SRU Summer Camp
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A Fresh StartChapter 41: Summer Camp free porn video
This summer I was to spend some time at the Fayetteville School for Unwed Fathers, otherwise known as Fort Bragg. The standard ROTC plan was that you spent a portion of your last two summers in some sort of training. Then, after you graduated and were commissioned, they would send you to your advanced training. Infantry officers go to Benning, artillery officers go to Fort Sill in Oklahoma, armor officers go to Fort Knox, Kentucky, and so forth. By the end of June, I would be at Bragg for six weeks
The day I was to fly south I had Marty Adrianopolis drive us over to the Albany airport. I was packing light, with just a few changes of underwear and clothing and my toilet kit in an army surplus B4 bag. We had a checklist of things to carry, and you took those things and those things only. We would get gear issued when we got there. ‘There’ was Fort Bragg, North Carolina, and it was Joe, Bruno, and me going. The Navy cadets went off to Newport and the Air Force went to some base down in Texas.
Nobody goes to Fayetteville, which is where Fort Bragg is, even though they have an airport. Instead, they flew us to Raleigh and told us to report to a military liaison at the baggage claim. At that point we would belong to the Army, and they would do whatever they wanted to us for the next six weeks. As the saying goes, ‘Give your soul to Jesus. Uncle Sam gets all the rest!’ The flight was the cheapest and longest trip imaginable, with stops in Philly and Richmond along the way. Nothing too good for our troops!
The real fun started once we got to Raleigh. The military liaison turned out to be a collection of sergeants and corporals, the most junior of which was holding a sign up on a stick saying, ‘ROTC HERE’. We collected our bags and wandered over to the noncoms and got in line. Outside it was raining and I could see a line of school buses painted in green camouflage. (Really? Like we were sending school buses into combat? I’ve been around military people my entire life and I just don’t understand it at times. Like the time when the Navy issued Parker blue camouflage uniforms - If you want a sailor to hide on a ship, give him a gray uniform and make him look like an electric cable!) When we got to the front of the line, I showed the sergeant my orders and he sent me outside to a school bus. That was the last I saw of my frat brothers. They were directed to different buses.
That was where the fun started. The fellow in front of me, on showing his orders and being directed to climb on board the bus, said, ‘Yes, sir.’ The sergeant replied, as most sergeants are wont to do, ‘Don’t call me sir! I work for a living!’ I’d heard this any number of times before, if not by sergeants, then by foremen and other workers.
And I smiled.
“WHAT ARE YOU SMILING AT, PISSANT? DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SMILE? DO YOU FIND SOMETHING FUNNY IN WHAT I JUST SAID?” The sergeant had whipped around to face me and crawled up my body. He was screaming at me at the top of his lungs, his face so close to mine I was being sprayed by his spittle.
Oh, shit! The secret to surviving any kind of training is to become invisible. When hammering nails, the tallest nail gets hammered first. When you’re in a foxhole (what we learned was an ‘improvised field entrenchment’), the guy who sticks his head up is the one who gets blown away. I had just violated Rule 1 of surviving the summer.
I came to attention and barked, “NO, SERGEANT!” I locked it up and kept my eyes facing forward. The sergeant went on in this fashion for another couple of minutes, much to the astonished horror of my fellow boots, as the rain came down on us and we slowly got soaked.
Eventually, the tirade ended up like I expected it to. “DROP AND GIVE ME TWENTY!”
“YES, SERGEANT!” I immediately set my bag on the sidewalk and dropped to the ground. I assumed the position, with my face in a puddle, and dropped down and then pushed back up. “ONE!” I kept up the process as the sergeant processed the rest of my busload onto the bus, with them stepping around me, and in one case stepping on me. Once done, I pushed up and locked my elbows. “PERMISSION TO RECOVER?”
“DID I SAY YOU COULD SPEAK, PISSANT? PERMISSION DENIED! GIVE ME ANOTHER TWENTY!”
I guess we needed to load some more onto the bus. I gave the sergeant another twenty, and then locked my elbows and stayed in position. Eventually I was ordered to recover and stood up. My arms were killing me, but I kept my mouth shut and a blank expression on my face. Out of the corners of my eyes I could see one or two boots at each bus doing pushups, so I was just the lucky guy on my bus. I retrieved my B4 and got on the bus when ordered to. I squished when I sat down. The fellow next to me was wet, too, but I was soaked to the skin. Thank God it was a warm day.
We were ordered to keep our mouths shut on the drive to Bragg. It was an hour and a half or more, and some asshole hadn’t learned from my example. He did pushups in the aisle for thirty miles. That was the procedure for the day. I went through the entire incoming process in soggy clothes. I didn’t know whether it was funny or miserable.
I am not going to describe all the fun of boot camp. If you’ve ever seen a John Wayne war movie, you already know all about it, except ours was a lot louder, smellier, dirtier, and messier than what he did. Reveille was officially at 0600, but by then we were already wide awake. The weather was either blistering hot and sunny, or drenching downpours, with the occasional tornado scare thrown in for good measure. On the other hand, we were assured it didn’t snow much in North Carolina. Every day we did PT - physical training - also known as calisthenics. We ran, for miles and miles. We ran through obstacle courses. Then we did it all over again while carrying backpacks full of rocks. Meanwhile, we would suffer daily abuse from drill instructors who must have had lungs and throats made from leather, since every one of them had the dial set at 11.
