Terms of Enlistment Read Online Free PDF

alphabetic proximity--she’s HALLEY D, I’m GRAYSON A.
    We spend another hour unpacking our gear and putting everything into our lockers according to Sergeant Gau’s direction. He stands in the middle of the squad bay, with one recruit’s bags emptied on the floor in front of him. He holds up one item at a time, calls out its designation, and waits for us to find the same item in our own piles of stuff. When he is satisfied that we’re all holding up the same thing, he tells us where to place it into our lockers.
    When all our gear is stowed, Sergeant Gau has us open our lockers again and take out our issue sweatsuits and running shoes. We change into the suits, and for the first time, the platoon looks uniform in appearance.
    “Take your civilian clothes and stow them away in the bottom drawer on the right side of your locker. Most of you will need them again soon.”
    When all our equipment is stowed in our lockers, Sergeant Gau leads us to the chow hall. Dinner is no less overwhelming than lunch, and we eat ourselves into a stupor once more: grilled cheese sandwiches, beef stew, three different kinds of fruit.
    After dinner, we’re back in our quarters, where we find personal data pads on our bunks. Each of them has a label above the top of the screen, bearing the last name of its new owner. The PDPs are of a kind I’ve never seen. They’re large and clunky, with monochrome screens that look like a throwback to a bygone century. They have translucent polymer covers that fold over the screen for field use, and the whole thing is perfectly sized for the side pocket of the fatigues they issued us earlier today.
    “Not exactly the latest technology,” my bunk mate muses in a low voice as she inspects her own data pad. “I’ve had better stuff in elementary school.”
    “Those are your new companions,” Sergeant Gau says from the center aisle of the platoon bay. “They may not look like much, but they’re tough and reliable. Familiarize yourselves with your PDPs, and call up lesson 1.001, titled ‘Enlisted and Officer Ranks.’”
    We sit in two rows along the center aisle, calling up the lesson as directed, and Sergeant Gau has us repeat the rank structure of the Armed Forces from top to bottom. When we have prayed the litany a few dozen times, Sergeant Gau has us turn off our PDPs and repeat the process from memory another few dozen times. When he is satisfied that we have the rank structure memorized, he makes us stow our PDPs.
    “Now,” he says. “Let’s see which one of you people actually listened to me earlier today. Assemble in front of the building, in three rows. Execute .”
    We look at each other with budding dread. We’ve all stuffed ourselves at both lunch and dinner--more so at dinner, since we didn’t have to exercise all day--and my stomach is still uncomfortably full. Just the thought of running or doing push-ups is making me nauseous.
    “That means now , people,” Sergeant Gau shouts, and we all rush to file out of the platoon bay.
     
    When we’re all assembled in three untidy rows, Sergeant Gau leads us down the road. We start out walking, but after a few steps, Sergeant Gau falls into a trot.
    “You want to keep up,” he says. The way he words the statement makes clear that it’s not a suggestion.
     
    Sergeant Gau’s pace is not particularly fast, but after ten minutes, my sides are hurting, and my stomach bounces up and down like a badly balanced counterweight. We’re groaning and coughing as we try to keep pace with Sergeant Gau. He’s running in fatigues and combat boots, and not even breathing hard.
    After thirty minutes, the first members of the platoon stagger to the side of the road and puke out their dinners in hot chunks. I can feel the bile in the back of my throat as my stomach wants to follow suit, but I manage to keep a lid on things.
    Then Sergeant Gau slows down to a walk once more. He gestures for the platoon to turn around, and then he has us gather around