Battlespace Nomad, page 7
They shared a smirk as the clock started ticking once more. Jimmy felt like his stomach muscles were taxed, but he started his repetitions with sheer willpower. Like before, his repetitions were barely counted, and the grader seemed utterly disinterested in the event.
Even still, Jimmy kept going. He counted fifty repetitions in his head before he lost count and kept going. His muscles refused to work anymore, and he found himself upright with his hands interlaced behind his head, gasping for precious air. He knew if he flopped back once more, he would not get back up again.
"Stop!" Ferguson called out over the bullhorn.
Jimmy flopped back, gulping down as much oxygen as he could before rolling over onto all fours, fighting the impulse to vomit.
"Good job, buddy," Ramirez said. "Good luck on the running event."
"Thanks, Ramirez," Jimmy said, although the prospect of running in his condition struck him with anxiety. He drew a deep breath and eased back on his haunches as Jacobs approached the mat fresh off the pull-up bar.
In turn, Jimmy held Jacobs's feet as the soldier got into the sit-up position.
"Ready!... Set!... Go!" Ferguson called out once more. Jacobs struggled to do a single sit-up. The man was tall, and it worked against him in this regard. His elongated abdominal muscles had to overcome the range of motion, which was exaggerated by his height.
"C'mon, man! You got this!" Jimmy said, trying to encourage Jacobs. Although he had no love for the arrogant soldier, he was a teammate, and being a functional team member was what any good soldier would revert to when needed.
Jacobs cranked out sit-ups, albeit slowly. When the time hit zero, he flopped back, gasping for air. A look of fear wrapped across his face. Jacobs seemed humbled by his lackluster performance, and Jimmy couldn't help but feel empathy for him.
The time flew by, and the running event was next. But Jimmy noted that there was no running track, and neither were there any streetlamps to illuminate the road.
"Listen up!" Ferguson called out over the bullhorn. "Every soldier needs a flashlight for the next event. Team leaders, come up here and secure what your team needs."
A cardboard box was resting on the pavement next to the senior NCO. The team leaders all congregated around the box, grabbing flashlights and testing them as they did so.
Moments later, Stoltzfus returned with five flashlights and began handing them out to the team. Just then, the headlights of a ground vehicle came on, shining light on the access road leading to the barracks. There was a white line painted on the asphalt.
"You have ten seconds to be on the starting line!" Ferguson called out. It was a mad dash as fifty-two soldiers rushed for the starting line.
"Three... two..." Ferguson counted down as the last straggler made it to the line. "All right, soldiers. You will start running on this line. You'll hit the one-mile marker down the road, where a cadre NCO will be waiting. That's the turn-around point. The finish line and the starting line are one and the same."
Then, a cadre NCO came from around the back of the barracks carrying a hand-held radio. "Sergeant, our turn-around point is set up. We're good to start."
"Thanks, Sergeant Smith." Ferguson nodded. "On the command go, the event will begin... Go!"
Jimmy melted away into the darkness at full stride, his breathing already labored from the back-to-back fitness events. He had no illusions he would pass with a decent score, but then, he reckoned, neither would anyone else.
It was pitch black, and only the poorly functioning Army-issued flashlight shone the way. Eventually, he saw the turn-around point ahead and leaned in to finish the first mile as strong as possible. There was an all-purpose military vehicle with headlights shining across the white-painted line on the road. Jimmy's foot hit the line, and he turned to run back the other way.
His feet protested, still tender from the previous day, and he felt a cramp emerging on his side. He hunched in pain as he struggled to keep pace. Some soldiers were further along than he was, but most were behind him. He was shocked he was in the leading pack, considering his condition.
But as the minutes flew by and his breath became increasingly ragged, he could see the finish line ahead. But to his astonishment, there were no graders. No cadre was visible, and the pull-up bars and mats had already been cleared out of the area.
With one final sprint to finish the run strong, Jimmy leaned in, ignoring the pain, and crossed the finish line. He then stumbled over to the first patch of grass he could find and collapsed.
