was embedded with a unit that was shorebased.  So Lenger wasn’t familiar with all the gear a combat soldier needed to wear, or how it was properly worn.  Once again, it was mostly about straps and snaps, and having the proper items on your equipment belt if you had one.  There was one piece of gear we always had to have regardless of our activity that day:  our two canteens and water. Infantry went through gear pretty fast, especially when you first started out green.  You could look at a soldier’s gear and immediately tell if they would have your back. The more beat up his gear looked, the more you could count on the guy, except for Zeus.  His gear never seemed to get too torn up.  The Army expected a certain amount of wear and tear, and Infantry got the most abuse and sometimes you came back without a piece or one damaged so much it was useless.  That’s why I was on my fourth replacement canteen.  There were some soldiers whose gear looked like they’d bought it yesterday…and that wasn’t too far from the truth having probably just bought most of it right before they arrived at the Basic Airborne Course as one of the items on their required list.  But any Army grunt, regardless of MOS, should have a set of canteens and an equipment belt stored with his or her gear, even if it was stuffed in a closet and never saw the light of day after basic.

As usual, first thing in the morning my ruck felt like a comforting weight.  That would change throughout the day until by the evening I’d be sick of dragging that heavy bitch around, but for now it felt like a familiar friend hugging my back.  Today’s pack out, and actually the Airborne Course pack out was just 40 pounds or so, not bad.  We (infantry) could easily have an 80 pound equipment load, and depending on what your job was it could be 100.  Someone had to carry the 20 pound radio.  Flashlights were also stupid weight (It was actually the batteries that made them heavy, but even so the sturdy green metal 7 inch long flashlight with angled head weighed about a pound by itself) even if they were necessary.  Trust me,  after the second mile you started reviewing your gear mentally in your head trying to figure out what you could ditch.  Trouble was, you already knew you couldn’t ditch anything because you didn’t pack out anything you didn’t absolutely need.  That didn’t stop you from entertaining the fantasy though.  ‘Those MRE’s are probably 20 pounds just by themselves.’  And being in training meant when your Sergeant told you to pack out for field, you didn’t dare leave out anything just to make your pack lighter.  Sarges had some kind of radar that signaled when you didn’t have a piece of gear.

‘I need a hole right here, Private.  Dig me a regulation fighting hole.”  Because Sarge knew you left your entrenching tool back at the barracks to lighten your weight.  And then, when you didn’t have your entrenching tool, you were generously given the entire Squad’s entrenching tools to carry so that you could dig a hole for the Army any time Sarge needed a hole.  Which was just about every mile.  And yes, there was an Army standard for digging holes.  And there were many different kinds of holes.  Grenade sumps, fighting holes like open holes, split parapet and frontal parapet, latrines, elbow holes for you to position your elbows while holding your rifle in prone position or in a fighting hole, holes to bury your gear temporarily, holes to hold poles upright, holes for traps, holes for evasion and rescue… you know, someone smart should put a book together of all the holes.  Chapter one should be entitled ASS HOLES, and it should be a list of names of the people who decided we needed to ruck 80 pounds on a 14 mile march.

So a mere 35 or 40 pounds for a couple miles wasn’t even a workout for us.  The non Infantry randoms still weren’t used to it though, even after two weeks of PT.  Sucks to be them.

“I see only a couple of you are reviewing your jump manuals, so I guess everyone else will sail right through this jump.”  Our black hat said, walking up to our formation.  “Today you’ll be joining three other sticks on your jump from a C17.  Stick Leader, get your Legs to the parachute shed.”

“Yes Sergeant Airborne!”  Lenger called out, moving to the left of our formation.  He began the count that would lead us on our double time.

Our Sergeant Airborne began the marching cadence, the same one we’d been using the entire course.  I guess Legs didn’t rate anything other than the Airborne Cadence.  Maybe it was because we were from all different branches, and different occupations so there was only one cadence they’d let us use.  Maybe the Sergeants Airborne thought we were too stupid to learn new cadences.  Maybe it was their favorite cadence and it made their Red White and Blue hearts beat with Freedom.  Who knows?  Sergeants don’t tell grunts why.  Grunts aren’t supposed to think past the response ‘YES SERGEANT!’.

As usual once we reached the parachute shed it was another ‘hurry up and wait’ while we stood in line with the other sticks to get issued our harness, parachute, other jump gear like a dummy weapon and weapon case, and reserve.  As infantry, the Bravos all had the required ACH.  Others like Lenger and the Chair Force boys needed to be issued a helmet which already had a number stenciled on it.  If you had your own helmet you needed to put a strip of white tape on each side and write your student number on it.  We weren’t permitted talking unless addressed by a black hat, and we weren’t allowed to sleep during the process.  I could see the point of that.  With everyone silent you could hear the black hats giving commands and instruction even thirty feet away.

At this point everyone had their movements down as we donned our gear and waited to be inspected.  At each stage different sergeants airborne would run their eyes over us and occasionally reach out to test snaps, buckles, clips, the tuck of our straps and positioning of the various gear hanging from our harnesses.  Our helmet pads were checked as well as our chin straps for snugness.  The redundancy was something we were told would happen before every jump even if we were lucky enough to get our wings.  In a real jump we would be expected to check each other with our unit leader conducting a final check but for training there were as many as five redundant checks: the rigger who packed your chute and prepared your harness, yourself who checked every inch of your equipment, your donning buddy who did the same examination of every inch, your Sergeant Airborne who checked for proper assembly, positioning and snugness, and finally your JumpMaster who did a visual and final adjustment if necessary.

Soon enough we were grouped with the three other sticks that would board our bird, but before we were directed to board we were given more instruction as we stood on the tarmac.  It was 0630, and the sun wouldn’t rise for another hour and a half.  Our combat jump required that we knew the proper time and process of releasing our packs and weapons from our harness so that it would hang from straps a few feet below us on our landing.  In the last few seconds of our fall we’d have to pull a cord to release our rucks when we were approximately 30 feet from touching down.  This was a review of material we’d been instructed on during one of the many classes we’d had during the course.  Our Sergeant Airborne described our jump today.

“You will board the aircraft from the rear, and you will be directed where to sit by your flight crew.  You will remain seated until your Jumpmaster gives you the order to stand, at which time you will stand up.  You will not adjust or touch your equipment in any way during your ride, whether you are seated or standing.  You will remain silent during your ride.  After being given the command to stand, the soldier behind you will release your clip line and pass it to your hand.  On the C17 you will jump from both sides of the aircraft and each side will have two rows of seats.  Once you are on your feet, you will integrate into a single line before you clip into the static line above your head after being given the command by your Jumpmaster.  You will clip in immediately behind the soldier in front of you.  You will wait until that soldier ahead of you has placed his clip on the static line.  This is so your lines do not become crossed.  At your Jumpmaster’s command you will shuffle forward until your Jumpmaster tells you to stop.  You will wait for your Jumpmaster’s touch before moving towards the door.  The green light/red light indicator is there for your Jumpmaster’s use, you are not to pay attention or look at the indicator, you are to keep your attention on your Jumpmaster ONLY.”  The red/green indicator was a light that the pilot used to signal the Jumpmaster at the exit door that the aircraft was over the drop zone (green) or not (red).

Every move was choreographed precisely.  This far along in the course everyone knew the drill, which was that all movements happened with exact timing and only at the direction of the Jumpmaster.  After yesterday’s jump there were far less nerves due to facing the unexpected.  And with the added combat gear it was extremely unlikely that we’d clip in anywhere but exactly where we needed to.  After all, we’d be somewhere between two and three feet behind the soldier in front of us due to the parachute on his back and our rucks hanging in front of our legs.  Nothing was left to chance.  Chance was just another word for a soldier coming back in a flag draped casket.  And training accidents happened all the time, you didn’t even need to be in combat.  In the Infantry, you learned early on that every instruction you were given was meant to keep you alive in some way, from how you held your weapon, to how you tied your boots and what you carried in your pockets.  Maybe that could be Chapter 2 of the HOLES manual:  Holes In Your Body and How to Avoid Them.

We stood in formation for a good hour or so with nothing to do.  We couldn’t even review our jump manuals because we weren’t permitted to take equipment out of our uniform while we were in harness (Jump Manual lived in your left breast pocket during the entire course).  The sun wasn’t up yet and even if we could look over our Jump Manual we’d need our flashlight which was tucked in a side pocket of our rucks.  No, while the flight crew took their lazy sweet time doing their pre-flight check of everything from wheels to engines we just stood there on the tarmac at parade rest.  That wasn’t bad, though.  Everyone, including the Air Force randoms, was used to long periods of parade rest.  Don’t lock your knees and you were fine.  In case you didn’t know, locking your knees while standing for an extended period of time was a guaranteed way to pass out.  Something about blood pressure and the collection of blood in your legs.  Fuck, just ask Bootlicker, he can explain why.  I just knew (from experience, which any Sarge would say was ‘the only way’) you didn’t lock your knees.

