Ritalin

The only other time I was smoked as an individual was due to an investigation.  An investigation as to who had chewing tobacco.  I know, how trifling.  No one was allowed to chew or smoke tobacco during basic.  Even the drills weren’t supposed to smoke, chew or drink around the privates, so you know damn well they were always in a pissy mood and if they couldn’t do it we’d be punished harshly for such acts.  One of the drills still managed to fill his camelback with whiskey for every march we did.  We got a buzz just smelling it come out of his sweaty pores. 

            The person in question during this investigation was someone I became good pals with, JT.  He was a tall, skinny, white Kentucky boy with a southern draw and lots of confidence.  JT wasn’t afraid of anything and he enjoyed living life to the fullest.  He was the guy that would take bets to eat certain critters, such as a thumb sized, multi-colored, hairy caterpillar.  JT was going thru basic to be in the National Guard, or Nasty Girl as us regular army people called them.  One thing JT missed just as much as his girlfriend during basic was chewing tobacco.  Somehow he had it smuggled in and had gotten away with it for a couple of months, but he messed up and a drill found a dip can hidden in the bathroom, or latrine, excuse my French.  Learning military dialect was always hilarious to me.

            The drill was furious that one of his privates was enjoying something that he could not openly do.  This is when drills take their platoons to the “Pit.”  The Pit was a 50 x 50 foot area filled with 3-5 inches of sawdust.  If you managed to piss the drill off to the point of going to the Pit then you were in for a long fucking day.  The Pit was covered to keep the sawdust extra dry.  As you do various exercises the sawdust kicks up and you have no choice but to inhale it into your lungs.  This makes breathing very difficult and usually creates quick results when a drill needs answers.  Unfortunately for our drills, we were a tight nit platoon and not so eager to rat on a good man.  Unfortunately for JT there would eventually be a rat and it would be one of his own bunkmates.

                I was in the leadership room with only four others.  Typically if anyone messed up, we would be replaced.  We made it thru most of the 16 weeks of training together, which was unheard of.  JT was one of those leaders.  The rat in the house, Ritalin, was another.  Ritalin was only in that room because he was good with computer programs the drills used to keep all the private’s training and progress in order.  Ritalin had dark brown hair and freckles peppered his cheeks.  He was of average height, thin, completely nonathletic and annoyingly hyper.  The kid was also a pathological liar. 

Ritalin knew we couldn’t prove anything he said during basic, so he filled us with a lot of BS.  He told us his great, great grandfather was the first recipient of the Medal of Honor during the Civil War and that his brother had recently earned one in Iraq as a scout.  Ritalin said his brother was killed while earning the medal, so of course none of us contested his proud claims.

            After basic I regained access to the Internet and did some research.  That lying motherfucker.  He also claimed that he was higher ranking than all of us, because he had done college courses and JROTC during high school.  The rank was definitely a lie too; only it was a drill that called him out in front of everyone.

            “That’s not the way it works, private, so shut the fuck up!“ yelled the drill.

            If our eyes represented applause, that drill got the longest call for an encore in the history of mankind that day.

            Back in the Pit we continued to sweat and gasp for air.

            “Whoever did it just fess up and stop being a blue falcon,” cried Ritalin.

            “Shut the fuck up, private!” even the drill despised that little shit bird.

            The term “blue falcon” was synonymous with “buddy fucker.”  The drill realized the Pit wasn’t working and sent us into the barracks to stand by for another smoke session.  As the drills were plotting our torturous night to come, the platoon’s leaders gathered.

            “Vance, I’m just going to call it,” JT told me.

            “Yeah, you should admit it you fucking buddy fucker!” Ritalin screeched.

            “Just for that outburst, let it ride JT,” I suggested while glaring at Ritalin, “as far as the drill knows, that dip can has been in the latrine since the last cycle of privates.”

            Ritalin looked like he was going to cry.  A drill walked into our room first. 

            “I’m going to make the walls wet with your sweat if I don’t get answers, privates.”

            I could tell immediately he was bluffing and about to just smoke us for a few minutes then call it a night.  Ritalin wasn’t so good at reading people.

            “I know who did it drill sergeant,” the drill turned to Ritalin and he about crapped his pants, “well, I mean, I know that Vance knows who did it, drill sergeant.”

            “The fuck I do Ritalin,” I denied.

            “Watch your fuckin’ mouth, Vance,” the drill snapped, “Well, who did it?”

            “Drill sergeant, I do not know who did it.”

            “Yeah you do Vance, just say it,” yet another weak, whiny cry from Ritalin that made me think of the part from the Never-Ending Story where the girl keeps saying, “Say my name Atreyu, just say my naaaaaaame.”  You know what I’m talking about ‘80’s babies!

            “No I do not.”

            “Step into my office, Vance,” said the drill with a calmer voice.

            JT looked like he was about to say something as the drill turned his back, but I shook my head at him to keep quiet.  The drill smoked me for only a few minutes.  We both knew I wasn’t going to talk even though we both knew I had answers.  JT was too good of a man to watch me suffer so he told the drill the truth and said I knew nothing.  It was a blatant lie about my knowledge of the situation, but neither JT nor the drill believed a person should be punished for not ratting in that particular situation. 

            Unfortunately for JT, lying to a non-commissioned officer, or NCO, was a punishable offense.  He was kicked out of the leadership room and paperwork was being done to strip his Private First Class E-3 rank to be replaced by Private E-2 rank.  He was also put on 30 days extra duty, which meant the drills would have extra work for him even after each long day of training.  The next 30 days would suck for JT.  As he was getting an initial ass chewing from a drill, I was in the leadership room with Ritalin.

            “See dude, its all good,” Ritalin said in an attempt to rid my face of rage.

            I was seeing red and I know the room was left to just us by our other bunkmates for a reason.  It was a moment that happened throughout basic in different forms for a private to be fixed violently by another private.  We never had “pillow fights,” which were pillowcases filled with soap bars used to beat a blue falcon in his sleep.  That was a more old-school approach.  In our platoon, we just arranged for a room or latrine to be emptied except for the privates that needed to fix a problem.  It was just Ritalin standing 15 feet away from me in our empty room and a quiet hallway beside us.  Rucksacks and duffel bags stood in my way.  I had to beat him to a pulp for such cowardice.  As soon as he spoke I B-lined it toward him at a high rate of speed, kicking and throwing everything in my path right at him.

            “You fucking coward! Pussy-ass piece of shit!” I bellowed.

            He was out the door before the first rucksack hit the ground and no, I have no idea what a “pussy-ass piece of shit” is, but that’s what naturally came out during my temper tantrum.  I’m actually glad I didn’t get the chance to cave his face in, because he most likely would have tattled.  Ritalin hid from me until he could request to change rooms from a drill.  My platoon approved of all my actions and Ritalin was ignored for the remainder of our 16-weeks of training.  Even the drills knew what had happened and ignored my attack.  In that moment I had to take a relationship with a friend and ask if it was worth losing rank over.  I chose my friend.  Life in the military would put me in several different situations with these options.  JT’s situation was the easiest decision in 6 ½ years of service.