Chapter 12
“Private Dukes of Hazzard, get your goat smelling ass up here Gawd damnit!” the sound of Drill Sgt Gregory’s voice rang out, causing an instant silence to fall over all of us milling around outside the mess hall.
I startled, then yelled out “Yes Drill Sergeant.” And ran towards the door as fast as I could weave my way past the other soldiers there, knowing full well what was in store.
Drill Sgt Gregory was a stocky built man in his early to mid thirties, with a Kentucky twang to his voice that can only be described as Hillbilly. He was our most favorite drill sergeant, but that’s like saying that root canal is your favorite dental procedure. He was funny as hell when it wasn’t you he was after, but when you became the subject of his attention, well, the humor was lost on you.
I slid to a stop in front of him and assumed the position of attention, “Private Duke reporting Drill Sergeant.” I stared over his shoulder at the wall behind him, one learned early on never to stare into the eyes of a drill sergeant.
“You eyeballing me boy? I swear to Gawd I will rip your eyeballs out…”
He looked at me with a slight grin, obviously this wasn’t going to go well for me. But, at least I knew what was coming, and truthfully, it was kind of funny and for sure my own damn fault.
Allow me to give a little background here, I was obviously born with a overactive Jackass gland, and an inability to keep my mouth shut when I should have, and this had brought me much grief in my short 20 years, and doubtless would continue throughout life.
One of my dubious talents was the ability to mimic almost any accent or voice, and Drill Sgt Gregory’s was probably the easiest one I’d ever done. And as I said, he was funny as hell if you weren’t the target of his attention, so it was inevitable that it would happen.
I’d walked out of the mess hall one morning after breakfast and seen several people smoking while hiding around the corner. I couldn’t pass it up, so in my best imitation of Drill Gregory, I yelled out.
“WHAT THE GAWDDAMN HELL DO YOU MAGGOTS THINK YOU’RE DOING, DROP AND BEAT YOUR GAWDDAMN FACES YOU WORMS, DON’T TURN AROUND JUST DROP!”
Immediately about twenty people had dropped to the ground and started doing push-ups, much to the delight of me and everyone else standing there. When they discovered that it was me and not Drill Gregory, we all had a good laugh.
“Damn it Duke, you sound just like that fucker, that was some funny shit.” “Man I almost shit myself, I thought that bastard had caught me smoking.”
Thus was the wheel of fate set into motion, I became somewhat of a celebrity within the circle of my peers, and was often requested to imitate Drill Gregory. Running to morning formation, I’d catch someone smoking around the corner of the barracks and launch into my impersonation, always with the same results, the offenders would drop and start doing pushups, until they discovered it was me. But, one does not tempt fate too often without repercussions, thus was the case with me.
I walked out of the mess hall about a week later, and discovered as usual people hiding around the corner smoking. And, as usual, I rolled out my Drill Sgt impersonation.
“WHO THE FUCK TOLD YOU MAGGOTS YOU COULD SMOKE, BEAT YOUR GAWDDAMN FACES YOU MISERABLE WORMS!”
As they dropped to the ground I heard a voice behind me that sent chills to my very core.
“That’s very Gawddamn funny there Private Dukes of Gawddamn Hazzard. I heard you could imitate me, now BEAT YOUR GAWDDAMN FACE!”
From that moment on, whenever the drill sergeants were bored, I was rolled out and shown.
“PRIVATE DUKES OF HAZZARD, GET YER GOAT SMELLING ASS UP HERE!” “Hey Drill, this bastard can imitate me perfect, do my voice bonehead”
I launch into my impersonation, regaling some latest incident involving Drill Gregory and some unfortunate private, causing the drill sergeants to roll in laughter.
“Damn Gregory, that sounds just like you, that sombitch has got you down to a tee.” “That’s some funny shit ain’t it Drill?” then to me, “BEAT YOUR DAMN FACE MAGGOT BEFORE I HAVE A VIETNAM FLASH BACK AND HIT YOU UPSIDE YOUR GAWDDAMN HEAD WITH AN AXE.”
