A memoir of a Vietnam veteran
“I can't keep up Lieutenant Swann.”
“Lieutenant Swann what, Carson?”
“Lieutenant Swann, Sir!”
“That's better Carson. Now get your candy ass back in formation and stop all that fuckin' whining."
Carson became a marked man. Swann's unrelenting taunting of him didn’t stop until others dropped out.
I made up my mind not to be relief for Carson or the others. There were days when I wanted to give in, but the thought of Swann's high pitched voice and his air of superiority over anyone in our group of Transportation officers kept me glued to the formation.
On this day Swann pushed us through the calisthenics and then formed us up for our daily run, allowing us to remove our fatigue shirts first. The O club beer, which we had tossed down in large volumes the night before, began to take its toll. Three or four men dropped out near the end of the second mile, bent over double, puking beer and breakfast, their chests heaving in and out. A mile later another runner pulled to the side, the sound of his retching rising above the steady tempo of our boots on the pavement. I developed a side stitch during the fourth mile and held my arms over my head as I ran, hoping to stretch the pain away. The last half-mile Swann cut us free from his cadence. Most of us picked up the pace and actually found relief in the freedom to set our own stride.
We thought the run would mark the end of our day, but Swann had other ideas. We stood on the west side of our parade ground, a barren football field made up of scrubby grass, red sand and pebbles, catching our breath.
“Listen up pukes. We’re going to race six at a time across the field. The first two in each group are done for the day. The rest of you will fall back in and race again until there're only four of you left. Need I tell you you don't wanna be the four sorry ass bastards in my final group?”
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