I kinda figured this was a test.  The Sergeants Airborne didn’t HAVE to keep us at parade rest for over an hour, they could have given the command to squat or released us to sit.  I had the suspicion like everything else in the BAC, this was a test of our determination.  And because of the inactivity, for the fifth time since the midnight murder mission (yeah, I was counting) the sequence of events that led up to Barnell and Delnick’s death played out in my head.  Potter was right.  The moment comes back again and again.  Even though I had squared it all away as a necessary and only course of action it didn’t stop me from reliving it.  It helped to remind myself that everything that occurred was still a light sentence in comparison to what they’d done to Weeble.  And part of the issue I was having was that in spite of the brutality of it all I found it to be not as cathartic as my animal brain wanted it to be. It lacked something that still left me with a need for more.  I thought it was strange that somehow I wanted the whole ordeal to be more vicious and brutal.  That wasn’t like me.  While I didn’t shy away from violence I was perfectly fine using it in appropriate amounts in the right situations.  But this?  It went beyond rational and was visceral.  No amount of brain soothed the angry storm of primitive emotional fury.  It was new territory for me, this inability to reconcile deeper feelings with reality.

Again I had to consider if pulling the trigger myself to deliver the killing shots would make me feel better about it.  Or would it just cause me to delve deeper into a soul-searching effort to find that elusive feeling of righteous justice.  It was possible that no sense of closure existed when you killed another human being, that only in the most extreme cases would killing your enemy result in relief.  Well that absolutely sucked.  Everything we were taught, every movie we watched growing up, every story of vengeance and retribution provided a sense of elation when the evil villain got what they deserved.  So why wasn’t that true in reality?  Why did it feel like something was still hanging there unfinished?

Holy fuck.  Relief.  That was what I was searching for.  Thinking of it as an act of finality was wrong.  It was final for them, not for me.  Behind that thought was the knowledge that partially I was worried about being caught.  The news was all over the base that two soldiers had been found shot.  The rumor mill didn’t have many details and there was no hint that the deaths were suspected to be a murder-suicide between homosexual lovers like Potter had set it up to look.  And it didn’t help that Potter and Battles continued on as if nothing happened.

Maybe that was the example I needed.  Maybe they knew there was no resolution to it and so dwelling on it, examining it, reliving it again and again was futile because there could never be a return to the mindset that existed before you killed.  You didn’t LET it live inside you, it lived there regardless.  I felt that tingle spread out from my spine to my entire body.  I could choose.  I could choose whether to make it a part of myself or leave it forgotten in a corner all by itself.  I could choose to make it matter, or I could choose to ignore it.  It wasn’t going away so how I looked at it made a difference.  And suddenly another wave of epiphany flooded my nervous system - I’d crossed a threshold and participating in the murder was a useful skill I might need in the future, at which time it would be so much easier.  Oh, not that I was in any way some violent criminal who would resort to murder to solve a problem.  But at some point in my career in the Army I would need to kill, I would be ordered to kill.  There would be no doubts when that situation manifested.  I knew I wouldn’t hesitate or think twice.

In case you took all this introspection to think I was cold, emotionless and without regret about what I did, you should flush that thought down the toilet with the rest of the turds floating around in your brain.  Hanging above all of these thoughts and attempt to sift through what I’d done was the primary thought that I really wished it wasn’t necessary.  I wished Victor never had to go through what he did.  I wished those two fucking animals had never entered our world.  This was supposed to be an exciting time in our young lives, we were supposed to be gaining skills to become the kind of badass soldiers the Army loved.  And it was all so unnecessary, none of it had to happen.  If it was true that Delnick and Barnell had done this before, the Army should have done its fucking job and put those fuckers away.  But I knew how easily that didn’t happen.  I didn’t have to be Bootlicker or Cellblock to figure out even if Victor came forward and accused them it was highly unlikely the two MP’s would even be arrested.  That was the downside to rank and position in the military.  If you were an inferior accusing a superior of ANYTHING, even the smallest bullshit, the superior was given every benefit of the doubt, even protected from accusations by ‘unofficial investigations’ which meant careful steps were taken to keep everything off the books and quiet so that empty accusations wouldn’t ruin someone’s career.  The Army threw away Privates as easily as the empty brass shells on the firing range.   So yeah, I wished none of it had happened.  But it did.  And Victor and the rest of the Bravos deserved my loyalty and devotion.  If that meant I had to put two feral dogs down because the Army wouldn’t, my brothers deserved no less.  And I knew every single one of them would have chosen the same path if they were given the choice. Participating in the killing had left a discord behind, a friction in my soul, but it was a condition I would gladly bear for my brothers.

I was at a crossroads, and before I could move forward it felt like my mind was asking for something, like it waited for some event to occur.  I suppose that was why I had gone over this five times in the last 36 hours.  I was stuck in a pattern looking for resolution.  But was resolution possible or would I have to just move forward leaving it unresolved behind me?  Ugh.  I was an itch I couldn’t scratch.  I might have to box it up and shove it in a closet in my mind.

 

*****************

FT. BENNING COMMAND 0800

 

“I’ve got ten minutes.  Tell me what you have, Captain.”  Colonel Baker, the Ft. Benning Garrison Commander ordered Captain Taylor of the CID as they walked into the Colonel’s office.  “Shut the door, please.” He said as he sat behind his desk and placed his elbows on his desk while he leaned forward.

Most crimes that happened on an Army Post weren’t of a level that required the Army Criminal Investigation Division to stick their nose in.  Assaults or physical altercations, petty theft, AWOL soldiers, property crimes, motor vehicle violations, unauthorized personnel, every small incident you could think of…that was the MP’s job.  The mysterious deaths of two military police, at midnight, in a restricted area checked off almost all the boxes for CID involvement so Colonel Baker had no choice but to call them in.  And that put his Garrison MP’s in a REALLY bad mood.  Although Sergeants Delnick and Barnell weren’t particularly well liked, they weren’t exactly hated either.  So the MP’s wanted to be involved.  But the MP’s didn’t have the investigation expertise and definitely didn’t have the well-oiled processes and experienced personnel that were necessary.  MP’s didn’t have a ballistics lab.  MP’s didn’t do DNA, or have a medical examiner.

Colonel Baker didn’t give the Captain permission to sit, so Taylor got right to it.  “Pretty straight forward, Colonel.  Everything seems to point to an illicit affair that turned bad between the two victims. Interviews with soldiers that worked with them or knew them socially indicate Sergeants Delnick and Barnell frequently socialized together off duty.  There were over twenty instances in the last two years when one was out of contact during duty hours and the other whether on duty or off also had unknown whereabouts.  Our investigation found nothing unusual in their quarters, lockers or personal vehicles.”

Captain Taylor took a breath.  “The crime scene indicates the two met there shortly after Sergeant Barnell went off duty at 2300 hours.  We are pretty sure they arrived together in the same vehicle.  The equipment shed was broken into at some time in the past, we found evidence that the latch had been pried off the wood then repaired.  Maintenance reports that this is a normal occurrence at almost all depots and sheds on Post.  This is confirmed with the damage reports filed.  This particular shed has been damaged seven times in the last two years.  On two occasions the damage reports have mentioned missing equipment or materials.  We have not confirmed that the Sergeants were responsible for this, but I feel it’s likely this was not their first visit to this shed and it’s possible they conducted their activity at others.  However, that is speculation and we won’t spend too much time investigating that unless we uncover evidence that the two were involved in theft and that it might contribute to why Delnick killed Barnell then shot himself.  At this point we consider additional criminal activity to be unrelated to this instance but we remain open to the possibility.  However….”  He paused.

Colonel Baker raised an eyebrow.  “Say it, Captain.”

Taylor shrugged.  “We found a discrepancy in materials requisitioned and materials used versus on-hand.  A large discrepancy in just the few inventories we looked into.  The sheds and warehouses should be packed with the amounts we saw.  We didn’t go further than that, our focus is on the deaths.  But I would recommend the Colonel look into the possibility of a theft ring misappropriating military maintenance equipment.”