9
Day two of the course had officially started, and Jimmy was already gassed. With no cadre in sight, the candidates all melted into the barracks to find out what the board had in store. Jimmy walked with Stoltzfus to the board, both soldiers soaked with sweat. The barracks' air conditioning left a chill on Jimmy's spine when combined with damp clothing.
"Let's see what insanely stupid thing we have to do next, shall we?" Stoltzfus said with more enthusiasm than the situation warranted.
"By all means, team leader," Jimmy said, gesturing for Stoltzfus to take the lead. When they approached the screen, the words struck Jimmy to the core.
Full fatigues and boots. Drill pad. 5 minutes.
"Full fatigues, people! We've got less than five minutes to be out there!" Stoltzfus called out through the barracks.
Curses and grunts filled the air, but there was a sense of unity in the barracks. Jimmy rushed back to his bunk, stripped down his soggy PT gear, and grabbed a set of clean fatigues, feeling the support of his fellow soldiers.
Without thinking about his surroundings, Jimmy turned about, facing Ramirez. He was completely nude.
"Um, it's kind of cold in here, isn't it?" Ramirez said jokingly, her gaze shifted to Jimmy's tender bits. Embarrassed, Jimmy spun about.
"I'm so sorry," Jimmy pleaded.
"Don't worry about it. We've showered together, remember?" Ramirez chuckled.
They finished dressing wordlessly and then marched out onto the drill pad. The teams congregated together under the dull lighting provided. The sun's first rays were jutting out from the horizon, and the sky slowly brightened.
Then, like ghosts, the cadre NCOs appeared from the darkness, standing menacingly at the edge of the pavement. Jimmy heard the squeal of the bullhorn before he saw it.
"Get into a marching formation," Ferguson called over the bullhorn. The teams obliged, and in seconds, the herd of troops formed a standard rectangular formation.
"Give me a soldier to take charge and march this gaggle," Ferguson called out. Hands went up and were all ignored. One cadre NCO walked up to the formation, pointed at Etta, and motioned for him to break formation.
Etta's eyes went wide. "Sergeant, I've never marched a formation before."
The sergeant looked like he didn't care. "And if you get selected, you may never march in a regular formation again."
Etta blinked in surprise, but then walked out in front of the formation. He snapped to attention, a look of uncertainty stretching across his face.
"All right, soldier," Ferguson said, as he casually approached Etta. "Just get them moving down the road and follow that vehicle."
Jimmy looked over to see an all-terrain vehicle idling on the road. The brake lights went out, and the vehicle slowly rolled forward.
"Best get moving, son. You're about to be left behind!" Ferguson snapped.
Nervously, Etta faced the formation. "Fall in!" he sounded off.
The uniform snapping of bootheels clicking together meant the soldiers were at attention, and Etta mouthed the next command in his mind before calling it out.
"Right face!" Etta commanded. The soldiers obliged, and the formation was now ready to move. "Forward march!"
The march went on for miles. The sun had crested the horizon, and the birds were chirping in the morning haze. The rhythmic footfalls of troops keeping in step drowned out everything else as time passed.
Jimmy's feet were like a pair of freshly tenderized pork chops, and blisters were forming on top of older blisters. The pain was his only companion as his mind wandered during the long trek to parts unknown.
After roughly twenty-two kilometers of marching, and hours later, the scenery barely changed. They marched on the road through the woods with no other landmarks denoting where they ended up. Finally, they reached an open field, and the guide vehicle pulled up and halted on the grass.
Etta called for a halt, and the weary soldiers stood silently, waiting for the next command.
"Left face!" Etta called out. The soldiers turned to face him, as he was centered on the formation. "At ease."
One soldier collapsed, shouting expletives. The cadre NCO climbed out of the vehicle, and his face formed a grimace. He stomped over to the soldier on the ground.
"You know the rules, candidate!" the NCO snarled.
The soldier glared back up at the NCO. "I know the fucking rules, and I fucking quit!"
