NaNoWriMo 2022
Camp Turd
American Kingdom: Day 12.2
Previous scene:
Alone in the back of the truck, hitting every ridge, every hole in the dirt road, I grinned to myself. I’d instructed my share of recruits. There was only one way to do it: start tough and be kind later.
Do it the other way around and you were just wasting your time. Spinning your wheels. No, worse; going backward.
Still, the goal of every recruit instructor wasn’t to be so mean and nasty that they ran out of recruits broken down or wounded or killed or suicided in training. It was about appearance; in reality you were focused on safety, taking care of the troops, managing their strengths and weaknesses.
At the end of the course everyone let off steam with a keg of beer, the instructors told war stories, the recruits talked about their hopes and dreams and everyone was friends for the rest of their career.
Bosom buddies, we girls had called ourselves and those that survived the Ranger course were always there for one another.
The truck stopped.
“You. Shit. Out.”
A rancorous female voice, screaming into my ear.
So it begins. I grinned to myself but I kept that inside. Outside, I was rock.
I jumped down, reached for my bag, but the truck was moving off. Fuck.
“Forget that shit. Take your clothes off. Throw them in the trash.”
I complied.
“All of them, shithead.”
Well, okay. If you say so.
I pulled off everything and stood there. Maybe this was a medical of some sort. But what was that smell?
I had an audience. A dozen soldiers in camo fatigues, snickering and pointing.
I turned to them, showing off my bruises and scars.
They shut up, moved toward me, laid hands on my body, picked me up.
And threw me into a pool of what my nose and soon skin and fingers told me was not something I wanted to be in. I surfaced, spluttering.
“Welcome to Camp Whiffie, recruit. Get out. Move it.”
I got out and immediately was hit with a dozen buckets of cold water.
And a hose from the instructor. I wriggled and danced but there was no part of me escaping. Finally I just stood there until the water stopped.
What was coming next, I wondered? Would all of these people rub me dry with towels?
No. Just one. Me. It wasn’t fluffy or soft, neither.
The instructor pointed to a pile of clothing, mostly camo.
“Get dressed, Recruit Freytag.”
I found a bra and panties — they fit me surprisingly well, though I’d need to give the bra a bit of adjustment before I was comfortable and then dressed myself as best I could in the rest of the kit. Socks and boots were easy enough to find in the pile of camo because they weren’t. I worried a bit over the boots. Get the wrong size and any sort of activity could quickly turn bad. Well, most recruit activity was bad to begin with; add in my current bruises and some ill-fitting boots and this little holiday camp in the deep woods could turn into Hell Week in a hurry.
“Okay, ladies, show’s over. You two help her carry all this stuff to her room.” The instructor pointed out two other women — hard to tell gender in all this shapeless uniform clothing but now I had time to look around it didn’t seem like there were any males in the group — who picked up all the pieces of kit left on the ground — webbing belt, pack, hats, water canteens, a whole pile of things I’d likely have to put together in my copious spare time — and led me to a long barracks building.
Next scene:
The whole book (Nanowrimo work in progress)
