Boot Camp

by Cole Parker

I grew up in a military family. All the way back to the Civil War, my forebears—all Deavers—had been fighting the nation's battles. More recently, my grandfather, now retired, had been a colonel; my dad was still an active-duty general; my two brothers were high in their ROTC groups at school; and I would be in the ROTC program next year as a sophomore.

My oldest brother, Robert, is a freshman at The Citadel. Two years younger, Daniel is a junior in high school and has a rank in our ROTC program second only to the senior who's going to graduate in May. Then, next year, Daniel will attain that rank. He'll be a senior then, and the obvious top dog student to lead the program.

I'm Carey, two years younger than Danny, and I might be the most gung-ho army brat of the three of us kids. I live and breathe the army. I want to be in the fight when our next one blows up. I haven't figured out if I want to be an officer or a grunt. I want to fight, and lower-grade officers do that. So that's a possibility. I'd like to lead a squad into battle. I mean, I'm there!

Summer is coming. I am always on the lookout for a camp that features military training activities. Each year I get older, it gets harder to find one that's suitable, but we live in South Carolina—there are lots of camps that cater to military wannabes. I figured I'd find something, somehow, eventually this year. Danny was helping me look.

Danny was my biggest supporter and my best friend. We were as close as two sibs could be, much closer than any I knew. Dad was kinda up in the clouds a lot. Busy with big issues. Away in Washington or overseas. With Robert now away getting The Citadel straightened out, or vice versa, Danny and I make out fine by ourselves. Mom tired of the sort of life we had and left five years ago. I no longer miss her. I'm happy with how things now are.

Danny and I shared a room till Robert left, and when he did, neither of us saw any reason to move to his room. We are still together. He looks out for me to the extent I need it, which actually is never. I look out for him, too. We'd grown up together from babyhood, so privacy isn't an issue for us and unnecessary.

Which was why this all worked out. He came home from school happy and excited. I was doing my homework. If I got straight A's in high school, it would make it easier to get into the college I wanted. And discipline was second nature to any really dedicated military brat.

"Hey Care," he enthused, "guess what? The ROTC is sponsoring a summer camp, and it'll be done like Army basic training. This is so everyone who signs up for the camp can see what it'll be like when it's for real. It's open enrollment for anyone who'll be in ROTC ext year can sign up; you'll be in the program then when you're of age, so you qualified. I signed us both up for the camp. I'm so looking forward to this!"

Our school didn't offer an ROTC program, but one on the other side of the city did, and that school took applicants into their program from other schools. Danny was the only one from our school to join. I would next year. We were both gung-ho army. Of course we were going to do the camp.

"Uh, but…" I did have reservations.

He seemed not to hear me and chattered on. "What'll make this special is, you know I'll be the top ranked officer in the ROTC program next year, and I'll be the lead training officer at the camp, just like they do it in the Army. Just like in a real boot camp, the rest of he platoon sleeps on cots in one large barracks room, and I have my own room in that same large room but it's private. It's a room with a door to shut out the noise from the barracks, it has its own bathroom and shower And here's the kicker: just like the Army again, I get to name an aide who shares my private space with me. A second in command, actually, though in fact I'll do all the ordering around and disciplining if it comes to that."

"Oh," I said. "And that aide, that'll be me?"

He grinned. "Of course it'll be you. You don't expect me to do this on my own, do you? Hell, you know more about this than I do. The rules, the proper discipline for infractions, the training activities, all this shit. You read up on it all the time, know what happens and when, and while I'll get directions on what to do each day, you'll already know and can keep me on the straight and narrow. We'll have instructors, of course, but I'll be in charge of the unit.

"And Carey, of course you'll go through basic training the same as everyone else in camp. I won't have to, but think I should to show the guys I can. But I expect you and I will have better times doing this stuff than anyone. All the working out we do, that should mean something. And if you look good, that'll show everyone I made a good choice when selecting my aide.

"By the way, I'll have the rank of sergeant for the summer, and you, as my aide, will be a corporal. Everyone else is an E-1 private."

"Won't the others be pissed that I'm a corporal and probably the youngest one there? I'm only 14 and look it, and they'll be anywhere up to 17 and I'll outrank them."