A scowl descended on the Colonel’s face.  “Another headache.  Noted.  Continue.”

“Yes, Sir.  The ballistics report has not come back yet, but we are certain Sergeant Barnell’s duty weapon was used.  Three rounds were discharged from the weapon, consistent with the two shots to the back of Barnell’s head, and the single shot to Delnick’s temple.  Gunpowder residue was found on Delnick’s hand, and the wound is consistent with a self-inflicted small caliber gunshot to the right temple.  Prior to death, two events occurred:  a physical altercation with evidence of bruising caused by blunt force and abrasions found on the knuckles of both men, and sexual penetration of Barnell’s rectum by Delnick’s penis evidenced by the presence of ejaculate and blood.  The initial determination is that the penetration was rough enough to rupture blood vessels.  The medical examiner will have a more complete report by Friday.  We cannot discount that this may be a case of unwanted attention and rape.  We need more details to determine this with any certainty.  We found nothing unexpected in the shed or exterior.  Only two sets of tracks were found leading into the shed from the vehicle and no indication was found that anyone left the shed.  We are certain the two Sergeants were the only ones present.”

Colonel Baker leaned back in his chair.  “It would be nice if this was all neat and tidy and a case of two problems solving themselves.  Keep me apprised of any new information that conflicts with your preliminary findings.  How long do you think it will take to close this?”  He asked.

Captain Taylor shook his head.  “That’s uncertain, Sir.  We should have ballistics back this week, and the medical report which should eliminate a lot of possibilities and confirm others.  We’ve got some background work to do on both Sergeants and are waiting on their previous duty stations to get back to us.  The one aspect we can’t find an explanation for is that outwardly these two had no indication of any prior homosexual activity.  That’s not necessarily crucial, but it would explain one aspect of this.  Today we’re going to go over their service record here at Ft. Benning which might shed some light on this as well.”

“Good.”  Colonel Baker said.  “Thank you for your report, Captain.  Get this tied up as fast as you can.”

Captain Taylor grinned.  “Always do, Colonel.  I like solving mysteries, not leaving them unfinished. I’m sure I don’t have to remind the Colonel -”

“I know, I know.  You don’t work for me.  Just keep me informed if there’s something I need to know before your final report. Dismissed.”

Taylor omitted his salute before a relaxed turn to open the office door.  He knew the Colonel wasn’t a stickler for protocol.  As he said often “I’ve got too much to do to endure attentions, salutes and bowing and scraping.  Your respect is demonstrated by how little of my time you waste.”  And Captain Taylor was not in the habit of wasting time.

 

 

 

  

 

[backpackguy]

Thank you Assmunch for returning to our boys' story! I understand the need for a "few days off." Looking forward to hearing more  about our Bravo's adventures.😎

[laguyinhou]

Welcome back. Another amazing chapter. 

[Assmunch]

13 hours ago, backpackguy said:

Thank you Assmunch for returning to our boys' story! I understand the need for a "few days off." Looking forward to hearing more  about our Bravo's adventures.😎

Absolutely!  Trust me, it was bugging the hell out of me.  

[Assmunch]

8 hours ago, laguyinhou said:

Welcome back. Another amazing chapter. 

Thanks Laguyinhou!  🙂

[Assmunch]

U.S. ARMY RANGER TRAINING BRIGADE

TUESDAY 0845 HRS

 

Marine Major William ‘Billy’ Collins glanced at the clock in his temporary office.  He had fifteen minutes before his meeting with Col. Ulrich.  He wasn’t looking forward to this.  Nerves weren’t the issue, it was all about personality conflict.  Colonel Ulrich was the type of old guard that believed his Command was his Kingdom and he was the King.  And King Ulrich did NOT like the Pentagon playing games with his Airborne Course and Ranger School.  His resentment for the presence of Major Collins came through loud and clear.  Full Bird Colonel Ulrich also detested what he referred to as ‘weakening his training course and creating a bunch of toy soldiers’.  Collins had to laugh at that, privately of course.  Col. Ulrich had been given command of the Airborne and Ranger Training Brigade three years ago.  It wasn’t ‘his’.  And what he referred to as weakening had more to do with the policy change after the Vietnam War ended to allow the Airborne and Ranger Schools to become an open opportunity for any soldier who could qualify.  In the shake-up and draw down of U.S. forces for peacetime you had more soldiers leaving the service than joining up.  The Pentagon needed incentive, and training was incentive.  A campaign of promoting the military as way to develop skills you couldn’t get in the civilian world was put forth by the PR and marketing firms that were hired to improve the public image of joining the military.  The unpopularity of the Vietnam War had really done a number on recruitment.  But that wasn’t the worst of it.  Without personnel, they couldn’t justify their budgets to Congress.  And the Ford and Carter Administration had gutted them.  Fortunately, Reagan and Bush understood the need to keep a well equipped military and keep up recruitment numbers.  But now with Clinton there was talk of base closures and bloated budgets again.  Hell, entire Commands were being considered for dissolution.  Brigades and Battalions gone, Fighter groups decommissioned, it seemed every week some new plan came down from Heaven to combine units, and cut money from some program or training.  And they were only a month into Clinton’s first term.  Nothing was set in stone yet, but the shake-up was coming.  President Clinton certainly wasn’t winning any votes from military personnel starting off like this.

But all that was above Collins’ pay grade and honestly he knew none of it mattered.  His focus at the Naval Academy was Military History.  This was the normal ebb and flow of a country’s martial presence.  Certain administrations found excuses to increase the military, found conflicts to get involved in (nearly all of which weren’t even a minor threat to the U.S.), spent money on new, fancy planes, boats, and weapons.  Then there was an almost equal amount of administrations who focused on pulling back, cutting budgets, limiting promotions and weeding out dead weight personnel, ending weapons programs, decommissioning outdated equipment, decreasing stockpiles.  When you looked at it overall, there was a natural balance.  And the most impressive part was the country never shirked when a REAL threat presented itself.  Collins always laughed secretly at the old guard officers and NCO’s who whined about how ‘they’re weakening the military’ or ‘back in my day soldiers were tough’.  One thing was ALWAYS true:  Leadership set the tone.  So if there was any weakness manifesting it fell squarely on the shoulders of this ‘old guard’ because they dictated policy and direction.  Essentially, just like Sergeants told their green recruits: find a way to succeed with what you’re given.

And that was exactly why Collins was here sticking his nose into Col. Ulrich’s Airborne and Ranger Training program. There was enough history with homosexual troops to recognize the military didn’t have a performance issue with those troops.  They had a behavioral issue with the heterosexual troops.  Study after study, as well as post-discharge examination of individual service records and unit records indicated homosexual troops performed right in line with all other personnel, to the exact percentage in everything from rank achievement, mission success, job performance, every marker they could look at.  In fact, strangely enough, those units who discharged suspected or admitted homosexuals saw absolutely no increase or decrease in achievements, success, or mission goals before or after the discharge.  Those units didn’t perform worse when a homosexual was present, and they didn’t perform better when a homosexual was removed.  Which said to anyone looking that the policy against homosexuality because it affected the mission had no basis in fact.  But, the Pentagon already knew that, because in WWII, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War unless a soldier was blatant and open about it, every single branch refused every request for discharge based on suspected homosexuality.  The sad part of that was those troops would have been safer with a dishonorable discharge than left to the unmerciful personal justice of their unit.  And that was a failure of leadership.  Still, there were far more examples of a unit that overlooked or ignored such activity within its ranks than there were examples of street justice.  Collins had spent months piecing together a picture from research.  This wasn’t a new issue.

That was the entire reason for this test program.  The dynamic needed a focused and eyes-on determination of what happened within a unit from the very start, through low and high pressure situations, training, missions and even off duty down time.  From that, he was tasked with outlining a policy that the military could live with.  He’d presented the general idea of this test program four years ago to his Commander and he’d gotten the green light to develop it into a working model.  As with everything, the military moved slow.  At that time it wasn’t a priority and he wasn’t to spend too much time on it.  But slowly, along with a couple other officers and even one civilian at the Pentagon they’d fleshed out a very controlled program.  The beauty of it was that he’d created it as a double blind study.  The subjects, Private Brickmann and his Bravos, Lamont and his Charlies, nor the other two Platoons, had no idea why.  Nor did their Sergeants, Lieutenants, or anyone below the highest levels.

