Welcome to Charlie-10!

Flashback.

A day in late February 1986.

I’m sitting on a bus with about thirty other men and women. We’re all dressed in camo-green, the uniform of the United States Army. The uniforms feel odd. Despite our best efforts, strings seem to materialize all over them. Many of the recruits on the bus with me are young and are sweating with fear and apprehension.

I’ve heard you can smell fear. If so, the stench of mothballs hid it. Our uniforms reeked of them. On our laps was a large duffel bag containing more uniforms, jackets, socks, and underwear. If I squeeze my duffle too much, a fresh wave of mothball stink erupts.

We drove for only five minutes, but it seemed like forever. We stopped in front of the barracks. It didn’t look at all like the military barracks in movies. It resembled more of a car garage that had the second and third floors enclosed. The first floor was an open bay, and I could see several Drill Sgts milling about waiting for us.

Three Drills waited on the sidewalk.

The bus doors opened, and a drill sergeant came aboard.

“Morning,” he said pleasantly. The man was nice as punch. He had a welcoming smile and a manner that suggested he was open and receptive to people.

“I’m Drill Sgt. Caddy. I’m the Senior Drill here. I want to welcome you to Charlie-10, your home for the next eighteen weeks. You’ll go through basic training here, graduate from that, and then continue on to complete MP school.”

So far, so good. It didn’t seem like it would be too bad.

“Here, we’ll teach you how to be a soldier.”

And then, I swear to God; he changed right there in front of us. It was still the same man, the same uniform, the same round brown. But the nice guy melted away like snow in the spring.

And a demon replaced him.

“Now, privates.” The word “privates,” dripped with disdain. “You’ve got exactly thirty seconds to get your butts off my bus, and I just took twenty of them!”

Thirty people leaped to their feet, their eyes wide with shock. We began trying to get to the door.

“Get off the bus!” the demon screamed. “Get off the bus!”

I brushed past him, feeling his hot breath dripping fury down my back.

“Get off the bus!”

A female Drill waited for us at the bottom of the steps. “Fall in,” she screamed. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman, but her behavior made me certain she was into domination. I wondered where she hid her whip.

“Fall in.” her eyes went wide with anger and shock. “You call that a formation!”

Somehow, they got us all into something that resembled a formation.

The third Drill came up with a clipboard. He acted as if we were beneath his dignity even to address. But he did anyway. Looking at the clipboard, he shouted, “As I call your name, fall out and assemble to my left in a line. Anderson!”

After calling off seven or eight names, all female, the female Drill took charge of them and marched them up the sidewalk and into the open bay area.

Another drill had materialized to replace the female Drill Sgt.

More names were called off, this time, all men. That Drill Sgt marched them off to the open area.

I didn’t dare try to look to see what was going on. I had an idea from the shouting.

A third drill Sgt materialized on the sidewalk.

“Miller, Muniz, Mullenex!” The Drill with the clipboard yelled.

We fell out and formed a line of ill-fitting uniforms, hanging strings, and eye-burning mothballs.

“Right face!” the Drill commanded. Then he frowned. “Your other right, privates!”

Once we got that right, he commanded, “Forward march.”

Somehow, we made it down the sidewalk, executed two right turns and then a left and onto the quad without killing ourselves.

“Drop your bags,” he commanded.

Then it began.

Several Drill Sgts began circling us. I had a brief thought we were being sized up, much in the way a vulture might regard a dying cow in Death Valley.

 But no, it was more like jackals sizing up a gazelle for the kill.

Occasionally one of the Drills would lunge into someone’s face, yell something and then continue their hunt.

I was facing the sign that identified the name of the company. Charlie Company, 10th (OSUT) Military Police Battalion. Under it were the names of the first sergeant and the company commander.

“Captain Douglas Bonebrake,” I read to myself. I made sure I didn’t smile or I might attract the attention of the people in the brown hats.

Here I was. A father of two. A decorated police officer. A college graduate.

Now, I was the oldest male PFC in the United States Army who had never been busted down.

And all I could think about while looking at the CO’s name was who the hell wrote the movie I found myself in.