Chapter Text
Walter Eugene O'Reilly didn't have a birth certificate, or so he told the Army recruiter at the same time that he swore that he had reached his eighteenth birthday. They didn't look too hard at that, or at his short and pudgy frame, they just showed him where to sign his name and put him on a bus headed for Louisiana, which turned out to be an awfully long way from Iowa.
There were other recruits on the bus, most of them taller and older looking than Walter. He'd chosen to sit in front, by the window and right next to the door. No one sat beside him, for which he was thankful. He'd rather be lonely than squished. Nothing of any importance tugged him out of the here and now. The guys were allowed to talk to each other on the bus, "as long as they didn't get too rowdy." In Walter's opinion that bar had been passed quite a while ago. He hunched up his shoulders and leaned against the window frame, practicing the lies he would have to tell and the lies he would have to live.
No one knew him here. They knew he hadn't presented a high school diploma, but they didn't know why he had dropped out. They didn't know the McMann family from Adam, so if he kept his head down, worked hard, studied harder, and didn't speak unless spoken to, he'd be fine. At least through the end of Basic training. After that, who knew?
Walter certainly didn't.
It was April, but Louisiana already felt like June. The air was so humid he felt like he had to swim through it and his clothes were damp before he'd even gotten off the bus. Everything looked different, from the tall grasses to the red-tinted soil. Even the sky seemed a deeper shade of blue. He'd been issued his kit in St. Louis at the same time as they'd given everyone their physicals and a bunch of paper and pencil tests. Those were a worry. He hoped he'd done all right on them, though the math was all grade school stuff and he thought he'd done all right on the rest except for US History. There were just so many dates to remember.
The bigger guys jostled him in line and sometimes plucked at his clothes. One had stolen his hat before they'd even made it to St. Louis. He didn't like going around bareheaded, but he liked the idea of getting beat up or catching Sergeant Brady's notice, so he didn't mention it to anyone. If he was supposed to have a hat he'd be issued one.
He stood in a straight line with a bunch of guys who were almost all taller than he was, body straight and stiff, eyes front, trying very hard not to fidget. So hard he missed what was said to him. "I asked you a question, Worm!" their new drill sergeant said.
"Yes, sir!" he said, hoping that was a plausible answer to the question. A couple of giggles erupted beside and behind him and were quickly stifled.
"Then drop to it. Men, when the worm gets to a count of fifty, you start your pushups. And you," he said, bending down to mock-whisper in Walter's ear, "Start over."
Pushups were more awkward than they were hard. At least he knew how to do them. They were a staple of gym class all through high school and, while he wasn't exactly quick or agile, he was strong from a decade of farm work that had fallen more and more to him as his Ma and Uncle Ed grew older. Not that Sergeant Kent seemed impressed with any of it, just not disgusted. Which was probably for the best. He just needed to get through Basic and hope his test scores would put him anywhere but infantry.
After the exercise intended to get their blood flowing after all those hours on the bus, they were fed chicken and potatoes and string beans. He'd never seen so much food in one place, enough for seconds or even thirds, if he could get it down before he ran out of time. He knew the drill sergeant was about to call them all to attention, but then he felt eyes on him, close and considering. Even though the scrutiny fell on him like a physical weight, he didn't dare put down his fork or make any sign he'd noticed. It was a whole five minutes more at least before he called them all to stop.
After that it was more marching practice, with hay on the right foot and straw on the left for the guys who couldn't tell the one from the other. At least he was spared that indignity. By the time the sun was low in the sky, Walter was exhausted in every way it was possible for a person to be exhausted, and he was beginning to wonder whether they would ever be allowed to stop and rest for more than a few minutes. They marched to the mess for supper, which was a mountain of egg salad sandwiches on white bread, a bushel of apples, and an avalanche of sugar cookies. They all ate with an eye on the setting sun and mostly in silence, too tired to joke around or attract the ire of the sergeant.
Even with every moment dictated by a frown in a uniform and the way they were rushed from activity to activity with barely a chance to breathe, the rest of the recruits had already begun to sort into clusters of like-minded guys who joked and roughhoused with each other when the sergeant turned his head for the barest second. There was a little ache in his chest when he watched them even though he didn't need that kind of companionship--couldn't afford it, really, not if he was going to get through Basic without getting beat up or worse, dishonorably discharged. Could you get dishonorably discharged from Basic? Still, the easy way they laughed and leaned into each other made him feel almost desperately alone.
