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by Nicholas Cormier III
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Airman Basic Winters had it all. Two parts blond surfer. Eight parts Porsche driving polo prep. Pranced into Zero week at Lackland Air Force Base like a silver-tongued gazelle on a pink cloud unaware of approaching headlights. Barely noticed him. I’d seen tall slender white guys with cocksurety. Played football with a few. This wasn’t that. This was I’m richer than you. Whiter than you. Better looking than you. Girlfriends hotter than yours kinda confidence. Dies hard. John McClane in a cardigan. Winters made it through the first night of basic better than most of us. Even me. Graduating flight bursts into our dorm in the middle of the night. Screaming in our unsuspecting ears. Flipped our beds over. Scared the shit out of us. Delivered a blanket party. Kept calling us fish. Each blow from the soap-filled blankets felt like a cattle prod to the ass. Thought it’d last forever. Woke up that day indoctrinated to basic military training. Never went back to sleep. Promised myself I’d never be caught off guard again. Winters still had that Robert Duvall Apocalypse Now smile in the morning. It’d take more than that to break his privilege.
San Antonio sun beating on our backs. 108-degree heat melts legs like cold butter on a fired up Magnalite Skillet. Cadence pierces the ear drum. Shoots through your body. Straightens your back. One two three four…hup two three four…hup two three four. Senior Airman Bully’s song of hups became our morning reveille. My favorite pastime? Trying to figure out which newbie would drop first. Thing about the heat—lock your knees. You’re falling out. Feminine wails marked each faint. Had to smother my laugh each time one fell. Didn’t dare snicker. Bully’d be on my ass. Figured Winters would be next. Not so. Kid had heart. Bully knew it too. Tore him a new asshole anyway. Didn’t like his grin. Shit—neither did I.
You’ve seen the movies. Training Instructor walks in. Two lines of shirtless guys standing at attention, aisle in-between. Bully was Sgt. Slaughter on steroids. Had a long square chin—looked like that McDonald’s crescent moon. He’d be in your face so fast you’d swear you were in Full Metal Jacket. Daily spit baths. Baptized by bark. Fucker had bite too. Zero week was brutal. First memory. Scrawny kid with alabaster skin wetting himself. Happened as we hopped off the bus. Clutching invisible pearls in a puddle of his own urine. Promised myself that wouldn’t be me. Imagined Side bet. He’d be next.
Fifteen minutes before lights out was the only time to ourselves. Guys got to know each other. Talked. Told stories. Showed pictures. Blacks gravitated toward each other. I was used to talking to different races. Military brat. Even talked to Winters. Showed me pictures of his red Porsche poppa bought. Blonde girlfriend too. Passed his prized pics around. Think he thought we’d be impressed. Don’t get me wrong, she was tennis girl hot. Side of her mouth frozen with the same smirk Winters wore. Car was something most of us had only seen on TV. Showed him my girl. Seemed unfazed by her dark curly-haired Latina beauty. Told me she looked like Michael Jackson. Kind of prick he was. I’d have choked his ass in the past. Joining the military for me was about leaving that impulse behind.
Texas-sized cockroaches kept us company. Fear of mine. They fly in the south. When I was about five. One flew into my Jheri curl. Grandmother had to kill it—then pry it free. Left me traumatized. Still lives in my mind. Anyway…We’d see them crawling on the battle dress uniforms hanging from our lockers at night. Slept with one eye open. Watched Winters writing letters to his blonde until that eye got tired. When my lazy lid slammed like a broken garage door, waterbugs travelled under the sheets. Crept along my legs. Learned to dread nightfall. Couldn’t wait till morning. Only drawback was that Bully would meet us along with dawn.
Physical Training was tough for me. Distance wasn’t my jam. Winters was leader of the pack. Galloped when he ran. Sometimes he’d pull up. Let guys catch him. Act winded—then bolt out front again. Had the air of a man that felt entitled to first place. Didn’t sit well with most of us. Must’ve run cross country. I’d lose track of him. Fall behind. Study the scenery. Question why I joined. Cursed myself for being out of shape. Coughed up lime green loogies loosened from smoke-stained lungs. Drool a recurring precursor to the upchuck. Dry heaving followed after the bile left.
Then I’d remember why I joined. It was that night under the twin bridges in Denton, Texas that sealed my fate. Came to in the back seat of a beat-up old Buick. Hot-boxed in a car filled with the smell of hours-old puke. Mitch in the front seat. Passed out. Eyes painting a Pollock as they rolled behind their lids. Vomit crusting the corners of his mouth. Me checking my fly. Habit of mine out of a blackout. Mind erased. Hours stolen. Only picture in my mind—stepping out of my girl’s dorm and seeing the boys. I’d been on the wagon for weeks. Car pulled up. Screeched to a halt. Mitch in the driver’s seat—a portly Neal Cassidy. Me—a Black Kerouac. Bam. Beers at Mercado Juarez. Heroin-based ecstasy for free. OD for Mitch and me. Saw the writing on the wall. I was joining the military.
Abdominal cramps. Fuck physical training. I was a sprinter in high school. Never ran a mile—let alone five. Went to sick bay to see what was wrong that day. Bad move. Doctor said, I have to give you an exam. Slapped on a latex glove. Lubed up his finger. Continued with, Now I need you to pull your shorts down. Hard to escape the military without a finger up the ass. Barely made it. Whipped my legs around. Snapped to attention. Met the doctor’s eyes and said, Can I refuse this exam? You can, he replied. Never went to sick bay again. Returned to running with new vigor. Started challenging Winters for leader of the pack.
