#Doughboys Double

[khakilike]

I had a dishonorable discharge looking at Hamm in that uniform.

Nick Wiger reveals his favorite part of Top Gun: Maverick, Doughboys Double 6/14/2022

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

reader following jason’s happy trail and kissing down his tummy? can be any verse i’m not picky i just want slightly whiny jay getting attention 👉🏻👈🏻🥺

Syrupy golden light shown through the double doors to your balcony and Jason luxuriated in the warmth of your apartment, sinking into your squashy second-hand sofa and stretching like a lazy cat.

It was a good morning. The odd Sunday morning after a night out when he found you happily making brunch instead of panic studying. "Will you hurry up?" he called, stretching again.

"Got your tummy full and now it's naptime?" you tease, padding back into the living room with a cup of coffee.

Jason pouted and reached for you when you set your mug down, "I missed you this week."

"My poor knight," you tut, adjusting so you can straddle his hips and admire. You'd always had a soft spot for big men with big hearts. The fact that Jason was beautiful to look at was a nice plus. But honestly, you just liked feeling safe.

"What're you doing?" he asked, feeling shy. He didn't mind you straddling him- enjoyed it actually. But shirtless, in the daylight; so many of his scars visible- he always waited for you to flinch away. You never had but, he dreaded the day the newest row of stitches was too much. Just past the point of redeemable bad boy to a dangerous man.

"Wondering if you're ticklish," you answer honestly, smiling a little.

Jason raised an eyebrow and reached up, trailing his fingers over your hip, looking for the spot that would make you yelp and wiggle to try and get away from him. "Knowing how to make me so hard I can't think straight isn't enough ammo, Kitten?" he rumbled, relieved.

"No," you answer breezily, smacking his hand away before bending to smudge a kiss against his heart, making him close his eyes. You smile to yourself and kiss the other side. Jason liked soft kisses. He liked being the soul focus of your attention. Being patted and kissed- like home decorating shows it was a sort of guilty pleasure. Something he liked but wouldn't ask for... It was hard to maintain your tough exterior when you whined every time someone nuzzled your abs.

Jason huffed a soft laugh, relaxing into the touch of your lips. The softest whispery kisses trailed down his skin. "I'm not ticklish, Kitten," he breathed.

"Still gonna look," you insist stubbornly; grinning when you looked up to see his cheeks darken when you nuzzle the start of his happy trail and he audibly whined. Who knew. A full tummy and a few kisses was enough to make Jason a needy puddle.

You pause, just above his belly button and smile when he reaches up to stroke your hair, "Feels good," he whined, "Don't stop."

"Not gonna stop," you assure him, brushing a soft kiss above his navel- only for Jason to go from whimpering to biting off a giggle.

"Fuck-" he complained, pouting, "Not fair-"

"You have the same ticklish spot as the Pilsbury doughboy," you giggle, nipping the spot with your teeth. Jason groaned- he'd hoped you wouldn't find it. It was the one spot that ever made him giggle.

"Rude-"

"It's cute," you tell him, leaning back and patting his abs teasingly, "Like knowing you've got some soft spots-"

"Only for you, kitten," he chuckled, pulling you down to pin you underneath him. You could lavish attention on him later. Right now, he just wanted to remind you how tiny you are. And how willing he is to exact revenge when you push his buttons.

[lokitu]

Fast Food Rep, part 3

- commissioned and written by DeltaC -

iii. Perlman: O’Grady you are not following the prompt. Your boy here is supposed to be FAT. That means ZERO muscle. A certified lard ass. A tub of lard. The Pillsbury doughboy. Are you getting the picture here O'Grady? Ditch the ex jock look and get him FAT. I want to see him waddling! Do it or it’s your ass in the buffet!

O’Grady: God fu…

**click**

Did he just hang up on me? ON ME!!!

*** John: Eat damn it! I need you fatter! Softer!  Wider! I need you to waddle with those incredibly thick thighs. I need to see that bum of yours jiggle and sway for me.

Come on fatboy, eat this cake for me! It is your favorite. Yummy double dark chocolate. I got it special just for you…my special little fatboy. Come on fatboy just one bite at a time! Finish this bite and I’ll get you your shake to wash it down.

You want to get fatter for me don’t you Steve my boy?

**What am I doing? Steve’s mouth is jam packed with cake and he is breathing hard. Take it down a notch! It’s not his fault I got us into this mess. Fuck he needs to eat more. I need him fatter, not just because of Perlman’s demands. I need to see how this cake makes him even softer. Fatter. I want that big fat ass of his even wider and heavier. I need his entire girth pressing down on me when we make love.**

Oh what’s this? Is my little fatboy aroused? Hehe I can hardly see it nowadays, but man I can sure as heck feel it under the curve of your bulbous belly. Just one more bite and I’ll work these tight guns on your ever diminishing manhood. Afterall, these pythons need a good workout after catering to your sexy belly.

Steve, my boy, that sweet fat ass of yours and thickening thighs…I am falling in love with you all over again. Come, let’s take the rest of the cake into the bedroom and we’ll do some extracurricular feeding activities. *wink wink*

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[psycho-doughart]

DOUGHBOY ACRLYIC CHARM DESIGNS!

following up on my previous post, this is what the designs would be like!

the actual charms would be double-sided (so each doughboy on one side) and about  2''(50.8mm)

I’d sell them for $10 USD, and I would pay for shipping, unless it’s going outside the USA or Canada.

Like or reblog this post if you’re interested!!

[theribthatgrewback]

9, 11 and 13 :3

(ask game)

I assume you mostly want JtHM takes so I'll focus on those but since you didn't specify fandom I'll chuck in a couple others I feel strongly about if that's ok!

9. Worst part of canon

Johnny the Homicidal Maniac: This is tough, because I really like how everything was handled in the main story. I guess I personally found the doughboys slightly annoying, but at the same time, they served a crucial narrative purpose, so I really can't complain. Every (subjectively) """bad""" part of canon had a reason for being there, so I like every part for what it is. HOWEVER, if we're counting the spinoffs and the little "meanwhile" inserts, I really hated the like... vomit-porn aside thing in Squee. Though I guess hating it was the whole point, so like. mission accomplished? Also I don't really get Noodle Boy.

Adventure Time: Jake should have stayed blue. Explained here. I wrote the submission, hi.

Futurama: Multiple episodes. Neutopia weirdly ramped up everybody's misogyny beyond what's in-character in order to serve the "sexism is bad but gender is still part of the human experience and there will always be conflict" plot (which also is a weird gender-essentialism plotline anyway because like. The Fact That Gender Exists should not equal Conflict). Unnecessarily mean. Like I can see Bender doing that shit but there's no way that Farnsworth thinks that way. Unrelated to that one, Attack of the Killer App (origin of the "shut up and take my money" meme) leaned needlessly hard into gross-out humor. It just didn't fit the tone of the rest of the show.

Actually I'll be here all day if I list all my grievances so I'll cut this segment here.

11. Number of fandom-related words you've filtered

There's a lot of duplicates for The Same Thing Written Different Ways but if I count those as the same thing, 4. Across all fandoms. Though this blog hasn't been around long so this will probably expand in the future.