It was almost enough for him to hope they noticed him.
The barracks was a two-story stone building that looked like it might have been repurposed from a mill. They were led into the big room on the first floor, rucksacks on their backs, and assigned bunks in alphabetical order, more or less. The shorter guy in each pair got the bottom bunk. They each had a little locker, top bunk on the right of the bed, bottom bunk on the left. The Sergeant demonstrated how to make up a bed with square corners, then made them all practice until they performed to his satisfaction. Radar managed to finish in the top quarter, but not in the top two or three, which ought to keep him from attracting the wrong sort of attention.
The first sign that he had failed came while they were still waiting for the slowest guys to meet the sergeant's standards. The guy in the bunk next to Walter's was getting bored. He started by tapping a rhythm on the edge of the bunk, then making a bug-eyed face at Walter when he looked over at him. Walter kept his eyes front like he was supposed to. This clearly annoyed the guy, who started commenting on who the fat baby thought he was. He didn't say anything on account of they were all supposed to be standing quietly, face front, hands clasped just-so behind their backs at the ends of their beds, so if words had come out of his mouth the Sergeant would have said something about it for sure.
Finally, he heard, "That is how to make a bed. See that you remember. Reveille is at oh five hundred." The Sergeant flicked off the light and closed the door behind him.
The quiet tension building in the room fell apart, first with a smattering of laughter and swears, then an impromptu underwear fight as guys got undressed and clothing started to fly. Walter turned his back to strip down to shorts and a T-shirt for sleeping. Something slapped into the back of his head and he threw it back. "Hey little baby," the guy next to him said. "Did your mommy pack you snacks for the trip?"
She had, but he'd eaten them all before they'd gotten to Louisiana. "Did yours?" Walter asked.
"Sure. Whisky and cigarettes. You're going to wash out, Four-Eyes. I bet you don't last a week."
"I bet you don't." Walter could kick himself for coming up with such a lame comeback. He crawled into bed. "Come on, guys, we gotta get up at five in the morning!" he said, mostly to himself. He looked around the room one last time. Some guys were sitting together on bunks talking about girls in ways that made him blush. Some other guys were roughhousing in the aisle between the beds. He opened the locker by his bed, put his glasses inside, and locked it. If they were anything like the guys at school, they'd probably break them just to be destructive and he couldn't afford to get new ones.
The noise continued for another half hour or so. Someone bumped the side of his bunk hard enough for it to slide a few inches with a screaming metallic noise. The Sergeant came in and yelled at everybody to shut up and something about extra laps in the morning. Walter pulled the scratchy wool blanket up over his head and tried to sleep.
Morning came with a bugle rather than a rising sun, but Walter was used to getting up before dawn to finish the farm chores before school, so he was up, dressed, and with his bed passably made when half the guys were still groaning and staring at their pants as though they couldn't remember how they went on. He didn't realize until he felt all the eyes on him that getting up with the bugle was a mistake. So much for always being in the top quarter but never at the very top. He was noticeable now. The little guy. Four-eyes. Suck-up. Hell.
The sergeant glowered at them while they all lined up in order of height, tall guys at the front, short guys at the rear. The guy one taller than he was, a blond guy named Muller, kept stopping short in hopes Walter would run into him from behind. Sergeant Kent (Sir) came up alongside both of them, his mood darker than the predawn sky. "Atten-Halt!" he snapped, and they all came to attention less than snappily. Walter kept his eyes front and hoped the sergeant had seen what was going on. "Muller!" he said. Walter felt a bit of tension leave his shoulders and jaw. "Seems you're having trouble marching in time. Back of the line. You can watch everyone else from there."
Marching wasn't hard, at least. It was like playing the drum set at school, only everyone was playing the same rhythm with their feet as the drums and a left, left, left right left and it lulled him, the feeling of everyone all doing the same thing and then, "Fall out! On the track men, two miles, wait for my signal."
Two miles. Sergeant blew the whistle and Walter started at what he thought was a good, steady pace, but everybody but one guy pulled ahead of him before they reached the first turn. He pushed to go faster, but his short legs weren't going to get him very far very fast. He just had to keep up enough, not fall back to dead last--though there was one guy who'd fallen so far behind Walter doubted he was going to finish at all.
