I Am Automaton

Chapter 7

Fort Leonard Wood

Missouri

Carl was exhausted, but then again, more had happened to him in the last few days than most of his life in total.

At the start of basic training, Carl felt like a freshman on the first day of high school. A very rigorous high school. He was out of his element, he didn’t know anyone, and he felt the first twinge of doubt about his decision to enlist.

But every new job had its orientation, right? There were forms to fill out, videos to watch. One had to figure out where the bathroom and the cafeteria were.

A few days ago, his head was shaved, he submitted to a physical examination, and received inoculations. He was handed his uniform, duffel bag, and mouth guard. He wondered why he needed a mouth guard.

The physical assessment test at Reception Battalion was brutal. They expected him to do seventeen sit-ups within one minute, thirteen push-ups within one minute, and run one mile in eight-and-a-half minutes.

He was able to manage, but several recruits in the initial group were not. Consequently, they were sent to what the drill sergeant, Sergeant Maddox, called “Fat Camp.” Carl was not sure what happened there, but he was glad he passed the physical assessment.

Now he was in day three of Basic Combat Training, which was to run for ten weeks. He was in what Maddox referred to as the Patriot Phase. This apparently meant that the drill sergeant followed them around everywhere, correcting them on their posture, how to salute a superior properly, how to maintain a clean area in their barracks…you name it.

At first, Carl found the attention to every detail to be amusing, but before long, he found it exhausting. But he understood the purpose. They were soft from civilian living. He was soft from sitting on his parents’ couch, dodging student loan companies demanding their pound of flesh.

He knew that as recruits, they had to be broken down to be built back up. However, an intellectual acceptance of this reality did not ease the pain of Maddox’s constant correction. It was supposedly army policy that the drill sergeant did not correct recruits using physical violence of any kind. Instead, they were supposed to use Corrective Action: Physical Exercise (CAPE)—push-ups, laps, and such.

Well, let’s just say that Sergeant Maddox utilized both, depending on the recruit, his feelings towards him, and his mood at that particular moment in time.

On the first day, after cursory introductions in the company area and what only Sergeant Maddox would perceive to be a pep talk, he had them engage in this ridiculous exercise called the bag drill. All of the recruits were instructed to make a large pile of their duffel bags and then back away. Sergeant Maddox then told them they would have two full minutes each to find their bag.

The time limit was ridiculous, but the whole point of the exercise was to ensure failure. After endless iterations, Maddox, in his infinitely delicate and supportive manner, suggested that they work together rather than every man for himself.

After successfully completing the drill, the recruits were then all broken up into platoons. Towards the end of the week, Carl was issued a “rubber duck”—a fake rifle—and was taught how to stand at attention, face, and stand at ease. This went on ad nauseum for several hours a day.

The recruits, however, were given a chance to handle a real, functional M16 to become familiar with it. Carl found that interesting and almost worth the monotony of the Drill and Ceremony training.

The classroom exercises were like school all over again, with a dash of a draconian version of the Boy Scouts. They learned the “Army Core Values”—loyalty, duty, respect, etc.

At 17:00, the recruits gathered in the mess hall for dinner. In the beginning, Carl sat by himself. After a couple of days, a table of guys that were just like him adopted him.

There was Gary Koontz from Brownsville, Texas, once a college student like Carl. He, too, could no longer afford it. He was a tall, thin man with a baby face. Then there was Mark Fromm from Aberdeen, Idaho, a twenty-three-year-old mountain of a man who worked in construction in the private sector and was laid off, another casualty of the economy.

Nolan Kettle from Blue River, Colorado, was the wise ass. Every group had one. He was a real clown, and he would entertain the group by imitating Sergeant Maddox in less than flattering ways. Sergeant Maddox had apparently picked up on this. Either that or he just had a natural dislike for the kid, as Nolan was frequently the recipient of Maddox’s sadism.

Then there was Ricky Cartieras from Cave Creek, Arizona, who Nolan called “Silent But Deadly.” He didn’t say much, but he always sat at Carl’s table.

