Boots
We walked. 'Course we called it marching as that sounded more military-like. Most times we took the backroads. Even cut across fields, all the while inch-worming behind Drill Sergeant Webb (that's what I recall the man's name as being. Could be I've confused it with the actor Jack Webb seeing as how he was the lead in a movie called The DI. Forgive my brain glitches. They have their reasons. A few decades back I was camped out in a little orange pup tent with my wife Lois and baby girl Anna. Next day was the Paavo Nuurmi Marathon up in Hurley, Wisconsin and I needed my sleep. Sleep doesn't come easy the night before a race. 'Specially when you've been carbohydrate loading and have grown gassier than usual. Anyhow, a storm rolled in that night. Thunderstorm. About ten or twelve feet behind the tent rose a white pine. Hundred footer. Tallest in the area. Moments before she was lit up by a billion volts, my hair stood on end, the gasses in the tent ionized and glowed a pretty blue-green, then she-bang! Anyhow, I figure that was when a bunch of the leads in my brain either shorted or crossed lines. So it's just possible I've misremembered the name. Lois and Annie spent the rest of the night in the car. Women are smarter than men)....
Drill Sergeant Webb walked like a maniac whose sole function in life was to punish us trainees. Yes sir, the man set a pace. Had the boys up front been born of longer legged stock all might have been fine. But as it was, their stubby little legs couldn't keep up with the long striding Webb. They gave it their best and marched like good little troopers till they started to lag and had to trot to keep up. By the time their lack of pace reached us fourth platooners in the rear it'd turned into dog it a little, run like the wind a little. Inch-worming.
Down below, where the sole rubber met the road, pounded our boots. Eight buck boots (I know that 'cause I had to buy a pair as replacements. The missing pair still shows up in my dreams. Symbol of not being prepared. More on that later). The Army gave us two pair, free of charge, then told us to keep them in good shape. Alternate them every day. Polish them. Love them. When your future lies as a grunt, your boots are your friends.
Corporal Myrick liked our boots also and wanted them to live long, productive lives. It was he who told us to alternate our pairs. Even had us dab a spot of white paint on the rear of one pair so's he could tell if we doing as told. Then showed us how to shine them up with Kiwi boot polish and edge dressing. Make our boots look strack. The thing was, we only had to brush shine the boots. Make them glow, not shine. All well and good but in the back of my mind that just didn't seem like enough and knew for certain there had to be more. And the more was known as spit shine. Only I didn't know how to spit shine. I'd heard the words and liked the idea they hinted at. Then set to learning how. I figured someone out of the forty-eight in our barracks must hold the key to knowledge. Clue me in and set me on the path to becoming a Knight of the Spit-shine. And there was. I sat at his foot while he shared his method. Showed me the Way.
Cotton balls, water, Kiwi and patience. Clean the boots, top to bottom. Scrub them with soap and water if necessary to remove every spot of dirt and grit. Brush shine them just like everyone else. Then begin to work the magic. At first it wasn't but toes and heels. Dab of polish on a cotton ball. Work the polish in with a circular motion till all but the tiniest hint of haze was gone. Then go at it again and again, applying layer after layer of Kiwi like a Japanese lacquer artist prepping a bowl for carving. And kept at it till the grain of the leather had smoothed, filled in with many layers of polish and the surface had transformed into a glassy oneness. Finally, dabbed a fresh cotton ball into clear water and worked off any remnant of haze. Oh me, oh my, I sat transfixed, as though coming out of the depths of meditation. Spit shining and I were made for each other.
There was a problem. Damn Myrick problem. Didn't matter how pretty my boots, how many coats of Kiwi, come the next training day they were trashed. Our daily low crawl scuffed and killed the shine. Marching through dirt and mud messed 'em up something fierce. And there stood our little corporal checkin' out the boot racks each and every day. Or so I thought. Truth is, no one knew what Myrick did during the daylight hours. Some days we saw him, most days not. Come evenings he was to be found in his room alongside the stairwell. He was ever present in the evening hours, always smiling, always helpful. But did he know or care if we were wearing the right boots?
By the fifth week I was deep into spit shining. Sunday found me taking my worship with cotton ball in hand. Not all day but for sure a couple of hours. Maybe more. Spit shined one pair from toe to boot top with the purest of intentions they'd not be befouled by earth, wind or fire. A week passed with not a word from Myrick about my transgression. Each night I added layer upon layer. The leather came to reflect light and color. I could see my face in the toe, a smiling, satisfied, knowing face. My boots were beautiful and came to be known throughout the company area. Trainees arrived from other platoons to gaze upon their glory.
