Free Terms of Enlistment by Marko Kloos Page B

still in this kind of job.”
    She puts a hand against my cheek and holds it there for a moment.
    “You try to make it through the next five years and we’ll see, okay?”
    I know we’ll spend those five years in different corners of the universe. We both know that the military is not the place to be if you want to get or keep a mate. She’ll probably shack up with some steel-jawed officer, or a succession of them, and I’ll have my own flings. By the time our discharge date comes around, we’ll most likely only be a faint and pleasant memory to each other. But the thought is nice, and we have the events of the last few weeks fresh in our memories right now, so I take the sentiment in the spirit in which it is presented.
    “I’ll see you after mustering out,” I say. “Bring your bonus, and I’ll bring mine.”
     
    Graduation day dawns with a cloudless sky.
    We’re up well before reveille, restoring the platoon bay to its sanctioned state, and polishing our boots and belt buckles to a spotless shine one more time.
    We march to the chow hall for our final meal of Basic Training. After breakfast, we return to the platoon bay to shed our blue-and-greens and don the formal wear we’ve been issued just a few days ago. Sergeant Burke explained the Class A uniforms aren’t issued with the other stuff at the beginning of training because they are too expensive to waste on likely drop-outs, and that recruits lose so much weight and gain so much muscle in Basic Training that the well-fitting uniform issued at the beginning would sit on its owner like a tent after twelve weeks.
    We rehearsed for the ceremony in the weeks prior to graduation. Our platoon--what’s left of it--is to march into the parade square behind the platoon guidon, and move smartly to its assigned spot in the rows of graduating platoons. Then the Commanding Officer will hold a brief speech, we will all swear the Oath of Service, and there will be recognitions and merit promotions for excellent training performances. All in all, we’ll be standing in the sun and listening to the brass talk for an hour, and then we’ll be sent back to our platoon bays one last time to pack our gear and receive our final assignments for duty. Everyone wants to know their service branch and final job description, of course, so the whole pomp and circumstance is just largely pointless torture, but we have learned to shut up and execute , so we do.
    Despite the rehearsals, we’re not prepared for the sight of the main parade square as our platoon marches in, following Sergeant Burke and our platoon leader Hamilton behind the guidon.
    The square is probably half a mile on each side, and it is packed with rows and rows of graduating platoons. There are hundreds and hundreds of platoon guidons flapping in the light morning breeze, making the square look like a multicolored cloth forest. We keep our pace up and our heads straight, but the sheer number of people on the square is a little shocking after twelve weeks of enforced segregation from other platoons.
    We find our spot in the line, and the other two drill instructors, Sergeants Riley and Harris, are already waiting. We take our place in the formation that is comprised of hundreds of platoons. When all the graduating recruits have filed into the square and shuffled into position, there are thousands of recruits lined up in front of the podium in the center of the square. We’re all dressed in the Class A uniforms we’re going to have to return right after the ceremony, and we all look lean and sharp.
    There’s a speech, of course. The Commanding Officer of the training depot addresses us for a mercifully brief period of time, talking about duty and commitment, and the challenges that await us out there among the stars. It’s all a bunch of fluffy crap, of course, and everyone knows it, but by now we know how to stand at attention and listen.
    Then we swear our Oath of Service. There’s something almost mystical