Looking like I do is my biggest worry. I look young and fragile. I'm not the latter, but do look the former, and if I outrank all these other guys, won't they want me to prove I deserve it? Well, I have no doubts I can do that. I've worked damn hard to overcome my looks. But the looks remain unchanged, and I still hate looking like I do. I don't portray the image of a John Wayne or a Chris Hemsworth or a Daniel Craig. I look like someone who needs an adult to hold his hand when crossing the street.

Danny is still going on. "You'll out perform them, too. I'm sure you will. Hell, you do all our drills as well as or better than I do. You take this crap a lot more seriously than I do. I care about it, sure, but it's like a religion to you. Anyway, you're signed up. I think you'll love it."

I worked even harder in our private drills after that, knowing I'd have a lot to prove. As time passed and we neared our summer vacation and the camp, I kept asking about the sign-up sheet. So far, no one but soon-to-be juniors and seniors had signed up, all kids who'd be 16 and 17. Not going to that school, I didn't know any of them, just like they wouldn't know me. That was fine, except I looked like my age, and having what looked like a kid brother along might bother some of them. This wasn't a pool of lightweights joining the camp. These were the tougher, harder boys in that ROTC progream. And I'd look like a stripling compared to them. It was good that Danny would be there if there were any confrontations to be addressed.

These guys were all boys, too. I wondered if girls signed up, how they'd handle that. Young teen girls sleeping in a barracks on cots next to a whole passel of hormonal young boys? With only Danny to keep everything above board? Boys in the army were all 18 or older and were more disciplined than boys younger than that who didn't worry so much about consequences. The worst Danny could do was send them home from camp for major infractions. Some younger boys with girls on the menu wouldn't object to going home early after having that dessert.

But Danny cleared that up for me, telling me this was a male-only ROTC program.

Which was good, as showering would be a problem if we had girls, too, as would body functions. Everything I'd heard and read about and seen in movies about basic training showed toilet facilities without any privacy for that sort of thing. How could they include high school girls in a setting like that? They wouldn't have to with their all-male rule.

The army seemed to prefer its basic training leaders, sergeants usually, to be the bullying sort. They like guys who'll get their charges through the program by yelling at them, demeaning them, criticizing them, and when they can, humiliating them. I guess the reason for that is to see if the enlistees can take it. They don't want pussies in the army who can't stand a little disparagement. This seems very 19th-century to me, but one thing you'll find in the army is a great reluctance to change. Screaming at trainees was the way things were done back then, and goddammit, it was good enough for today's yellow-bellied chickenshits as well.

But this was a summer camp for high schoolers. And it was supposed to make the attendees love the army and want to join up. Would that be the case is these young kids were humiliated?

No. So Danny was told to support them, to coddle them if necessary, but no matter what, to have them roaring to join up when the time came. Still, he was to promote discipline, promote the army way of doing things—just do it nicely.

We take a bus to a retired army training center the ROTC has hired for the camp. There is no singing of camp and travel songs during the ride. Danny stops that as soon as it starts. But nicely. Explains that on the real bus to the real basic training place, no one will be signing. Most of the guys will be scared shitless. Danny uses that word. I think it helps set the mood. Somber.

When we arrive, Danny has them line up in squad formation. They know how to do this from their ROTC drills. He tells them when they're released, they're to go to their barracks, the building right behind where they now are, then to select a cot and stow their belongings. He also tells them from now on, they're to behave as if this is all real, that they're to pretend this is their real basic training for the next two weeks. That they'll take orders from him and from his aide. I'm standing just behind him and a little off to the side. He introduces me a Corporal Carey Deavers, his aide.

He dismisses them and they do as instructed. Danny and I do the same in the private quarters we have at the front end of the barracks.

We spend our two weeks training just like an incoming class of E-1s would, just not quite so rigorously. Calisthenics; lengthy runs with and then without packs; climbing nets; scaling walls; crawling through expanses of muddy terrain; shooting rifles; swimming, both on the surface while breathing every other stroke, and then underwater while holding our breaths. We have hand-to-hand combat training with instructors showing us the moves, and then we get to practice the moves with each other with the stipulation that there be no actual hitting. Being a corporal, I miss that exercise with the E-1s; noncoms don't interact with enlistees that way.

We learn to read maps and to find our way in the woods that surround the campsite. We run up long hills. We learn to strip a rifle, clean it, reassemble it, and then do that in the dark. We learn to prepare for a barracks inspection and a personal inspection.