It actually surprised Collins to find out Brickmann and Lamont had been chosen for leadership of their Platoons.  Collins’ team had selected Private Brickmann specifically because his background check indicated he had a boyfriend in High School, one Kevin Copeland.  That wasn’t certain though, as he was also reported to have a girlfriend, who was now at USC.  From the time of his enlistment Brickmann hadn’t had a single romantic interaction that could be identified, with men or women, and there had been no contact with either the suspected boyfriend or the girlfriend until his father’s funeral.

Private Lamont was a different matter.  There were quite a few rumors from his old unit and Collins’ team had put surveillance on him off duty when he was being considered for this program and it turned out Lamont was quite active with men sexually.  Exclusively men.  Numerous men.  But in spite of the rumors in his unit, his fellow troops, his Sergeant and his Lieutenant said he was an exceptional soldier.  When specifically asked about the rumors, both the Sergeant and Lieutenant shrugged and said ‘Rumors.  You know how units are.  He doesn’t seem the type to me, and no one’s brought any accusations.’  Their wording was almost identical, as if rehearsed.

That was another aspect to this he’d have to put in his report.  Whether Lamont’s Sergeant and Lieutenant knew anything or not they’d chosen to protect either Lamont or the unit from scrutiny.  One or the other was true, perhaps both, but that dynamic couldn’t be discounted.  Any external investigation into a single troop or the unit as a whole was considered disruptive.  Any kind of investigation.  No one liked that sort of thing.  So, either the Sergeant and Lieutenant liked Lamont and were protecting him, or they didn’t want these outsiders making a mess in their unit.  But either way, the underlying message was that they didn’t feel Lamont’s suspected homosexuality was a big enough deal to warrant disruption of their day-to-day.  And that in itself spoke volumes:  Lamont wasn’t a problem, not for them, and not for their troops.  That was exactly the sort of thing this test program was trying to determine.

The other two Platoons chosen for this program, the Alphas and the Deltas were also operating smoothly and had performed well in phase 1.  Because they had ranked 3rd and 4th though they were steered towards other training for phase 2.  Collins had already figured out most of the reason why Brickmann and Lamont were so successful with their Platoons as both seemed to be natural leaders who set an example for their troops, identified weaknesses and developed them into strengths.  For instance, Private Sendahl and Private Evans, the troublemaker twins, Wanker and Bootlicker.  Privately, Collins was curious how they got those nicknames, but in any other unit those two would probably have been busted down or even booted for their activities.  In their previous units both had numerous black marks and reports for conduct, discipline and being where they were not authorized but had never been caught doing anything that violated the UCMJ, even if Collins suspected both actually HAD.  But, doing something and getting caught doing something were two different things.  Somehow though in the Bravos, Harris was able to keep them from getting out of hand and instead steered the two in a way that utilized their crafty intelligence for resourcefulness instead of trouble.  Before phase 1, Collins would have put money on those two being the ones to rat out the homosexual troops.  Both Privates seemed hell bent on discovering secrets and using them to their advantage.  But Brickmann identified that they were kindred spirits so he paired them up, while overlooking everything that wasn’t a major offense, even purposing their talents to often help the Platoon.  Basically, instead of cracking down on them, he made them feel like their skills were a valuable contribution.  Because of that, no one saw them as the troublemakers.  In other units, they’d be considered a weak link, a problem to be disciplined and never treated as part of the team.  Brickmann just somehow knew they needed focus and purpose, so he gave it to them.  The simplicity of the solution impressed Collins.  When Brickmann encountered a problem, he turned it into an opportunity.  With a leader like that any unit would push themselves to go the extra mile.

Collins glanced at the clock again.  It was time to deal with Ulrich and as distasteful as he found the man personally he couldn’t avoid coordinating with him for the program’s transition to Ranger School.

 

***********************

BOOTLICKER

After the success of selling the answer key to his 6th grade History test, Peter was looking for his next opportunity to make money.  The key to not getting caught was in not getting greedy.  He knew to stay away from the good kids, the rule followers, the ones who would tattle to the teacher.  Besides, they didn’t need to cheat to pass the test and he wasn’t going to make any serious money off them anyway, plus money was just a way to keep score.  No, his target market was the lazy kids, the stupid ones.  Peter hadn’t stolen the answer key for himself, he could pass that test with his eyes closed.  He could read the chapters and the facts just stayed in his head.  The tests and homework were almost disgustingly easy for him.  And the stupid and lazy kids were easy marks and so eager to give him every dollar they had.  He’d lucked across the answer key one day when he went up to Mr. Houston’s desk to ask him if he needed any help with anything and saw the key for the next test peeking out from under some other papers.

Peter loved that he had Mr. Houston fooled.  Mr. Houston actually liked him because he made sure to act interested and he always participated in class, plus he made good grades.  Teachers always liked the students who made good grades.  It made them feel like they were good teachers.  Once he realized that aspect of teachers when he was 8, he understood how he could make school easy.  Teachers were really dumb and so easy to manipulate but they weren’t any different than other adults.  The kids who struggled, or caused trouble in class were treated like prisoners, viewed with distrust and basically watched for any infraction.  Peter though was given every benefit of the doubt, a ton of freedom, and was easily forgiven for tardiness and a hundred other little things that students often got in trouble for.  It was never a question that he finished his work early and when he did he always volunteered to do something in the classroom that the teacher needed.  Yeah, they fucking loved that.  What made it all even better was they never suspected him of any wrong doing.  Nothing made him feel warmer inside than getting away with a scheme purely by virtue of the belief that the smart, helpful, eager and charming kid would NEVER do something bad.

So lifting the answer key while Mr. Houston was away from his desk was easy.  A brief moment in which Mr. Houston’s back was turned was all he needed, passing by the desk to go to the pencil sharpener and a casual grab and it was in his hands.  After he copied it all down in his notebook at his desk (which only made him look like he was crunching away at homework)  another moment of inattention was all he needed to slip it back exactly where it was before.  He remembered exactly which pile, how much was sticking out, which other papers it was found between.

Then by the end of the next day he had $64 of desperately surrendered lunch money.  Honestly, he owed his success in part to teacher laziness.  Multiple choice tests meant the teachers didn’t have to spend so much time grading, and Peter didn’t have to copy out test questions.  Plus, all the answers fit on a small easily hidden scrap of paper.

He also figured out that his copies couldn’t have ALL the correct answers.  He diligently substituted deliberately wrong answers in his copies so that the grades would vary between a 85 and a 91.  Mid B’s and low A’s were far better than most of his clientele usually got, and not so high that a stupid, lazy kid couldn’t achieve with a little luck, especially on a multiple choice test.  Plus, he figured he was doing the teacher a huge favor.  Higher test scores made it look like they were actually good teachers.  Overall, Peter felt he was helping everyone and they all got something out of the deal.  While he couldn’t care less if others benefited, it did make him feel like they should be grateful he put in all that effort.

“What’s next?”  He thought.  He was toying with some kind of pay to play game at lunch time.  He’d recently read a magazine article about how carnival games were rigged in favor of the carnival and he felt that held some potential.  He was afraid that the lunch monitors wouldn’t allow it once they knew the kids were giving him money.  Plus, he hadn’t quite decided on what game.  That might be more suited to an after school thing, maybe on the bus or in the neighborhood.  That was something still in development.  Also on the list was learning how to stack cards and do tricks, which had the potential to be a good regular source of income.  He’d have to be good though, which meant a lot of practice.  He’d checked out a couple books that described how it was done, so he had the knowledge, he just needed the skill.  In the movie The Sting, Robert Redford and Paul Newman said the best con was one in which the mark thought they knew how the game worked, but the trick was that it was all a distraction from the REAL con.  The Sting had to be his favorite movie of all time.  The elegance and complexity of Redford and Newman’s plot sent shivers up his spine and he often imagined himself in a career as a con man.  If you were good, you could fake your way into any situation, be whoever you wanted, do whatever you wanted, and people would just hand over their money with a smile.  They’d even thank you for doing them the favor of taking their money.  By the time they realized it was all a trick, you were gone.  At 11, Peter had it all figured out.

 

******************

“Mr. and Mrs. Evans, thanks for coming in.”  Principal Nichols said.  Peter Evans’ parents sat across from him in his office, looks of resignation on their faces.

“What has he done?”  Mr. Evans asked.  Principal Nichols was surprised that his tone was not combative and instead sounded amused.

He immediately revised his approach.  He was prepared for a battle with parents who would defend their child with indignation and disbelief.  Instead, these two seemed open and unsurprised.  So he let his guard down and gave it to them straight.

“It seems Peter has been selling mice to the other kids.  They’ve been keeping them in their lockers like some kind of pet.  Did you know about this?”