This would occur at least two to three times a day until they finally grew weary of it. Thankfully one day, they caught several people sneaking some candy out of the PX and the “Candy Bandits” became the center attraction. For my part I did my best to lay low, and only occasionally was I trotted out to perform. I counted my blessings and lay low, but alas, having once attracted the attention of fate, I was doomed to repetition.
Some time in the 5th or 6th week of basic, I awoke with a large swollen mass on my gum, I reported for sick call, was seen at the training brigade sickbay, and referred to the next higher level. There they discovered I had an abscess from a dental procedure preformed earlier. I was sent over to the main post for consultation and they decided to treat it immediately. I spent several hours in a dental chair, and it was well past noon before I was released. The dentist, an older and kindly Lt. Colonel, told me I had two options, I could stay there and he would arrange for my unit to send someone to pick me up, or I could walk back to my unit, and if I felt faint upon the way, I had his permission to stop at the snack bar and refresh myself. I thanked him and chose option two. He gave me a quick set of directions on getting back to the basic training area and wished me well.
Anyone seeing me walking back towards Disney barracks would have no doubt I was a trainee, as we were required to wear our gas masks on our hip and a helmet liner with the unit numbers stenciled on them, but we also were required to wear our fatigue cap underneath the helmet liner. Neither did we have a division patch sewn to our sleeve. Everything about my appearance screamed trainee, and thus was I a target for any stray drill sergeant about. After the third time of being accosted and required to show proof of why I wasn’t where I was supposed to be, I removed the helmet liner and proceeded in my soft cap. Thus, at immediate glance, I appeared to be just another private soldier about his business. As I walked towards my unit area, I passed by the main PX and the commissary. Just past them I saw the post Class VI or liquor store, and again, I tempted fate. I ditched my gas mask and helmet liner in some nearby bushes, and slipped in the door. There was no one in the store except me and the civilian clerk, and he was busy reading a novel. I scanned the shelves and made my choice, picking up three pints of Jack Daniels and placing them on the counter. He rang up the purchase, bagged them up and then asked, “Little early in the day for this isn’t it?”
I made some comment, paid him, and stuffed them into my pocket and quickly left the store. Ducking behind the bushes, I transferred the bottles into my mask carrier, and struck out for my unit. I nervously awaited the long arm of the drill instructor to nab me, and felt that everyone passing by knew of my guilt. To my surprise, I made it back to my barracks without incident, and arriving there discovered that the entire unit was at the weapons complex cleaning rifles. The corporal in charge of quarters yelled at me for disturbing him and told me to go polish my boots and stay the hell out of his way until he called for me, so I went to my bay and quickly transferred the liquor to my locker for later consultation.
Later that evening, having been punished by my drill sergeant for missing an entire day of training being a puss, I was released for the evening. The drill sergeants left for the day, turning us over to the sergeant in charge of quarters for the night. He had a few of us buff the dayroom floor, and finally released us to shower and prepare for bed. As we relaxed in our room, I told three of my friends to meet me in the latrine after lights out and why.
Shortly after 10 pm, the sergeant came down the hall, killing the lights and issuing the standard threats about keeping it quiet, and retired to his desk in the lobby to watch TV. We waited a while, then slipped into the latrine, posting one man to watch the hallway. I brought out the liquor and we proceeded to drink, swapping out with the man at the door. All was well until a guy from another bay entered the latrine. Private Felton, or as he was referred to by the drill sergeants, Private Fat-un, Felton was the original sad sack, 19 years old, a mama’s boy and around 250 pounds on the hoof. I am sure that he was the model for Private Pyle in Full Metal Jacket, and he was known to tattle on everyone in an attempt to ingrate himself with the drill sergeants. This was trouble, no doubt about it.
“You fuckers are so in trouble man, when the drills find out about this shit, it is gonna be your ass!” he gave us a pimply faced grin.
