Pup Read online

  Once we had received our clothing we were sent into another partitioned area to put on the uniforms. I almost managed to do this without incident. I had worn a lot of surplus clothing to do yard work and the like at home. I knew how most of it fit. It took me a few minutes to get my boots on and laced. That was something I wasn’t used to. I had always wondered why the army doesn’t use sneakers. I wore them every day when I was in school. I would have worn them to prom if my mother had let me. The boots would definitely take some getting used to. Amazingly enough, even they were not the problem. It was the Velcro fasteners. Many years before, the army had started using them on a lot of their gear, including uniforms. It makes sense. It’s a useful material. Unfortunately, the hook portion of the hook-and-loop fastener also attaches to the socks issued by the army. Once we had dressed, we were led into another partitioned area where we were going to be briefed on what would be happening over the next several days.

  Following instructions, I lined up as the last man in the second row. A sergeant came walking down the line, looking us over. I just looked straight ahead like I had seen in the movies, figuring he would pass me by. I should have known better than that. He stopped right next to me, looked down for a moment, and then growled, “You should attach it to your back pocket.”

  I couldn’t continue looking straight ahead because I was completely befuddled. “What should I attach to my back pocket?” I asked meekly. He reached down and, with a tearing noise, pulled an extra green sock off the side of my pants leg and held it up to my face. If I was smart, I would have just taken the sock from him and faced forward again. Of course, if I was smart I wouldn’t have to start sentences with If I was smart. “Why would I want to put that on my back pocket?”

  “To cover up the boot print from the ass kicking I should give you!” You could look into this sergeant’s eyes and see the love and respect he had for me as a newly drafted soldier. And my friends said I would never master sarcasm. The sergeant tossed the sock onto my head and then moved on. I never miss an opportunity to completely screw up a first impression.

  I don’t plan on spending forever describing boot camp. Hundreds of thousands of people have been through it. Some of them might have even looked more ridiculous than me. I doubt it, but anything is possible. Anything that they expected us to do after providing a manual or instructions, I did just fine. I learned how to disassemble and reassemble a carbine rifle just fine. I learned how to march and get into formation well. I was even able to write multiple reports and requisition requests with no mistakes. This made some of my training officers extremely happy.

  The tasks and requirements that did not have manuals or that they didn’t show us were another matter entirely. To be honest, I sucked at them. I could disassemble my carbine, but cleaning it was another matter entirely. How on earth do you use a toothbrush to clean stuff out of a spot far too small to stick the toothbrush in? Uniforms became the bane of my existence. Has anyone reading this ever had a class on how to create perfect creases? How about how to polish a scuff out of leather? I know that I didn’t. Maybe it is something that most families teach at home. None of the other recruits seemed to have these problems. My mom taught me how to dance the waltz. Why couldn’t that have been a skill we were tested over on the parade ground? I was in no big hurry to dance with my instructor, but I could have scored well on it if I’d had to.

  I had seen a lot of movies where the drill instructors were constantly yelling and cursing and throwing the trainees around. That wasn’t quite what happened to me. There was some yelling and a fair amount of cursing, but it wasn’t exactly as harsh as I’d thought it would be. Don’t get me wrong, I learned a lot of important lessons. For example, if a drill instructor asks if you want to go home to your mama, it is probably not in your best interest to answer “yes.” I had three straight nights of guard duty for that, and they still didn’t send me home to my mama. I also learned that push-ups are a form of exercise that were probably designed by Satan himself. Potatoes aren’t hard to peel until you are into your second fifty-pound bag of them. I also learned that shouting “Sweet merciful crap!” the first time that a gun is fired next to you does not make many people desire to be your friend.

  Obviously, I survived boot camp. I even survived infantry training afterward. What I never did understand is why they decided to make me an infantryman. I would have made a great clerk. I could write reports and requisitions. I could make people coffee. I could go and get a knit jeep cap and a teddy bear and be just like the clerk on that show my mom used to watch. Instead, someone decided that I needed to be given a gun and have others put their lives in my hands. When it was confirmed that I would be going to infantry specialty training, I remember one of my instructors muttering, “There’s more proof that the brass has got shit for brains.”

