This is one of (I hope!) many short stories about the main character of my book I'm writing. They don't have to be read in a specific order, as they aren't chronologically linked. They are more of an exercise in which I'm going to try and develop his personality, and explain some of his background. Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading it!
The Drill Instructer sauntered down the line of fresh recruits in a neat rank along the front of their barracks block. He sneered. The army said recruits, but really they were mainly conscripts. The dregs of society, pulled from council houses and slums, gutters and ghettos, even prisons, with only a few of them having volunteered. What with the Nuclear Warhead Pact Agreement that prevented a major nation using nukes offensively, all citizens over the age of 16 not in full time work or education (The situation wasn't that desperate. Not yet, mused the Sergeant) were to be given rudimentary military training, by order of the country of Churchiland. Not enough training to make them any use, of course, but sufficient to stop them shitting themselves when a gun went off. Right now they were slouching, moving, even talking.
A thought occured to the Drill Sergeant, and he surreptitiously pulled his Webley Mark 10 revolver from the holster on his right hip, hidden from view by his body. One of the junior instructers saw, and failed to supress a grin. Turning towards the 'recruits', he pointed his Webley towards the sky and fired a single shot. The retort of the aptly nicknamed 'Hand-Cannon' was as thunderous as if the wrath of God himself was being brought down upon the heads of the conscripts. Most flinched away with their hands over their ears, and the rest dropped to the ground apart from one unlucky chap who was standing directly in front of the Sergeant. He looked about 18, with a standard-issue buzzcut and a greasy face. He managed to fall directly backwards, tripping over his own feet and landing on his rather skinny behind.
The Drill Instructer was immediately in his face, gun holstered.
"AND JUST WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING!"
Incredibly, the fear on the young man's face increased, and was tempered with some confusion, "But, I..."
The Sergeant backhanded him viciously across the face.
"Did I fucking say you could speak?!", he roared. "Stand up right now, you shitty little maggot, or I'm going to grab you by your testicles and pull you up!"
Once he was back on his feet, the instructer began his pacing again. For some reason, all indiscipline had miraculously cleared up. All 18 men and 7 women were standing up straight, still as stone.
"Welcome to Boot Camp, civilians", the instructer spat the word. "Here you will learn how to handle a gun, how to survive in the field, and how not to die before we've finshed training the next lot. Whilst in here, you WILL refer to me as sir or Sergeant. Is that clear?"
There was a mumbled assent. The Sergeant's face turned a mottled red with rage. "YES SERGEANT! CRYSTAL FUCKING CLEAR SERGEANT!"
"YES SERGEANT!", came the chorused reply.
He nodded, "Better. Any questions?"
There was a seconds pause, then a few hands were timidly raised into the air. The Drill Sergeant sighed inwardly at the stupidity of civilians.
"NO FUCKING QUESTIONS!"
The hands went down rather faster than they were raised. He nodded approvingly, then pointed at one man. Around his mid-twenties and athletic, he had defiance in his eyes.
"What's your name, scum?"
The man turned his head to look down at the rather shorter, stockier Drill Instructer. "I thought you said no questions?" he said sarcastically.
A fist smashed into his gut. "That's for talking", said the Sergeant. He backhanded the man across the face, "that's for not saying sir", then swept the mans legs out from underneath him. "And that's for being a smart mouthed prick. Now GET THE FUCK UP!!"
The civilian pulled himself to his feet and spat out a tooth. The instructer stared at him. After a moment, he dropped his gaze meekly and said, "Puller. Richard Puller", then hurriedly added, "sir."
Once more, the Sergeant continued his pacing. He looked one of the woman up and down. He stopped. He looked her up and down again. Then, after shaking his head, he did it once more.
The woman in question was in her late teens or early twenties. She had a large pair of breasts that were straining at her regulation khaki jacket, and such a skinny waist that it was hanging off of her. Her hair was unnaturally blonde, her face unnaturally tanned and her teeth unnaturally white.
"Hello sweetheart", said the Drill Instructer condescendingly. His voice started to get louder as he spoke, "Did you get your camps mixed up? This is Bootcamp, not some fucking nancy-boy FASHION CAMP!"
