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PROLOGUE:
NICE AND EASY
DAY
TWO: THIS IS NO FRIAR'S CLUB There's a hand full of young, fit kids up from the city. Very squared away young men, almost half my age, in their early twenties like William, a kid from Harlem who looks like he stepped down off of a Marines recruitment poster; perfect posture, crisp, graceful moves. A young military Astaire. Part of me admires them greatly for being so together; when I was their age I was bucking for the title of history's greatest idiot. Part of me, of course, loathes them for being so young and fit and squared away. I've got scar tissue older than these kids. To make me feel better, there's a couple of guys in their fifties. Frish, a school bus driver with a rural twang (Oklahoma? Tennessee?) is 55. He's short, strong, and amiable, but you can tell from the lines on his face that he's seen a few things in life. I keep expecting him to suddenly say; "Hey, wait a minute, I'm a guy in my fifties who's seen a few things in life — I don't need this aggravation." But there he is, snapping to attention and getting yelled at like everybody else. It's an un-godly hour of the morning to be awake. It's an even un-godlier hour of the morning to be doing PT (physical training). I work out a couple of days a week in the gym at the Friar's Club. I drop by in the afternoon, sit on the bike and read the paper, a little light weight work, a little light stretching — then, a nice relaxing steam. Giordano, the gym attendant, shines my shoes for me. The great thing about the gym at the Friars Club is no matter when I'm there I'm always the youngest guy by about 30 years. This is no Friar's Club. It's barely dawn and they've got us exercising and running and bending and jumping. And, of course, the yelling. Always with the yelling "MOVE IT, WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU?" I haven't even had my coffee yet. Since there's such a disparity in age, I assumed the PT would be on the light side, closer to the late 40's-early 50's end of the dial. Judging by the pain I am now in (and the satisfied smirks on the faces of the young punks) I have learned a valuable military lesson; never assume. It's not so much the running that's doing me in, it's the shouting in cadence while you're running that's knocking the wind out of me. Well, that — and the running. "All right ladies. You've got some time now. Go back to the barracks, take a shower, go to the latrine, do what you have to do, get a little rest before breakfast." I'm barely an hour into the first full day and I've done more physical exercise than I have since...well, since ever actually. I'm exhausted. I drag myself back to the barracks, off to the latrine for a quick communal-zero-privacy shower. Back up in my bunk, pulling my BDU's on. I think we've got a few minutes until breakfast. I've got to lie down, just for a minute, put my feet up... BAM BAM BAM! Someone's banging on the lockers, everyone's scurrying, it's a total panic. Everyone's yelling simultaneously; "WHAT THE HELL? FORMATION, NOW! LET'S GO LET'S GO!" We stumble down the stairs, back out into the blistering heat. "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?" the Big Guy bellows. "EYES FRONT! WHY ARE YOU MOVING IN MY FORMATION?" the Snake hisses. Stumbling into line, I'm buttoning my blouse and tying my bootlace as discretely as possible. It's a ridiculous attempt — I'm right out in the open, there's nowhere to hide. The only thing that saves me from individualized humiliation is the fact that I'm surrounded by many other half-dressed men frantically doing the same thing. Now we're all staring at the ground, our faces a few inches from it, our bodies rigid in the position of a push-up. We're going to do push-ups. First we're going to ask permission to commence, than we're going to do them. And we're going to count them off "ONE! STAFF SERGEANT! TWO! STAFF SERGEANT! THREE!" When we get to ten we ask permission to recover, then we quickly scramble to our feet. "THIS IS PATHETIC!" the Big Guy bellows. "YES, PATHETIC!" the Snake hisses in agreement. "Ladies, there is something I have called THE SURPRISE FIVE-MINUTE FORMATION! You never know when it's going to happen, but when it does you had better be ready, is that understood?" "Yes, Staff Sergeant." "WEAK! YOU SOUND WEAK! I SAID — IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?!" "YES. STAFF SERGEANT!" "FILE TO