Perhaps by aryr This Sentence Starts The Story contest entry Artwork by supergold at FanArtReview.com |
"Give me twenty," screamed the middle-aged man.
We all dropped to the ground in preparation of doing the twenty push-ups. "Now, give me twenty on top of that twenty, you sorry-assed bunch." He screamed again. Each and every one of us were fatigued by the weight of the back packs we wore, but we whispered our count off. We had reached the magic mark of 'ten', when the Sergeant screamed once again, "Stop! Stop and get to your feet. Attention, Major approaching. Salute! Eyes straight ahead." There were twelve of us, an even dozen, and we all knew that at the end of our training, the numbers would drop. As an elite team, we would be the cream of the crop, the special of special. Eight men and four women. Our eyes were straight ahead as directed, we saluted as we tolerated the constant sweat dripping in our eyes, down our noses and spread patterns of wetness on our fatigues. The Major walked by us, distracted by the oncoming jeep. He spoke briefly to the driver, then turned to stroll back. It was a definite stroll. Slow, deliberate and determined to irritate everyone. He stopped in front of me. I was the fifth in line from his approaching end. "Do I know you, soldier?" He bellowed into my face. He didn't acknowledge that I was female nor that I was a member of the potential elite team. I was just a soldier. "Yes Sir, Major Duncan." "Well then, everyone, drop, and give the Sergeant twenty," he commanded. We dropped immediately and proceeded to do the twenty push-ups, again whispering the count off. I was grateful for a few things: that he walked off somewhere between three and four, that he did not look back and that no one, even the Sergeant, clued into the fact that we had the same last name. I was a soldier first and his daughter second.
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