Let the Beatings Commence

“Hey Vance, I’m going to smash this clipboard over Opey’s head unless you want me to smash it over your head,” Fergie said.

What a great set of options.  Get your head smashed or run like a bitch.

            “You can hit me, just don’t fuckin’ miss,” I stated.

            Opey was already hiding in the fetal position in the arms room when Fergie approached me with this proposition.  Fergie was a tall, out of shape, backwoods bigot that took advantage of his E-6 staff sergeant rank and the cluelessness of new guys.  I had just begun the ritual of initiation. 

Fergie raised the clipboard and swung.  I simultaneously thrust my head forward as if I was striking a soccer ball.  Soccer skills actually came in handy in this situation.  If you strike the ball with the top of your forehead, it wouldn’t hurt.  I took this same philosophy with the clipboard.  The clipboard shattered and everyone watching thought I’d be in pain, but I just walked outside of the arms room with a smile.

            “You’re welcome Opey,” I said as I passed thru the doorway.

            Opey was an infantryman that had already deployed, so I was a bit curious as to why he was still being picked on in front of a bunch of new guys.  He was a tall, thin, redhead that flinched every time Fergie lunged at him.  I knew I could start proving myself by making sacrifices and taking beatings to protect other soldiers, but how far could I take it?  I was out of the arms room for a split second when Fergie wanted another round.

            “Vance, atten-huh!” grunted Vines.

            “We’re not done yet, Vance,” Fergie said.

            There I was standing at attention in front of 80 guys I wanted to desperately prove my worth to.  Vines was staring me down about six inches away from my face to make sure I wouldn’t run.  When I stared right back as if to say, “bring it” he backed off while smiling with a wad of chew tucked in his lower lip. 

“All right, Vance, all right,” he said in a soothing yet scary voice.

Vines was in Raider platoon with Fergie and together they were quite the force to be reckoned with.  Vines was the most diesel looking guy in the troop.  He was white, held a Louisiana draw, stood at six feet tall, dipped tobacco constantly and had a gap between his front two teeth.  He was easily 215 lbs of pure wrecking ball strength.  I was fucking screwed.

            Vines posted up a few feet away as Fergie walked out of the arms room and grabbed a fire extinguisher.  He put the bottom end against my stomach while rotating it with a curious look on his face.  I knew exactly why he was sizing it up against my stomach so I flexed my abs and braced for impact.  He cocked back and swung with everything he had.

            The sound of a hiss came out of my nose as my nostrils flared and I struggled to keep from folding in half.  It didn’t hurt too badly though.  Next.  Vines knew I wanted nothing to do with Fergie’s approval and could take a beating like that all day.  Vines picked up a .50 cal barrel.  Shit.  Those barrels are 45 inches in length and 24 lbs.  Now, if you take a guy that has 65 lbs of muscle on you and he decides to try stabbing you with a .50 cal barrel, you’re going to feel it.  I stood proudly, but I was secretly screaming like a little girl on the inside.  Vines took aim for my navel.  Perfect strike.

            “Umph,” I grunted.

            “All right, that’s enough now,” Sergeant Shmiddie said as he walked out of the arms room, “You OK Vancey?”

            “Never better,” I barely whispered as I gasped for air.

            “Go get some air.”

            Everyone was looking at me in awe.  They hadn’t seen anyone take a beating like that without crying about it.  A seed was sewn for growing respect from the veterans.  Only the new guy beatings weren’t done yet. 

Golden Drop

I walked passed all the platoon cages and exited the building.  “Fuck, Fuck” games had commenced with the FNG’s.  Ten guys from my basic training class were assigned to Crazyhorse troop and 35 others were spread throughout the squadron.  Crazyhorse saw all ten of us as fresh meat.  One of the Fuck, Fuck games was assigning a FNG a rock that he had to carry around.  If a soldier lost his rock then he would instantly get smoked.

            Golden was the first victim in this game.  He was thin, freckle faced, brown-haired and possessed the agility of a monkey.  Golden had a selective southern draw from being born in Louisiana, but he was raised in Pennsylvania.  He only seemed to have an accent when somebody said nice things about the south.  Golden was a brave guy, but reckless with his actions and his mouth.  He was assigned to Raider platoon.  What we didn’t know as FNGs was the rock we were assigned would attract the attention of lower ranking veterans who wanted to see us get smoked.

            Whitey, a short, strong black guy, took Golden’s rock.  That’s right, a black guy named Whitey.  Golden smiled at him and Whitey just walked away with his eyebrows raised as if to say, “Sucks to be you.”  Golden thought it was a joke since Whitey wasn’t a NCO.  Golden followed Whitey inside asking for his rock and the rest of us were in en tow to watch the ensuing fight.  Whitey refused to give up the rock and Golden picked it up a notch.

            “You better give up that rock,” Golden ordered.

            Whitey just smiled, forcing Golden to act.  What Golden didn’t realize is that even though he was in good shape, Whitey had just returned from war.  When someone goes off to war and comes back, they have a rage festering inside them.  When a combat veteran unleashes the rage, not a whole lot can stop him.  Golden towered over Whitey and saw him as an easy target.  Golden was wrong.

            Golden came up from behind Whitey and wrapped his arms around him in an attempt to fling Whitey away from the pet rock.  In a split second Whitey ducked and got behind Golden.  He wrapped his arm around the back of Golden’s neck with such a force that Golden folded and Whitey picked him up in a cradling position, like holding a baby.  Whitey then lifted Golden over his head and threw him to the concrete floor.  I heard the thud and turned away.

            The thud noise was Golden’s head making contact with the concrete ground inside the troop.  He was knocked out cold for a couple of seconds with blood starting to form on the back of his dome. 

            “Shit, now we gotta fix ‘em Whitey,” Vines said with his thick Louisiana accent.

            Raider platoon picked Golden up and took him to the aid station where he told medics, “I fell,” like a battered wife as Vines watched him get patched up.  He took a beating and protected his superiors.  Point to Golden, even though he lost some brain cells that day.