“Well, let's see if El Tee can hang,” one of my privates cracks as I stand outside the circle, waiting my turn. I've only been in charge of the platoon for a few days. I figured this would happen. There's always a feeling out period when a new leader comes into a unit. The Regulators have been together for a long time. They're cohesive, they're a good platoon from their records, and I've got to prove myself worthy of being 'the old man' with them. Why is it Lieutenants are always called 'the old man' anyway, when I'm younger than all of my squad leaders?
It doesn't matter I guess. Still, being the old man is why I'm out here on a Thursday morning, even though Thursday mornings are the traditional 'Sergeant's Time,' when we officers are supposed to fuck off and leave the enlisted to themselves. But when the platoon sergeant told me that the platoon was doing a little bit of what they call 'blood bonding,' I knew I was being handed an opportunity to prove myself.
“Next!” Staff Sergeant Mellencamp, the first squad leader, calls out. I slip my mouthpiece in and pull on the football helmet that everyone's using for safety and step into the circle.
There's an anticipatory hum from the platoon when they see me step forward and take my padded pugil stick. The hum turns into a laugh of bloodthirsty derision as the circle parts again and Specialist Hardy, all six foot three and two hundred and fifteen pounds of ripped muscle of him, one of the platoon's heavy machine gunners, steps in on the other side.
“Someone call for a medic!” the same joker as before taunts, and there's a ripple of laughter. I can see why. Hardy's got three inches on me and about forty pounds. I look like I'm easy pickings for him.
“Okay, El Tee, the rules are simple,” Mellencamp says. “We go to three points, on my call.”
I shake my head, looking up into Hardy's eyes. “Negative, Sergeant. We go to tap or ten-count knockout. Old school rules. No nut shots.”
The platoon goes silent, nobody expecting me to pull that one out. I mean, I'm a West Pointer, a Ring Knocker, a softie who isn't hard like a real Regulator. Hardy grins, though, and nods. “Your loss, El Tee. You’re going to have to call in sick tomorrow.”
“We'll see,” I reply, stepping back. I hold the pugil stick vertically like a rifle and salute Hardy with it before drawing it back down to my side. “Ready.”
“Go!” Mellencamp calls, and the fight's on. I expect Hardy to attack hard and fast. He's got reach and muscle on me, but he doesn't know about my hockey past or the martial arts classes I took my last two years at the Academy. He lunges in, and I sidestep, swinging the one side of my pugil stick hard, catching him in the hamstring and buckling his knee before dancing out of the way, stepping back and circling.
I can hear the platoon cheering, but it's just a roar, a wall of white noise that surrounds us as we circle in the grass, looking for the next opening. He's carrying his stick high, protecting his head, which makes sense if that was what I was going for. He thinks a knockout has to be a head shot. Most guys do. But instead, I attack his legs, locking sticks with him and neutralizing his ability to hit back before sweeping his legs out from underneath him, sending him tumbling to the grass.
He’s fast as a snake, though, and before I can turn and maybe deliver a big hit, he's rolling to his feet, his stick sweeping out in a large arc to defend himself. “Not bad, El Tee.”
“I'm a tricky bastard,” I warn him, jabbing forward with the end of my stick, aiming for his stomach but only for deception. He swings, and I turn, taking the stick like a boxing body blow to my arm before I wrap around it and twist, sending him down. The maneuver pulls his stick out of his hands, and when he looks up, my stick's in his face, frozen an inch from his facemask. “Tap out.”
“Tap,” Hardy admits, and I pull my stick back, letting him up. Hardy gets to his feet, and I put my stick down, offering my hand. The platoon applauds, there are some excited 'Hooahs' as Mellencamp announces me the winner, and I step out of the circle.
Outside, my platoon sergeant, Sergeant First Class Pillman, comes up. We walk away from the platoon while Mellencamp calls out the next two, lowering our voices. “Nice fight, sir.”
“I played it dirty. I knew he’d be thinking of headhunting. I never had any plans to knock him out.”
He laughs softly, nodding. “I thought so. Hardy's a good kid. Great field soldier, but he's not the sharpest bayonet on the line.”
“That's okay, we'll get him there,” I say. “So what's on the rest of your Sergeant's Time agenda?”
“Obstacle course after this. That new kid, Rodriguez, has got to earn his props too with the platoon. He didn't do too good a job with the sticks.”
“Okay, but I don't want him being bullied or hazed,” I tell Pillman. “I saw enough of that stupid shit at West Point. I don't want it in my platoon.”
“Roger that, sir. What are you going to be doing?”
I laugh and point up the road toward the company area. “I'll check in with the Captain, see if he wants anything from me. If not, I've got to work on getting back into my pre-Ranger shape. Guys like Hardy aren't going to let me get away with sneaky shit anymore.”
He gives me a respectful nod. “Okay. One piece of history, sir.”