He had thought about breaking up second squad three or four times but each time he talked himself out of it. The problem with second squad was that they were about as good as they thought they were. In every training class the members learned the lessons spot on first time. Second squad members never fell asleep, their equipment was always perfect, their details were always done on time or early. They scored higher as an average than any but two or three other individuals in the company. It was one of those unfortunately rare occasions when a group in the military was uniformly competent and capable. Unfortunately the squad leader, PFC James Stewart, as charming a rogue as ever a young maiden could hope to meet, was quite possibly the Antichrist.
Shortly after the basic training group arrived inspections of the company and several companies around revealed increasing amounts of hard alcohol in the possession of recruits. While it was impossible to completely cut off the flow of illicit liquor in basic training usually a bottle would turn up once every few weeks in a training battalion. Suddenly several were being uncovered every week. Intensive interrogation of the frightened recruits could not reveal the source; the bootleggers were using dead drops.
A recruit would place an order at any one of innumerable locations. Small slips of paper along with the payment were slipped into a crevice in the barracks wall or in the bathroom or in the bleachers. The next day the bottle would appear in the recruit’s equipment locker or he would find instructions on where to pick it up. CID, the Ground Force Criminal Investigation Division, was called in and tried for weeks to catch the smugglers in the act but was always just a little off in timing. Once investigators covertly watched a dead drop for three days only to find out that the hole in the wall went all the way through.
Alcohol, cigarettes, candy, pornography, but, strangely, no drugs. In the twelfth week the training for Alpha company included a two-week field exercise. By the second week there were no full bottles found in the company or the battalion. Obviously the bootleggers were centered in Alpha company.
The agents of CID descended in force on Alpha company but Gunnery Sergeant Pappas had known in his heart all along who the ringleader was. In the last week of training over an imaginary fault during Saturday inspection he threw the sort of raging fit usually associated with the first few weeks in basic. Ordering the platoon out of the barracks, physically hurling a few out the door, he and the company’s first sergeant, a doggie Special Forces veteran with a longer and even more varied career than his, tore the barracks apart.
Beds were hurled out the windows to be followed by wall lockers, equipment lockers, clothes, equipment and anything else moveable they could find. As each item was ejected it was subjected to a brief but intense inspection. Nearly stumped, they finally found what they were looking for hidden in a hollow in the cinder block wall itself, concealed behind the wall locker of none other than the second squad leader.
It was a leadership challenge for the veteran NCOs. On the one hand, the violations of regulations were innumerable, but on the other hand the individuals were otherwise as good as any NCO could dream. The worst part was that being a military leader depends, strongly, upon respect. To order troops into a situation quite probably resulting in their deaths requires that those troops respect, love, fear you more than practically anything in the world. Sending a group of recruits off to battle believing that they could pull off a caper like this would be worse than giving them no training at all. But they were so good at the business of soldiering — Stewart particularly — they had such a knack that sending them all off to the stockade would be a waste of training and talent.
They had a few moments to discuss it. The drill corporals were running the recruits ragged with grass drills and Sergeant Pappas was fairly certain that they did not expect a search. He had not found the material before during his occasional fits nor would he be expected to now. They quickly finalized and implemented their plan, then left to torment the recruits. The reconstruction of the squad areas would be carefully supervised by the drill corporals. By the time Stewart had a chance to check the hidey-hole he would be forced to wonder whether it was the NCOs who raided the stash or a trainee.
Two days later there was an unscheduled field exercise. At two a.m. the recruits were hounded out of their beds, into field gear and out into the darkness.
The platoon was broken down into squads and put through hours of murderous squad drills. This is the sprint and dash technique of the infantry, dropping to the prone to take the enemy under fire as another squad moves then leaping to their feet and running forward to the next firing position. Deceptively beautiful to watch when well performed it is brutally physical work: a tremendous aerobic exercise. Run twenty or thirty yards throw yourself to the ground, fire a few blank rounds, push yourself to your feet with fifty pounds of equipment on your back then do it over and over again for hours on end.
The squads were supervised by the drill corporals as Gunny Pappas moved quietly through the darkness from squad to squad, observing them all, yet unobserved. All the fluff was gone now, the “civvie fat” that was so evident on their arrival, even on those who were in shape. Each of them was a hard, tough little bundle of killing energy, as dangerous as so many baby rattlers. Just the way they were supposed to be.
Towards dawn the squads were well scattered and, per instructions, the drill corporals gathered each of them in and in a complete violation of doctrine built a fire. Fire was anathema to the modern infantry, revealing of your position, potentially dangerous in the form of a forest fire and, yes, environmentally harmful. But Pappas knew the infantry man is in many ways atavistic. He revels in the dirt and the mud even as he curses it and fire strikes a special cord in the human breast. Fire opens up the soul in a way that few things can, to those who are open to it, and there are times when nothing but a fire will do.
As second squad settled back against its packs relaxing in the warmth and light Pappas stepped silently out of the darkness and gestured for the drill corporal to leave.
The squad sat up and shot covert glances at Stewart. He in turn fixed Sergeant Pappas with a basilisk stare; one of his many attributes was that he had a stare to give a bull pause. He had learned the first week not to direct it at Pappas but now it seemed time to do so.
Pappas reached into his thigh bellows pockets and drew out twelve wads of bills. “I suspect you might be looking for these,” he said and tossed one to each of the recruits.
“Sir,” started one of the recruits, “this isn’t what it looks like!”
“Shut up,” said Stewart in a voice he would use to order French fries. The recruit shut up.
“I want to tell you a secret, soldiers,” said Pappas in a quiet, neutral voice. It was the first time he had used that appellation for them and they were universally startled. Technically they should not be referred to as soldiers until they completed their final tests. It was a goal they had all been striving for, whether they had realized it or not, a mark of approval more important than life in many ways.
“It’s one of the big secrets,” Pappas continued. “You know, the Sergeant Secrets. It’s one of the secrets you really believe exists even when you deny it. Recruits always believe that the sergeants have special secrets you never learn until you’re a sergeant. Like we get told the secrets on our last day at ‘Sergeant’s School.’ ” He smiled at the weak joke and puffed out his cheeks.