13. Worst blorbofication

(interpreting this as "wildly out of character to serve the 'comfort' of the person writing about them") Oh baby. I come from roleplay communities. I've seen shit that would make you sick. I've seen somebody play Fern (Adventure Time) Prismo (Adventure Time) and Kevin (Ben 10) all with the exact same personality. I've seen somebody Else who takes LITERALLY over 200 characters (in "no doubles" type places so now nobody else can use those characters), and also makes them all exactly the same... except for the added detail that This person talks like if a wiki page could make fart jokes. (Side note: I think that person also pretended to be three different people. Like there were three separate accounts with different names who all talked to each other, but they all wrote exactly the same way. And with exactly the same fart jokes. And they usually showed up at exactly the same time.) THE ONE SAVING GRACE of all this is that JtHM is obscure enough that I never saw Other People RP it in multifandom spaces, so it was spared this treatment. I have seen glimpses of how the fandom acts on tumblr though so:

JtHM: Nny. I really think Nny gets the worst of it. In canon, he's a very unlikeable person. That's part of why he's so interesting! He tries really hard to be nice to certain people, like to Squee, but he fails every time. He traumatizes that kid. He abuses animals. He's fatphobic. He blames addicts for their addictions. He trivializes the fight against racism (in a brief aside line at the cafe). He's all kinds of messy, awful things, and it's fascinating. It makes you want to pry his brain open and study him. Yet so much of the fanstuff you see of him files down his bad edges and just makes him "funny murder guy" at the cost of the nuances of his personality (this happened to Patrick Bateman too, as an aside). People are scared to confront that he's kind of a piece of shit, just because he's the Cool Protagonist.

[alightonthewater]

hot take but i feel like that pillsbury doughboy easter/passover/etc meme is funnier when it just goes "he is risen!"/"he is not!" i get why people changed it so it includes "he is off limits until sundown!" and i think i saw another one that said "he is an offering to the ancestors!" but it weakens the joke i think.

the latter two are just general food things. the charm of the original one is that the first doughboy saying "he is risen!" is playing off the traditional easter call-and-response of "he is risen!" "he is risen indeed!" the "he" is clearly referring to jesus, and it seems like a classic easter marketing scheme. and then you get to matzoh doughboy and "he is not!" and it's funny because the passover tradition is to eat unleavened bread, and moreover to get rid of any leavening agents in your house, and therefore "he is not" is reframing "he" to the doughboy in question and "risen" to mean leavening instead of being raised from the dead.

i feel like tacking on "he is off limits until sundown" to include ramadan fasting doesn't add anything to the joke in particular, like i get what they're going for but it lacks the comedic double-meaning of the easter/passover duo. there's no clever wordplay there, it's just "doughboy=food, food=off limits". rule of three states that the third addition should be the punchline or the funniest addition but instead it's the weakest addition and i think the joke is stronger if you leave it at two.

[nicholasr]

Updated podcast Top Ten rankings These are based on which podcasts I would listen to first if I fell behind or they all released at the same time. I can listen at work again

Double Threat

Election Profit Makers

Stop Podcasting Yourself

Bonanas for Bonanza

Three Bean Salad

Beef and Dairy Network

Office Hours Live

Threedom

The Gargle

BBC News Quiz or Newcomers or if neither of them are current Doughboys

[readingvocabulary]

Les Murray

peneplain - a more or less level land surface produced by erosion over a long period, undisturbed by crustal movement

commissure - the joint between two bones; a band of nerve tissue connecting the hemispheres of the brain, the two sides of the spinal cord, etc

niveaux - plateaus

hyaline - a smooth sea or a clear sky; (chiefly of cartilage) glassy and translucent in appearance.

ruched

taupe - dark brownish grey (mole)

moraine - ridge of rock deposited along the edge of a glacier

pleasance - a secluded enclosure or part of a garden, especially one attached to a large house

vol (fr. flight)

surcingle - horse strap

nacre - mother of pearl

misericord

jacquard - a fabric has a design or motif woven into the construction of the weave

entail

philtre - love potion

chenille - soft fabric

shako - military cap

cullet

mucilage

paraison

marvered

spirochaetes

peruke - wig

jute

roan

distinguo - subtle distinction

decrepitation - the crackling or breaking up of certain crystals when they are heated

coralline - reddish, pinkish red

quoin - an external angle of a wall or building

coign - a projecting corner or angle of a wall

prehension - the act of taking hold, seizing, or grasping; mental understanding : comprehension

Oligocene

scads - a large number or quantity

gamboge - deep yellow

formic - relating to ants

rales - small clicking, bubbling, or rattling sounds in the lungs

escutcheon - shield or emblem bearing a coat of arms; flat piece of metal for protection and often ornamentation, around a keyhole, door handle, or light switch

pilum - Roman javelin

corniche - a road cut into the edge of a cliff, especially one running along a coast

bouillon - broth

impetigo - highly contagious skin infection that causes red sores on the face

goffer - crimp the lace edges of (a garment) with a heated implement

jardinière - decorative pot holder

terebinth - turpentine tree

chyle

sejant - animal upright in heraldry

cloison - dividing partition

mantling - piece of ornamental drapery depicted issuing from a helmet and surrounding a shield

marques - brand

lakatois - double-hulled sailing watercraft of Papua New Guinea.

ormolu - gilt bronze

azolla - aquatic fern

loden - dark green woolen cloth

donjon - medieval tower

pintle - a pin or bolt, usually inserted into a gudgeon, which is used as part of a pivot or hinge

antiphonary - a book of plainsong for the Divine Office

grimoire

oppidum - large fortified Iron Age settlement or town

tarmacadam - tarmac

cassia

caraway

schist

piste - a ski run of compacted snow

Gaeldom - Areas in which some Gaelic languages (Scottish Gaelic and Manx) are spoken

doughboy - United States soldiers during World War I

paseo (Sp.) - walk

coatee - a woman's or infant's short coat

VVS - “very very slightly included” diamond

illimitable - without limits or an end

Wilton rug - Axminster carpets are made by creating carpet tufts of equal length before attaching them to the backing. Wilton create pile in a continuous loop, and the cutting takes place once the pile has been attached to the backing

impatiens - flower genus

maidan - an open area or space in or near a town, often used as a marketplace or parade ground

sett - a hole in the ground, often with several passages and different entrances

fusee - flare?

finial - architectural elements typically used as decorative or ornamental features that mark the top or end of domes, spires, roofs, gables, buildings

perigee - the point in the orbit of the moon or a satellite at which it is nearest to the earth

pince-nez - style of glasses

shofar - Jewish horn

lorn - lonely

bowstave

bleb - blister

chiacking - the exchange of jeering or teasing remarks

arraign - call or bring (someone) before a court to answer a criminal charges

curcurbit - plant from gourd family

abyssal - of or relating to the bottom waters of the ocean depths; impossible to comprehend : unfathomable

tilth - tilled soil

sub rosa - in secret

antic - grotesque, bizarre

his nibs

talus - a slope formed especially by an accumulation of rock debris

Nunc Stans - Eternal existence as an attribute of God

oriel - a large upper-storey bay with a window

fistmele - is the breadth of a fist with thumb stuck out used especially in archery to give the correct height of a string from a braced bow

potch - opal which has no play of colour and is of no value

Borsalino - Italian hat

welter - confused mass, turmoil

infra dig

nose-gaffed

septum/septa

camelid

bitou - invasive bush

acrophobia - fear of heights

switchback - a road which goes up a steep hill in a series of sharp bends, or a sharp bend in a road

amethystine - scrub python

cotillon - 18th century dance

grue (Scot) - a shiver or shudder; a creeping of the flesh

cottar - in Scotland and Ireland a farm labourer or tenant occupying a cottage in return for labour

tufa - variety of limestone formed when carbonate minerals precipitate out of water in unheated rivers or lakes

fig - dress, appearance

bourdon - drone

fado - Portuguese music

paladin - trusted military leader; a leading champion of a cause

gelid - icy, extremely cold

natron - baking soda

baulk - roughly squared timber beam

clamant - urgently demanding attention

cupidity - greed for money or possessions

avocation - a hobby or minor occupation

unexceptionable - not open to objection, but not particularly new or exciting

drupe - a fleshy fruit with thin skin and a central stone containing the seed, e.g. a plum, cherry, almond, or olive

bund - retaining wall

Ishihara dots

rrark - Aboriginal cross-hatching

unkent - unknown, strange (Scot.)