Mrs. Evans looked at Mr. Evans.  They seems like a nice couple.  Mr. Evans was the serious type, not a single smile.  Mrs. Evans appeared intelligent and practical, and she paid attention to the social niceties, like smiling, eye contact.  But that look, the very first reflexive response to what Nichols told them… Mrs. Evans was NOT pleased, and her look said ‘this is YOUR fault’ to her husband.

“No, we didn’t know.”  Mr. Evans replied.

Wow.  This was not the normal parental response.  They didn’t ask ‘how do you know it was Peter?  It could be anyone.’  They didn’t deny it.  They didn’t accuse the administration of failing to supervise the kids, lack of control, not doing their job.

Mrs. Evans gave Nichols a satisfied smile.  “We allowed Peter to get a pet snake, a Burmese Python.  The snake is still small, and he feeds it mice that he buys at the pet store.  It’s supposed to teach him responsibility.”  She turned to her husband again.  “Did you know he was breeding the mice?”

“How would I know that?  There’s mice in the aquarium all the time.  I can’t tell if there’s more mice or less mice.  They all look the same.”  Mr. Evans replied.  “How much has he been selling them for?”  He asked Principal Nichols.

Nichols grimaced.  “$3 each.”

Mr. Evans stared off into space, lost in thought for a moment.  Then he looked at Principal Nichols again.  “Yes, he’s breeding them.  They are $2.75 at the pet store.  There’s no way he’d settle for making just a quarter from each mouse.  Can we get him in here?”

“Absolutely.”  Principal Nichols picked up his phone and waited for his secretary to answer.  “Mrs. Gatling, please have Peter Evans come to my office.  Thank you.”

Mr. Evans crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat.  “So…it’s not illegal or against the rules for Peter to sell animals.  What is he in trouble for?”  He said in a conversational tone.  “And please understand we will take care of this…I’m just curious what school policy he’s violated.”

“Well…”. Principal Nichols started. “Technically no rule has been broken by Peter, only the kids who bought the mice and kept them in their locker.  But, it’s caused a problem.  Lockers aren’t a secure way to keep mice, most escaped.  Uh…. We have a mice infestation now.  They are really difficult to get rid of.  You need to keep Peter from bringing his mice to school.”

Mrs. Evans chuckled and shook her head.  “We’ll tell him, but he’ll probably stop on his own.  We thought it would be worse.”

“Mrs. Evans, it needs to stop now.  Today.”  Principal Nichols said.

“Yes.”  She nodded.  “He will.  I don’t think you need to worry.  You see, once Peter finds out we all know about his little enterprise, it won’t be fun and exciting for him anymore.  He’ll move on to something else.”

“Excuse me?”  Nichols said.

“Peter likes his little games.”  The husband said.  “Not getting caught is one of the goals.  I THINK another goal is to see how far he can get BEFORE he gets caught.  If a game goes on too long, he will drop bread crumbs to see if you notice.  He’ll leave clues, evidence…almost like he wants to get caught or he’s become bored with the game so he wants you to end it.  And then, after getting caught he plays his other game, where he cries, says how sorry he is, he didn’t mean to, or tries out a new excuse to see if it’ll fly.  But once he’s caught, the game is over for him.  He starts on something else.  For the longest time, we didn’t know how to handle him.  But a counselor a couple years ago told us Peter is a master manipulator.  Every single thing he does, every reaction he elicits, goes into his brain and he figures something else out about how to get people to do what he wants.”

Nichols stared at the Evans’.  He really didn’t know what to say.  “Mr. Evans, Peter is only 12 years old.  I know he’s intelligent, but that’s a lot for a 12 year old.”

Mr. Evans laughed.  The very first time he broke his seriousness.  “12?  Wow, he’s got you right where he wants you.  Ah, Mr. Nichols, your life is going to be very difficult for the next year and a half, ESPECIALLY if you think of him like your average 12 year old.  Yes, Peter is 12.  But he’s not like any 12 year old you’ve ever met.  And unfortunately, when Peter gets here to the office, he’s going to play his game with you, and you’re going to buy it.  He’s really good.  And we, Jessica and I, we’re going to let him do it.  And we’ll play our part in his little game, because he can’t suspect we have him figured out.  We are going to pretend to be terribly disappointed in him.  Right now he thinks we don’t know about his games.  The minute he discovers we know… he’ll change and we will spend a year or more figuring out what he’s trying to do, what his new game is with us.  Here’s how it works:  Peter is operating on several levels at once.  First, he’s manipulating the kids.  No one just buys a mouse to have a mouse.  I’m pretty sure Peter made having a mouse somehow cool, or fun, or attractive.  It doesn’t matter, you just need to realize Peter can talk kids into doing almost anything.  So his first level is seeing how much he can get them to do, how far he can take it, how many he can get to follow him.”

Then Mr. Evans leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees.  “His second level is seeing how much he can control of the situation.  When are the grownups going to find out?  Will they notice on their own or will one of the kids give it away.  Which kid will do it?  Which adult will notice?  How long will it take?  If you watch him closely after he’s caught at his game, he always seems very satisfied.  And beyond the required tears, begging, and promises he immediately becomes unconcerned with his punishment.  You’re probably saying to yourself ‘there’s no way a 12 year old does that.’  Here’s what’s going to happen:  We’re going to take his python back to the pet store, and his mice.  After his initial protests, as soon as tomorrow…Peter will not shed a single tear about the snake or the mice.  He won’t regret what he’s done, he won’t even miss the snake.  He’ll never mention the snake again unless mentioning it is useful in some manipulative way.  It won’t bother him at all, because he doesn’t really care about the snake.  He cared about what the snake MEANT, he cared about how he could use it for his games.”

Principal Nichols scowled.  “That seems a harsh way to describe your own child.”

“Is it?”  Mr. Evans asked. “For years we thought of it like that.  We thought there was something wrong with him.  I’d offer THAT was a harsh way to think of our own child.  But Peter isn’t violent, he doesn’t want to hurt people, he also doesn’t get angry.  If someone tells on him or rats him out, he doesn’t blame them, doesn’t get mad, he doesn’t seek vengeance, really doesn’t care at all.  He’s somewhat of a sociopath, we think.  He has a basically, foundationally, good nature.  His games aren’t intended to be vicious, or hurtful.  In fact, I don’t think he grasps why people would be hurt by anything they willingly participated in.  And even if they weren’t willing participants, they should understand it wasn’t personal.  We’re still trying to figure out some way to reach him emotionally, thus the purpose of the pet snake.  We figured out happy, cute animals that loved attention like dogs and cats were only annoying to him.  We think they were too easy to manipulate.  He had a puppy and a cat trained in less than a month.  After that, it was unfair to the animal, almost cruel.  Imagine a puppy commanded to sit and stay, then the person they loved the most going across the room to sit, and ignore them for over an hour.  A grown dog might understand that level of patience.  But for a puppy it seemed like unnecessary torture to us.  Like I said, he wasn’t mean, he didn’t hit or punish or abuse the puppy or the cat.  But once he figured them out, and how to make them do what he wanted, they didn’t mean anything to him.  So, we thought an animal that didn’t need physical touch, or an emotional connection would be more his speed.  And I don’t know how well anyone can train a snake, so it might prove to be just the kind of challenge that would keep his interest.”

Principal Nichols was at a loss for words.  To hear the parents tell it, Peter Evans was some sort of mastermind.  Nichols found that hard to believe.  Just about every parent over-estimated their child’s intelligence.  “Mr. Evans, what do you do for work?”

“I work for OSHA.  Jessica works on the base.”

The office door opened.  “Peter, come in and sit down.”

For most kids, getting called to the Principal’s office was a big deal.  Seeing your parents there would be a bigger cause for concern.  But Nichols noticed the look on Peter Evans’ face didn’t change.  He simply gave his parents a glance before moving to the chair against the wall.  After he sat down, he gave Nichols a bright smile.

“Hi Mr. Nichols.”  The 12 year old said in a bright, eager voice.  The kid was charming, that was certain.  His voice hadn’t deepened yet with puberty.  “Hi Mom, hi Dad.”  The way he was acting he didn’t seem to suspect his was in any trouble at all.

Mr. Evans was looking at Nichols with eyebrows slightly raised, and a barely perceptible grin on his lips.

Nichols cleared his throat.  “Peter, have you been selling mice to the kids?”

Peter didn’t drop his smile.  “Yes, sir.  They wanted to keep them as pets like I do.”

