The Lost Tale of Embracing the Major Suck

One foot after the other, the sound of boots pound into the Earth and scatter into the depths of the evergreen woods. In formation, marching promptly, my brothers at arms were all around me, clad in their sweat-drenched pickle suits (1.) The dirt road was long and narrow and the moon gently illuminated the white sheets of snow around us. I could feel the weight of my rucksack crushing into my spine as I begin to feel like Atlas, except with a muscular dad bod'. How long has it been? Five hours? Six, maybe? Everything felt like an eternity. Time was irrelevant now, only endless marching. This is my life now. Just don't think about it.

"Keep one foot after the other." I thought.

A flurry of wind and white crystalline particles cracked like a whip as its artic bite slaps me in the face. A slight trickle of tears seeped from the swells of my heavy, sleep-deprived eyes. I quickly sweep away the tears and persisted onward. My fingers, numb from the blistering temperatures of the bluing on my carbine rifle. Leave it to Uncle Sam to issue us basic level gloves. These things couldn't even hold the heat from a fart. As the marching continues endlessly, I place my body on autopilot, taking my mind off the pain radiating from my feet. I reminisce on my recruiter touting his spiel of lies that still burn in my mind to this day.

Stupid. What the hell was I thinking?

My recruiter was a stocky man, as the camouflage uniform on his body hugged around his physique. His hair was dark brown, kempt, neatly cut, and sharp as a tack. His eyes were blue like the water in a port-a-john and filled with persuasion. He looked like one of those hotshots from the cool kids' circle at college. He must have dated every girl in his class.

"You want to carry a sweet ass gun with you everywhere?" the recruiter touted with a grin on his face. It sounded cool at the time but go ahead and start getting that clown makeup out. "I can even get you stationed in Hawaii! You'll be slurping down Miami Vices on the beach with a pretty little honey next to you every weekend." Don the big red clown nose here. "The infantry (2) is the best military occupational specialty in the Army. Why be a wuss, when you can be the legit backbone of the Army?" Comedy. Gold.

Alas, my twenty-four years young naïve self was convinced. I gleefully surrendered my John Hancock(3) on the bombardment of bureaucratic paperwork and away I went on my unicorn of rainbows and pixie dust with hopes of finally seeing Hawaii while having Margot Robbie laugh at my cringingly corny jokes as we hold hands and drink those creamy pink Pina Coladas on the beach together.

Reality quickly snapped back as I smacked into the rucksack of the soldier who paused in front of me and the tropical beach of Hawaii suddenly reverts to the artic woods of Fort Drum (4). The formation stood still and the stern voice of our platoon sergeant trailed down the staggered formation.

"Alright, men," he exclaimed. "Let's take a breather. Pop your tops (5), change your socks if you need to. Eat a snack, and drink plenty of water. Hell, take a leak if you have to or piss your pants, I don't care."

Thank God.

I instantaneously flopped down into the blanket of white snow, kind of like Woody before he's discovered by Andy. The sounds of bodies dropping down to the ground migrated down the path like dominos. The sighs of relief. The ruffling of MRE (6) packages being opened. The gentle streams of gold flowing through the white plains.

I then glanced over to my left and noticed one of the soldiers changing his socks.

Private Greene. A young guy from a small town in Michigan called L'Anse, wherever that was. He was about no more than a buck-fifty in weight and was about five-two in height. Maybe five-three if he stood up straight. Everyone in our platoon calls him Mighty Mouse. The motivation he had before the start of this adventure had worn from his wind-burned face. "They're going to kill us." Greene complained through his exhausted breaths as he continued to unlace his tarnished, coyote tan combat boots.