Prologue for Jonathan McAlister

Jonathan McAlister's day at Fort, Bragg, North Carolina begins as all of the proceeding days did: the sound of morning revile. As the obnoxious notes of the staff sergeant’s horn piece through the air at 5:00AM the newest recruits of the 82nd airborne are roused to wake. Some men still lay in their bunk beds, trying to get a few more seconds of shuteye before the real wakeup call comes to the cabin.

The Drill Instructor booming voice ecoes through the room “WAKE UP CHARLIE PLATOON, RISE AND SHINE!” Drill Instructor Willson holds a metal trash can in one hand and a baseball bat in the other, recklessly banging away. “COME ON, COME ON RISE AND SHINE!” the sergeant continues to yell. DI Willson then tosses the trash can into the corner of the cabin and resumes his normal position: hands on hips, neck craned forward, and pacing back and forth in front of his troops.

The enlisted men of Charlie platoon soon begin to react.

Camerone Deliso, a private from the Bronx, is hands down the first one to react, springing out of his sheets and on to the floor from the second bunk as soon as the DI had thrown down the trashcan “Yes sir, Drill Instructor, Sir”, and scurries in his fatigues (military casual wear equivalent to shorts and t-shirt[NOT what you sleep in]) out the cabin door and into the assembly courtyard.

It’s not the first time Deliso has made such a quick escape onto the assembly courtyard but DI Wilson is unwaveringly impressed every time. “WELL LOOK AT WHAT WE HAVE HERE, PLATOON! A MEXICAN JUMPING BEAN. IF ONLY YOU FLOPS COULD BE HALF AS PUNCTUAL AS DELISO THE WAR WOULD BE OVER RIGHT NOW!”

DI Willson now turns to Jonathan McAlister “AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING, PRIVATE? ARE YOU SCARED TO GET OUT OF THE BOTTOM BUNK!? DELISO IS AN AIRBORNE SOLDIER WHO’S PROUD TO JUMP OFF OF THE TOP BUNK EVERY DAY”

One of the other enlisted men drops his footlocker, attracting DI Willson’s attention for the next foreseeable future…

I slowly opened my eyes to stare at the bottom of the buck above him. I miss wakin' up to the rooster in the mournin', sarg is louder then that damn bird was. I roll out of the bunk to land on my hands and knees. "Damn bunks weren't ment for a big ol' guy like me." I grumble to myself as I stand to my feet. As I reach into my footlocker to gather my stuff for the day I snicker as I hear Sarg yelling at that poor fella on the other side of the room. Poor fella, heh.

I assemble into my fatigues, making sure to neatly fold my seats on my tiny buck before checking my knife. I kept him at the bottom of the locker, and I made sure to check that he was still nice and sharp. After my daily inspection of the knife, I pulled out a cigarette and one of my matches and grasp them with my teeth for later. Well, shit. I need to get more matches soon I reckon. I put the almost empty match box back in the foot locker, before pulling out my tube of “Beeswax” hair gel and squirt a good sized glob onto my hand and smear it into my hair. Just get that right there for now, an’ here we go. I pick up the foot locker with my clean hand and set it back on the ground without making so much as a clang. Gotta make sure you keep up them nimble finger's Johnny, else you'll lose 'em skills before you can use 'em to kill some Nazi bastards when we finally join in the fight.

As I head out of the barracks I pull my comb out of my pocket and comb my flat top into shape. After fighting my hair for a hot minute, I get the flat top formed. I smile as I finally light my cigarette for the mourning, and stand in the inspection line.

The rest of the troops gather in a neat grid in the assembly square, each standing (more or less) exactly on a pair of boot prints painted on the ground. You find yourself in the front row corner second column, next to Deliso (first column) and Charile “Specs” Armstrong(third column).

As in most military units, the officers are much fewer than the enlisted men, and they form a single file parallel line facing opposite of the first row. They have much more rigorous training than the enlisted men- you can clearly see sweat rings around the necks of their fatigues from Wilson’s “morning PT* pow-wows”

Charlie “Specs” Armstrong is so named because of the large lensed aviator esque glasses he wears. This is not an exclusively affectionate nickname…
“psssst” Specs hisses, pulling on your sleeve “you know the DIs don’t allow smoking!” at first, Specs was whispering, but now his tone and volume are that of a whisper/yell/roar combination “… it’s against the rules!”

George “Bubba” Sanders, the original proprietor of the nickname, is a large African American from the back country of Louisiana with more mass than muscle. He’s shorter than you but that doesn’t mean he’s any less intimidating to the frail Specs “Go ahead Specs, make him snuff it out, I bet you can re-light it with those big ‘ol binoculars on yo face, heh I can’t believe a sticky-headed hay hefter would take advice from you!” a few other soldiers suppress their laughter. Its really not that funny but fatigue, sleepiness, and intimidation make most things funny. Deliso stands at perfect attention whispering a quick “you boys quiet down” out the side of his mouth

once it seems that everyone is standing at attention the DI shares a bit of news with everyone from the back corner of the grid “The brass is planning something big, boys, so I have to work extra hard to turn you flops into men… hand to hand combat training begins today, and next week we get to put some pea-shooters in those fagile hands of yours….” The DI continues to ramble from the back corner, it sounds like he’s closing the doors to the cabin (nothing new) but he hasn’t noticed you yet……

*PT=physical trianing- running ect for punishment or exercise

As I look at the officers already drenched in sweat at 5 I the mourning I take a nice drag on my cigarette. Man am I glad I ain't gotta mess with the load of mourning exercises they do.I crack my neck as I prepare myself for the daily routine, when I notice a slight tugging on my shirt. I look over and see Specs tugging my shirt... again. Don't this kid know by now I am gonna smoke my mourning cig whether its against the rules or not? It ain't like they ain't gonna let us smoke on the field or nothin'.