No too surprisingly, one of the guys quits. Danny had ordered a quick inspection at two a.m. because someone had a flashlight and was shinning it in other guys' eyes, waking them up and causing the kind of growling that often precedes a fight. Danny had everyone stand at attention at the end of their cots and asked who had the flashlight. He says that if no one admits to it, the entire group would go on punishment detail.

Everyone turns their heads to look at one guy, and Danny confronts him. Without Danny having said a word, the guy says, "Fuck it. I quit. This is no fun at all."

Danny sends him to the main headquarter to await a ride home. The rest of us go back to bed.

The two weeks pass quickly, perhaps because we are so busy. The days are full of activities and sleep has become a precious quantity. Our last day arrives; we'll spend most of it show what we've learned, how we've assimilated the many aspects of our training. There will be an obstacle course. Each guy will run the course which will be monitored along the way to see that none of the challenges that have been set up are missed. Each individual will set off, run the course alone, and he'll be timed.

Both Danny and I have taken all the training along with the rest of the guys. We'll do the obstacle course as well. I was motivated: I wanted to score the best time.

I had an ulterior reason. The thing is, some of the guys have become unhappy with me. That makes sense as I have a better bed than they do, more privacy than they do—hell, Danny and I could be having sex for all they know; they could easily imagine I'm gay because of my looks—and they certainly don't have the privacy for any of that themselves.

The resentment has been building during training. Danny had been right. What they were learning was stuff I'd been practicing for some time. I was better at it than they were, and that was more obvious day after day. I never said anything. Hell, I never even spoke to any of them. But they saw me training with them, I was better even though I was younger and, well, my looks, and I was their least favorite camper by a long shot. Resentment built day after day. I was making things look easy that they were struggling with. What teenage boy wanting to be seen as a macho he-man likes to be shown up by a 14-year-old kid who looked like me?

Two of the guys were the worst. Ted and Bone. I never did know their last names. I didn't interact with any of the guys, but just overhearing them talking all together, I knew that was what these two were called. They gave me dirty looks all the time, and I stayed away from them.

So there'd been low-key grumbling aimed at me, but much of it was from them. I'd ignored it best I could. Now, I have to wonder: we are all going to be timed on the obstacle run, and a lot of it will be through the woods where we'll be alone and vulnerable. Will anyone try to make sure I don't finish the course? Am I going to be ambushed? Does the resentment run that deep? And if so, what will they do?

It was Ted and Bone I was most worried about. The others seem to barely notice me. Those two have taken to whispering together while looking at me. They must be planning something.

I was pretty good at all the activities we had. The thing was, I approached them differently from my competition. They simply attacked each challenge, trying to defeat it by force. My way was to look at each objectively, looking for weaknesses, seeking a more efficient way to succeed than what was obvious.

There were no easy ways, but there were easier ones. Like climbing the nets for example. The nets had eight inch square empty spaces with inch-thick ropes between and above and below each space. Most of the guys put a foot on the rope in the middle of each space; it sagged accordingly, making the ascent arduous. I put my foot right next to a vertical rope, decreasing the sag, easing the climb.

Most of the challenges had some way to make them more accessible if you just looked for them. I had, and my times were better than my older, stronger competitors.

I go next to last for the final day's challenge; Danny will follow me and be last. No one knows what challenges we'll be facing as we take off, but I am assuming there'll be one of most everything we've trained on. I'm ready. Will some of the guys, meaning Ted and Bone, be waiting for me out on the course? If so, I'll do what I can to prevail. I don't mind a fight, even against the two of them. I decide I won't let myself worry about them.

"Don't get distracted." I've heard that from instructors all week. I'll be focusing on the obstacles.

I'm on the starting line, and I take off when I hear, "Go!" The first obstacle I come to is the crawl. The field isn't muddy today, but does have a grid of wire three feet above the course to keep us down. Fine with me. I'm smaller than anyone else so this is easier for me by default.

Next comes the net, fifteen feet high, and I am at the top and over as fast as I ever have been by climbing with one foot on each side of a vertical. Next is the hundred-yard run carrying a rifle which is handed me along with three cartridges when I am back down the net, feeling the climb in my thighs. I smile, sure that I know what's coming next. I'm right. Shooting for accuracy is up. They want to see how good a shot we'll be while panting from our run.

