The Primer

The Shark Attack

The Fuckening

​

The beret is a controversial piece of Army equipment. There are those in the service that hate it, think it looks ridiculous, are adamant that no one outside of Airborne, Rangers, and SF can pull it off. Others really can't be asked to give a fuck what they put on their heads. In basic our platoon's late-arrival DS was Airborne, having deployed with the 173rd. He taught us to properly shape and form our berets, and we took great care in doing so. When we were finally authorized to wear them for the first time at our rite of passage, dammit we actually looked kinda like soldiers. I never forgot that my beret was earned with a combination of blood, sweat, and tears.

Sometime after that rite of passage, we were rehearsing for graduation. The venue was set to be indoors, so obviously we'd be uncovered during the ceremony and the DSs had us leave our berets on the floor (which hurt me to do, but it seemed the place had been swept adequately because no one had dust all over their head). At the end of the ceremony, we were to execute a simple maneuver: secure beret, stand up, -hook up shuffle to the door- march out of the theater. It was a simple maneuver, and you've all been briefed on what happens when our platoon is tasked with something simple.

The insightful among you are already asking, "What did Squirrel do to his beret?" Squirrel didn't do anything to his beret besides leave it on the ground. It's what Squirrel did to my beret that's the subject of this story.

I knew immediately that the beret left on the ground wasn't mine. It was the wrong size entirely, fuzzy as a PV2's upper lip, and looked like it'd be better suited for Chef Boyardee's head than a soldier's. I was already pissed that someone had picked up my beret, but I figured once I was clear of the theater I'd just find them and swap back. Hell, maybe they'd be waiting just outside the door, having already realized their mistake.

I got to the door and checked the inside label. By reading just one word, my anger doubled, and yet I struggled to be surprised. The theater's lobby was crowded, so it took a bit of weaving through privates to find Squirrel, and when I found him, for some fucking reason my beret was on his head. Again, I struggled to be surprised, this was the guy that once saluted with his left hand during Retreat while his M16 as at order arms in his right hand. I had long since decided that his fuck-ups were no longer my responsibility, so I elected to ignore the fact that he was covered indoors.

"Squirrel. You're wearing my beret.

"No I'm not."

eeeeeeeeeXCUSE ME? I'd have thought that Squirrel would have learned by now that if someone told him he was wrong, the safest play was to assume that he was, in fact, wrong. Over the cycle Squirrel had been a shining example of why Drill Sergeants don't tell their trainees when they did good. It's because certain people will get complacent. Every time someone (anyone: a Platoon Guide, a Bay Leader, a Squad Leader, another garden-variety trainee, a DS, random Cadre, a fucking DFAC Server even) told Squirrel he had done something right, it was like his little Squirrel brain said, "Good job! You succeeded once, now there's nothing else you need to learn ever!" Then he fell right back into his old habit of never using common sense until he fucked up again and subsequently got fucked up.

Here he was again, with that stupid fucking smirk he always had in those periods where he thought he was a success, not even bothering to check if he had grabbed the wrong beret after I had so graciously given him a chance to simply, pull the damn thing off his head, look at the label, and then decide whether or not he could have possibly made a mistake. Oh, no. Not him, he was about to Graduate Basic Combat Training! He was a Real Soldier! He couldn't have possibly made a mistake. Him spending a couple weeks on vacation at another platoon had bought him some good will from me simply via his absence, but he burned all of it in three fucking words and the look on his stupid face. I decided to make it abundantly clear to him that that was my beret on his head, because that was my fucking beret.

"Really? You're not wearing my beret? Then why do I have your beret in my hand? Notice how that one's four sizes too small? Notice how it doesn't look like shit? Notice how it has my fucking name written on the label? You might've noticed if you had bothered to check, either when you picked it up, when you deeecided to put it on, or when I just fucking now told you you were wearing my goddam beret!"

He took it off, and lo and behold, the name "Walrus" adorned the label. All he had to say was, "Oh." I had even less words for him as I grabbed my beret and chucked his at his chest before about-facing away from him. That's not true, I had words for him, something along the lines of "never set you dick-skinners on my beret again," but I had by this point in cycle acquired some discipline and elected to put it to use. I debated rinsing it off in the drinking fountain, but before I had the chance, we were called to fall in for another run-through.

I imagine many of you, upon reading that this Squirrel story takes place at graduation rehearsal, felt a sense of unbridled dread come upon you, and are now worried for the state of the Army in general. Alas, I cannot offer any reassurance. Squirrel did, in fact, graduate basic combat training. What happened to him next, you will all have to wait until the next story to find out. You might be eager to know, but trust me, you'll want to cherish these remaining few days in which you don't know how this story (or at least my involvement in it) ends. I'll never be able to unknow it until the warm embrace of dementia takes me.

Until then, Should Old Acquaintance be forgot,and never thought upon

well, thank God for that.