THE RIGHT, MARCH!" File to the right? We're marching away from the chow hall. They are going to feed us at some point, aren't they? Okay, I guess they feel that an hour of jumping and running and bending at sunrise, followed by a good deal of yelling and screaming and psychological torture and push-ups and more yelling is not quite enough to work up an appetite for breakfast. So we're marching. No coffee yet. Left, left, left, right, left.... We march around the camp for what seems like a month and a half. The place is tremendous, like a state within a state. Or another country. Actually, at this point it's beginning to feel like another planet — an alien land where humans are controlled by large, angry extraterrestrials, forced to march like drones under the all encompassing heat of a tremendous alien sun; not like our sun on Earth, this one is hovering just a few feet off the surface of the alien planet — broiling the poor puny humans like overstuffed mini hot dogs left too long in a microwave cranked to full blast. Geez, it's hot. "MAMA MAMA CAN'T YOU SEE — WHAT THAT GUARD HAS DONE TO ME..." Now we're marching back in the direction of the chow hall. This is good. At this point I don't care about food, or coffee. I just want to sit down. "SAT ME DOWN IN A BARBER CHAIR — SPIN ME AROUND NOW I GOT NO HAIR..." And...We're marching past the chow hall. No breakfast yet. We're being marched to the bleachers — this is good. This will fulfill my sitting down requirements quite nicely. Before we can sit though, more marching, practicing facing movements, learning, drilling. Finally, sitting. A collective sigh. Then, slowly, a ripple of movement through the ranks, subtle at first a shifting of weight. One cadet, then another, then another, leaning a little to the left, then the right, distributing the upper body weight from one side of the gluteus maximus to the other. Miserable characters doing "the wave," only sitting down and without raising their arms. And without a ballgame to watch. These are the most uncomfortable bleachers in the history of the human behind. Lou, a short Ukrainian with an upper body like an Olympic wrestler, whispers to me; "Of all the injuries you could get at this thing, I wasn't counting on a sore butt!" They start drilling the phonetic alphabet into our heads. A little alpha, some bravo, a couple of charlies...and a lot of yelling. We stumble through it a few times, are declared "Pathetic!" by the Snake, and finally are marched off to the chow hall. Standing at Parade Rest, lined up for chow, The Big Guy is barking something to the front of the line, we can't quite make it out at first in the back (it's a long line). "...YOUR BOOTS OFF, TAKE CARE OF YOUR FEET. GO TO THE BATHROOM, WHATEVER. YOU'VE HAD A BUSY MORNING, AFTER CHOW YOU'RE ON YOUR OWN TIME FOR A WHILE. TAKE A BREAK, I WON"T BE BOTHERING YOU..." The line is snaking slowly; at Parade Rest, to Attention, step forward, back to Parade Rest. Over and over, eyes front. "WHY ARE YOU TALKING IN MY FORMATION?" the Snake hisses. "GET DOWN AND GIVE ME TEN!" the Big Guy orders. "ONE STAFF SERGEANT, TWO STAFF SERGEANT..." The crew serving the chow is friendly and well intentioned. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of the food. "Well, it's hot and there's plenty of it," whispers "Food," a big, friendly, plumber (one of the loud guys from Long Island). He piles his plate high with eggs, ham, bacon, and sausage. The guy likes to eat. "YOU WILL STAND AT ATTENTION UNTIL YOUR ENTIRE ROW IS FILLED!" The Screamer is screaming again. She's got a voice that could cut through glass; it's like a super power, like a Batman villain. "WHEN YOU ARE ORDERED TO DO SO YOU WILL SIT AND COMMENCE EATING! YOU WILL NOT GET UP FOR ANY REASON! YOU WILL NOT SPEAK FOR ANY REASON!" There is ample evidence that apparently no one has taken into consideration the obvious fact that all this yelling is not good for the digestion. In the barracks, finally, after chow. Some of us are stretched out, our feet up. Peter, the middle aged schoolteacher in the bunk on my right, gives me some friendly advice; "Try to get your feet up, let the blood drain out. And when you're standing at Attention, curl and uncurl your toes — gets the blood circulating." Joe, in the bunk on my left (also a schoolteacher — what is it about presiding over a classroom of unruly kids that makes these guys yearn for the discipline of the military?) has some medical