jarl - a Norse or Danish chief

ebullition - a sudden outburst of emotion or violence

dunnage - a person's belongings, especially those brought on board ship

coggage

stetl - a small Jewish town or village formerly found in Eastern Europe

pukka

recension - a revised edition of a text

coeval - a person of roughly the same age as oneself; a contemporary

peculator - embezzler

pasquil - a satire or lampoon

asthenic (asthenia) - abnormal physical weakness or lack of energy

canaille - common people; the masses

monorchidism - (or monorchism) the state of having only one testicle within the scrotum

sera - an amber-coloured, protein-rich liquid which separates out when blood coagulates

ichor - fluid that flows like blood in the veins of the gods; watery discharge from a wound

bordure - In heraldry, a band of contrasting tincture forming a border around the edge of a shield

boi meat - ox meat (Galician)

in-continuo

chivvy - tell (someone) repeatedly to do something

biltong - dried meat

wobbegong - carpet shark

bijou - small dainty usually ornamental piece of delicate workmanship : jewel; something delicate, elegant, or highly prized

placket - a finished opening in the upper part of trousers or skirts, or at the neck, front, or sleeve of a garment

tumbril - two wheeled cart

grab-bar

gomp

beetle bix

dottle - unburned and partially burned tobacco in the bowl of a pipe

mezedes or meze - small plates of appetisers (Greek)

whale sounding - diving

bootless - ineffectual, useless

galligaskins - loose wide hose or breeches worn in the 16th and 17th centuries

Ricardian - people who dispute the negative posthumous reputation of King Richard III of England

precarian (precariat) - a social class formed by people suffering from precarity, which means existing without predictability or security, affecting material or psychological welfare. The term is a portmanteau merging precarious with proletariat

besoming - sweeping (besom - a broom made of twigs tied round a stick)

gilet - a waist- or hip-length garment, usually sleeveless, fastening up the front; sometimes made from a quilted fabric, and designed to be worn over a blouse, shirt, etc; bodice resembling a waistcoat in a woman's dress

swart - swarthy, dark

voile - sheer fabric

[petesmediadiary]

August 17th 2021

Podcasts: Beautiful Stories from Anonymous People -- 280 Quit My Job, Now I Sell Crossbows Doughboys Double -- Sporto Drinks Hollywood Handbook -- 409 Wine Ot? (video) Newcomers: Fast & Furious -- Fast & Furious Mike and Tom Eat Snacks -- Pistachios Did You Get My Text? -- Tasty PJs Off Book: The Improvised Musical -- 214 Goo4Brainz Blank Check with Griffin and David -- Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon Off Menu -- 18 Desiree Burch TV: Stath Lets Flats -- 1x04, 1x05 Music: Tiny Stills -- When I'm With You

[oscaronthegloryroad]

Stay tuned for red hot steel action in the near future.

[khakilike]

After she summarized all the comments for me, I realized: what a privilege it is to be intelligent.

Yusong Liu knows what you’re saying about him on Reddit

[coffee-latte-sprite]

Bad Mr. Doughboy

Masterlist

Older!Damian Wayne x fem!reader

WC: 1,000

Warnings: fluff

Request:

Hii I just saw that you're accepting one last request so I hope I'm not late but could you write something for damian wayne x fem reader where they maybe cook together or something really domestic? Thank you!!

Btw i really love your fics specially the ongoing damian wayne x annoying reporter reader series!!💖💖

Notes: Aw, you’re so sweet! I hope you like this as much as my other series. :)

“Okay, we need--no stop that--1 cup of flour, ½ cup --I said stop that--of sugar, and 1 teaspoon of baking soda,” Damian said as he read off the instructions for the cookies. His little chef hat was slipping off his head, and the apron he had on was double knotted and too big as he knotted the strings too soon.

He also didn’t want to admit that he couldn’t untie it himself. Thus, why he claimed he liked the “bagginess” of the apron.

He did not.

Y/N pouted as she was sitting on the other side of the kitchen island and was playing with the ingredients, which Damian did not approve of.

The couple had been dating for a while and both knew each other’s habits. Like how Damian knew Y/N would be the first to play with the flour, and she knew Damian would be the first to sign up for the bake sale that supports the local animal shelter.

“I understand the instructions, let’s get cookin’,” Y/N said as she rubbed her hands together in a mischievous way.

“I only read through 3 ingredients.” Damian pointed out with a raised brow.

“And your point?”

Damian huffed as he watched his girlfriend walk around the kitchen, looking around for the baking soda and eggs.

“Fine, we will do it your way. Is this what you call rolo?” He asked as he got out the mixing bowl.

“Rolo?” She asked as she stopped her movements.

“Yeah, rolo. Where you do what you want.” Damian finished as he grabbed spoons and a spatula.

“You mean YOLO?” She asked with a smirk on her face.

Damian’s ears turned pink as he looked away. “Yes, whatever that means.”

Y/N laughed at her boyfriend as she went to his side and placed her hand on his cheek so she could kiss the cheek that was closest to her.

Damian rolled his eyes but enjoyed the affection.

“Did you get the milk?” Y/N asked as her eyes scanned the ingredients list.

“No, I’ll get it,” Damian said as he turned back to the fridge.

And then they fell into a gentle rhythm of cooking.

They exchanged snide comments, words of affirmations, and gossip (which Damian thoroughly enjoyed).

It was important to note that Damian was very observant and was able to calculate a foe’s next action, but with his girlfriend, he found it impossible to know what she was thinking.

Especially now as she decided to break the domestic air with war.

“Hey, Dami?” She asked as she leaned towards him slowly, a mischievous tone in her voice.

Damian was put on edge as he recognized her motives, “Yes beloved.” He answered as his gaze remanded on mixing all of the ingredients together.

This gave her the perfect opportunity to slide her hand full of flour behind Damian’s back as it slowly crept up above his head.

“You know I love you right?” She said as she tried to angle her body in front of him, blocking his view of the ingredients.

“I am aware,” He continued as he huffed. He wanted to get these cookies done so he can start on the next part of his plan on helping the sheltered animals the fundraiser was claiming to do.

She rolled her eyes at his response. She knew Damian also loved her, they wouldn’t be doing this event together if he didn’t. “But, I love the Pillsbury Doughboy more.” She said as she slammed the fistful of flour on top of his head.

She jumped back quickly before he could grab her, and she laughed as she saw Damian stumble back in surprise.

“Wha-” He coughed as the flour created dust in the air and he was waving his hands around.

Her laughing stopped abruptly as he whipped his head towards her with fury in his eyes.

He then stalked towards her slowly as she began a rant of apologies, but Damian was not listening.

He then reached into the bag of sugar and threw a handful at her, “Here’s some sugar because you won’t get any more affection from me.” He seethed.

“Hey!” She yelled back as the white grains hit her.

She then decided to play Damian at his own game.

“Well,” she began as she stepped towards him, fire pooling in her veins, and the same fire Damian deeply loved about her. “Since you are so salty, here’s some more!” She yelled as she opened the salt container and started to shake the container at him.

She hears him yell in protest, but she doesn’t laugh as a wicked grin was set upon her features.