To Jimmy's surprise, the cadre NCO's response was unexpected. He watched in disbelief as the NCO offered the quitter a ride back, as if he were pleased to have another quitter on his hands.
Jimmy watched as the NCO walked over and whispered something into Etta's ear as he remained in front of the formation.
Etta's voice cut through the tense air. "If anyone else wants to quit, two seats are available in the vehicle," he offered, the tension palpable in his words.
Two soldiers fell out of the formation and trudged toward the truck. The total number of troops remaining was now forty-nine, a testament to their resilience.
Etta kept his eyes glued on the quitting soldiers until they cleared the formation, and the gaps they left behind were quickly filled.
"All right," Etta announced, fear cracking in his voice. "On the command of ‘fall out’, everyone into the field, and stand by one of the logs."
Jimmy glanced at the grassy field and saw weathered logs lined up in orderly rows. Realization struck him, and he knew today would get much worse than he'd imagined.
"Fall out!" Etta commanded. The troops surged into the field, finding a log to stand beside. Jimmy followed Jacobs and Ramirez with Stoltzfus in tow. Jacobs stopped before an unoccupied log and gestured for the others to hurry along.
Then, a convoy of vehicles, some civilian and others military, rolled up. The cadre NCOs poured out of the vehicles and swarmed the field. SFC Ferguson and his trusty bullhorn walked out in the center of the field.
"Every team, grab a log and hold it straight up over your heads until I get tired," Ferguson called out. That set the tone for the next few hours.
Jimmy had never been pushed so hard in his life. Gasps and groans intermingled with words of encouragement as the team worked together to execute the increasingly absurd commands.
Ferguson called out the exercise repetitions as the teams heaved the logs up and down over their heads in unison. More than often, a log would fall, and a team would struggle to get it back up in the air.
Jimmy's team was no different. His muscles were strained beyond comprehension, but he kept his head in the game.
He didn't just want this. He needed this. He was resolved to see how far he could push himself and what he could achieve. But all he wanted to do was quit and go rest his wrecked body in the comfort of a vehicle seat.
No.
He wasn't a quitter. That wasn’t the version of himself he wanted to meet. It was the version of himself that would stop at nothing to achieve the goals that he wanted to emerge from the endless insanity of the selection course.
Others quit, however. And each time he saw a soldier give up, his temptation to join them grew exponentially.
"Stop!" Ferguson called out. "Logs down. Drink water."
The thudding of logs hitting the ground filled the air as the remaining thirty-seven candidates had survived yet another test.
Jimmy collapsed between Ramirez and Jacobs, who unceremoniously flopped down in the grass. Jimmy pulled his canteen from his cargo pocket and chugged. The water had been warmed from his body heat, but he didn't care. From his survival training, he knew that warm water hydrated you faster than cold water, so he gleefully gulped it down.
"Where's that soldier that marched you all here?" Ferguson called out with the bullhorn. Etta's hand shot up from the ground where he lay. "Have the candidates fall back in."
Etta obliged, pulling himself from the ground with sheer willpower. He lumbered over to where Ferguson stood, snapped to attention, and called, "Fall in!"
Physically wrecked, the weary candidates swarmed the area, many limping as they walked. After a few moments, the formation gathered, and the troops set themselves to task, checking their intervals and lining up properly.
Satisfied the formation was in place, Etta executed an about-face, saluting SFC Ferguson.
"Sergeant, the troops are formed," Etta reported. Ferguson ignored Etta, brushing past him as he stood before the rectangle of sweaty troops.
"Do we have anyone else who wants to quit before we move on to the next event?" Ferguson asked empathetically. "No one will judge you for quitting. Most people do in the end."
No one spoke up. Ferguson scanned the formation with his eyes, but everyone seemed to stand firm.
"Fine, then," Ferguson said. "If you're on the brink of quitting now, you won't make it to the end of today. Mark my words."
Ferguson turned to Etta and said something Jimmy couldn't hear. Etta turned to the formation with his eyes wide and a look of shock. Whatever Ferguson had told him had obviously rocked Etta to his core.