It was more difficult than Nichols thought it would be to be mad at Peter for causing an infestation in his school.  Peter seemed to be just an innocent kid who made a poor decision with no intention of causing trouble.  That smile, the eagerness, the respect he was showing… his gut feeling was that Peter was a good kid.

“Peter, you can’t do that.”  Nichols said.

Peter’s smile fell.  “But why not?  They don’t make any noise, and are real easy to take care of.  They don’t have any diseases.”

Nichols sighed.  “Peter, your classmates are keeping them in their lockers, and they are getting out.  We have mice running all over the school now.”

A look of concern came over Peter’s face.  “Oh.  I told them they needed to keep them in a Tupperware box with holes in the lid.”

Did he?  Nichols thought.  The locker search they’d done two days ago didn’t produce a single tupperware container, containing a mouse or otherwise.   

“Am I in trouble?”  Peter asked, his voice weak and trembling, a worried look on his face.  The very picture of a worried little boy.  If Nichols believed the parents, this acting job was superb.  Timing, the emotion, the body language, the facial expression, the words…

Nichols sighed.  If this kid was everything his father said, he was EXCEPTIONALLY good at it.  And there was no way Nichols could be sure the kid had any other motive than selling pets to his classmates.  As principal, his disciplinary latitude was wide.  This wasn’t a court of law, a crime wasn’t necessary to trigger discipline, just some infraction.  But Nichols wasn’t the type of principal that saw every child as a manufactured product produced by the factory of public education and he didn’t buy into student uniformity like so many other educators.  Peter was smart, his standardized tests were all in the top percentile.  He wasn’t a behavioral problem, his teachers all reported he was engaging and helpful, hard working and involved.

“Not exactly, Peter.  Just… well stop bringing animals to school, and stop selling them to your classmates.”  Nichols replied.

Peter looked down.  “Okay.”

“You don’t have any mice at school today, do you?”  Nichols asked.

“No sir.”  Peter answered.

“Good.  I think I can leave it at that.  Mr. and Mrs. Evans, I’ll leave you to have a talk with Peter.  I trust you’ll handle this as you feel appropriate.”

 

*************************

“Dad, please don’t leave me in jail.”  He pleaded with his father.

“Peter, I know you understand so just stop.  You’re 18.  You’re being held until your bond hearing.  Hopefully it’ll only be a few days.”  His dad said.  “I can’t do anything until they set bond.  This is a consequence.  We’ll get a lawyer, but you aren’t a minor anymore so you’re in the adult system, which means you don’t get released to your parents.  This is far more serious than the juvenile system you’re used to.  Just be careful.  The men you’re in jail with aren’t very forgiving.  And you’re not going to get much help from the jail staff.”

Peter didn’t respond right away.  He knew he made a mistake trying to sell the stuff at the pawn shop.  But he had no idea someone would engrave their name on lawn equipment, and pawn shops weren’t supposed to care that much about where the stuff they bought came from.  The books he’d read all said pawn shops were excellent places to fence stolen goods.  It was stupid of him to take advantage of the open garage door he saw, but only in hindsight.  Had he thought it through he would have known he wouldn’t have any place to hold the lawnmower and weed eater until he could sell it, and he should have considered that none of the people he knew would have any use for either of those things so he wouldn’t be able to unload it that way.  The pawn shop was a last resort.  He was usually more clever than that but he could still turn this to his advantage.  Even the learning experience had value and knowing how the adult criminal justice system worked would serve him well.  His attempt to sell the cops that the pawn shop called on the story that he’d found the items on the curb on trash day and he’d fixed them up to sell didn’t convince them.

Trouble was, the local cops all knew him by now so he didn’t get a break.  He’d overplayed that hand, hadn’t covered all the angles and got stupid.  The items were reported stolen and the owner’s name engraved on them easily revealed his lie.  Well, lesson learned.  This wasn’t going to be too terrible.  He could take care of himself and he wasn’t intimidated by the common criminals in jail, most were just regular dumb people.  Even cops were regular dumb people and that included the ones that ran the jail.  It wouldn’t be difficult to get them to like him and once he did that he’d be just fine, maybe even comfortable.

“Yeah, I understand Dad.  But look, they don’t feed us much here and it’s not good food.  I only ate a dry piece of chicken last night, and there’s no breakfast.  They say we only get a sandwich for lunch.  They have a commissary I can buy food at, but I need money in the jail account.”

His dad sighed over the phone.  “How much do you need?”

“Just fifty dollars if it’s only a few days.  If I’m in here longer I’ll need more.”  He knew his dad could afford it and he wouldn’t say no.

“Okay.  I’ll get the money in your jail account.  Peter, stay out of trouble in there.  You stand a better chance of being released on bond if you keep your nose clean.  And the disposition of your case will go better if you have good behavior.”

Peter grinned, which his father couldn’t see.  “I will Dad.  Thanks.”

“I’ll come down there with the lawyer, but it will probably be Monday.”

“Okay.  Bye Dad.”

“Bye son, see you in a couple days.”

Peter hung up the phone.

“Did you get your rent?”  His cell mate asked.

“Yeah, Dad’s going to put the money in my account in a little while.  I’ll pay you when it shows up.”  Peter replied.

“Good boy.  If you keep doing what I tell you to do, nothing bad will happen to you in here.”

Peter wasn’t stupid.  He knew a con job when he saw one.  Rent.  Sure.  But along with that came a certain amount of protection.  His cell mate would make sure he got his money, which meant nothing could happen to Peter.  He’d transfer $15 every day, buying a day of security at a time.  His cell mate wanted a week up front, but Peter’s willingness to push the issue saying his Dad wouldn’t give him that much money at once forced his cell mate to agree to once a day.  Plus, from his cell mate he’d learned how the commissary system worked, how the jail prisoner account system worked, and a glimpse into the fascinating black market economy of the jail.  Everything was for sale, everything was for trade.  From labor, to food, to items.  He’d only been in jail less than 24 hours and he even discovered the correctional officers were part of the food chain.  You could get almost anything smuggled in if you had someone on the outside willing to pay the C.O. a little money.

Peter’s cell mate was a mid level fish.  Peter was a small fish, and his cell mate knew right away he’d never been in jail before.  Peter was only too happy to play the scared, dumb kid which meant his cell mate didn’t have to work too hard to come across as the older, knowledgeable protector.  Peter had met plenty of that type in juvie, they were stupidly easy to manage and were useful.  The scared dumb kid act was second nature to Peter now and it worked far better than being a tough guy which only brought out challenges and raised hackles.  The tough guy type, even the fake tough guys who were all bark and no bite, loved having a scared, cooperative pawn they could take advantage of.  It gave them a sense of power, of superiority, made them feel like they were somebody big.  That type was easy to play.  The best part of playing the act for Peter was that nothing big was expected of him.  His complete lack of confidence, the weakness, his pretense that he didn’t know how to fight… all of that meant he wasn’t trusted to do anything except feed egos and suck up.  In juvenile detention he’d honed his act to perfection.  Bullies were perfect animals, easy to reward and easy to fool.  All they really wanted was subservience.  Higher brain function wasn’t a character trait they possessed.

All in all, Peter could have ended up with a much worse cell mate.  At least this idiot was positioned well enough that being paired with him meant an easy stretch until his hearing.  Gary wasn’t completely awful, and wasn’t as stupid as most.  Peter actually admired the confidence this guy possessed.  He didn’t know what Gary was in for, but he knew it had to be something bigger than pawning stolen goods.  He’d been here long enough to make his way up the hierarchy to be comfortable and unworried about jailhouse politics.  And Peter figured he could learn something from him that would educate him about judges, lawyers and surviving.

“Back to our cage.  You have work to do.”  Gary said, walking away.

Peter shrugged, then followed.  He already knew more would be expected of him than just paying Gary money.

They went back in their cell, and Gary laid down on his bottom bunk.  “Go sit on the toilet.”  Peter did as instructed, sitting down on the metal.  Only a few seconds passed before another prisoner walked in.

The man was about six feet tall, tattoos covered both arms.  White, a little muscular, maybe mid twenties, buzz cut brown hair, with a bored look on his face, the man said in a deep voice “He ready?”

Gary responded in an equally bored voice “Yep.  Get to it.”

Peter was curious.  Was he supposed to go with this guy somewhere?  He glanced over at Gary but his eyes were closed.  He didn’t look worried.

“Watch your teeth.”  The man said, pulling down the front of his orange jailhouse bottoms when he stood in front of Peter.

Peter’s eyebrows went up.  After a look at the guy’s soft dick, he looked up at his face.  “You want me to suck your dick?”  He asked calmly.