“Since the sugar didn’t help, how about this type!” He yelled with a smirk on his face as he threw all of the brown sugar at her.

She let out a yelp as she ducked behind the island, but that only prompted all of the sugar to fall into her hair.

“You know, I think you need to cool off!” She exclaimed as she ran to the sink and turned on the hose as she pointed it directly to her boyfriend.

He cursed in Arabic as the cold water soaked him.

She laughed as she watched the flour on him turn into a white puddie and his expression turned to defeat.

“Oh, my heavens!” A British voice exclaimed breaking the endearing moment.

Damian and Y/N felt their hearts drop as they see Alfred in the doorway with a shocked expression.

“I expect this place to be spotless when you are finished.” He scolded as he turned to leave.

Silence followed as Y/N and Damian shared guilty looks with one another.

“Well, I believe we should abandon this mission and go with buying store-bought sweets,” Damian said as he scooped wet flour off his shirt and into the kitchen sink.

“I agree, besides,” she said as she came to her boyfriend’s side as she scaped some flour off his face, “you were a bad Mr. Doughboy.” She said as she gave him a peck on the cheek.

He rolled his eyes and gave her a quick kiss, “what can I say? I was more cut out to be your boyfriend.”

[godsfiercest]

Update: My Doughboy has doubled in weight (to 8 lbs) and is still a lil brat

I love him your honor 🥺🥺

[leftenantmackgordon]

Surrender - Ch. 2

A “Joyeux Noël” Mackenzie Gordon x Karl Horstmayer Fic

Series Main List

Warnings: WWI trench violence & horrors of war, implied warfare violence against animals (carrier pigeons), trapped & desperate situation

Word Count: 1.1k

Day 2 - 21 December 1917

Gordon’s assumption proves out when the Germans rain down hell from all sides. Artillery fire from the front pairs with sniper fire from the rear. Grenade assaults bombard the left flank, and the right flank is besieged by relentless machine gun sprays.

None of his runners have ever returned, and Gordon isn’t sure if any of the carrier pigeons have made it through. If help is on the way, there’s no sign of it. Food supplies are already low, and the only source of fresh water requires leaving their defensive pocket under heavy German fire. Thankfully, they have ammunition to spare, but he doesn’t know how long his battalion will be pinned down.

With the disappearance of Lieutenant McKeogh, Gordon has to make a battlefield promotion, but his first one is short-lived. The foolhardy, new-minted Lieutenant Ross makes a poor decision to lead an assault out through the back of their pocket in an attempt to get word of their predicament to high command. The casualties - including the man himself - are unfortunately high, and Gordon’s blood boils.

Already, his 546 souls now number 481. He hopes that Lieutenant Campbell will execute his attacks more strategically.

During a lighter moment in the grenade bombardment, Gordon goes in search of the pigeon keeper. It’s the only means that he has for communicating with his high command. With just two birds left, though, he knows it’s a means that will swiftly come to an end - but he can’t stop yet. Eventually, he finds the man huddled with his cages and typewriter in the middle of their defensive pocket.

“Another message, major?” The pigeon keeper looks up with sad eyes despite the hopeful edge to his voice.

Gordon nods. “Yes. We have to keep trying.”

The man nods in return even though it’s painfully obvious that he hates sending these birds out to meet their almost certain death. He reaches for the typewriter and readies the paper, typing the standard ‘PIGEON MESSAGE’ header across the page.

Gordon wets his top lip despite his parched tongue. “Relay our current position and the known coordinates of the enemy. If this message gets through, then our artillery can provide suppressing fire.” He reaches for a ciggie as the typewriter clicks away. “Let them know that we’re beset on all sides and surrounded by enemy forces with minimal supplies. It’s only a matter of days that we can hold our present course before the hard decisions need to be made.”

The pigeon keeper's face turns pale as he types out the message, and Gordon lights his smoke. He casts the young man a supportive smile. “Keep the faith, lad. We’re taking plenty of them with us.”

“Yes, sir.” The young man doesn’t sound convinced, but he knows better than to question Gordon. He’s acquired a high enough rank now that he’s not free to enjoy the camaraderie of his early days as a Lieutenant, and he tries not to let that bother him.

He has enough worries weighing on his mind already. Smoking in silence as the distant sounds of gunfire echo around him, he watches the pigeon keeper affix the message to a bird’s leg. The grey bird takes flight soon after, rising up into the drifts of smoke. For a split second - Gordon wishes that he, too, could fly away.

But if his men can’t fly, then what good does it do him?

Two hours later, urgent shouting from the right flank draws his attention. He trudges through the icy sludge and does a double take at the sight through the trees. A young man - a doughboy, in fact - limps towards the Scottish line holding a crudely-constructed white flag. The soldier clutches the wood stick flag-pole close, his eyes wide with bewilderment and fear.

Lieutenant Stewart’s men coax him across the line and into the pocket. The wound on the doughboy’s shin looks surprisingly well-cared for and the bandage fresh. “I’m Private Lowell, sir. Of the American 307th.” The young man says with flat syllables as he sits against an earthen wall. “I need to speak with the ranking officer here.”

“That’s me, lad,” Gordon says soothingly as he crouches down. “Major Mackenzie Gordon, Royal Scots Fusiliers. How can I help?”

The doughboy draws forth a sealed letter. “This is for you, sir. From the German Oberstleutnant.”

Gordon’s brow furrows even as he nods his thanks and takes the letter. The seal looks far too official and the paper’s edges far too clean. He breaks it open, pouring over the words.

To the Commanding Officer of the 2nd Batl. Of the Royal Scots Fusiliers

Sir,

The Bearer of this letter, Pvt. Ronald Lowell, has been taken prisoner by us on the 19th of December 1917. His wounds have been tended, and he does his Fatherland honor in the strictest sense of the word by refusing to divulge details of your offensive. Against his will, he is dispatched to carry this present letter to the Officer in charge of the 2nd Batl. Of the Royal Scots Fusiliers.

As you are no doubt aware, we have your position sighted on all sides. There is no means of retreat and no road for resupply. As Officer in charge, you are urged to surrender with your forces as it would be quite useless to resist any more in view of the present conditions.

The suffering of your wounded men can be heard from our lines, and if you won’t consider surrender for yourself – consider it for them.

A white flag shown by one of your men will tell us that you agree with these terms.

German Commanding Officer, Oberstleutnant KFH

Gordon’s fingers clench against the page as he rereads the letter. No matter how much it incenses him, he can’t deny that there’s truth in the German commander’s words. Hard truth about their desperate, trapped position, and the tormented suffering of his wounded men. But does the German commander not see the hypocrisy of his own words? Or is he simply following his orders and hoping that Gordon’s humanity will win out?

He crumples the letter to the icy mud with his resolve renewed. The German commander has his orders, and Gordon has his. His gut rots as he rises to his full height and knows what he must do.

He issues two orders of his own. Nothing white is to be shown on the hillside where the Germans might interpret it as a sign of surrender. Each man also needs to be ready for the attack that will surely come once the German commander realizes that his letter has been ignored.

When the moon reaches its zenith that night, his men number 446.

Series Main List

[snappedsky]

Fanatics 81.7

Round Three: Finish ‘em!

*Links to previous and next chapters in reblog*

--

Reawakening Part 7

           Shmee and Nailbunny stand over Zoli with their shiny, new human bodies. Zoli and her zombies and Johnny and the Night Terrors can only stare at them in shock and awe.

           “Wha-who-you-you’re Agents of the Daydream?” Zoli questions, flabbergasted.

           “Ex-agents,” Nailbunny corrects.

           “Yeah, they definitely hate us now,” Shmee adds.