  I don’t tend to use much foul language, but I had to respond, “Fuckin’ A, Sarge.”

  For the first time since boot camp had begun, the instructor looked up at me and smiled. “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said in two months, Pup.”

  I guess that I should mention that I had picked up the nickname Pup. Someone who had been near me when we had requisitioned our uniforms so long ago had heard that woman call me that. For some reason, everyone thought it suited me. I’m not exactly sure why. Pups are cute and make everyone say “Aw!” and all of the girls want to hold them. Absolutely none of those things applied to me. I mean absolutely none. I didn’t even reach the same level as a pug. They’re so ugly that they’re cute. Oh well. I guess that the nickname “Hair-brained idiot” doesn’t roll off the tongue as easily. So now, I’m Pup. Nice to meet you.

  I shipped out a few weeks after infantry training was completed. I got to go home and visit my family first. It was nice. My mom kept talking about how grown up her little boy had become. I don’t know why she kept saying that. I did have a little more muscle. Doing a grand total of 3,500 push-ups and peeling a metric ton of potatoes will do that. Still, I felt pretty much the same as I always had. I slept in late, played video games, caught up on the latest season of Doctor Who, and chased after the dog and cat whenever they escaped. I’ve often wondered if they were trying to tell us something with how often they ran away. To be honest, I was ready to go by the time my leave was up. I was getting bored. I had gone out once to see if my uniform would get me a little attention. It didn’t. There were too many others in town who had been drafted and looked much more natural in their uniforms than I did. Sure, it was good being with my friends and family, but I started seeing this tour of duty kind of like a Band-Aid. I’ve got lots of experience with Band-Aids. Let me rip it off quickly and get the pain over with.

  I reported over an hour early to prepare to board my flight. I had only flown once before and the results were . . . unpleasant. To avoid another such event, I had taken almost every motion sickness medicine I could find. I had even purchased some of those wristbands that were supposed to prevent motion sickness without medicine. I worried that this was what I would have to do until transporter technology was invented. It turns out that multiple doses of motion sickness medicine and nearly two liters of Mountain Dew can make a person act very strangely. I guess that it’s a good thing that I didn’t drink. I really don’t know what all I did while I was waiting to board the plane. I don’t even remember actually boarding the plane. What I do know is that by the time I got aboard the plane I had lost all of my money, I was wearing the wristbands around my ears, and I can only assume that I got the black eye in a fight. Maybe it was from a doorknob. I was told that I fell down a lot. I admit that the whole affair embarrasses me. I’d been raised to act properly in public, and minutes before going off to defend our country I threw a roll of toilet paper out of the bathroom and shouted “Incoming!” Doesn’t that just raise your patriotic fervor? And with that grand performance, I was off to war.

  What do you call this place again?

  җ

&nbs
p; I guess that it was a bit of grace that the medicines I had taken made me pass out as soon as I got on the plane. I don’t remember taking off or leveling off, only nodding off. This was a blessing for me but a curse for everyone else. I snore. Actually, that’s not true. People snore. Cute dogs with short snouts snore. The noise that escapes me while I sleep sounds something like a cross between a chainsaw and the mating call of a water buffalo. One of the things that forced my parents to buy a house before they were ready was the fact that my snoring had gotten us kicked out of three apartment complexes. Everyone on the plane got to enjoy the pleasure of my nasal symphony. I’m not certain how bad it was since I was asleep. I have been told an unconfirmed rumor that the pilot thought we would have to divert to another airport because he mistook my snoring for an engine fire. Thankfully a flight attendant informed him of the source of the racket. By the time I woke up, we were more than halfway to Japan and I had a pillow over my face. When I removed the pillow and looked around I was greeted with a plethora of angry looks. Who would have guessed it? My English teacher wasn’t lying. I did use the word “plethora” at least once in my life.