I load the rifle with the cartridges they've given me and then lie prone on the mat they've provided. I have to steady my breathing the best I can, aware of the seconds ticking away. Good thing I'm in excellent shape, I realize, because my heart rate is slowing quickly. I wait another few seconds, then use the scope and steady on my target, take a deep breath, let it out slowly, take another, let half of it out and hold the rest. My target looks steady in my crosshairs, no bouncing with my heartbeat. I squeeze the trigger, then again and again. I can see the holes in the target though the scope: one is in the ten-ring, one in the nine and one in the seven. None of us did better than 19 in our practices. My 26 has a good chance to be the best of our group today.

I still have the wall and the creek crossing, going hand over hand on a tightrope over a narrow creek. These two are my worst events, one I haven't been able to outthink. I do the best I can, better than I'd done them before. Another run comes next, this one up a rather steep hill and down the other side. Not falling on the fast descent with uneven footing is the challenge here. I try my best not to let my momentum take me too fast, running angled to the slope instead of straight down when I can. I make it down safely. I'm breathing hard by now, and I'm just about physically done. I still have my one last obstacle to beat.

No one likes this one.

Ahead of me is a black, disgusting, putrid, obnoxious swamp harboring who knows what denizens. It was one hundred and ten yards of black ooze, and I had to wade through it to the other side. We'd had to hike through it many times in the past two weeks, then spend hours cleaning our shoes to army standards. The bottom was glutinous, adhesive mud, and by the time we reached the far bank, our leg muscles were burning from pulling one foot after the other out of the sludge. For 110 yards!

Most of its length is mid-thigh deep for all of us except me. I'm shorter than the others and it comes close to my waist except right near the banks where we step in and then finally step out. It quickly deepens to just the right depth to make slogging through it a real nightmare.

Well, I've come this far and feel pretty confident I've gained the best time so far. And how have I managed that? It hasn't been from being stronger or faster than anyone. It's because I've thought my way through, finding quicker ways of facing the obstacles. Can I do the same here?

I look at that damn swamp, seeming to be not only challenging me but doing so with an evil presumptuousness, and then I smile. No, I won't let this defeat me. I step in, take three steps forward and sink down so I'm now waist deep in the slime, and then, instead of slogging, I lay myself out into it and begin swimming, my whole body except for my head down in the goo.

It works! It's much faster swimming than hiking through the morass, even if it does feel far more disgusting. I swim till my hand hits bottom, then stand up. It's only knee high here, close to the bank, and in only a couple more steps, I'm out on solid ground.

I have only another two hundred yards though the woods to go, and, looking for Ted and Bone all the way, I make it to the end in just over a half a minute. Then I flop on the grass, exhausted.

Danny comes over and looks down at me, then at his stopwatch. He's smiling. "You just beat the best time of anyone by over five minutes!"

It takes me a moment, but then I manage to talk. "I was sure Ted and Bone would show up somewhere. Never saw them."

Danny shakes his head. "No, they were inconvenienced. When it was your turn, I called them over and had them list everyone's time from the fastest competitor to slowest. One would check the sheet and call out the name and time, the other would record it. I kept them right beside me. They weren't happy, but that was partly because they were near the bottom of the list, two of the slowest guys here."

"You ready to go?" I ask him, wondering why he is still with me instead of out on the course.

"No, I decided not to run the course. I thought I'd stay with you. Those two looked murderous. Let's go back to the barracks; you need a shower."

We walk back, and on the way, he keeps glancing at me. Finally, I ask, "What? There's a bee in my hair or something?"

He looks a bit sheepish, but then laughs. "It's you," he said. "I guess this'll be your last event with our ROTC."

"Huh? Why?"

"Because of this unit's rules. We're male-only. And I can see your tits starting to show. Your blouse is soaking wet, and it clings to you, and there are slight bulges where boys don't have them. You have to look closely, but, well, what can I say? Bulges. It'll be more obvious in a couple of months when school starts again. But hey, one good thing. The bulge in your crotch—there'll be no need for you to be swiping my socks any longer."

He turned serious. "Time to start being a girl, Carey. And hey, you can still be an army brat. Lots of programs take girls, and there are lots of girls in the army now in combat missions. You can join almost all programs. Just not a male-only ROTC unit, even if you are better than the boys."

The End

Iomfats.org

Boot Camp

by Cole Parker

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