"WHAT IS THE SPIRIT OF THE BAYONET?"
TO KILL!
"AGAIN!"
TO KILL!
"FORWARD THRUST!" HAR! "PARRY!" HAR! "BUTT STROKE!" HAR! "RECOVER!" HAR!
"ORDER ARMS!"
We snap together like a machine, each soldier sweating and exhausted, but damned if each and every one of us isn't smiling. This is the first time since the beginning of basic training that we've been able to release our inner frustrations--frustration we didn't even know we had built up. This is violence. This is fun. Our bayonets gleam in the South Carolina sun. Our unit is sharp, and we know it; the blades that tip our M-16s confirm our sharpness, honing it.
We stand at parade rest, our muscles tight. It feels good to have a weapon clutched in our hands. The danger makes it all so suddenly and poetically real, that we all finally know what it truly means to be a soldier. The glowing look on Sergeant Hurt's dark and wet face reflects our own; we are him and he is us: we have tasted the power of violence. And perhaps Sarge is a little bit frightened of us. But so are we, of ourselves, because it is at this very moment that each of us, simultaneously, realizes that we have finally become men.
And then Glass' bayonet falls off the muzzle of his rifle, tinkling down his weapon and plopping onto the damp field. I cringe. I should have seen it coming. Leave it to Glass to fuck a good thing up.
Sergeant Hurt slowly closes his eyelids, and I can see the balls bubbling beneath the glossy lids as he slowly, purposely wags his head from side to side. His Drill Sergeant's hat seems to puff out and over all of us like a giant brown blanket.
"STANDARD PUSH-UP POSITION!"
We all drop to the ground like so many Popsicle sticks. After a full day of bayonet training, the familiar pain in our armpits burns like hell-fire. None of us look up, as Hurt begins to melodramatically march between our rows and columns.
"Private Glass, RECOVER!"
Glass jumps up and snaps to attention. Although I can't directly see him, I can imagine how silly he must look: his sad sack uniform drooping all over his skinny frame like a giant tent, his headgear too big for his bony head, cocked at just the right angle to make you want to slap it back into the correct position, and his boots in dire need of polish. A sadistic Drill Sergeant's dream come true.
I listen to him get bitched out, but I don't feel sorry for him this time. "Glass, you got two choices. Two. I'm either gonna polish you, or break you. The choice is yours."
)
Drill Sergeant made him suffer in basic training. But now it's Private Glass' turn to teach drill sergeant a lesson about the spirit of the bayonet.
