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and care for their M-16s, their gas masks, and a duffle bag full of equipment, known to the world as TA-50 (no one knew what that meant, but everything in the Army needed to have some kind of code).
    And Scott was learning to adjust to the Army way, and its people. He had come to realize that growing up in Wild Horse and having never gone much further than Greeley or Denver for more than a week or so had left him pretty sheltered.
    His closest friend there was Andy Day, a Southern Californian who’d dropped out of college for an adventure. There was Terry Esposito, from Chicago, who was always smiling and called everybody “Mac.” There was Derric Persson, a tall, intense, but also pretty funny, black guy from Little Rock who was the top of his high school ROTC class and was hoping to make it to Officer Candidate School.
    And there was Carl Forsburg from Minnesota, who was going to the same EMT school as Scott.
    There were the guys who were there because they’d been given the choice of jail or the Army. Scott didn’t see a lot of difference at this point, but these guys were definitely jail material. And not for petty theft; apparently a couple of these guys were convicted of assault and more physical crimes. Scott learned to keep an eye open.
    And, there was Nolan Moreland III, or “Slick Man,” as he called himself (“I’m the man with the plan with all the women in his hands, and you can understand because I am Slick Man!”). He was the color of coffee, 5-9, about 150. He had already shown he had athletic ability, and was gunning for the title of “Super Trooper,” which went to the best athlete in the platoon.
    The first night they were all together, the men of Second Platoon sat in one building together, made introductions and told each other a little bit about themselves. Scott had mentioned he’d played a year of college football at UNC, but not a lot else about it. Over the next month, more of the story had come out, and pretty soon it was known he’d been a kicker on a national championship team. Or to some people he was; to others he was bullshitting.
    It was April 15. Scott had mailed off a return letter to Roni the night before after getting hers in mail call. She talked about being tired of UNC and starting to look at other options. Maybe, she said, even looking at designing again. Scott had never pushed the issue with her, just as she had never pushed football. He told her in the last letter he’d always wondered why she hadn’t gone to CU, but added she could tell him about it when they saw each other.
    During evening formation, Drill Sgt. Sprouil, a short, but powerful looking black man and Vietnam veteran, told the men of Second Platoon if inspection went well on Saturday, there was a chance for an afternoon on-post pass for everyone. The only thing off-limits was Phone City; a building near the main PX from which trainees could make $1 five-minute long distance calls. Delta 5-2 still had a week before they were allowed to make calls home.
    Persson called a meeting of all the squad leaders and senior squad leaders after dinner. Just as everyone else, he wanted a few hours off on Saturday.
    “Alright gentlemen, let’s get this fucking thing right,” he said. “I want to go have a beer and watch a little TV and relax.”
    Everyone agreed that would be a really nice way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Like a human being. What made it even better was it was mid-month payday. Everyone had received $200 in cash earlier in the day. Most of the guys bought bonds or cashier’s checks and just kept about $50 for the month. It’s not like they had to spend a lot of money in basic training.
    “Hey Mitchell,” Carl said, “ you know there’s a football field with goal posts over by the NCO Club?”
    “No,” Scott said, wondering where Carl was going with this.
    “How about you show us how you kick?” he asked.
    “Shit, Swede, I haven’t kicked a ball since before I got hurt last summer,”