           “How?” Zoli barks, “how are you here? How do you look like that?”

           As if on cue, the Epic pulls up and the Battalion climb out. Squee glares at Zoli as he slams the car door.

           “You,” she snarls, “you should be a useless husk by now.”

           “Far from it,” Squee says, “in fact, I’m feeling pretty good.”

           “Augh, dammit!” Zoli barks, punching the ground. “Useless! Everyone’s useless! That squishy toy is useless! And you!” She points at the zombies, who flinch under her glare. “You’re all useless!”      

           “Guh-Tess is the one who betrayed us!” Krik argues.

           “Oh, real nice, Krik,” Tess snaps, stomping up to them.

           “He’s right, though,” Dillon points out, gesturing to the Night Terrors. “Why did you side with them?”

           “Because this fucking sucks!” she shouts, “being her slave, being trapped in the Nightmare- it sucks! You can’t say it doesn’t. And they’re free, so why can’t we be?”

           Jimmy, Krik, Dillon, and Edgar are unable to argue and just stare at her, speechless.

           “Useless,” Zoli snarls as she stands up. “All of you!”

           Shadows swirl around her hand, summoning a new scythe. The zombies cry out as she charges them.

           Her blade clangs against something and she stumbles back. She growls as she looks up at Squee who stands in front of the zombies, knives raised.

           “That’s enough, Zoli,” he says. The rest of the Battalion joins him, weapons ready.

           Zoli snorts. “Oh, so the children are facing me again? Cause that worked so well last time.”

           “Okay, admittedly you did get the best of us last time,” Dib says.

           “Zim will admit nothing,” Zim snaps.

           “But this time, the whole team is together,” Pepito adds, “and you got nothing we can’t handle.”

           “In fact, it’s even more than us,” Gaz adds.

           Zoli looks back as Johnny, Shmee, Nailbunny, and the Night Terrors approach. She nervously glances back and forth between everyone as they ready their weapons.

           “Uh z-zombies! Attack!” she orders.

           None of them move. Jimmy, Krik, Dillon, and Edgar glance between each other then look at Tess, who watches them with quietly begging eyes.

           “Did you hear me?” Zoli barks, “I am your master! Obey me or else!”

           All five zombies suddenly drop to their knees, crying out in pain as they grip their heads.

           “Ugh, you’re right, Tess,” Edgar groans, “this does fucking suck.”

           “That’s enough, Zoli!” Squee snaps, “it’s over!”

           Zoli glares at him hopelessly. Then she reaches into her coat and whips out a gun.

           She fires. Squee flies off his feet as the bullet hits his chest. Everyone cries out in alarm as Pepito and Gaz catch him.

           “Easy, we got you,” Pepito says as they steady him. Squee gasps and lifts his shirt, revealing Irken branded chest armor, the bullet embedded in it.

           “See?” Squee says, “I told you she’d have a gun.”

           “Yeah, good thing we put that on you,” Tak adds.

           “You-!” Zoli starts to bark when a blade goes through her throat. She gags on blood before Johnny slices off her head with one stroke. It bounces down by his feet while her body collapses into a heap.

           “Nice one,” Eff comments.

           “Okay, so she’s dead,” D-boy remarks and looks at the zombies. “What about them?”

           “They’re still here,” Sickness points out.

           “Maybe they really can be free?” Reverend Meat questions.

           “No, I’m afraid not,” Nailbunny sighs.

           “What?” he questions, “why not-?”

           He’s suddenly cut off by Zoli’s body bursting into a mass of Nightmare appendages.

           “Kids, get out of the way!” Shmee barks.

           The Battalion quickly dives out of the way as the tendrils lunge and wrap around the zombies. They all scream as one by one, they’re pulled into the writhing mass.

           “No!” Reverend Meat exclaims and leaps forward, grabbing onto Tess. Eff, D-boy, and Sickness quickly join him and try to hold her back, but the tendrils start to wrap up their arms.

           “Let her go!” Shmee orders, “or you’ll get pulled in too!”

           “Listen to him,” Tess demands.

           “We said we’d help you!” Reverend Meat says, “and we will!”

           “It’s too late,” Tess insists, “but you have your freedom. You have to keep it.”

           The Night Terrors stare at her hopelessly as the tendrils continue to wrap around their arms.

           “It’s okay,” she smiles weakly, “thank you for wanting to help me. No one’s ever done that for me before.”

           “We’ll find a way to free you,” Reverend Meat swears, “we promise.”

           They let her go and rip their arms out of the appendages. She’s quickly swallowed up by the Nightmare. It writhes and swirls around itself before disappearing into nothingness.

           Everyone stares at where it was for a second, stunned and speechless. Then the Night Terrors all gasp loudly as they collapse to their knees, their human features returning.

           “You guys okay?” Squee asks.

           “Yeah,” Eff sighs, “just a little wiped.”            “That form takes a lot out of us,” D-boy adds.

           “Yeah, I wanted to ask about that,” Squee says, “I didn’t give you that power, did I?”

           “Even we have our secrets, Little Boss,” Reverend Meat smiles.

           Squee smiles back. “Well, thanks for your help. For everything.”

           The four of them smile bashfully.

          Johnny sighs heavily as he sits down and hangs his head. Squee smiles softly, sits next to him, and leans against him.

           “Thank you too,” he says.

           “You don’t have to thank me,” Johnny replies, resting his head against Squee’s.

           Squee looks up at his friends. “Thank you all. For everything.”

           Everyone smiles warmly at him.

           “There they are!”

           Everybody looks over at the voice and sees Devi and Tenna running towards them. They double over as they reach them, panting heavily.

           “Finally found you,” Devi says.

           “Did you run here?” Johnny asks.

           “Yeah, well it’s not like we have a car,” she points out.

           “The news was going crazy about buildings falling apart around here,” Tenna says, “so we came to check it out because we figured it was from you fighting Zoli.”

           “Yeah, and we beat her,” Johnny states.

           Devi and Tenna smile with relief then notice Shmee and Nailbunny.

           “Uh, who are they?” Devi asks.

           “Hello, Devi, Tenna,” Shmee says.

           “Shmee?” they question.

           “And I am Nailbunny,” Nailbunny says, “it’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

           “Nailbunny?” Devi questions then looks at Squee. “Did you…make them human?”            He smiles and nods.

         “While we’re on that topic,” Eff says as he and D-boy stand up and face Nailbunny. “Bunny.”

           “Doughboys,” he replies.

           “Don’t think you can just show up here and be all heroic after being away for so long,” D-boy snaps.

           “The only reason I was away is because you two drove me out of Nny’s mind,” Nailbunny retorts.

           “What are your plans now?” Eff asks, “cause you ain’t staying with us.”

           “Like we wanna stay with you in your disgusting van,” Shmee scoffs, “we’ll find our own way.”

           “Where will you go?” Squee asks.

           “Anywhere,” he shrugs and smiles. “But don’t worry. I won’t be far.”

           Squee smiles back.

           “It’s been a long time since I had a body and I’ve never had freedom like this,” Nailbunny says, “I look forward to using it.”

           “It’s not as great as it sounds,” Johnny grunts, “being human is overrated.”

           “I know all about how you feel about being human,” Nailbunny grins. Johnny smiles back.

           “I guess we missed a lot,” Devi remarks and looks at Squee. “How are you doing?”

           He considers the question. “I’m…better. A little bit. Still not great. But I feel…not different, really. It’s like…the last couple weeks have been a nightmare and I’ve finally woken up.”

           He smiles. “I feel reawakened.”