I just kept telling myself it was only for six weeks, and then five weeks, and then four weeks, and so forth. Every few days we would have just enough time to scribble out a note to somebody and I would write Marilyn, telling her I loved her, and how the thought of seeing her in a bikini at the beach was the only thing keeping me from going crazy. Every few days she would write back, and I would find a Polaroid enclosed. Most of them were tame, but several of them were in a swimsuit or a short skirt; she said she had been up at summer camp on her own and Tammy had taken the shots.
Thankfully, I was in decent shape going into basic training, what with my running and workouts. Theoretically, taking ROTC gets you out of gym class, because you are spending an equivalent amount of time doing pushups with the army. However, college ROTC programs vary tremendously across the country. You are supposed to come out already in decent shape, knowing how to march and salute, and ready to chew nails and spit tacks. Some schools are so good you come out ready to go into battle. Some you come out not even knowing how to wear the uniform. Rensselaer’s is somewhere in the middle, on the mediocre side. I can honestly say that if I hadn’t been already in good shape, I would have been one hurting pup!
There were a few odd moments along the way. By the end of the second week, we were introduced to unarmed combat. During the spring semester I had managed to find an aikido instructor and start up again. He was a lot tougher, at least personally, than Lance Miyagi’s father, and ran me up one side and down the other about how my appallingly limited skills had been allowed to fade away. He even threatened to take away my black belt. Under his strict tutelage I was able to blow the rust off and get back into fighting shape by the end of the spring.
There were probably about a thousand ROTC students at Bragg that summer, in a gigantic, oversized training battalion, and maybe a couple of hundred in any individual training company. My company was split into smaller groups, each of which had a drill instructor of some sort to teach unarmed combat basics. That was when my ‘low profile’ plan failed. Our drill instructor, Corporal Jones decided to teach us hands on, and he needed a volunteer. He got that volunteer the Army way - he selected one.
Me.
Everybody was looking at me, and I just blinked and asked, “Me?”
“You, pissant.” He crooked a finger at me and summoned me forward. I walked out into the sand circle in front of our group. “Your next of kin registered?” he asked, a common enough question.
“YES, CORPORAL!” I barked out. You never talk; you say it loud and proud!
“Assume a defensive position, or what you think is a defensive position,” he said with a laugh. He then proceeded to tell us what was going to happen. The instructors worked on the ‘tell them three times’ principle, which is a common teaching method (remember, I had once taught college back in the day.) You tell them what you are about to tell them, you tell them for real, and then you tell them what you just told them. In this case he told them how he would kill me, then kill me, and then tell them how he killed me. This felt like it was going south quickly.
In for a penny, in for a pound. I stepped into the ring and took a kamae defensive position, as bait. In aikido you always let the attacker come to you, even to the extent of feinting to draw an attack towards you. Then you react defensively to thwart the attack and position yourself for any further attacks.
The corporal stopped and eyed me curiously. He began to move cautiously, trying to circle me. I stayed facing him as he tried to circle me, and I kept watching him closely. I noticed he wasn’t getting any closer. Suddenly he stepped back. Keeping an eye on me, he yelled back over his shoulder, “Sergeant Jenkins!”
Sergeant Jenkins was the senior drill instructor, a staff sergeant, and our company commander. He came over after a couple of minutes to find the corporal and me still standing facing each other in sand ring. “Corporal Jones?”
“I think we’ve got us a karateman here! I just thought you might want to watch,” said Corporal Jones.
“There’s always one,” replied Jenkins with a light laugh. “He’s all yours.”
Oh shit! Jones laughed and came back towards me.
The move he had told us he was going to make was a grab and a throw, allowing me to land hard on the ground, stunning and immobilizing me, and allowing him to kill me at his leisure. That was the theory, anyway. I’m sorry, but it was just a force of habit. I had spent too many hours in the dojo and I just fell back on rote memory. He grabbed me and I countered and twisted him up and over and dropped him on his ass. I quickly stepped back and assumed a defensive position.
There was dead silence. Jenkins entered the sand ring, and walked up to Jones, who was now sitting upright and brushing sand out of his hair with a rueful grin on his face. He looked up at Jenkins and said, “Yeah, there’s always one. I’m going to remember you said that.”
Jenkins helped Jones to his feet. “I never said he wouldn’t kick your ass.” Then the sergeant turned to face me. “Feeling lucky, are we?”
“I’m not all that sure, sergeant.” Now it was really too late to back down!
Jenkins motioned Jones out of the ring, and this time he bowed to me, which really made me think I had fucked up. I had nothing else to do but return the bow. This time we circled each other warily, and he didn’t charge in at me. I had to fake a backwards motion to get him to commit, and he struck at me with a fist punch, which didn’t leave him off balance. I still managed to twist him around and toss him, but he had barely landed on the sand before he rolled to his feet and came back at me. This time I was off balance, and I took two solid blows to my ribs as I fell on my ass. I was up quickly though, rolling out from under his kick, and managed to take a second kick in stride and drop him in the sand a second time. That just got me a smack to the head. I was moving back into position when he stopped the fight.
I was breathing hard, and rubbing my sore ribs, and I was pleased to note that the sergeant was rubbing a hand along his rear. “So, what degree are you, and in what?” he asked.
“First dan, aikido. Uh, that’d be a first-degree black belt, sergeant,” I answered.
“I know what it means, soldier,” he answered me, but not angrily. “You’re very good, but your timing is off.”
I nodded. He was right, I wasn’t moving properly. “I know, sergeant. I should have been more fluid, and quicker.”
“It’s the uniform, and the boots. I bet you’ve only practiced in a gi and barefoot, right?”
It was like a light went off in my head! No wonder I was moving like molasses! “That’s it, I think! I’ve never worn boots during practice! Can we do another fall?”
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