The girl looked upset and said, "N-n-no, I-I'm meant to be here, sir, my daddy said to join."
The Sergeant was stunned, before he bellowed, "YOUR DADDY SAID TO?! What fucking use are you going to be?!"
The girl now looked close to tears, but astoundingly rallied. She stared straight into the Sergeant's face.
"I am going to stay here, Sergeant, and you won't make me leave. So fuck you!"
The Sergeant in question was, once again, stunned. He recovered quickly, "Jesus H. Christ, sweetheart!" Turning to one of the junior instructers, he continued, "This lady's got more balls than most of the pathetic excuses for men I've seen come through here! Put her down as platoon leader."
He didn't acknowledge her beam of pride and triumph, or the envy on the other civilians faces, or even the eagerness with which his subordinate rushed to take her name, then attempted to relieve her of her phone number, "For official purposes of course".
Yet again continuing his pacing, he reached another young lad, around 17. He had brown hair, the same piercing green eyes as the Drill Instructer, and a handsome face. Slightly taller than the Sergeant, he cut an impressive figure. Although not heavily muscled, he was definately too bulky to be considered to be toned. Although he looked serious, he ruined this effect by smiling sheepishly at the Drill Instructer.
Making up the hat-trick this time, the Drill Instructer was yet again, stunned speechless. In this brief period of helplessness, the conscript stiffened to attention and saluted, his expression now neutral, "Rosenberg, sir!"
Pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing deeply, the Sergeant narrowly preventd the top of his head exploding. If I have to train anymore of these useless bastards, he thought, My veins are going to explode.
"ASSAULT COURSE!" He roared, "RIGHT FUCKING NOW!"
5 hours later, all the recruits were assembled on the parade ground once more, albeit dirty, sweaty, and utterly exhausted. 10 times round the 1.5 mile assault course, then a 10 minute break, followed by a route march, then another 10 laps of the assault course had that effect on the new blood.
The Sergeant surveyed his troop briefly, then called out, "Fall out!"
Four women and six of the men instantly dropped to the ground, the rest shambled, limped and dragged themselves to the shower block. Except for one.
"ROSENBERG!" Screamed the Drill Instructer. Militiaman Rosenberg, as the lowest rank of the militia was known, was still standing on the parade ground. He had been a thorn in the Sergeant's side the whole day. Clumsy, eager, and with a strong sense of justice, he had a habit of stopping to help other members of his platoon, much to his trainers annoyance.
"ARE YOU TOO FUCKING STUPID TO KNOW WHEN WE ARE FINISHED FOR THE DAY?!" Spittle flew from the Sergeant's mouth, such was his rage. "Into my quarters, before I choke you with your own eyes!"
Inside, the Sergeant sat behind his desk and glared at the recruit that was dripping mud and water onto the concrete floor. He pulled a bottle of Famous Grouse from one of the drawers at his desk and took a slug from the neck of the bottle. He sighed.
"What the buggery are you doing in the Armed Forces?"
Militiaman Rosenberg sensed that this was a rare moment where the two men could talk as equals, instead of a superior officer conferring with a subordinate.
"Well, Uncle Kracker was getting tired of me taking up space in his house, so I thought I'd serve my country by joining my cousin in the Army." He grinned sheepishly again, "You don't seem too happy about it though."
Sergeant Rosenberg's Uncle was Militiaman Rosenberg's Uncle as well, as they were technically second cousins. However, what with Sergeant Rosenberg being 12 years older, Militaiman Rosenberg held his world famous cousin in the sort of religious awe reserved for much older family members from the same generation. And it didn't hurt that he had saved the world from a potential Apocolypse barely 6 months ago.
The Sergeant sighed. He offered the bottle over to his cousin, who took a swig, then had to hold back a gasp as the whisky seared his throat. Sergeant Rosenberg chuckled at his cousin's discomfort.
"Are you sure this is what you want?"
Militiaman Rosenberg nodded.
"Then go clean up and I'll see you for weapons drill at 0500"
Militiaman Rosenberg's face cracked into a giant grin and he exited into the barracks. Then, sitting down on his bunk, Scott Rosenberg began to untie his boots.
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