"So there is something?"
"Sir, no, Sir."
"Utilities, full field gear, helmet, piece, in five minutes!"
"Sir, aye, aye, Sir." Staff Sergeant Hungleberry withdrew his face from Private Hart's, did a left-face, and marched back down the aisle between the rows of double bunks. When he reached the light switch, he turned off the lights.
Private Hart, in the dark, located a set of utilities, his socks, boondockers, field equipment, and helmet and carried them down the aisle toward the head, where one 40-watt bulb (others were ritually unscrewed from their sockets) was allowed to burn all night.
The firewatch, a boot required to stay awake all night, was in the head.
"What the fuck did you do now?" he inquired.
"Does it fucking matter?" Hart replied as he hastily pulled on his utilities, the field equipment, his socks, and shoved his feet into his boondockers and tied them.
"You did something," the firewatch said helpfully. "And he knows. "
"Fuck you," Private Hart said as he put his helmet on his head.
How the hell am I going to get my piece? My fucking piece is in the fucking arms rack, and the fucking arms rack is locked.
The answer came: When he comes out of his room, he will find me standing at fucking attention by the arms rack waiting for him to unlock the sonofabitch.
Staff Sergeant Hungleberry, now fully dressed, appeared. He examined Private Hart, who was standing at rigid attention.
"You have hearing problems, Hart?"
"Sir, no, Sir."
"Do I speak indistinctly Or was I maybe talking in Chinese?"
"Sir, no, Sir."
"Then you did understand me to say, `Utilities, full field gear, helmet, and piece in five minutes'?"
"Sir, yes, Sir."
"Then where is your fucking piece?"
"Sir, in the arms rack, Sir, and the arms rack, Sir, is locked, Sir."
"Do you really think I would ask you to take your piece from a locked arms rack?"
"Sir, no, Sir."
"Then get your fucking piece from the arms rack!" The sonofabitch unlocked the fucking rack before he came storming down the aisle!
"Sir, aye, aye, Sir!" He retrieved his piece, U.S. Rifle, Springfield, Model of 1903, Serial Number 2456577, from its assigned place, third from the right on the squad bay side, worked the action to ensure that it was empty, and came to attention again.
on are still telling me that you have no idea why the ant major wants to see you?" The sergeant major? What the fuck does the sergeant major want with me at midnight?
"Sir, yes, Sir. I don't know why the sergeant major wants to see me, Sir."
"'Ten-HUT! Right SHOULDER, Harms! Right Face! Fohwud, Harch! Open the door when you get to it!" Private Hart marched off, opened the door when he came to it, marched through it, down the shallow stairs and toward the next barracks.
"Detail, HALT!" After approximately two minutes, which seemed like much longer, the headlights of a Chevrolet pickup truck illuminated the area, and then the truck stopped about eight inches from Private Hart.
He could faintly but clearly hear the conversation between his DI and the corporal driving the truck.
"What the fuck is going on here?"
"Beats the shit out of me. All I know is I was told to come here and get some boot named Hart and take him to the BOQ."
"The BOQ? I thought the sergeant major sent for him."
"To the sergeant major at the BOQ," the corporal clarified.
"Shit!"
"That's all I know, Sergeant," the corporal said righteously. "You coming, or just him? That is him?"
"Hart, get in the fucking truck!"
"Sir, aye, aye, Sir." The opening and then slamming of the passenger door told Private Hart that his DI had decided his duty required him to accompany him to the sergeant major at the BOQ.
The sergeant major at the BOQ? What the hell is going on?
Ten minutes later the pickup stopped in front of a two-story frame building in a part of Parris Island Private Hart had never been to.
He saw a man he had never seen before. But to judge by the stripes on his sleeves and his assured manner as he approached the truck, he was certainly the sergeant major.
"Who are you?"
"Hungleberry, Sergeant Major."
"That Hart?"
"Yes, Sergeant Major."
"What took you so long?"
"We was ready when the truck got there," Staff Sergeant Hungleberry said righteously.
"Get him out of the truck and march him to room twelve.
Left corridor, last door on the right. Report to the officers."