you’re going to to go because you
WANT to be a member of the most illustrious fighting force in America today. Don’t you, idiots?”
“Yes sir,” a few of the recruits in the first row spoke out.
“WHAT’S THAT?” the D.I. screamed so loudly back at them that a dog nearly half a mile away in the pens started barking.
“YES SIR,” every one of them shouted back, standing bolt upright, backs ramrod stiff. Even Stone joined in. Sort of.
The D.I. walked back and forth in front of them, a huge Polack, with a face like a cow and a body and shoulders that looked
like they could lift one. “I’m Sergeant Zynishinski. Don’t try to pronounce my name, just say ‘sergeant’ whenever you want
to address me. I’m the guy who runs thisforty-eight-hour marathon training. General Patton has his own ideas of war. If you get through this, you’re for us. If not,
it’s better to find out now. You’re going to hate my guts by the time we’re through. And wish you could send a howitzer on
my head or run a bayonet through me. And you know what, I’ll give you the opportunity to try it. But first”—he looked into
their apprehensive faces and snorted out a sigh of disgust. Then he spat a cupcake-sized gob of spittle onto the dirt. “Let’s
start with the basics.”
“First the sacred oath of our army. This oath is signed and sealed in blood. Only blood binds us together so that we can’t
be broken.” He handed a knife to the men at each end of the three lines. “These are the direct words of General Patton himself,
gentlemen idiots: ‘It is our common sacrifice of blood on the field of battle that makes us one, unites us in the war on evil,’”
He looked around at them, making sure they knew how to use the damned blades.
“Now, cut yourself and when you all have blood coming out, put your bleeding fist over your heart.” He sliced his arm, which
Stone saw had been cut over and over again so the forearm had healed into a scarred purple surface as jagged and ugly as the
stark face of the moon. Each man sliced himself and passed the knife down the line. Some of them did it with eyes open, others
with eyes shut tight as doors; some sliced their own flesh as if carving a piece of bologna, others stabbed forward into palm
or wrist or arm, wanting to get it over with fast. A few just cut into themselves with total detachment, sawing as if they
were slicing up a roast and had forgotten if it was a quarter or half pound they were cutting up. Groans and gasps chorused
through the men but not a one screamed, not in front of their fellow initiates.
Stone took the knife when it was handed to him and staredat it. He looked over the sergeant, who had already placed his bleeding forearm over his chest so that drops fell onto his
uniform and down onto the ground. What the hell, Stone thought, trying to muster his own shield of grim detachment. When in
Rome, as they used to say. He placed it against the front of his forearm on the outside fleshy part and nicked the tip in
about a half inch and then sliced forward for about two inches.
“Shiiiit,” he hissed, gritting his teeth together, snapping his eyes suddenly shut in pain. He looked down. There was a reasonable
amount, Stone decided, as a stream of red flowed slowly out as if through a crack in a dam. He handed the blade onto the next
man. Within a minute and a half they had all made their cuts.
“Now face the flag of the NAA,” the D.I. said, turning toward the fluttering symbol of military strength that snapped in a
sudden gust of wind. “Now swear after me, swear on your own blood allegiance to our flag. And repeat after me. I—say your
name.”
“I, Martin Stone,” Martin said, trying to get into the spirit of the thing. But not quite able.
“Swear total and complete obedience to the New American Army, its commander General Patton and all its officers.” They repeated
his words, some stumbling over them.
WANT to be a member of the most illustrious fighting force in America today. Don’t you, idiots?”
“Yes sir,” a few of the recruits in the first row spoke out.
“WHAT’S THAT?” the D.I. screamed so loudly back at them that a dog nearly half a mile away in the pens started barking.
“YES SIR,” every one of them shouted back, standing bolt upright, backs ramrod stiff. Even Stone joined in. Sort of.
The D.I. walked back and forth in front of them, a huge Polack, with a face like a cow and a body and shoulders that looked
like they could lift one. “I’m Sergeant Zynishinski. Don’t try to pronounce my name, just say ‘sergeant’ whenever you want
to address me. I’m the guy who runs thisforty-eight-hour marathon training. General Patton has his own ideas of war. If you get through this, you’re for us. If not,
it’s better to find out now. You’re going to hate my guts by the time we’re through. And wish you could send a howitzer on
my head or run a bayonet through me. And you know what, I’ll give you the opportunity to try it. But first”—he looked into
their apprehensive faces and snorted out a sigh of disgust. Then he spat a cupcake-sized gob of spittle onto the dirt. “Let’s
start with the basics.”
“First the sacred oath of our army. This oath is signed and sealed in blood. Only blood binds us together so that we can’t
be broken.” He handed a knife to the men at each end of the three lines. “These are the direct words of General Patton himself,
gentlemen idiots: ‘It is our common sacrifice of blood on the field of battle that makes us one, unites us in the war on evil,’”
He looked around at them, making sure they knew how to use the damned blades.
“Now, cut yourself and when you all have blood coming out, put your bleeding fist over your heart.” He sliced his arm, which
Stone saw had been cut over and over again so the forearm had healed into a scarred purple surface as jagged and ugly as the
stark face of the moon. Each man sliced himself and passed the knife down the line. Some of them did it with eyes open, others
with eyes shut tight as doors; some sliced their own flesh as if carving a piece of bologna, others stabbed forward into palm
or wrist or arm, wanting to get it over with fast. A few just cut into themselves with total detachment, sawing as if they
were slicing up a roast and had forgotten if it was a quarter or half pound they were cutting up. Groans and gasps chorused
through the men but not a one screamed, not in front of their fellow initiates.
Stone took the knife when it was handed to him and staredat it. He looked over the sergeant, who had already placed his bleeding forearm over his chest so that drops fell onto his
uniform and down onto the ground. What the hell, Stone thought, trying to muster his own shield of grim detachment. When in
Rome, as they used to say. He placed it against the front of his forearm on the outside fleshy part and nicked the tip in
about a half inch and then sliced forward for about two inches.
“Shiiiit,” he hissed, gritting his teeth together, snapping his eyes suddenly shut in pain. He looked down. There was a reasonable
amount, Stone decided, as a stream of red flowed slowly out as if through a crack in a dam. He handed the blade onto the next
man. Within a minute and a half they had all made their cuts.
“Now face the flag of the NAA,” the D.I. said, turning toward the fluttering symbol of military strength that snapped in a
sudden gust of wind. “Now swear after me, swear on your own blood allegiance to our flag. And repeat after me. I—say your
name.”
“I, Martin Stone,” Martin said, trying to get into the spirit of the thing. But not quite able.
“Swear total and complete obedience to the New American Army, its commander General Patton and all its officers.” They repeated
his words, some stumbling over them.
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