The man blinked.  “I’m not here to talk.  Get on it.”

Peter took a breath.  Well, this would be a first.  Fine.  Best to get it over with.  He grabbed the dick in front of him and leaned forward, opening his mouth.  No teeth.  He knew that already, he didn’t like it when the girls who’d blown him scraped his dick with teeth either.  He could probably do a decent job of it.  As he started sucking on the gradually expanding cock, he was considering how this played into his deal with Gary.  Blowjob guy had to be a bigger fish than him.

It wasn’t all that big of a deal.  Peter was more concerned with figuring out what kind of transaction was taking place, his value within it, what exactly blowjob guy and Gary were getting out of it.  This wasn’t really about a blowjob, the guy with the now hard dick probably had other ways to get a blowjob in jail.  Peter wrapped his lips around his teeth as he bobbed up and down on the average sized dick like girls did.  The guy had a little funk going on, the smell hitting his nose wafting up from the guy’s hairy balls.  A little gross, but not intolerable.  He made sure to use his tongue a little on the underside of the shaft and used his hand to stroke it while he sucked.

“Yeah, that’s it, kid.  Suck my big cock.”

Peter almost laughed.  Big cock?  These tough guys were all the same.  All ego.  Peter knew what he had to do.

First, he gagged, then pulled off and let out a gasp.  “It’s too big for my mouth.  I don’t think I can…” he said in a pitiful whine.  That was straight from Traci Lords in Educating Mandy, a porn video he stole from his boss’ house when he worked at Orange Julius in the mall at 16.  “I’ve never done this before…” he said, forcing a tear from the corner of his eye.  That wasn’t too difficult, the gagging on the dick helped the tears come.

Tough guy grabbed his head and pulled him back down.  “Yeah, I know, you’re gonna suck it anyway, bitch.”

Ah, part of this was about this guy feeling like a boss, Peter thought, getting back to work.  He couldn’t be too good then.  The guy wanted to exert dominance, establish his power.  Fair enough.  Peter resisted a little, using a little push of his other hand to try to push the guy away.  Not too hard, just enough to send the signal he didn’t want to do it.  The guy increased the pressure on the back of Peter’s head, forcing him further down on his dick.  Peter grunted a protest, making sure to let the guy bury his dick to his funky pubes and he forced a choke even though the dick wasn’t near big enough to get him to do it naturally.  That was somewhat of a shock to him.  Having never sucked an actual dick, Peter hadn’t given it a lot of thought but he’d seen enough porn to know taking a dick all the way down wasn’t easy.  Or maybe the chicks were just really good actresses.  A lot of the blowjob portion of porn was focused on the guys trying to get the chicks to take more while the chicks seemed to have a certain amount of difficulty.  Peter wasn’t finding it difficult at all.  Like most everything he encountered this wasn’t difficult and he didn’t feel excited about it or disgusted.

“Hurry it up, Levitt.”  Gary said from his bunk.

Levitt grunted in acknowledgment and grabbed Peter’s head with both hands and started thrusting with his hips.

Peter dutifully let Levitt guide his head while his cock thrust in and out of his mouth, and less than a minute later Levitt buried his dick and held Peter’s head down as he grunted in orgasm.

This time, Peter did choke for real as Levitt’s cum shot into the back of his throat and filled his mouth, but Levitt wasn’t letting up.  “Swallow it bitch.  Swallow all of it.”  He gasped as his hips spasmed.  Peter did what he could, but swallowing wasn’t easy with a dick in your mouth.  Suddenly Levitt pushed his head back and pulled away, yanking up his pants.

“You’re good for the week, Parker.”  Levitt said as he walked out of the cell.

Peter looked over at Gary who’d gone back to closing his eyes.

“Get out, kid.  Come get me when you get the money in your account.”

Peter wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and walked out of the cell.  He walked down the stairs to go sit against the wall in the pit.

So, Gary owed Levitt something.  Rent, dues, protection money, something.  Gary paid with Peter’s sexual services.  But Gary got a pretty good deal, a whole week?  Hmmmm.  Levitt was the one who wanted to get at Peter, it was the only way the deal would be so favorable for Gary.  Smaller fish didn’t get good deals from bigger fish unless they had something the big fish wanted.

Looking around, Peter could see he was getting a few looks.  So Levitt was a bigger fish.  Bigger fish were more useful than medium fish like Gary.  If Peter was in here longer, Levitt would be a better connection.  In the meantime, Peter was figuring out a way to make this work to his advantage.

His hearing had been postponed, so he had to get his Dad to put more money in his account on Monday.  He and the lawyer asked Peter how he was doing and Peter didn’t think playing the poor terrified kid in jail would get him anywhere so he said he was fine.  There wasn’t anything either of them could do to make the process go faster anyway.  Besides, things were going well and he’d taken advantage of supply and demand.  Of course, he was giving Gary a cut.  He needed Gary for enforcement and collection because Peter had no power.  They’d done well, although Peter was getting a little bored with sucking jailhouse dick, and his fresh meat status was now worn out not to mention most of the guys weren’t looking to get blown every day.  His new hearing date was set for Friday.

Currently he was considering what he could sell his ass for.  He’d been holding back on that figuring he would be out on bond today.  There was still a certain amount of interest just because he was 18 so he felt like that might carry him through Friday.  He’d found his niche inside, he had something to offer, there were enough guys who were interested, Gary kept it all above board, so he probably wouldn’t have to resort to getting fucked.  Gary agreed and said once you go bitch it would be difficult to get anywhere higher in the crew.  Gary told him a lot about how it all worked once Peter approached him with his plan for Gary to punk him out for blowjobs.  Peter earned a lot of respect from Gary when he cut Gary in instead of going off on his own behind Gary’s back.

“You did the right thing, kid.  You’d get chewed up on your own.” He said.  Peter gave him a blowjob for setting it up.

Peter couldn’t figure out why chicks played so hard to get.  Giving blowjobs was easy, and it was just dick.  It wasn’t a big deal, just a transaction.

This morning, before he found out about his postponement, Gary had asked him “I don’t get it, kid.  Do you like sucking dick?”

“It’s not bad.”  Peter answered.  “It’s not that hard to do, the guys cum pretty fast.  I make some easy cheddar, they stay off my back and don’t give me a hard time.  It’s a good system.”

“But do you like it?”  Gary pressed.

“I don’t like it.  I don’t NOT like it.  It’s … like writing a letter or eating food. Just something to do.”  Peter explained in a rare moment of personal revelation.

“You’re the weirdest guy I’ve ever met, Kid.  You don’t get worked up about anything.  Even sucking off Levitt that first time you just did it, you didn’t argue or put up a fight, you weren’t angry or cry after.  You also don’t laugh about anything, and don’t think I haven’t noticed how when you smile it drops just as soon as whoever you’re smiling for looks away.  I’ll be honest, sometimes it creeps me out.”

Peter shrugged.  “Not much to laugh about in here, and I don’t feel like smiling most of the time.  I do it when I have to.”

Gary tilted his head and gave him a look.  “Like sucking dick.”

Peter nodded.  “Yeah.  Like that.”

Gary crossed his arms.  “Well, good luck at your hearing, but I think you’ll be fine.  You do a good job with your innocent, harmless act.  Judges, prosecutors and lawyers love seeing that.  They don’t always believe it, but you really have a talent at it.  But you don’t fool me.  You don’t feel anything do you?”

That’s interesting, Peter thought.  He took a moment to think.  Did he actually feel nothing?  No, he did.  He was curious.  Figuring people out thrilled him, working out a scheme challenged him.  But Gary was sort of right.  Things like happy, sad, love, hate, anger… those weren’t real for him.  They were important and real for other people, which was fine.  Those were useful emotions he could take advantage of, he even knew how to fake them even if he didn’t feel them like other people did.  In fact, people responded to those emotions in a boring predictable way.  How should he react to Gary’s question?  It wasn’t really worth examining the truth of it, only the effect of the knowledge of the truth on Gary.  Would it gain him anything?

Part of the truth then.  “I’m not sure.  I feel some things.  Boredom.  Maybe pity sometimes.  I feel loyalty, like with you.”

Gary laughed.  “You sure about that?  I get the feeling if you had a better option you wouldn’t look back.  But you’re stuck with me.”

Peter smirked.  “Isn’t that what loyalty is?  A partnership of convenience? No one’s loyal to someone who does nothing for them, right?”