[lwilson]

the day of the round brown

The cattle truck rattled along the rutted road shaking us about like dice in a Yahtzee cup. I was standing in a sea of crew cuts and camouflage wondering what in the hell I had gotten myself into. There were no poles or guard rails for us to hold on to so we swayed back and forth like wheat in an open field. We were strangers, young men crammed into the back of a cattle truck like pigs, or cows being led off to slaughter. A sense of doom hung like storm clouds over us.

“What in the hell was I thinking,” I thought as I looked around at the scared young faces, their nervous hands fidgeting stuffed in pockets only to be pulled out seconds later. Our restless feet shuffling, anxious twitching grins, and racing minds. I was scared too, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t. It’s the not knowing that scares you, the not knowing what to expect or what is expected of you. We didn’t know where we were going or who would be waiting for us when we got there. For five days the military experience had been nothing more than doing a little police call(Standing in a straight line and walking shoulder to shoulder picking up trash), I still don’t know why they call it that, but that’s what it’s called for whatever reason. We had our pictures taken for our military IDs, received our dog tags, learned to march, and filled out paperwork, and for the most part that was about it. I remember thinking,

“If this is the Army, I should have done this a long time ago.” Of course, that wasn’t the real Army. We were at the wait station being processed into the real Army. Unbeknownst to us, they were breaking us down into groups and deciding what battery (An artillery unit is called a battery), each man would belong to and who the Drill Sargeant of that unit would be. We had been treated fairly well and had basically been left alone for five days aside for police calls, morning, noon, and evening formations, and chow time. We had been lulled into complacency. Reality finally caught up to us on a cool autumn afternoon. The sky was tropical water blue, with just a few wispy clouds floating aimlessly overhead. I remember it like it was yesterday. We were called to formation, and I remembered thinking,

“I wonder what Alan is up to right now?” I smiled a little and thought how wrong Alan had been for not joining up with me, we could have come in together on the buddy system because as far as I could tell the Army was going to be great.

Corporal Thigpen, a lean, dark-skinned young man in his mid-twenties stepped to the front of the formation and told us to fall in, and we all snapped to attention. I don’t remember the short speech he gave, but the jest of it was that we would be moving on to where we would be starting our basic training. Playtime was over. He marched us around the squat puke green buildings to the parade field where the cattle truck sat, blinding silver and shining under that pale Oklahoma sky. We stood there with our jaws unhinged and mouths gaping not fully understanding what was happening. I turned and looked at Corporal Thigpen, his face was a blank slate, he looked through me, he had already mentally moved on to the incoming recruits that would arrive after we were gone. I felt alone, scared, and trapped.

An overwhelming urge to run swept over me. I looked around at the mosaic of young faces surrounding me and saw the same desperate and confused looks In many of their eyes. I thought of my father and what he would have thought. He must have felt the same when he was young and in the Air Force and he had more than managed to have gotten through it and so would I. I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths, then opened them and prepared myself for whatever would come.

We were marched the two hundred feet to the cattle truck, a shimmering block up on a small hill about one hundred yards away. The trailer had twelve-inch rectangle slots cut out on both sides for air and a swinging double door in the rear. One way in and one way out.  Although we were standing in front of it, it still hadn’t dawned on us that this was our transport. Most of us had never seen a cattle truck let alone ridden in one. This would be the first of many. As we stepped timidly aboard our cattle truck the man sitting with his legs crossed and hat down over his brow went almost unnoticed.

He never peeked up from under the rim of his round brown to see the commotion going on around him or uttered a sound. He was there while not being there. I didn’t notice him until I was standing near the back squished between a trembling fat kid we would later call Pillsbury because he reminded us of the Pillsbury doughboy and a slightly older Spanish dude who looked like he might have been a former gangbanger. I forget his name now, but I do remember him being tough, but one of the nicest guys I had ever met. I wish I could remember his name, but I guess it’s just one of those things time steals away from you along with faces and certain places, taking away the whole leaving only an imprint of what was.

To my right, I could hear Pillsbury muttering something under his breath, a prayer, his mother’s name, I don’t know. I turned and looked at him and could see tears filling his lower lids. I quickly turned away not wanting to embarrass him and met the gaze of the Spanish guy, his eyes were wide with alarm, but I didn’t see fear. He gave me a slight shrug, I shrugged back then we both retreated into our own little worlds.

The air was dense and silent and smelled of sweat and nervous farts that hung like cigarette smoke over us. The cattle truck was cramped and stuffed neck-deep with nervous jittery young men with shaved heads and wearing crisp new BDU’s (Battle Dress Uniform), with armpits damp and foreheads shining from anxious sweat. Our eyes were wild and darting about like we had been dropped into total darkness in unfamiliar surroundings. But there was light, which in my opinion only served to make the trip more ominous. In the dark, you may hear but you never see the dread that sneaks up and attacks you, then devours you, and finally claims you. Our collective dread sat near the front, and he was plain to see. He was a silent nodding man none of us had ever seen before.

He sat as silent as time with his head lowered, his eyes shielded by the brim of his drill sergeant’s hat, the fabled Round Brown as they were called. He sat like an old western gunfighter napping in front of some long-forgotten saloon with names like Sally’s, or Miss Calamity. Round brown’s legs were kicked out in front of him and crossed at the ankles the tips of his jump boots glistened in the dim light like patent leather. His arms were folded across his barrel chest and his head bobbed loosely on his neck as we passed over rough and bumpy terrain. He wanted us to believe that he was asleep, but he wasn’t, and we knew it, and I believe he knew we knew it. The cattle truck rambled on.

The trip lasted about ten minutes then we crossed some railroad tracks, and for the first time, the nodding man seemed to take notice of us. He looked out over the sea of young faces staring anxiously back at him. He stood up and straighten his round brown on his head and as he did the cattle truck rolled to a stop. We had arrived at Fort Sill, and this was the very first day of Basic Training.

“Well,” round brown said with a sinister smile, “Welcome to hell ladies.” He opened the side door of the cattle truck and stepped off. The back double doors of the cattle car flung open and as far as you could see there was nothing but Drill Sergeants, screaming at the top of their lungs for us to get our useless, lazy asses off their cattle truck.

“You have five seconds to get your useless asses off my truck and four of them are already gone,” I will never forget hearing that, or the chaos that ensued after that. Duffle bags being flung in every direction, Drill Sargeant’s inches from your face screaming at the top of their lungs calling you things I wouldn’t dare repeat in this piece. It was a harrowing experience that seemed to last forever.  Although I was experiencing it I was able to step out of myself to observe what was going on around me. Things go quiet for me and I can watch without the distraction of sound.  It’s always been my way of dealing with overly stressful situations. As I hurried about gathering my thrown things I observed the reaction of some of the other young men I arrived with. Pillsbury just froze. He was surrounded by three or maybe four drill instructors who were all up in his face screaming obscenities at him about his weight, his face, you name it, if it was hurtful they screamed it at him.

“You fat sonofabitch,” One yelled.

“Your fat ass looks like the Pillsbury doughboy,” the Round brown that rode over with us yelled at him.

“ You got more meat on your ass then my wife,” Another drill instructor patted him on the behind and laughed.

“Mine too,” another drill instructor laughed.

Pillsbury stood there trembling on the verge of tears unable to function which only served to spur them on. Scenes like this were playing out all around me.

The Spanish guy I saw on the cattle car moved about ignoring the insults being hurled at him.

“Where you from cholo,” the drill sergeant demanded.

“L.A.,” he answered as he picked his duffle bag up.

“You think you talking to one of your gangbanging ass friends,”

“L.A. Sargeant,”  he said unfazed.

