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"Tell me, little lady, what is that you've got on your head? If it's something that crawled up there and died, I hope you've had your shots 'cause it doesn't look like it was any too healthy!"
"It's called 'hair,' Sarge! What do you have on your head?"
"It isn't what I've got on my head that's important, 'emit," the sergeant smiles, "it's what's on my sleeve!"
He taps the stripes that mark his rank.
"Three up, three down. You know what that means?"
"That you're a Master Sergeant, Sarge."
"Close, but no cigar. It means you owe me fifteen pushups, 'emit, five for each time you've called me 'Sarge.' Hit it!"
I expect the skirt to give him an argument at this, but instead she just drops down and starts pumpin' out pushups like it's what she has been after all along ... and maybe it was. I don't know what kind of breakfast-type cereal this broad patronizes, but she is doin' a notably better job of rackin' up her pushups than the Flie brothers.
"One ... Two ... Three ..."
Smiley watches her for a few moments, then turns his attention to the other figures on the ground.
"YOU TWO! I said give me twenty-five!"
This last was, of course, directed to the Flie brothers.
"We're ... trying ... sergeant!"
"WELL I CAN'T HEAR YOU! COUNT 'EM OFF!.'"
"Seventeen ... eighteen ..."
"YOU DON'T START COUNTING AT SEVENTEEN!! YOU START COUNTING AT ONE!!! DO YOU THINK I'M DUMB?!!"
"No ... sergeant! ... One ... two ..."
"Now listen up 'cause I'm only go
"YES, SERGEANT!
"All right then." He started to look at his roster again, then glanced at the struggling figures on the ground. "That's enough, you three. Get back in line. Now then, where was I? Guido!"
"Here, Sergeant!" I sez, 'cause I was.
"That's it? Just 'Guido?' No nickname like Cricket or anything?"
"No, Sergeant!"
He waited for a few seconds to see if I was go
"Juney!"
"Here, Sergeant! ... but folks call me 'Junebug.'"
Some people, on the other hands, never seem to learn.
"Twenty!" the sergeant sez without even lookin' up from the roster.
And so it went. By the time the sergeant is through checkin' off the list of names, over half of our group has been called upon to demonstrate their physical prowess, or lack thereof, by performin' a number of pushups, the exact count of which varies dependin' upon the sergeant's mood and their ability to remember to count out loud whilst performin' this exercise. This raises some serious questions in my mind as to the average IQ of the individuals who have chosen to enlist in the army, a rather disquietin' thought realizin' that I am one of said individuals. In an effort to maintain a positive-type frame of mind, I reassure myself that my enlistin' was a matter of followin' orders rather than any idea of my own.
"All right, LISTEN UP!" the sergeant bellows, havin' finished with his roll call. "In about half an hour. Corporal Whittle will take you across camp and get your hair cut to conform with army standards."
The little shrimp who has been lurkin' in the background draws himself up to his full insignificant height and smiles at this. Now Sergeant Smiley is a rather imposin' dude, though a touch out of shape around the middle, but the corporal looks like he would fail the entrance requirements to be a meter-type maid. That is, he looks to be the unpleasant kind of wimp who only pulls wings off flies when he has enough rank to back him up.
Lookin' at his smile, I begin to have serious misgivin's about these haircuts.
"In the meantime," the sergeant continues, "you have a period of unstructured time, during which you may talk, sleep, or get to know each other. I suggest you take maximum advantage of this, as it will in all probability be the last time you will have to yourself until your training is completed. Now, before I dismiss you, are there any questions?"
To my surprise, two individuals raise their hands. This is a surprise first of all because I thought that most individuals would be cowed into silence by the sergeant's performance thus far, and secondly because one of the hands belongs to none other than my cousin Nunzio!
"You!" Smiley says, pointin' at the closest questioner. "State your name and question."
"Bee, Sergeant. I ... I think there's been a mistake on my enlistment." The sergeant shows all his teeth. "The army doesn't make mistakes, son ... except, maybe one." He shoots a glance at Spyder, who ignores him this time. "What's your problem?"
"Well ... I shouldn't be here. I enlisted as a magician, and my recruiter said that ..."
The sergeant's smile widens sufficiently to stop the recruit in mid-sentence.
"Son," he sez, in a voice that's more like a purr, "it's time you learned one of the harsh truths about the army. Recruiters lie! Whatever that sorry soul told you, son, unless you got it in writing signed by the queen herself, it don't mean squat! Now I'm telling you that every 'emit that signs onto this man's army will learn' basic infantry skills before receivin' his first assignment before active duty. You might get assigned as a magician, or you might not ... it all depends on whether they need magicians or cooks when your number comes up for assignment, but you aren't go
"Nunzio, Sergeant! How long does it take to complete basic training?"
"That depends on how long it takes you unfortunates to learn the minimal skills required for you to wear the uniform of Possiltum. Usually it takes a week to ten days ... but from the looks of you sorry souls, I figure you'll have the pleasure of my company for at least a month."
"You mean none of us gets assigned until everyone in this group completes their training?"
"That's right. Any other questions?"
My cousin glances down the lines at me, but I keep my eyes straight forward, hopin' his action isn't noticed. Luckily the sergeant misses this little blip in the formation, and as soon as he dismisses us Nunzio and I go into a huddle.
"What do you think?" he sez, worried-like.
"Same as you," I shrug. "We sure can't take no month gettin' trained if we're go
"That's for sure," he nods. "Looks like we're go
This realization puts my mood at an all-time low. It was bad enough that I was go