“Who do you think the platoon’s going to choose for GFT tomorrow morning?” Kettle instigated.

GFT—Ground Fighting Technique—was hand-to-hand combat training. The training was nearing its completion, and as per custom, one recruit was selected from each platoon to duke it out in a competition.

“God, I hope it’s not me,” gasped Koontz.

“Well, I’m too pretty to get my face busted in,” joked Kettle. “Hey, maybe it’ll be Cartieras.”

“SILENT BUT DEADLY” everyone chimed in simultaneously. Cartieras only regarded them with a half-smile.

“I think Fromm stands the best chance,” Carl declared.

Fromm shot Carl an unappreciative look.

“What?” Carl said defensively. “It’s true.”

“What about you, science boy?” Fromm retorted.

“Hey,” Kettle needled, “Birdsall is one vicious nerd.”

“Screw you, Kettle,” Carl replied. “Maddox hates you, so maybe it’ll be you and he’ll get to sit back and enjoy watching you get your ass kicked.”

“Oh, he’d love to see that,” Fromm chimed in. “To see someone else do what he’s wanted to do since we got here.”

“Hey, hey, hey. Easy, guys. Basic Training would be boring without my sophomoric antics,” Kettle reminded.

“It’s probably going to be none of us. In all likelihood, we’re going to get to sit back and watch someone else do it,” reasoned Carl.

The rest of the meal Carl suffered more macho teasing, dirty jokes, and Maddox impersonations, but the whole mess hall was buzzing with anticipation as to who was going to be voted to participate in the competition tomorrow.

Carl wasn’t worried as he was mediocre in relation to the rest of the group in GFT. He was certainly not the best, but he was also not the worst. He didn’t stand out at all, which was the way he liked it. That was how one got along in Basic Training. One didn’t stand out. One did his best to stay in the middle of the group. You didn’t show the others up, and you didn’t hold them back.

During personal time, following drill sergeant time, Carl attempted to raise Peter on his com unit in the dark, Spartan barracks, but Peter was not answering. He figured his brother was engaged in something important.

He felt a little guilty about his enlisting, but he now believed that he could relate to his big brother for the first time. They were both army. Now he knew what his brother went through, which gave him a newfound respect for the guy (not that he didn’t respect him already).

That evening Carl was on Fire Guard with Cartieras, who was quiet as ever. So Carl was left to his own thoughts. He thought about home. He thought about his father and his mother.

He wondered if his mother was proud of him. More importantly, he thought he was finally proud of himself. He was no longer a part of the “Boomerang Generation” mooching off his parents. He was his own man, carrying his own weight, and performing a valuable duty to his country.

Was he scared? Hell yeah. But that was what made the sacrifice so important. Even in this age of rampant unemployment and idle youth, not everyone chose military service.

As they walked in between barracks scouring the grounds for recruits attempting to go AWOL, Carl tried his best to think of this new, strange environment as home. Not that it would be his home for long. When the ten weeks were up, he’d have another home, but he really wanted to embrace the whole experience as his future.

He was not used to the around the clock micromanaging, being told what to do and when to do it, particularly from a sadistic bastard like Sergeant Maddox. Nevertheless, he knew Maddox was doing it for their own good. He had to pummel their softness into hardened resolve. Basic Training was only the beginning. This was just the preparation. There were many wars being waged all around the world, and the list of enemies was growing.

Carl could not help but think of his great, great, grandfather, Lingus Enright, who fought in World War II. From the stories passed down to him, it seemed that in the 1940’s, war permeated all of American life. Everyone was doing their part, and although they were all scared, they knew they were doing right. And they had quite the adventure travelling all over Europe and romancing European women.

Carl tried to think of this time in the same way. The Order for International Liberation was the modern day version of Nazis if one really thought about it, and America needed more soldiers to fight them.

Carl and Cartieras walked their patrol in silence, in Carl’s view, as future heroes of democracy.