“Drill Sergeant,” the drill sergeant screamed pointing at his round brown, “You’ve got to be a bad motherfucker to get one of these, you a bad motherfucker  Cholo?”

The Spanish guy shook his head.

“ Speak,” the drill sergeant screamed as he took a step closer to the Spanish guy.

A drill sergeant stepped in front of me blocking my line of sight. It was drill sergeant Kelly, a young black man of about twenty-five. His skin was coal-black, and his eyes were the color of good bourbon. His lips were drawn tight almost into a  pucker and his jawline was as sharp as a barbers razor.  He was tall and lean with a uniform as clean and crisp as any I’ve ever seen. The tips of his jump boots shone like glass. His Round brown drill sergeant’s hat sat tilted forward with the brim resting just above his eyebrows.  He stood there with his hands on his hips sizing me up.

“What the hell you looking at son,” he asked in a raspy smokers voice.

“Nothing,” I answered.

“Where you from Private,” he asked.

“Michigan sir,” I answered stiffly

“ I work for a living son,” he exploded, “ Don’t ever call me sir. I’m a Drill Sargeant, you understand me?”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

“What part of Michigan… wait, let me guess,” he stepped back and looked me over for a second,

“I bet dollars to doughnuts your dope selling ass is from Detroit, you from the “D”, he asked mockingly.

“Yes, Drill Sergeant,”

“Well I’ll be a sissy without a fur coat,” he turned to a few nearby drill sergeants, “We’ve got us a real-life Detroit gangster here.”

The other Drill Sergeants swarmed and I found myself standing in the middle of four Drill Sergeants hurling insults at me. I remember thinking,

“Alan was right. I’ve made a huge mistake. There is no way I will be able to deal with this for thirteen weeks.”

After a few weeks of starting basic training, I begin to see a pattern.There was a method to the Drill Sargeant’s madness. The badgering and insults aren’t personal. First, they have to see how mentally tough you are, second, it’s part of the stripping down process. The process of stripping away the civilian in you so that they could build you back up as a soldier.  The insults were targeted I noticed, an example, If you were from the south they hurled incest insults at you. If you were from a big city like Detroit, New York, Chicago, you must have been a gang member. If you were overweight, fat insults were coming your way, overly handsome, homosexual insults. When you read this you have to remember that these events happened in the eighties and things that might be unacceptable today were quite acceptable back then.

Basic Training

They call it culture shock. The transformation from civilian to soldier. The process isn’t always a smooth one. For some, the transformation happens almost overnight, for others, the process can be bumpy almost to the end of the training.  The first day we were broken down into the units we would be in for our basic training. I was in  Bravo Battery along with the Spanish guy and a few other guys I had arrived with. Drill Sargeant Kelly and his team would be Bravo Battery’s drill instructors. Pillsbury ended up in Alpha Battery, and the Drill Sargeant from the cattle truck would be their drill instructor. Throughout our training Alpha and Bravo competed for the top spots in our training exercises. To my surprise and the surprise of many, even to himself, I think, Pillsbury over the weeks blossomed into one of the best soldiers in his unit. He was losing weight, his confidence was on the rise, it was an amazing thing to see.

The first few weeks of basic training were pretty tough, tougher than I would have ever imagined. It wasn’t the physical aspect of the training that made it difficult for me. I was a former football player and at the time I was in the best shape of my life. The psychological aspect of basic training was the hardest for me. The never-ending shouting and beratement, the isolation, the not knowing what to expect for one moment to the next, being away from family and friends. These were the things that weighed heavily on me. It had been weeks since I last talked to Alan and I would wonder what he was up to? What was going on in the neighborhood? I thought of my parents, and how I was unable to say goodbye to my mother, and how badly my leaving must have hurt her and my father although my father would never say so. I was thinking of my girlfriend and being away from her, would she wait? She did, but at the time I couldn’t worry about that. I was thinking of all the things that made being away from home harder than it needed to be. Finally, I decided that the best way to get through basic was to not think about home and what I was missing by not being there. No one had forced me to join the Army, I had to remind myself that I did it for the opportunity serving would afford me and my girlfriend when I got out and we got married. So, I forced all thoughts of home to the back of my mind and focused on becoming the best soldier I could be. Change never comes easy and being transformed from one thing into something else is no easy task. Residual resistance to the past makes changing for the future hard.

But, the change did come. As the weeks rolled by we began to gel as a unit and before we knew it a ragtag bunch of young men from across the country and from many different cultures and backgrounds was standing shoulder to shoulder becoming a cog in the awesome machinery that is the United States Military. We were Thirteen Bravo’s, a field artillery unit, and we trained on M110 8 inch (203 mm) Self-Propelled Howitzer which was responsible for firing long-range HE( High Explosive) rounds downrange.  During this time I was appointed Platoon Guide(PG) by Drill Sargeant Kelly. The PG answers to the drill instructors directly. In each unit, you have a PG, an assistant  PG, and five or six-section chiefs all recruits. The Drill Sergeant tells the PG what needs to be done and the PG relays the instructions down to the assistant PG and section chiefs. Each section chief is responsible for five or six recruits. If any of the orders relayed by the drill instructors are not done or are done incorrectly the PG is held responsible. It was not a responsibility I wanted but I accepted it.

I’ve never seen myself as a person that needs to be a leader, or who needs to be out front giving orders. It doesn’t bother me either way, but if I had my choice I would rather ease into the background and let someone else take up the mantle, that’s why I find it so incredible that I’ve always been put into leadership positions.

My McFarlene Problem

David McFarlene was a problem. He was this big, not muscular guy from the upper peninsula in Michigan who was simply not cut out for soldiering. When he moved it was like watching someone whose pieces were not quite put together right. His movements were loose and jerky, and when he walked he leaned forward like he would tip over and fall at any moment, his thick neck was extended in some funny uncomfortable looking position holding up his oddly undersized head.

Before I became PG I had barely noticed the large clumsy guy with the slack jaw and dull hazel eyes. Why would I, he wasn’t my problem. The only time I took note of McFarlene was when he was being chewed out for doing something wrong that he should have learned how to do right weeks before. This guy had no coordination, for whatever reason he couldn’t get marching down. Marching is basically walking. You start with the left foot and if you’re turning left you planted your right foot and if your turning right you do the opposite, simple I thought.

Our unit spent many a day after the regular day of training was over on the parade field being hammered by drill sergeant Kelly and his guys because McFarlene who for whatever reason couldn’t catch on to walking in time with the rest of us. This did not make McFarlene popular with the other guys in the unit.  It wasn’t long before I began to hear guys talking about giving old McFarlene a blanket party(A beating). I would have felt bad for the guy, but I didn’t. McFarlene was a huge jerk and undercover racist. He didn’t care that because of his lack of effort the rest of us were suffering. When he should have been practicing McFarlene would be on his bunk sleeping or walking around telling off-colored or racist jokes. It didn’t take long before the rest of the guys black and white had felt that they had waited long enough and it was time to give “Baby Huey”, as some of the guys called him the beat down he had coming his way.  We stood around in the laundry room which was around the back of the barracks and took a vote. One by one the guys raised their hands in favor of giving McFarlene a blanket party.

J.D. Kidder, was a small womanish man with a squeaky bird-like voice was another guy that simply couldn’t get his act together and was causing the unit extra heartache and they wanted to vote on giving him a blanket party as well. For McFarlene I voted yes. In hindsight, I’m not proud of it, but I was eighteen and the guy was a racist and at the time I thought he had it coming. Kidder, on the other hand, I voted no. He wasn’t a good soldier, but he worked hard and was getting better. So, it was a go on baby Huey and a no go on Kidder. Neither of them received blanket parties that night because almost as if he could sense that something was going on Drill Sargeant Kelly called me into his office and appointed me PG.