training and has set up shop taking care of everyone's feet. Right now he's putting moleskin on one of the young kid's blisters — "Hollywood" (so dubbed by the Big Guy because he showed up to the first formation wearing shades). "What'd I tell you?" Joe yells at Hollywood. "You gotta wear two pairs of socks!" Behind his back (and soon to his face) Joe has been dubbed "Dr. Scholl." There was a brief attempt to dub him "Moleskin," but "Dr. Scholl" seems to be the winner in the nickname-de-guerre sweepstakes. Not everyone has their feet up though. The young punks are buzzing around, trying to clue in the old dudes (at 40, I'm an old dude to them — actually, right now I'm feeling very much like an old dude to me). "Yo, don't forget what the man said about those five minute formations!" From the depths of his bunk I hear Dan, a 44-year-old electrician from Queens, respond with the blind optimism of a 44-year-old man with sore feet; "Naah, we're fine — he said we were gonna get time to rest after chow. We're fine." BAM BAM BAM! "LET'S GO, LET'S GO!" The Big Guy lied. Five minutes and forty-four seconds later we're standing in the sun, in formation. "THAT'S BETTER, BUT THAT'S NOT FIVE MINUTES! GET DOWN AND GIVE ME TEN!" We march. We stand at Attention. We march some more. We stand at Parade Rest — a complete and total misnomer, as when you are standing perfectly still you are not parading and when you are forced to stand in this incredibly uncomfortable position it is far from restful. We march some more. We drill the Three General Orders for guard duty into our heads. We march. We stand at Attention, eat some more chow, march, get yelled at, do more push-ups and march. In the barracks for thirty seconds. This time, no one puts their feet up. BAM BAM BAM! "LET'S GO! LET'S GO!" Outside, in formation. The Big Guy checks his stopwatch. The Snake nods approvingly. "Very good people, very good. I got good news for you; you got my Surprise Formation done in under five minutes!" Standing at attention, eyes front...a smile cracks across our faces. "Now here's the bad news, from now on it's a Surprise FOUR-Minute Formation! Fall out!" In my bunk, 2145 hours,15 minutes until lights out. A heated argument has broken out in the barracks. The topic: How to make the Big Guy and The Snake happy so they won't yell at us? There are two schools of thought; a) we should get up extra early and initiate extra PT to show how motivated we are or b) we shouldn't vary at all from the schedule because that will only make them madder, what we should do is make sure we are out there at Attention, in formation at 0500 before the Snake and the Big Guy get there. Dr. Scholl and the young punks are in the former camp, French, "Pyle" and Hollywood the latter. The argument is getting louder, tempers are flaring. It's like a bunch of scared kids trying to figure out how to please their crazy, drunken father. To make matters worse, Pyle — a 29-year-old Air Force vet from Beth Page with an adenoidal fog horn of a voice — has introduced a new topic for discussion; whether or not to run down the stairs when a surprise Five (now Four) minute formation is called. He is against it. "I'm not kidding guys, somebody could get hurt!" From the depths of his bunk, Dan from Queens contributes his thoughtful analysis of the discussion, "Ah, Shaddup!" Using every last ounce of energy I have I foist myself up from my bunk, shlep down the hall and interject myself into the burgeoning melee. Utilizing the Solomon-like wisdom that can only be mustered by the extremely tired, I offer sage pearls of wisdom; "You're both right. Why don't we go down early, do some PT and at exactly 0500 snap to Attention. Pyle, we all agree to get downstairs as quickly as possible without killing each other. How's that?" Warily, they nod in agreement, slowly back away from each other and retreat to their bunks. Paranoia hangs heavy in the stale air. I sink back into my bunk and fall into the deepest sleep in the history of sleep. My last conscious thought; something's got to give. EDITOR’S NOTE: Part I of Dave Konig's New York Guard training can be found here. Part III of his series on his summer training will appear on Monday. — Comedian Dave Konig starred on Broadway in Grease! and won a New York Emmy as the co-host of Subway Q&A. He just completed his first novel Good Luck Mr. Gorsky. Konig is an NRO contributor. |
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