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08:10 EDT Friday July 26th, 1991
Building 2748
Ft Benning, GA
"Where in hell is your gear, Private?" The speaker wore a black baseball-style hat with silver parachutist's wings and the silver-on-black of a Sergeant First Class' dress rank sewn to the front of his headgear. He stood behind a tall wooden desk-like partition, which stretched down the room chest high, one of many stations to receive soldiers reporting.
Ben was alone in the reporting area, standing within the lines painted on the floor. "Sergeant, my Platoon Sergeant shipped my gear here. I'm reporting here straight from leave."
Ben received a hard stare in return. The other simply stared at him, not speaking, for a full minute, making Ben slightly uncomfortable, but not outwardly nervous. Having recent exposure to persons of rank and great presence certainly helped, Ben knew, but what helped more was that he held a calm expression and thought of arctic landscapes. Sandy, this trick'll come in handy, he thought, referring to her advice on how to look unruffled under fire.
Finally, the other spoke. "Son," he began in a not-unreasonable tone of voice. "You're supposed to show with web gear, report in BDUs, with three sets of BDUs, two sets of leg boots, and sufficient underwear and toiletries. You're supposed to be carrying your latest PT scores, ten copies of your orders, and proof that you're able to 'withstand the rigors of Airborne training'. That proof is supposed to be a physical within the last year. Do you have any of that?"
Ben didn't smile. "Sergeant, I have my last TDY orders, my leave orders, my travel orders, and my school orders. I also have a number for my Platoon Sergeant, my unit's Training NCO, and I have all day."
A second SFC had come into the room, behind the counter. "Sergeant Airborne, is this Private giving you trouble?"
The first shook his head slowly. "No Sergeant Airborne," and he gave Ben a considering look. "I think I will call his Platoon Sergeant wherever the fuck he came from, and find out what kind of fucked up unit he comes from to send him here without any of his shit." To Ben, he asked, "Do you have any other uniforms with you?"
Ben indicated he didn't. "No ... Sergeant Airborne?"
The other gave a nod. Ben relaxed slightly, his guess on the form of address was, apparently, correct – students in the course were expected to use this to address an NCO. It was, apparently, not for use only amongst the training cadre.
"Sergeant Airborne, I have a checkbook, and I am reasonably certain this installation has a Military Clothing outlet. I don't expect to be issued anything ... I'll eat the expense. I'm coming off thirty days' convalescent leave, but I can run a PT test. If we can't find my gear, there's nothing in there I can't replace." Ben sent a silent prayer of thanks to Alex, his father's ranch manager, who'd given him extra over the cost of a truck to replace Ben's old one the ranch had used. Without that, he'd be up a creek, he knew.
The other kept staring at Ben. "You'll have to do a four-mile run, too, at nine minutes a mile. Did you eat breakfast today?" Ben indicated he had.
"Can you produce your medical records proving you had a physical within the last year?"
Ben smiled for the first time since he'd arrived. "Sergeant Airborne, my medical records are at the Naval Medical Center, Oakland. I think it's safe to say they contain a physical evaluation of my fitness, Sergeant Airborne."
"Stand over there, Private, and don't move. I'm gonna call your training NCO. Where the fuck are you from?"
"Delta, Eighty-Sixth Signal, Sergeant Airborne, Fort Huachuca. The Training NCO is Sergeant Hauptmann." Ben recited the telephone number for his platoon sergeant from his new position by the wall, away from the painted lines on the floor.
07:30 MST Friday, July 26th, 1991
Building 102
Ft Huachuca, AZ
The phone rang. Sgt Hauptmann rocked forward in his chair to reach the receiver while leaving his feet on the wastebasket rim under the desk. "Second Platoon, Delta Company, this is Sergeant Hauptmann, how may I help you, sir or ma'am?" Hauptmann hated it, but strove to speak the "prescribed manner with which to answer the telephone" that had recently become SOP for every unit in the Army. This time, he didn't run out of air. He'd been running out of air only about one time in ten or twenty, now.
One sentence from the other party on the line was all it took for both feet to land on the floor, and Hauptmann's ire to rise. "Sergeant, you got a lot of balls sending your soldier to Basic Airborne without his gear and orders."
"Sir, who is this?"
"Sergeant First Class Anderson, First of the Five-Oh-Seventh PIR." He pronounced it "pee-aye-are". "Are you PFC Collins' Training NCO?"
"I am," Hauptmann said, warily.
"Well, then, Sergeant. You got a lot of balls, sending your soldier to Basic Airborne without his gear and orders."
Hauptmann thought quickly, as he felt himself flush. "Sergeant, I sent PFC Collins' gear and orders to you two weeks ago. You've got his gear. He was on convalescent leave, he flew there from San Francisco." He was proud of himself for keeping his voice level.
The other's brash voice was grating on Hauptmann's nerve. "Well, they'll have thrown his gear in lockup with the rest of the personal stuff that comes here. We discourage mail here for a reason, Sergeant. We don't keep them here long enough to give them their mail, so we throw it in lockup and ship it to their next duty station. What I want to know now is what you mean by convalescent leave. He's supposed to be able to jump out of airplanes here, Sergeant."
Hauptmann decided he definitely did not care for the other's tone. "Sergeant, he was in a gunfight with some Mexican smugglers here on the border, and yes, it was line-of-duty. He got a hole in him, and he got thirty days to recover. He's ready to jump out of airplanes."
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