One of my bunkmates, a large former cop from Tallahassee stuck a bottle in his face and demanded, “DRINK BITCH!” The look on his face left no doubt that either Fat-un would drink with us, or Fat-un would be in a world of pain. Faced with the prospect of getting the crap beat out of him, or taking a drink, Fat-un manned up and took a long pull at the bottle. He choked and coughed, but there was no mercy in us, and he had no choice but to have another go at the bottle. Several swallows later, and the liquor began to work on him, he obviously had little if any experience with alcohol, and it hit him like a freight train.
Together we finished the liquor, we put the bottles in old socks, smashed them into splinters and flushed them down the toilets to rid ourselves of the evidence, and after properly threatening Fat-un, we staggered off to our beds. We had we thought pulled off the perfect crime.
About a week later, after being hazed all day by his drill sergeant, Private Felton became so distraught that he went AWOL. Late at night, he snuck out of the barracks and escaped down the railroad tracks leading into Elizabethtown, we later heard that he’d been found a few hundred yards outside the gate, asleep in a ditch. We could have cared less, except for one small fact that we learned later.
The next morning we stood in morning formation, awaiting inspection by our drill sergeants, however this morning they were a bit late, and we waited, talking among ourselves. Finally, around the corner of the barracks they came, lead by Senior Drill Sergeant Robert Pimental, quite possibly the most evil, vile and profane man I’d ever seen. He called the formation to attention, and then starting at the first man in formation, began to inspect us. But this inspection wasn’t like his normal inspection, for he paid very little attention to anyone’s uniform, shave or anything else, until he stopped in front of Private Cade, one of my bunkmates.
“Private Cade, I hear you like drinking Jack Daniels in my latrine?”
Cold primal fear swept over me, and despite the cold temperature of March in Kentucky, I began to sweat. How the Hell did they find out about that?
“ANSWER ME YOU GODDAMN FAGGOT, DO YOU LIKE DRINKING LIKKER IN MY LATRINE PRIVATE CADE?” screamed Senior Drill Pimental. He was standing so close to Cade that his stiff campaign hat was banging him in the forehead. With every word spittle flew from his mouth, and his eyes looked like a revival preacher on Acid. We were dead, without a doubt, we would be court marshaled and executed. “DROP AND BEAT YOUR FACE YOU SCUMBAG PIECE OF SHIT, YOU BETTER PUSH FORT KNOX ALL THE WAY TO HELL BOY.”
He stepped down the line a few feet and came face to face with me, by this time I was barely able to stand up, he slammed his campaign hat against my forehead and screamed.
“YOU LITTLE PIECE OF SHIT, IT WAS YOU WHO BOUGHT IT WASN’T IT PRIVATE DUKES OF HAZZARD, I GOT YOUR ASS, YOU ARE GOING TO REGRET THE DAY YOU WERE FUCKING BORN BOY, I WILL MAKE YOU WISH YOUR MAMA HAD SWALLOWED YOU PASTY FACED COCKSUCKER.”
Without warning, he slammed his fist into my stomach and I collapsed in a heap, gagging.
“When you can breathe again BEAT YOUR GODDAMN FACE!”
He proceeded down the line to the next victim, and repeated his performance, until he’d gotten to everyone of us who had participated. We were pulled out of the line and the rest of the formation trooped off to breakfast. We however were allowed to do PT until they finished, at which time we marched off for training. When lunch time arrived, we again PT’d while everyone ate. The same was repeated at dinner, and as I recall, we finally were allowed to go to bed around 2 am.
For the next several weeks, the “Alcoholics” as we had become, were required to perform stupid human tricks, while the “Candy Bandits” were given a break. Occasionally, we were all trotted out and forced to compete against each other in un-armed combat, until at long last, some other unfortunates were caught smuggling Cheetos out of the PX.
We silently rejoiced as the “Cheeto Banditos” demonstrated their talents. Much later we learned that Fat-un kept a diary, and when he went AWOL they had opened his locker and read it. In great detail, he’d described our cocktail hour, to include names. One day, I will find that fucker…