***

The next morning passed quickly, and there was a nervous anticipation about the Ground Fighting Technique competition between platoons. Over breakfast, there was much speculation as to who would be chosen. It was like the Super Bowl of Basic Training. Kettle was making the rounds from table to table, whispering in ears. The scoundrel was probably taking bets.

At 08:30, the platoons gathered in the company area by a large set of rubber mats, the likely arena for the competition. Carl knew these mats well. They were rubber, but they were by no means soft. He knew from firsthand experience.

Sergeant Maddox, master of ceremonies, strolled onto the mat, silencing the crowd of recruits. “Alright, fresh meat, listen up. This morning is a continuation of a long-observed tradition in Basic. It commemorates the completion of GFT training. Today, each platoon will select a combatant to represent it, to represent what it has learned. The selected combatants will fight on this mat.”

Carl looked around anxiously. He looked at the recruits in other platoons, and he looked at those in his own. He looked at Fromm. He would vote for Fromm when the time came. Fromm stood the best chance as much as anyone Carl knew.

Maddox continued. “Your selections have been made, and now it is time to announce the lucky recruits.”

What? The selections had already been made? When?

“Our first match will be from the First Infantry…Private Wilkinson.”

Wilkinson stood up, passed through his ranks, saluted, and stood next to Maddox.

“And from the Second Infantry…Private Bates.”

He too stood, saluted Maddox, and took his place on the other side of Maddox.

“Okay, men. Rules…no striking, that’s no punching or kicking, no eye gouging, no fish hooking. You know the drill. First man to submit the other by tap out wins. Take your positions.”

The two men went to the center of the mat and faced each other. They were both of comparable height and build. Carl did not estimate an advantage in either one’s favor.

Maddox blew his whistle, and the two men began to grapple with each other. Carl found the sight to be odd, two men on the same side duking it out, but they were soldiers.

As the two recruits struggled together, Carl thought of tiger cubs he saw on a nature show play fighting. It was practice, and one day they would fight for real…for survival.

Bates put his foot behind Wilkinson’s right leg and shoved hard. Wilkinson was thrown off balance, and Bates was right on top of him grabbing for an arm or a leg. Wilkinson did his best to avoid being caught, but once Bates was on top, it was only matter of time.

Bates eventually got his hands on Wilkinson’s left arm and pulled an arm bar, stretching it out and bending it in a direction it was not meant to go. Wilkinson tapped out quickly and Maddox blew his whistle, and like that, the Second Infantry picked up its first victory.

“Very good, Private Bates. The match goes to the Second Infantry.”

There were hoots and cheers from the Second Infantry. The two men shook hands and returned to their platoons.

“Remember, men, one mistake and you’re toast. And now for the next match…from the Third Infantry…Private Cronos.”

A rather large man from the Third Infantry stood, saluted Maddox, and took his place on the mat. Carl felt sorry for the poor slob fighting him. He looked over again at Fromm and thought he’d be a perfect match.

“And from the Fourth Infantry…”

That was Carl’s regiment.

“…Private Birdsall.”

Carl was stunned. He looked around, unsure if he heard correctly. Everyone was looking at him. It was as if someone read him his own obituary. He looked over at Kettle, who shrugged sheepishly. A*shole. That’s why he was so busy making the rounds. They’d have words at dinner…if there was anything left of him.

Carl stood up, his pulse pounding in his ears, and he saluted Maddox, who remarked snidely at Carl’s hesitation.

“So nice of you to join us, Nancy. Why don’t you go take your place on the mat?”

Carl stepped through the crowd, hearing stifled snickers and feeling his regiment’s gaze upon him. He stood on the mat in front of his monster of an opponent.

As Maddox reviewed the rules, Carl stood there in horror. He expected he’d have to fight sometime, but not against such a goliath. He had sparred many times in GFT. He won some and he lost some, but this was the game. What did he expect to do, use harsh language against terrorists?

Recognizing how ridiculous his terror was, and accepting that he was now indeed a combatant, he calmed down enough to focus on the match.