“Fuck, how do you talk like you’re some college kid?  Loyalty is devotion even when shit gets tough.  Loyalty is… fuck.  I can’t explain it.  Is there anyone you’d take a bullet for just to save them from dying, not for anything else?”

Peter thought.  Would he take a bullet for his parents?  No, probably not.  “I don’t think so.  But I’d make sure the shooter didn’t survive if I could.  They took something from me.”

Gary looked at him in disbelief.  “It’s like you ALMOST feel the right things, but not in the right way, and not for the reasons other people feel them.”

This was the most self examination Peter had ever done.  He already knew he didn’t feel the things other people felt, but he always thought he COULD, if the right situation came about.  He just hadn’t found the right situation.  He wasn’t even disappointed or in despair about it, that’s just the way they felt, and the way he felt.  Why was it important anyway?

So he asked.  “Why does that matter?”

That made Gary think.  After a few seconds, he replied.  “It doesn’t, I guess.  I mean, I don’t feel crazy like my ex was, but it doesn’t mean I don’t understand she’s crazy or how to deal with her.  Fucking crazy bitch.  So I guess it doesn’t make a difference if you feel what other people do.  Just… well, you probably already know you can’t let people know that.  Like I said, it’s creepy.”

The week went by quick and he didn’t have any problems inside.  It was mostly boring and the worst part was none of what he gained inside would walk out the door with him, so he just gave it all to Gary.  Cigarettes, snacks, magazines, all of the non-cash currency he’d earned.

His bond was set at $10,000, so his Dad only had to put up $1000.  After they released him from holding, his Dad and lawyer took him to the District Attorney’s office.

The prosecutor managed to get them in front of a judge on Wednesday the following week after his lawyer and his Dad convinced Peter to accept a plea deal.  He really didn’t care either way, honestly.  For what he stole he’d only spend 30 days if he got sentenced to jail which didn’t worry him.  But it was more likely he’d get probation because it was his first adult offense and it was non-violent.  A trial would be a waste of time and money, plus he had to move on and this was hanging over his head.  The lawyer got the prosecutor to drop the burglary charge, the breaking and entering charge, the conversion charge and he pled to theft in return for a year of probation.  Getting a judge to sign off was the last step.  Peter felt good about what he’d learned from the experience.  He thought stealing the lawnmower and weed eater was one crime.  But the act of entering someone else’s habitation was a crime, when you did it to steal property it was a second crime, when you actually removed property it was a third crime, and when you tried to sell it you committed a fourth crime.  Each crime carried a possible sentence and fine, but he learned cops and prosecutors mostly used the charges to put pressure on you to accept a plea or to confess.  He’d also learned how to survive in jail.  Although he wasn’t technically afraid of going to jail, it was an unknown.  Now he realized it was no big deal and easy to survive.  But jail was boring and your possibilities and opportunities were severely limited.  That did not appeal to him.  So he pled out and the prosecutor would recommend a year probation.

Apparently he was just one of many defendants going through the process today.  The courtroom was pretty full and they sat in the gallery on the fourth bench back.

“When it’s our turn the clerk will call out your name.” His lawyer explained.  “I’ll answer and we have to go up to the Defendant’s table.  The judge will ask some questions, some for me, and some for you.  Be respectful.  Address him as ‘your honor’ and not ‘sir’ although he’ll be fine either way.  Calling him ‘your honor’ tells him you know how to follow the rules, and you’re smart enough to be appropriate.”

Peter watched as different cases were called, and different defendants were handled.  All of them were getting deals in exchange for pleas.  Some defendants were sullen and ignorant.  The judge usually toughened their recommended sentences.  Then there were the quiet, contrite ones, they got what the prosecutor recommended.  There were a few who had slick lawyers who managed to get a lighter sentence or probation, and one even got deferred judgement, which Peter discovered meant if they kept their nose clean for a certain period of time they wouldn’t have a record at all.

He just wanted this over with so he could get back to his life.  The last five days his dad and mom hadn’t let him out of their sight.  Of course he’d gotten fired from his job once they found out he’d been arrested.  He wasn’t upset about it, it just limited his access to certain things.  So when the clerk called his name, he stood immediately as his lawyer called ‘Here’ and led them around the barrier to the table.

“Mr. Reed, you’ve explained everything to your client?”  The judge asked, a shockingly young man with no gray in his short hair.

“Yes, your honor.  He’s ready to plead guilty in exchange for one year probation.”  Peter’s lawyer responded.

“Son… Peter Evans… do you understand what you’re agreeing to?”  The judge asked.

Peter nodded, clasping his hands in front of him.  “I do, your honor.”

The judge leaned back and put his hands behind his head.  “Why don’t you explain it to me.”

Peter looked at his lawyer, who nodded.  “Okay, your honor.  Uh, I stole some things and I admit that.  It was wrong.  So instead of going through a trial, which I figure would be a waste of time, and a whole lot of work for everyone, and a lot of money for my dad and mom, I’m just admitting it.  And I guess how it works is if I do that, I get to stay out of jail.”

“Nicely put, Peter.  So tell me something.  Why’d you do it?”  The judge continued.

Peter looked at his lawyer.  This wasn’t what happened with the other defendants.  The judge hardly talked to them.  What was he supposed to say?  His lawyer hadn’t gone over this with him.  Just as he opened his mouth, his lawyer leaned over and whispered “tell the truth.  Everyone in this room has heard every lie a thousand times.  Just the truth.”

Well that would be a lot easier.  “I get bored, your honor.”

“Yes, I got that distinct impression after reading your file, Peter.”  The judge said.

“Judge Baker, this is Peter’s first offense.”  His lawyer interjected.

Judge Baker smiled.  “His first ADULT offense, Mr. Reed.  Young Mr. Evans has had quite the adventures of misspent youth.  Isn’t that right, Peter?”

“Yes.  I’ve done a lot.”  Peter answered.

The judge chuckled.  “Have you learned anything?”

“Quite a bit, your honor.  Most of it they don’t teach in books.”  Peter said honestly.

That brought a laugh to the judge’s throat.  “Yeah, that’s what I figured.  See Peter, I was curious when I saw your offense, and your age, and your lack of record, so I decided to look a little deeper.  The justice system doesn’t get many opportunities to reach young offenders before they get chewed up and spit out.  You’re highly intelligent, and to hear your teachers tell it you are some kind of golden child.  Even law enforcement that you’ve interacted with before say you weren’t any trouble, you just either cause it or seem to be in the middle of it.  A few stints in the juvenile system, all petty stuff, but even the counselors there say you aren’t like the other troublemakers.  So I believe you when you say you get bored.”  Judge Baker smiled at the prosecutor, Mr. Reed, and his dad.  Then he changed his smile to a grin and looked at Peter.  “You need direction.  I don’t think you’re getting into trouble because you like being a criminal, Peter.  I was a lot like you.  Well you’re 18 and you can’t keep doing the same thing you’ve been doing.  When I was 18 I joined the Army and I found direction.  I think you will too.  You most certainly won’t be bored.  I’m amending the plea agreement.  Defendant will enlist in the U.S. Armed Forces with the U.S. Army for a single enlistment.  Peter, I want you to understand, it’s this or jail.  If you don’t sign the enlistment papers, you go to jail.  If you sign and don’t show up, you go to jail.  If you go into the Army and then leave before your 4 years is up, not only will WE throw you in jail, but the Army will also throw you in jail, for much longer.

Peter’s dad was whispering hurriedly with the lawyer, who was trying to calm him down.

“Do you understand, Peter?”  The judge asked.

Peter nodded.  “Yes, your honor.  I’m to join the Army, and if I do that, I won’t go to jail.”

“Excellent.  Bailiff, will you escort the defendant and his team to the jury room?  Peter, my good friend Sergeant Compton will get you all signed up.  What’s the next case?”

 

Bootlicker had to admit the judge had been right.  He certainly wasn’t bored, and he did have a direction.  It had been two years and he already knew he still had so much more to learn, skills, intelligence, military secrets.   And Assmunch was going to absolutely love what he’d gotten ahold of from Col. Ulrich’s office.  But he didn’t want to distract the Bravos from completing their jumps, so he’d sit on it until Friday night.

Bootlicker remembered his talk with Gary about loyalty.  Yeah, for the Bravos, he might actually take a bullet.  Definitely for Assmunch, but probably for the other brothers too.

[laguyinhou]

Awesome chapter. Very interesting seeing the back story of Bootlicker, and the first theories of DADT/integration being explored. 

[drew4fun]

Quite intriguing!  Well done 

[Monorchid]

Welcome back Assmunch! So good to read you again