  In any case, I was a little woozy from all of the medicine and sleep. I set the pillow on the seat next to me and took the stupid wristbands off of my ears. I looked out of the window and saw nothing but clouds and water. Amazingly enough, it didn’t make me ill. I rubbed my eyes and looked around the plane. It took me a minute to put together what was wrong with what I was seeing. It was a commercial airliner, not a military plane. A flight attendant who noticed that I had stopped my imitation of a dump truck walked over to check on me. With a slight slur to my words, I asked, “Did I get on the wrong plane? I don’t see any green.”

  The flight attendant gave me one of those patient smiles that I think they drill into you at the flight attendant version of boot camp. You know, the one that allows flight attendants to put up with people like . . . well, me. “You’re on the correct plane, sir. The military contracts civilian airlines to transport troops from the states. Can I get you a soft drink, sir?” I asked for a Coke, which she provided very quickly.

  As my drink was being poured into a cup on my tray, I noticed that most of the people around me had turned off their lights and were sleeping. “Is it time to sleep?” I asked the attendant.

  With another patient smile, she responded, “I will bring you as many drinks as you would like, as well as some snacks. We have some magazines and newspapers for you to read, or I can even send an attendant back to talk with you for a while. We will do whatever is necessary to keep you awake, sir. You seem like a nice young man, so please do not take it personally when I read the instructions that the captain left for me.” She pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket, unfolded it, and read it aloud to me. “‘If that human lawn mower tries to go to sleep again, you are to stuff him into his duffel bag and place the duffle bag into the cargo compartment so that I can open the cargo hatch and send him plummeting into the Pacific.’ I would rather not see that happen to you, sir.” And with that warning, the attendant poured me another soda, gave me three bags of pretzels, two newspapers, a crossword book, and her own personal iPod to listen to. The rest of the flight was surprisingly uneventful. At least now I understand why my parents insisted I bring portable video games on long family drives. Bad video game music is bound to be better than snoring that sounds like a hacksaw cutting through a stick of dynamite in a fireworks factory.

  We landed in Tokyo. It was absolutely huge. The view from the air was incredible. I had never seen so many people crowded into one place. Sure, I had been to several cities. I’d been to Atlanta. I almost got assaulted there when I commented that I thought someone’s pants were falling down. I’d been to Cincinnati. I wore the Braves hat I had gotten on my Atlanta trip and I barely made it out alive. I had been to San Francisco, where I rented a bike to ride around town. My legs required therapy for a month afterward. But I had never seen a city the size and scope of Tokyo. I felt lost just looking at it. It suddenly hit me that I wasn’t home anymore. Part of me started to shake a little, and I had an almost uncontrollable urge to call home.

  The landing was blissfully smooth. The flight attendant told us all to keep our seats so that a military liaison officer could give us our instructions. I sat there for a little while longer enjoying some of the sounds of home on the iPod while the other soldiers around me yawned and stretched out their in-flight cramps. It took about ten minutes before the military liaison officer made his way onto the airplane. He was a young lieutenant who looked like he had been stationed in Japan a while and knew where all of the good restaurants were. I heard several of the soldiers mutter things like “FOBbit” and “desk jockey.” One soldier behind me muttered, “You know he’s never seen action on the Hiss.” I didn’t even know what that meant. What I did know was that he was a superior officer and that I hadn’t “seen action on the Hiss” either, so I just kept my mouth shut.