Sir, Airman Winters reports as ordered. Wasn’t easy for the polo prep to say. Stammered a bit. Bully pounced on it. One more time shitstain. Wasn’t supposed to curse at us. Benefit of the Air Force. Bully’s sidekick Senior Airman Rife let that slip. Softer of the two by far. Looked like the Pillsbury doughboy with a mustache. It was good cop bad cop with those two. We called him Stay Puft after the marshmallow man at the end of Ghostbusters.
Sir, Airman Winters reports as ordered. Said with vigor this time. Body clenched. Looked like Jeff Goldblum shortly after he’d been bitten by the fly. Skinny lean muscle. Red in the face. Trying not to shake. That’s when Winters landed the job. Think we just found our Latrine Queen Senior Airman Rife, Bully belted. Then it was my turn. I’d been practicing my reporting statement. Came out perfectly—with bass even. Bully approved. Made me Element Leader. Winters wasn’t so lucky. He was our Latrine Queen.
Basic Military Training had more than enough jobs to go around. House Mouse. Dorm Chief. Fire Monitor. KP—that’s kitchen patrol. They help in the kitchen. Chow Runner makes the call for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Then there was me. Element Leader. Every flight has four elements. Pretty much a line of Airmen in camo. My job was to lead a line. Puffed me up with pride. Meant Bully was all over me if I got it wrong—if anyone in my element got it wrong. Pressure. Got to me. Not only did I have to learn my left from my right to march. Line looked to me to stay in sync. If I missed a beat everyone was out of step. Hard to hide a mistake. I’d practice at night. Heard commands in my head. Eyes, RIGHT. LEFT. Ready, FRONT. Change step, MARCH! Had the tightest change step in the business. Leadership felt like my birthright.
Winters and I had one thing in common. Sure bet you’d hear our names during mail call. Bully’s pimp-hand was strong. He’d flick mail so fast it was a given you’d take a head shot. Took it easy on me. Took it in stride though. Reminded me of Ichabod Crane when he awkwardly bent down to pick up his girl’s letters that’d just been bounced off his forehead. Not much to look forward to in basic. Mail was about it. That—and the fifteen minutes we’d get to disappear into our sweetheart’s words. Guys patted me on the back for my girl’s devotion. Winters did that for himself. Stoked ire in the flight. Most recruits showed up single or got the Dear John by week one. Winters wasn’t a guy you rooted for. Flight 333 took pleasure in watching him scrub toilets with a toothbrush. An act he mimed more than accomplished. Some of the airmen took to standing farther away from the urinal when taking aim. Latrine duty was a karmic comeuppance for him in our minds.
Attention! Bully burst into the dorm. Night Inspection. Few of us scrambled to our feet. Stood bedside. Other recruits got a far ruder awakening. My locker wasn’t locked. Made me walk down the aisle between the boys with a heavy hunk of gold metal tied to a shoestring around my neck. Felt like a two-year-old in time out. Walk of shame. Made me say, Moo—I’m a cow. Moo—I’m a cow. Thought I heard Winters’ giggle. It was official. I’d made Bully’s shitlist.
Next victim. Puddle of Piss from Zero week. He’d wet the bed again. Third time this week. Bully had him suck his thumb. Looked like Linus from Charlie Brown with a pee-stained blanket in tow. Got washed back the same night. Being washed back was something to fear. Meant you’d have to repeat the previous week’s obstacle course. Nobody laughed as he packed his stuff.
Bully vanished into the bathroom. Winters get your ass in here! Airman Polo didn’t budge. Stood there looking for answers in our grinning faces. Bully reappeared, beet red. Boiling hot. Winters—why’re my latrines not sparkling?! Grabbed his ear. Dragged him to the commodes. Said: We’ll be here all night, son. Rolled a chair into the washroom and sat watching Winters polish urinals. Every hour guys jolted from their sleep due to Bully screaming, I’ll be here twirling my pitchfork till your sanctified ass learns how to clean my latrines. As for me? Couldn’t sleep. One eye open. Bristles of Winters’ toothbrush sounded like metal scraping against my bruised ego. Felt like tinfoil on a filling. Pride hurt from my long walk in front of the flight. Mornings marching on the mind. Wild hair up my ass to reclaim respect. Got up. Started practicing commands bedside. Bully snuck up on me. Got fired on the spot. Made me Chapel guide. Said I was a choir boy. Might’ve been right that night. I was the only one who took proper aim when pissing.
Morning came. Breakfast time. 15 minutes to eat. Line moved briskly except for two kinks. Winters was out of step. Bloodshot eyes betrayed his condition. I was sullen. Reeling from no longer being at the head of my element. Picked him apart in my mind. Long-limbed white privilege. Who was he to think he was better than me? Better than any of us? Served him right, . Dismissed the thought. Grabbed my tray. Sat silently beside him. Contemplating my failure. Perhaps I wasn’t a leader. Maybe the guy Bully chose to lead my element was.
Winters sat quietly. Food fastidiously forked into his mouth for first light fuel. We had more than mail in common. Newly acquired bearing weathered by a night of no sleep. From the penthouse to the outhouse. Former Element Leader—and the Latrine Queen.
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Nicholas Cormier III is a veteran of the United States Air Force. Spent several years as an Air Traffic Controller. Graduated from the University of Texas at Arlington where he studied Art with a concentration in Film and a minor in Theatre. He holds a Masters Degree in Business Administration from Texas State University. Actor. Writer. Director. Nicholas volunteers for Veteran-centric service organizations and regularly advocates for mentally-ill veterans, including those with substance abuse issues, living on the streets of Los Angeles. He is a USC Warrior Bard and longtime member of the renowned UCLA Wordcommandos Creative Writing Workshop for Veterans. His short stories were accepted for publication in MAYDAY, Lolwe, Black And…, LEON: Literary Review and The Good Life Review.