“You understand that you are responsible for these guys now. They will be looking to you for leadership and I believe you can give it to them. You up to the task Private?” He asked as his eyes bored through me searching for signs of weakness. I fought to keep my expression flat, but this was the absolute last thing I wanted. Hell basic training was no picnic for me, now I’m responsible for the rest of these guys, responsible for McFarlene and Kidder.

“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” I answered. He rocked forward on his chair.

“Good, I’m counting on you son,” he said and handed me a red sleeve armband with sergeant stripes painted in yellow on it. I slid it on.

“Thank you,” I said as I adjusted the armband on my arm.

“ I’m counting on you to get those boys whipped into shape.”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant I will.”

“ I know you will,” he stood up and offered me his hand. I shook it.

“ You’ll do fine don’t worry. I’ve got all the faith in the world in you.”

“Thank you drill Sargeant.”

Becoming Platoon Guide

“Holy shit, he made you the PG,” Holly, a babyface monster of a man grinned. Holly was from somewhere in Alabama, I don’t remember where. We bonded almost immediately. We were two former football stars forced to face the realization that the NFL was not going to be in the future. I played tailback and I was built like one at the time. Holly was Six- three and built like an NFL linebacker and was as strong as a mother’s love. Holly was still clinging to his NFL aspirations. Hanging on was too painful for me so I let my aspirations go.

“You ready for tonight,” Holly asked with his eyes glowing with excitement.

“Can’t be no blanket party tonight,” I said in a low serious voice. I was expecting trouble, hell I might receive a blanket party myself for this.

“Why not,” a voice came from the back of the room.

“Because I can’t have that shit happening on my first day on the gig”

“That’s your problem,” another unseen voice drifted in.

“Shit rolls downhill and now that I’m up on a ledge, well, you understand gravity right?”

“So what, we got to let him off the hook,” Holly asked.

“No, just for tonight. Trust me, he’ll get what he’s got coming to him, just not tonight.”

“What if we beat his ass anyway,” another voice asked.

“You could do that and I’ll personally make sure that you are on shit duty until the end of basic and A.I.T. If you like cleaning toilets have at him.”

“This ain’t cool, you coming In here laying down the law like this,” Holly said to me in a voice that was just above a whisper.

“He knew something was up. Drill Sargeant Kelly knew that something was going down,” I answered him in the same low voice.

Holly was a popular guy, almost as popular as I was and if he decided on his own that come hell or high water McFarlene was going to get that blanket party that would be a major problem for me. First I would have to deal with Holly because I couldn’t let something like that stand unanswered, and that would be no small task. Secondly, Drill Sargeant Kelly might decide that maybe I wasn’t the man for the job if I couldn’t handle the guys any better than this. Quitting and being fired are not the same thing. I didn’t want the job, but I had no intention of being fired from it in the first week. No, I couldn’t let that happened. Holly and his guys wouldn’t wait forever. I had to do something to blunt their efforts. That night I didn’t get much sleep. I knew I had a day or two at the most before McFarlene was going to end up beaten within an inch of his life. A beating I thought he had earned, with his nigger jokes, and his refusing to work to get better at his job, the crude homosexual jokes he liked to tell. His constant masturbating, the guy had it coming, but not yet.

The next day I asked Drill Sargeant Kelly if Holly could be my assistant PG, and he agreed. I liked Holly and thought he would be a good assistant PG, but I also needed to make him partly responsible if things went sideways with the guys. If he had skin in the game he would do whatever was necessary to make sure the guys stayed in line and no one would move on McFarlene until I gave the word. My problem was no longer just my problem, it was now our problem, and since I was able to make Holly assistant PG he like the power and would do what he needed to do to keep it. Holly now felt indebted to me not that I would ever throw it in his face, there was no need to. There came a point where Holly was telling the guys without any prompting from me that they could not go after McFarlene or Kidder. It was also now in his best interest that they didn’t. It was a cynical move pulling Holly in like that, but for me, it was a necessary one. I believe Drill Sergeant Kelly understood what I had done and I think he liked it.

One day shortly after I asked if Holly could be my assistant PG I noticed Drill sergeant Kelly watching me. He walked over to me after training and said,

“That was a very clever thing you did with Holly, you’re smart,” he then turned and walked away. Although McFarlene’s blanket party had been furloughed for a few weeks it was not by any means canceled. McFarlene’s dance with destiny came out of the blue. We had been doing bayonet training (yes bayonet training), running and slashing at hanging dummies it was all quite ridicules but we had to do it, so we were. Of course, the usual suspects were having trouble with the training, Kidder, McFarlene, and a few other guys that were always one step behind the rest of the class.  The guys were having a bit of good-natured fun laughing and joking with them. Most of the runts took the ribbing in stride and laughed and joked with the rest of us all except McFarlene. Today was the day McFarlene had decided that he had had enough of me and wanted to go one on one with the Pugil Sticks ( a stick with huge cushions on the ends, looks like a big Q-tip). I agreed and Drill Sargeant Kelly told us to have at it.

McFarlene is a big graceless man who can barely walk without stumbling over his own feet. He charged me like I knew he would. Bigger guys always try and use their weight against you. Instead, I used speed and after a few minutes I had him huffing and puffing and gasping for air, his arms and chest were bruised and I’m sure his head was hurting from all the head blows he received. He cursed and kept coming and I kept pummeling him then he did something he had been careful not to do in the presence of too many others and certainly not in the presence of any of the Drill Sargeants, he let his temper get the better of him.

At this point, I had stopped hitting him and was just dodging him laughing and joking which only made him madder. He lunged at me and I stepped aside and he went face down in the sand.

“All right McFarlene, you had enough,” I asked still laughing. McFarlene slowly got to his feet spitting sand out of his mouth and brushing his uniform off. He took a few unsteady steps in my direction and spit a huge glob of yellowish-green phlegm at me.

“That’s for your mother you fuckin nigger,” he said as he marched in my direction.

“What,” my blood was boiling. I took off to meet him. “ My mother,” I screamed at him, “You bring my mother into this?”

Drill Sargeant Kelly and several other drill instructors marched over to McFarlene and surrounded him.

“What the fuck did you just say private,” The brim of Drill Sargeant Kelly’s round brown was bumping against McFarlene’s forehead. McFarlene blinked stupidly looking around like he was just waking from a trance.

“Huh,” he muttered looking around like he was seeing them and the sand dunes for the first time. I was going to kill that stupid bastard. Holly and a few other guys had managed to keep me back.

“ At ease private,” a drill instructor yelled at me as I struggled to get free of Holly.

“Did you hear what I said private,” he asked in a sharp authoritative voice. The wind went out of my sails and I began to calm down.

“Yes, Drill Sargeant,” I answered still huffing and puffing.

“Good, fall in,” he said as he turned his focus back to the swarm of drill instructors gathering around Mcfarlane.

The rest of us fell into formation and were marched back to the barracks. McFarlene was taken over to the administration building and didn’t return to the barracks until later that evening. By nine that night things had settled down. McFarlene was sound asleep in his bunk, and Drill Sargeant Kelly was gone for the night.  I looked down at McFarlene, he was sleeping like a baby. Kidder slid off his top bunk and took his place among the gathering boys surrounding McFarlene’s bunk. They were all holding socks with bars of soap in them.  Holly looked at me and then threw the blanket over McFarlene’s head. I walked to the front of the barracks and sat down at the fireguard desk and wrote a letter to the girl that would later become my wife.