Bressarian and the rest of the three-fourteen platoon were straight out of training, “a set of nervous barely trained mutts good for nothing but extinction” as Sargent Backnely made it clear to them at arrival.
“You are here to do nothing but survive. You gon’ see a whole lot of dead comrades. Make sure you spit on them for failing their duty.”
Bressarian looked at Private Jennings, they’d trained together and heard about Sargent Backnely’s penchant for the overboard.
“God Damn it, boy!”
Before he had time to turn, Bressarian felt the cold tip of a 1911 .45 calibre aimed at the side of his brain.
The side he used to live. His favourite side.
“What’s your name, private?”
“Bressarian, sir.”, he murmurred.
“Now you see, here, this is what we call a failure to adapt.” Said Backnely. “Private Bressarian’s incapability of following the simple steps of survival this great institution instilled in him tells me one thing.”
Backnely takes the gun back, and holsters it. Bressarian reluctantly returns back into position.
The sargent turns back, and continues.
“The way to survive, has no rules. Only regulations. Every burst of a .50 cal is the enemy’s enforcer of those regulations. Do y-”
“Sir, you said you learned something, could you tell us what it was?” Yelled an indistinct voice.
“Who in the name of the virgin Mary’s period interrupted me?” Yelled Backnely. “Which no good, cock sucking, cow maneur smelling inbred, uneducated, illiterate fuck just interrupted me?”
The men stood silently and watched as Backnely breathed in and out his fill of the desert air like a bull ready to impale all in its sight.
Quickly he calmed down, and adapted a calm tone, still loud and demanding.
“I guess it’ll be like that then. I do respect the comradarie. I won’t give you any of that nonsense where I let you have a chance to come out. No.” He said, looking each man in the eye for no longer than two seconds.
Bressarian tried to shield his eyes by batting them many times, but only came out as flirtatious, making Backnely cringe every time he looked at him.
“But, the truth is, the one thing I know, is that private Bressarian is a leech, a parasite, a rotten cell blocking the arteries of success. Now I’m not saying the rest of you are anything more than the dried up piss on a retard’s diaper, but, Bressarian here takes the cake.”
“All of you. Tonight. You sleep in the field, except for Bressarian. You get to dine in our quarters, and sleep in your platoon’s barracks.”
Backnely looked at the men again, waiting for a sign of disagreement, a breath out of place, a look, anything.