A mile in, he thought he might cry. Another half mile and he stopped at the side of the track to throw up, but he wasn't the first guy to do that, so it was probably all right. Not all right, all right, but all right as in not about to get him into trouble with the Sergeant. His calves burned. His chest ached. He prayed this would get easier or he'd die of it soon, whichever the Lord preferred.
He didn't die of it, but his legs turned to noodles at the end of the run and he fell to the ground. "Walk it off," the Sergeant said, not just to him. The Sergeant walked around on the grass beside the track, hauling up guys by their shoulders and giving them little shoves forward. Walter didn't quite make it to his feet in time to keep from being manhandled. He didn't like hands on him, especially people he didn't know. It felt prickly and invasive, but he knew he shouldn't say anything. The Sergeant didn't mean nothing by it and Walter didn't want to be singled out as a troublemaker or a sissy. He walked past a couple of the bigger guys and heard snickers he tried to ignore.
It was calisthenics after that, with barely a break to catch their breaths. Walter was better at those. He wasn't tall and he hadn't had much reason to run for miles on the farm, but he could lift and carry and pull and throw. Somehow, the fact that he was right in the middle of the pack didn't register with the big guys, though. They'd picked their hens to peck, and Walter had a face and a body that looked weak, even if it wasn't. The Sergeant watched them picking on Walter and Everett and McGill and Arnold and mostly he didn't do much to stop it, though he seemed to want Walter and McGill at least to buck up and take it well.
After their morning run, they hit the showers, which was a whole new level of awful Walter spent face to the wall while he scrubbed off as quick as he could manage. The sun was well up by the time they headed to breakfast, which was pancakes and sausage, all they cared to eat, and this time they had fifteen whole minutes to fill up.
That turned out to be too long for Muller and Peretti, who scrunched up on either side of Walter. "Where you putting all that?" Muller asked. "You got a hollow leg, Babyface?"
"Answer him, Four-Eyes." Peretti ordered, even though he could see Walter's mouth was full.
A hand came down on his back, hard enough to make him spit out his bite of pancake. "Must be, Peretti," Walter said. "What's your excuse?"
Muller shoved him in the back of the head, then Walter heard, "Pick up your spot and fall in!" and he hopped up quick so he could jump over Peretti's foot before the guy could trip him like he'd wanted to. Peretti glared angry at Walter's back, but he didn't dare look behind him. They marched again, to a little wooden outbuilding about half a mile from the main set of barracks, not far from the helipads where the copter pilots practiced takeoffs and landings with body-shaped weights hanging off their sides.
The building was set up as a classroom, with a blackboard at the front and rows of desks. They sat shortest at the front, tallest at the back. Sergeant Brady handed each of the guys in the front row a stack of spiral-bound, printed textbooks with the US Army logo on the front. Walter took the one on top and passed the rest back, after which there followed a lesson on how to sit properly in a classroom. Feet on the floor, eyes front or down at the page, pages turning in unison on the Sergeant's order.
Sergeant Kent read them so much of the textbook between recitations that Walter didn't know why they even had copies of their own. Sometimes he'd stop to explain something in more detail, and twice, he stopped right in the middle of a passage to tell them all that what was on the page was stupid and would get them killed, so they shouldn't do it, but they should remember to answer like the book said when they took the tests.
Proving they could sit and listen like first graders took until lunchtime because half of them insisted on proving they couldn't. Walter caught a couple of spitballs on the back of his neck. The first time he'd turned around to tell the guy behind him to cut it out and he'd gotten reprimanded for his trouble, so he ignored the rest. The first recitation, he answered every question correctly, but just because they were right out of the book and he'd been listening and reading along like he was supposed to. That had been a mistake. The next one he deliberately missed one of the questions, but he was pretty sure Sergeant Kent was on to him.
When they broke for lunch, The bigger guys wrestled with each other and pushed each other into the damp ground until they got tired of that, then they grouped up into their clumpy little cliques and started hunting smaller guys for sport until the Sergeant made them all do push-ups while the little guys went through the line first. The big guys watched them from down on the ground. He didn't like the feeling he got looking at them--like somehow they were all silently planning revenge even though they weren't allowed to talk and most of them didn't have breath to spare. He ate his ham and potato casserole quickly and kept his eyes on the guys with the angriest swaggers, ducking away from shoves and feet stuck out to trip him when he could while letting them get enough licks in to keep them from going after him more aggressively.
It was the same dance that he'd learned in high school, and even though he hated it, he was good enough at it to get by.