The day of days was nearing. Basic Training crested on the day we pulled guard duty. Earned what we called our bivouac badge. On guard duty we protected America's family jewels from prying, Commie hands. We were told it was an honor and were trained for hours on appropriate guard etiquette. "Halt! Who is there?" If they answered, "A friend!", that's what they were. Should the answer be "A comrade!,"we could shoot to kill. Guard duty was not a time for humor.
However, what I had in mind was something else. The idea of marching in front of a chain link fence in the middle of the night just so nobody could steal the clutch pedal out of a Jeep held no appeal. And it was my boots that were the key to my game. Seems every trainee guard posting had an honor trainee, the strackest of the strack got to ride along with the Officer of the Day and maybe get a good night's sleep out of the deal. Yup, me and my boots were ridin' up front with the man. No doubt about it. Put a smile on both of my faces as I laid on a few extra coats of Kiwi. Hell, the man might take one look at my boots and discharge me on the spot. Send me home to friends and family where I belonged and laid on two more coats for good luck.
Turned out there was a hitch. A good hitch but a hitch none the same. Back in the days when I broke the post record on the infantry test I pretty much did the same on the driving one. Confused the Army so much they didn't know where my future laid, on foot or behind the wheel. Anyhow, my score led me to takin' the military driver's test. Now that was some fine test of skill. Took longer to climb in and out of the deuce and a half than to do the drivin' part. Turn the key and fire it up, double-clutch her into reverse, back up two feet, double-clutch her into first, pull back to where I started, turn the key off. Done.
Never made it to guard inspection. Turned out I was to be a driver and no one ever saw my boots. Pissed my boots off something fierce. Every time my glow in the dark boots saw the OD they started cursin' the man up and down. Told him to do things with himself that'd lead me to a dishonorable discharge and no doubt bring shame on the man for the rest of his life. Had to shush their foul mouthin' before I found my sorry ass in the stockade. The Lieutenant, he gave me a one-eyed look every time I set to shushing, like there might be something wrong with me. Better that than jail was how I saw it.
As it turned out, driving was a full step up from walking a post. Just me and the OD up front and his job was to stay awake and point direction. That and letting me know it was okay to run the red lights. "Just keep going. You're big and'll be given the right of way." So that's what I did. Don't know whose ass would've been in a wringer had we been stopped by the MPs. Not much of a problem as I learned a year or so later. By two in the morning the all the post MPs had found places to hide and nap. Guess the OD knew that and we bat-out-of-helled it from one end of our route to the other with sack time high on our minds.
Of course that wasn't the end of this spit shine story. Next to last week of training us Alphagators had a talent show. As I recall, it was the Army's way of turning the other cheek, let us see the human side. "Yeah, we can be nice guys for two hours one evening. Two hours and not one second more. Keep that in mind and don't be gettin' any big ideas we're your buddies."
Our talent consisted of a four piece rock combo that did one number and three trainees who made fun of our Drill Sergeants. Not a lot of talent but we did get two free beers to lower our expectations. All-in-all we were happy campers. I was also, till we returned to the barracks. There I found my glorious boots had gone AWOL. We'd left a barracks guard but he seemed to know nothing about any missing boots. Didn't have them either. I doubted anyone snuck past him unless it was a someone with stripes who had the power to say, "Keep your mouth shut and we'll see what Peters does."
Peters gave it a moment's thought and his brain said, "Myrick." Also said, "If it's Myrick and I ask him about it, my Johnson is in danger and my shit's in the wind. Don't know what that danger might be and my Johnson says to keep quiet." So I did the only thing that made sense and punched the wall alongside the bulletin board. About the moment my knuckles joined the wood, the bone between my little finger knuckle and wrist said, "Maybe you shouldn't have ought to have done that." Son's-a-bitch it hurt.
That's how I found myself the next morning sitting in a chair with a doctor tugging for all he was worth trying to set the bone. X-ray said it was broken. First try had no effect. Nor the second. Seeing as how I'd gone white from the pain we gave it a rest. The man was puzzled and asked me, "You ever break this bone before?"
"Yes, sir," I said, "but not on a wall. First time was on a floor, it was carpeted though I suppose that doesn't matter a whole lot." On the upside I got six aspirin, free of charge, and was sent back to duty.
No comments:
Post a Comment