“…grappling and submissions only. Am I clear?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Carl and Private Cronos answered in unison.

“Face each other.”

Maddox blew his whistle.

Cronos and Carl began to circle each other on the mat. Although Cronos was twice Carl’s size and build, he was hesitant, as if he was sizing Carl up.

“Are you two going to dance all day? This ain’t the prom, sweethearts. Engage.”

This tentativeness emboldened Carl and none too soon, because Cronos rushed him. They locked arms.

Cronos was bigger, so Carl attempted to swivel and throw the larger man off balance. To his as well as Cronos’ surprise, it worked, and Cronos fell face first down on the mat.

Seizing the opportunity and feeling increasingly more confident, Carl jumped on his back and sunk a hook under Cronos’ neck while wrapping his legs around his massive torso.

Giving up his back to Carl was a critical error, but Cronos used his size and strength to flip over out of Carl’s grip and land on his back with his legs wrapped around Carl’s waist, restraining him.

Carl was powerless to prevent the transition, and he pressed down as hard as he could to get to Cronos. But Cronos kept him at bay between his legs, holding him away from his body.

Carl knew that it was only a matter of time before Cronos would gain enough strength to turn the tables on him. He tried to pass Cronos’ guard, but Cronos kept him in place.

He was trying to get a hold of one of Carl’s arms. Carl did not want to get caught in an arm bar, so he slipped out of Cronos’ grip time and again. But Cronos was very strong, and he got a hold of Carl’s right arm. Carl struggled to pull it away, but Cronos was shifting his legs to go for the arm bar.

In desperation, Carl rolled to one side of Cronos, but ended up sliding on top of him and giving up his back.

It didn’t take long for Cronos to wrap one of his massive tree trunk arms around Carl’s throat, pressing down on Carl’s head with the other hand, cutting off his windpipe.

It was now only a matter of time. Carl felt his vision blur, and his head swam. He did not want to tap out. He was pissed off at his error and decided to go down with the ship.

Suddenly, a memory from childhood entered his faltering brain. He and Peter were wrestling in their living room as kids. Peter, the older brother, was bigger and stronger, and he put Carl in a headlock. Although they were only play fighting, Peter was getting a little rough, but Carl didn’t want to submit. He held on, pushing with all of his might against his brother, but his mother walked into the room and broke the two of them up.

The memory faded as a sound brought him back to the real world. Sergeant Maddox was saying something to him, but he couldn’t make it out.

Then, just like that, Private Carl Birdsall went to sleep.

***

Carl found himself in “Fat Camp”—formally known as the Fitness Training Company—which also happened to be where injured recruits went for rehabilitation. Since the match, Kettle had been poking around, feeling guilty about his little stunt. Carl had refused to talk to him.

Kettle came in bearing a sanctioned magazine as an olive branch. “Hey, Carl.”

Carl ignored him.

Kettle put the magazine by Carl’s side. “I thought you might need some entertainment.”

Carl could no longer remain silent. “Why, Nolan? Why did you do it?”

“Honestly?”

Carl nodded impatiently.

“Because you’re tough in a way that most people don’t see. You look like a nerd, but there’s this...intensity about you.”

Carl looked at him incredulously.

“If it makes you feel any better, my bet was on you.”

“Ah, the truth. You wanted to bet for the underdog. You figured no one else would bet on me. Nice odds, I guess.”

“Yeah, well, thanks to you, I lost,” Kettle joked. “Are we still friends?”

Carl glared at him.

“I said I was sorry.”

“We’ll see.”

Like all good comedians, Kettle knew when to end on a high note. Encouraged, he smiled and began to back out of the room.

“Thanks, buddy. I knew you’d come around.”

“Get lost, Nolan.”

“I’ll see you later.” Kettle ducked out before Carl could say anything else.

Carl shook his head and picked up the magazine. It was some tabloid rag about the sex lives of celebrities, something a girl or housewife would read. He opened the front cover…

Inside was a Penthouse Magazine.

Carl smiled to himself. “Always the scoundrel.”