R.O.T.C. (Reserve Officer Training Corps) was for the misfits. Like I
said, it was either that or gym. I would have taken gym but I didn’t want
people to sec the boils on my back. There was something wrong with everybody enrolled in R.O.T.C. It almost entirely consisted of guys who didn’t like
sports or guys whose parents forced them to take R.O.T.C. because they thought it was patriotic. The parents of rich kids tended to be more
patriotic because they had more to lose if the country went under. The poor parents were far less patriotic, and then often professed their patriotism
only because it was expected or because it was the way they had been raised. Subconsciously they knew it wouldn’t be any better or worse for them
if the Russians or the Germans or the Chinese or the Japanese ran the
country, especially if they had dark skin. Things might even improve.
Anyhow, since many of the parents of Chelsey High were rich, we had one of the biggest R.O.T.C.'s in the city.
So we marched around in the sun and learned to dig latrines, cure snake– bite, tend the wounded, tie tourniquets, bayonet the enemy; we learned about hand grenades, infiltration, deployment of troops, maneuvers, retreats, advances, mental and physical discipline; we got on the firing range, bang bang, and we got our marksmen’s medals. We had actual field maneuvers, we went out into the woods and waged a mock war. We crawled on our bellies toward each other with our rifles. We were very serious. Even I was serious. There was something about it that got your blood going. It was stupid and we all knew it was stupid, most of us, but something clicked in our brains and
we really wanted to get involved in it. We had an old retired Army man, Col. Sussex. He was getting senile and drooled, little trickles of saliva running
out of the corners of his mouth and down, around and under his chin. He never said anything. He just stood around in his uniform covered with medals and drew his pay from the high school. During our mock maneuvers he carried around a clipboard and kept score. He stood on a high hill and made marks on the clipboard—probably. But he never told us who won. Each side claimed victory. It made for bad feelings.
Lt. Herman Beechcroft was best. His father owned a bakery and a hotel catering service, whatever that was. Anyhow, he was best. He always gave the same speech before a maneuver.
“Remember, you must hate the enemy! They want to rape your
mother and sisters! Do you want those monsters to rape your mother and sisters?”
Lt. Beechcroft had almost no chin at all. His face dropped away
suddenly and where the jaw bone should have been there was only a little button. We weren’t sure if it was a deformity or not. But his eyes were magnificent in their fury, large blue biaxing symbols of war and victory. “Whitlinger! ”
“Yes, sir!”
“Would you want those guys raping your mother?”
“My mother’s dead, sir.”
“Oh, sorry . . . Drake.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Would you want those guys raping your mother?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Remember, this is war’ We accept mercy but we do not give mercy. You must hate the enemy. Kill him! A dead man can’t defeat
you. Defeat is a disease! Victory writes history! NOW LET’S GO GET
THOSE COCKSUCKERS!”
We deployed our line, sent out the advance scouts and began crawling
through the brush. I could see Col. Sussex on his hill with his clipboard.
It was the Blues vs. the Greens. We each had a piece of colored rag tied around our upper right arm. We were the Blues. Crawling through those bushes was pure hell. It was hot. There were bugs, dust, rocks, thorns. I didn’t
know where I was.
Our squad leader, Kozak, had vanished somewhere. There was no communication. We were fucked. Our mothers were going to get raped. I kept crawling forward, bruising and scratching myself, feeling lost and scared,
but really feeling more the fool. All this vacant land and empty sky, hills, streams, acres and acres. Who owned it all? Probably the father of one of
the rich guys. We weren’t going to capture anything. The whole place was on loan to the high school. NO SMOKING. I crawled forward. We had no air cover, no tanks, nothing. We were just a bunch of fairies out on a half-assed maneuver without food, without women, without reason. I stood up, walked over and sat down with my back against a tree, put my rifle down and waited. Everybody was lost and it didn’t matter. I pulled my arm band off and
waited for a Red Cross Ambulance or something. War was probably hell but the in-between parts were boring.
Then the bushes cracked open and a guy leaped out and saw me. He had on
a Green arm band. A rapist. He pointed his rifle at me. I had no arm band
on, it was down in the grass. He wanted to take a prisoner. I knew him. He
was Harry Missions. His father owned a lumber company. I sat there against the tree.
“Blue or Green?” he hollered at me.
“I’m Mata Hari.”
“A spy! I take spies!”
“Come on, cut the shit, Harry. This is a game for children. Don’t
bother me with your fetid melodrama.”
The bushes cracked open again and there was Lt. Beechcroft. Missions
and Beechcroft faced each other.
“I hereby take you prisoner!” screamed Beechcroft at Missions.
“I hereby take you prisoner!” screamed Missions at Beechcroft. They
both were really nervous and angry, I could feel it. Beechcroft drew his
sabre. “Surrender or I’ll run you through!”
Missions grabbed his gun by the barrel. “Come over here and I’ll knock
your god-damned head off!”
Then the bushes cracked open everywhere. The screaming had attracted both the Blues and the Greens. I sat against the tree while they mixed it
up. There was dust and scuffling and now and then the evil sound of rifle stock against skull. “Oh, Jesus! Oh, my God!” Some bodies were down. Rifles were lost. There were fist fights and headlocks. I saw two guys with Green arm bands locked in a death-grip. Then Col. Sussex appeared. He blew frantically on his whistle. Spit sprayed everywhere. Then he ran over with
his swagger stick and began beating the troops with it. He was good. It cut like a whip and sliced like a razor.
“Oh shit! I QUIT!”
“No, stop! Jesus! Mercy!”
“Mother!”
The troops separated and stood looking at each other. Col. Sussex
picked up his clipboard. His uniform was unwrinkled. His medals were still
in place. His cap sat at the correct angle. He flipped his swagger stick,
caught it, and walked off. We followed.
We climbed into the old army trucks with their ripped canvas sides and
tops that had brought us. The engines started and we drove off. We faced
each other on the long wooden benches. We had come out, all the Blues in one of the trucks, all the Greens in the other. Now we were mixed together,
sitting there, most of us looking down at our scuffed and dusty shoes, being jiggled this way and that, to the left, to the right, up and down, as the
truck tires hit the ruts in the old roads. We were tired and we were
defeated and we were frustrated. The war was over.