Free The Chaplain's War by Brad R. Torgersen

gorilla of a man walked out. He took his time, carefully walking down the steps, the tops of his boots gleaming like mirrors in the sun, and his hat—which I would later learn was technically called a soft cap —perched at a crisp forward angle on top of his nearly-shaved head.
    A small brim shaded his Neanderthal brow from the sun, and in the center of the hat were three chevrons perched atop three concave half-circles, with a diamond in the middle. This insignia was replicated over the man’s name on his breast—KLAUSKI—and all of the other soldiers became immediately aware of his presence as he approached the mass formation.
    The sergeants and corporals ceased movement, and ran to what seemed to be pre-designated positions around the outside of the rectangle of recruits.
    The one named Klauski stopped dead-center before the rectangle, slowly scanned his head and eyes from left to right and back again, then clicked his heels together, raised his chin to the sky, and bellowed, “KUHMPAHNAAAAAYYY!”
    At once, all the other soldiers flicked their heads towards the recruits and repeated the same yell.
    “AHHTEN- SHUN! ” Klauski bawled.
    The sergeants and corporals snapped rigid.
    Since I and the other recruits had already been standing at the position of attention for far too long, we did nothing.
    “Good morning, recruits,” said the gorilla-man.
    “GOOD MORNING, FIRST SERGEANT,” shouted the soldiers in unison.
    When we recruits said nothing—heads and eyes looking frantically up and down the rows to determine what the eff it was we were supposed to do now—Klauski cleared his throat and tried again.
    “I SAID, GOOD MORNING, RECRUITS!”
    As a gaggle, our rectangle blurted, “GOOSHMOURNINFUSAGNT . . .”
    Several disapproving whistles and tsk-tsks came from the sergeants and corporals around the formation—their heads shaking knowingly.
    The first sergeant’s razor-straight, thin-lipped mouth curled up slightly at the corners.
    “Now, recruits, that was just piss-poor. And I do mean piss, piss, piss-poor. Y’all gonna have to git’ with the program around here real fast, before I have to go and dirty my nice bright boots on your stinky little asses. Now effin’ sound the eff off like you mean it. Good morning, recruits! ”
    “GOOD MORNING, FIRST SERGEANT!”
    “Okay, better. Can y’all hear me?”
    “YESFUSAGINT . . .”
    “Bull, try again. I said, can you all hear me? ”
    “ YES, FIRST SERGEANT! ”
    “Right. Now that’s the kind of volume I should hear coming out of your effin’ mouths any time any noncommissioned officer is standing up in front of you like this. Doesn’t matter if she’s got two stripes or six. You render respect and you clear your skinny little throats with some gawtdamned articulation and uniformity. Is that understood, recruits?”
    “YES, FIRST SERGEANT!”
    “Good. Now, welcome to 69th Reception Battalion, Armstrong Field. Otherwise known as The Big Sixty-Nine. You all are gonna be here for the next six to eight days as we fill up in preparation for Pickup Day. During that time my NCOs and I will do everything in our power to properly prepare you for your entry into Induction Service Training, also known as Basic. But before we start I want to make something abundantly clear to you people.
    “The moment you stepped on this installation, you ceased to be civilians. All those e-documents you signed with your recruiter? All that crap about standing in front of the flag before you left to come here? Well, now the rubber meets the road. You’re here for a specific purpose, and there is no time for second thoughts. You are committed. Most of you should have already realized that. But if you didn’t before, start thinking about that now. It will save you—and me—a lot of heartache and assache. Do I make myself clear, recruits?”
    “YES, FIRST SERGEANT!”
    “Your mamas and your daddies and your aunties and uncles and grampies and grannies ain’t here to rescue