Hitler?”
“How about it, farmer?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Chernik answered. “I sort of like the extra hour sleep I get here.”
There was a loud noise from the other tent.
“O’Hearne,” Dwyer spat. “Of all the crapheads in the Marine Corps, I got to draw a tent with him. Our D.I. away from the field.”
“Yeah, he sure gripes me.”
“Say, Norton, I heard they been feeding us saltpeter. Is it a fact?”
“What makes you think so?”
“I ain’t had a hard on since I been here.”
“Just overworked,” Norton explained.
“Ha-ha, duty Ted Dwyer. You were the guy who was going to San Diego the night we got here.”
“Yeah, Ted, how do you like your dress blues?”
“Hey, Norton, what did you used to do in civilian life?”
“Teacher.”
“I thought it was something special.”
“There isn’t a thing in the world special about teachers,” the quiet fellow retorted.
“I mean, you’re not like most of the yardbirds here, fresh out of high school. Where did you used to teach?”
“University of Pennsylvania.”
“Penn! We got a celebrity in the tent, men.”
“Jesus Christ, what are you doing here?”
“Taking boot camp like the rest of the crapheads.”
“But—a teacher at Penn….”
“I don’t see any sign barring us.” Norton smiled.
“I’ll be go to hell, how about that?”
L.Q. picked up his skin-tight green trousers. “In another goddam week I’ll fit them if that Texas keeps drilling us like he has.”
“I had a dream last night. I dreamed I was in San Diego with a beautiful broad. I was making time with her and I woke up laughing and laughing.”
“Why?”
“She was Whitlock’s wife.”
“I won’t have you speaking of my old friend that way.”
“All I dream is lep two, lep two—fall in, fall out.”
Jones sprang to his feet. “All right you goddamyankees…” he aped Whitlock’s shrill voice, “ain’t you goddam crapheads ever gonna learn…Gawd…Jones, your other left…saddest bunch of boots I’ve ever seen…eh, Mister Christian…Mister Christian…what is the matter with Jones…where the deuce is his chest…hup two…I’ll be a sad bastard…goddamyankees…can’t you people understand American when it’s spoke…on your feet, feathermerchant…stand on your head…run to the bay…lick the floor clean.” The men doubled in laughter did not see the tent flap swing open. “Mister Christian, ten lashes for the goddamyankees.” L.Q. spun around and his eyes met Corporal Whitlock’s. “Oh…oh… Tenshun! ”
They continued laughing, not seeing the D.I.
“TENSHUN!” Jones shrieked.
Cots and seabags overturned in a race to get to their feet.
“Outside, all of you,” the Texan hissed. “And bring your buckets.”
They stood in front of the D.I.’s tent, stiff as ramrods. The other men of the platoon peeked adventurously from their tents. The corporal paraded in front of them. “What are you people?”
“Crapheads,” they answered in unison.
“Goddamyankees too,” L.Q. added.
“Keep repeating what you are.”
“I’m a craphead…I’m a craphead…I’m a craphead.”
“Now put the buckets on your heads and keep talking.”
“I’m a craphead,” came the muffled sound beneath the scrub buckets.
“Left face…for’d harch.”
For an hour he paraded the seven offenders throughout the entire boot camp area. The platoons of boots gawked in amusement. With a pair of D.I. sticks he beat a drum roll on the buckets to their chant “I’m a craphead.”
In the darkness, he ordered them into buildings, ditches, clotheslines, heads, and light poles until they reeled like punch-drunk fighters. Then the chant was changed to “I love my Drill Instructor.”
During the hours of drill the voices of Beller and Whitlock alternately droned cadence and shouted corrections. It was as though the two men had eyes on their feet, in back of their heads, and on both hands. The smallest flaw was always
“How about it, farmer?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Chernik answered. “I sort of like the extra hour sleep I get here.”
There was a loud noise from the other tent.
“O’Hearne,” Dwyer spat. “Of all the crapheads in the Marine Corps, I got to draw a tent with him. Our D.I. away from the field.”
“Yeah, he sure gripes me.”
“Say, Norton, I heard they been feeding us saltpeter. Is it a fact?”
“What makes you think so?”
“I ain’t had a hard on since I been here.”
“Just overworked,” Norton explained.
“Ha-ha, duty Ted Dwyer. You were the guy who was going to San Diego the night we got here.”
“Yeah, Ted, how do you like your dress blues?”
“Hey, Norton, what did you used to do in civilian life?”
“Teacher.”
“I thought it was something special.”
“There isn’t a thing in the world special about teachers,” the quiet fellow retorted.
“I mean, you’re not like most of the yardbirds here, fresh out of high school. Where did you used to teach?”
“University of Pennsylvania.”
“Penn! We got a celebrity in the tent, men.”
“Jesus Christ, what are you doing here?”
“Taking boot camp like the rest of the crapheads.”
“But—a teacher at Penn….”
“I don’t see any sign barring us.” Norton smiled.
“I’ll be go to hell, how about that?”
L.Q. picked up his skin-tight green trousers. “In another goddam week I’ll fit them if that Texas keeps drilling us like he has.”
“I had a dream last night. I dreamed I was in San Diego with a beautiful broad. I was making time with her and I woke up laughing and laughing.”
“Why?”
“She was Whitlock’s wife.”
“I won’t have you speaking of my old friend that way.”
“All I dream is lep two, lep two—fall in, fall out.”
Jones sprang to his feet. “All right you goddamyankees…” he aped Whitlock’s shrill voice, “ain’t you goddam crapheads ever gonna learn…Gawd…Jones, your other left…saddest bunch of boots I’ve ever seen…eh, Mister Christian…Mister Christian…what is the matter with Jones…where the deuce is his chest…hup two…I’ll be a sad bastard…goddamyankees…can’t you people understand American when it’s spoke…on your feet, feathermerchant…stand on your head…run to the bay…lick the floor clean.” The men doubled in laughter did not see the tent flap swing open. “Mister Christian, ten lashes for the goddamyankees.” L.Q. spun around and his eyes met Corporal Whitlock’s. “Oh…oh… Tenshun! ”
They continued laughing, not seeing the D.I.
“TENSHUN!” Jones shrieked.
Cots and seabags overturned in a race to get to their feet.
“Outside, all of you,” the Texan hissed. “And bring your buckets.”
They stood in front of the D.I.’s tent, stiff as ramrods. The other men of the platoon peeked adventurously from their tents. The corporal paraded in front of them. “What are you people?”
“Crapheads,” they answered in unison.
“Goddamyankees too,” L.Q. added.
“Keep repeating what you are.”
“I’m a craphead…I’m a craphead…I’m a craphead.”
“Now put the buckets on your heads and keep talking.”
“I’m a craphead,” came the muffled sound beneath the scrub buckets.
“Left face…for’d harch.”
For an hour he paraded the seven offenders throughout the entire boot camp area. The platoons of boots gawked in amusement. With a pair of D.I. sticks he beat a drum roll on the buckets to their chant “I’m a craphead.”
In the darkness, he ordered them into buildings, ditches, clotheslines, heads, and light poles until they reeled like punch-drunk fighters. Then the chant was changed to “I love my Drill Instructor.”
During the hours of drill the voices of Beller and Whitlock alternately droned cadence and shouted corrections. It was as though the two men had eyes on their feet, in back of their heads, and on both hands. The smallest flaw was always
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