  The lieutenant picked up the public address system, blew into the microphone a few times to make certain that it was on, and then began speaking to us. “Ladies and gentlemen of the United States military, welcome to Tokyo. I am Lieutenant Reed. I am the officer in charge of transportation of American personnel through Tokyo. I coordinate with the Tokyo airport to make certain that you all get where you are supposed to go. Enjoy your time here in Tokyo. It is the last bit of peacetime you will see before getting to the war zone.” Well, that was a freaking ray of sunshine. “You will be traveling to Korea on military transports from this point onward. The flights will be escorted by fighter aircraft due to the possibility of enemy attack. This is why you will not be continuing on civilian airliners.” This guy really needed to learn how to sugarcoat stuff. “Your transports are scheduled to depart from this airport in four hours. You are not to leave the airport terminal. Information on where the flights will be boarding will be announced over the intercom in the terminal in English.” He stopped to take a drink of water. I looked closely and noticed that he was sweating. I think this might have been the most exercise he’d had all day. “The shops in the terminal take American dollars, so buy whatever you like, as long as it fits in your duffel bag and is not fruits, vegetables, or alcohol. Your American cash will be traded for military scrip before boarding the plane. Please remember that you are representatives of the United States of America and conduct yourselves accordingly. Good luck, and I will see you in four hours.”

  After Lieutenant Reed left the airplane everyone began gathering their gear to get off of the plane as quickly as they could. I was in no rush. To be honest, I was a little afraid. I had never been out of the country before, and I wasn’t certain of what I might see. Besides that, my seat and the seat beside me were a mess. I had made certain that I stayed awake by reading and eating and drinking and even making little paper airplanes. Once everyone else had deplaned I began to clean up my seats. The flight attendant who had lent me the iPod walked through the cabin, cleaning up after the departed soldiers. She looked up and saw me cleaning up after myself. “You don’t have to do that, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

  I responded without really thinking about it. “My mother would kick my butt if she knew I didn’t clean up after myself.” I might as well have said that she picked my clothes out for me, too. She did that for way too long. Wow, I can say some stupid stuff.

  Much to my surprise, the attendant didn’t think it was stupid at all. “Well, thank you very much. It’s nice to see that some people are still raised with manners.”

  “Speaking of which,” I reached down into the seat and picked up the iPod and earbuds that she had lent me. “Thank you very much. It was kind of you to let me borrow this.

  With a warm smile, she accepted the iPod back. Her smile warped into something a little different and then she handed the music player back to me. “That’s OK. You keep it.” I thanked her profusely, thinking maybe it was just her way of helping out a young soldie
r. I looked at the earbuds and then remembered that I had run out of Q-tips recently. Awkward!

  I left the aircraft and entered the concourse for the airport. At first, it looked pretty similar to the other airport I had seen in my youth. The people were different, for the most part. There were a lot more soldiers and a lot more business-types walking around here. I didn’t seem to see as many families on a relaxing vacation. I put my waxy earbuds back in and started listening to music as I began walking down the concourse. One difference between this airport and the other I had been in was that this thing was huge! I continued walking along, seeing the occasional aircraft taxi or take off out of a window. Imagine my surprise when I looked out a window and saw a train zoom past! I was in awe. I pressed my nose to the glass like some sort of child so that I could get a better view. I heard some giggling and saw two pretty Japanese ladies looking at me. There were a couple of soldiers from my flight standing there trying to talk to them. I continued my walk. As I walked past I heard one of the soldiers telling the ladies, “He’s not with us. I don’t even know where he got his uniform.” I didn’t take it personally. Hey, I embarrass myself.

  I continued walking until the concourse opened up into the main shopping area. It was incredible! Here I was, in the middle of an airport in the largest city in the world, and there was a six-story-tall shopping mall! While hundreds or thousands of people walked past me, I just stood there and stared. I expected a small newsstand and maybe a little fast-food eating area. I didn’t expect to find just about everything I could ask for and a lot more that I wouldn’t know how to ask for. I finally made myself begin walking so that I could look around. There seemed to be a little of everything there. I found stores that carried nothing but high-end watches and stores that carried cheap souvenirs. There were stores that carried glassware and stores that carried music. I was like a kid in a candy store (they had those, too!). The problem was that I didn’t have a lot of money, and the shopkeepers started to get annoyed at my constant browsing.