"Right face!" Etta commanded, his posture slightly drooping from exhaustion. The soldiers snapped their heels as they executed the command. "Forward march!"
And again, they went. Boots slamming down on the pavement. Jimmy's feet started numbing, making him equally concerned and grateful. On the one hand, he knew his feet were being turned into minced meat, but on the other, he couldn't feel the ache anymore, and only the rest of his worn-out body bothered him.
Every stride was a herculean effort, but Jimmy was committed. He pushed through, not knowing how much more he could take.
They marched endlessly. No longer staying in step. The cadre didn't seem to care. The hot sun was high in the early afternoon sky. All Jimmy could feel was the soaked fatigues rubbing against his slimy skin. His hamstring begged him to stop, but Jimmy pressed forward, unwilling to let himself fail.
He didn't bother to expend the mental energy to estimate how long they'd marched this time, but it was apparent they were going even longer than before.
Finally, they came to another field in the middle of nowhere. Standard-issue pulse rifles were resting on weapons racks next to the field.
Etta, now with a hoarse voice, commanded the formation to halt as the guide vehicle stopped on the edge of the field. As before, a convoy of vehicles arrived, and the cadre swarmed the field.
"Left face!" Etta commanded. The formation complied, and the troops faced the front.
Ferguson walked over to Etta, whispered something in his ear, and then walked away. Etta cleared his throat before speaking. "On the command of ‘fall out’, line up to receive a weapon."
Jimmy fought the urge to glance at the field, but he was at attention and couldn't move his head.
"Fall out!" Etta commanded.
The troops broke into formation and began to form a line in front of the weapons rack. An NCO was there handing out rifles and issuing instructions.
Jimmy was next in line. The staff sergeant plunged the pulse rifle into his arms. With hardly any strength left in his arms, Jimmy almost dropped the rifle. It was the same model rifle he was accustomed to, but it might as well have been a large sack of potatoes in his degraded physical condition.
"Go get into formation with the others," the NCO said, snatching another rifle from the rack.
Jimmy lumbered over to get into formation. He stood like a zombie. He felt neither alive nor dead, but something in between. All he had left was his refusal to quit and the temptation to do so.
His sense of time and space was failing him, and his eyes fluttered open as he caught himself nodding off while still standing. He leaned in on the rifle as he planted the butt in the grass to help him stand without swaying.
The bullhorn cut through the air, snapping Jimmy back to reality.
"Now, we'll see how you folks like some rifle PT!" Ferguson called out.
Two soldiers quit immediately. They walked over to the weapons rack and return their weapons to the NCO issuing them.
Jimmy wanted nothing more than to join them, but stubbornly refused to give in to the pain.
"Rifles up and over your heads... Hold them there until I get tired!" Ferguson ordered.
The next three hours were hazy for Jimmy. His mind was too exhausted to think. He mustered every shred of his faculties to will his embattled body to keep going, following the commands Ferguson called out. His world spun, and tunnel vision kicked in.
He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
10
When Jimmy's eyes fluttered open, he stared at the clouds floating across the sky. It was so peaceful. Never before had he felt so content to just look at the sky.
"Wakey-wakey, Corporal Stiegel," the voice said, snapping Jimmy back to reality. He found himself on his back with a pulse rifle resting on his thigh. Glancing over to his left, his eyes widened when he saw the needle in his arm. The cadre NCO held a half-empty IV fluid bag in the air.
"How long was I out?" Jimmy said, his dry throat made his words coarse and barely decipherable.
"Just a minute or so," the cadre NCO said, as if it were merely a trivial matter. "Can you see my fingers?"
Jimmy strained to focus. His vision was blurred, but he could see the extended fingers hovering in his field of view.
"I see them," Jimmy said.
"How many do you see?" the NCO asked impatiently.
"Four," Jimmy said.
"Okay then," the NCO said. "When this IV bag is empty, you'll have a hard choice to make."
"Um, what?" Jimmy said, confused. He glanced about and saw that the field was cleared out and that the rest of the soldiers were nowhere to be seen.