I give Bubba a grin at the jab while taking another hit of the cigarette. "Alright Specs, I'll git rid of it soon as I'm done. Looky there, only a little left now." I take my final drag as Deliso tells us to cool it down. After the hit, I quickly flick it to the ground and snuff it out under my boot, Positioning myself in attention as I hear the door to the cabin close.

You have once again successfully enjoyed and hidden your nicotine hit. You can feel the bit of tobacco flattening underneath the sole of your boot.
The DI walks to the front of the grid, pacing up and down the rectangular area between the officers and enlisted men making a great amount of talk about how the beloved airborne corps are dedicated to jumping out of a perfectly good airplane and in to the thick of it “as any real man would do” the DI’s banter seems oddly over done, even for his usual bravado.

Bubba makes a remark about this.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY, PRIVATE!” the DI turns around at a nearly inhuman speed and very precisely sidesteps past you and Specs, face to face with Bubba. You hear a surprised grunt from the latter, and more yelling from the former “PRIVATE DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK?” “sir, no sir!” “THEN WHY, ON GOD’S GREEN EARTH DID YOU OPEN YOUR MOUTH? DID YOU ASK ME TO GIVE YOU KP* DUTY?” a long pause (hint hint from now on pauses are great chances to make a reaction, IF you so choose) then a very loud reply from Bubba “SIR NO SIR” “WELL ITS YOUR LUCKY DAY PRIVATE BECAUSE YOU AND A LUCKY DATE GET KP TONIGHT… in fact-” the DI goes back to patrolling his rectangle “since your weak willpower can’t keep your mouth shut, the member of this platoon who has the strongest willpower and wins the hand-to-hand grappling tournament gets to share it with you. Does that sound good, platoon? Good training and a clean kitchen!” “SIR YES SIR” they all say unanimously

The DI leads the four platoons of Able Company to the obstacle course area. You do not have to run in formation this time. Deliso is nearly on the heels of DI Wilson, Bubba, huffing and puffing, is near the back quarter. Specs is light and quick but he doesn’t quite have the endurance to keep up with Deliso. He has a very determined look on his face as he keeps pace with the squad sergant, Bill “old man” Sqweres. Bill is a bit older than most enlisted men (approaching thirty) but he has a very steady paced jog that keeps up with the first third of the group.

KP-Kitchen Patrol. You have to clean stuff in the kitchen and bathroom as punishment. It sucks.

I keep in an attention stance as Sarge makes his rounds, trailing off into stories of when back when he jumped this time. I still don't know why he thinks we need convincing to stay here, We all signed up for this. I let a sigh out from under my breath as Bubba says something I didn't quite catch to the guy beside him. I can't help but take a surprised intake of air as Sarge turned on a dime and started Shouting at poor Bubba. Hell man, learn to keep yer damn mouth shut! Now we're in for it.

At the awkward silence I steal a glance to my right to see Sarge staring Bubba in the eyes about two inches away from his face. I notice Bubba twitching as he tries to figure out what he is gonna do to get the DI off of him. C'mon Bubba, don't go and do somethin' stupid now and get all of us in the shithole...When he finally responded I look down slightly and realize my knuckles were turning white. I let my hands hang loose as the DI issues out the punishment. Well, shit. Now the winner gets punished. Bubba you damn dummy.

As we start running to the obstacle courses, I set up to keep a decent pace, no overworking myself like poor Specs, but definitely not staying near Bubba. I set up a nice jog alongside the old man, with full plans on saving my strength for the hand-to-hand.

Old Man enlisted in 1937 (“before it was cool”), a few years before the war began for the United States. He used to be at the bottom of the pyramid, a private in the Army Infantry who slowly rose through the ranks. He’s currently your squad sergeant which makes him your “boss”. From the stories he’s told and the rumors around Fort Bragg, you know that he’s from Nebraska and he has real combat experience in the North Africa campaign where Allied forces fought against French that allied themselves with the Germans in faraway places like Oran, Casablanca, and Tunisia. He’s in the airborne now because of the extra $50 per month the paratroopers get paid for their hazardous work. Why he enlisted in the army has been discussed many times before. If the Old Man really wanted to be a career military man, he certainly wouldn’t have volunteered for the infantry instead of applying for Officer Candidate School or being part of a more prestigious branch of the military. Some say he was running away from home, or that he was out of choices when his family farm was shut down by the Dust Bowl.

Before you know it, you’ve arrived at “The Pit” an obstacle course, firing range, and sparring ring all rolled up in one “the Circle”, as the sparring ring is referred to, is a fourteen foot diameter circular platform that is two feet above the ground it’s mostly muddy with hay packed up around the sides, so that people who fall off the platform have something to land on.

For weapons you are handed staff-like objects that are padded on either end. DI Willson informs everyone that the blue end represents the stock of the rifle and the red end represents the “business end” of the rifle with “the bayonet: God’s gift to any foot soldier. Now to properly use this beautiful piece of equipment you have to thrust with it and hit them like you have a pair! I don’t want to see you flops flailing around like a fish out of water. If you could knock them off of the pedestal or on their rump then you win.”

DI willson and a few other DIs give demonstrations, holding the staff like objecs as if they were rifles and either lunging foreward with the bayonet or bashing sideways with the blue end. It looks fairly simple enough.

most of the men aren't really paying attention. a bracket is drawn up, and bets and wagers are placed


Gale is the commander of your company, a Captain (Mason's boss)
Mason is the commander of your platoon, a Lieutenant (the old man's boss)