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GWOT III - Basic Training
Dec. 26th, 2019 12:04 pmOakland, California
He wanted to weep.
The human raw material lined up in front of him lacked nearly every military attribute.
None were standing at attention. Most weren't even standing in line.
Not only did their clothing vary widely, but so did their hair, their physical condition (OK to awful) and even their footwear.
They only had one military virtue that he could see. They were here.
"Attention to orders," he bellowed. Startled, the recruits stopped chattering and looked at him.
"Behind me, there is a pile of armbands. You can do one of two things. Put one on your right arm and return to ranks, or go do something else. Right now."
A pause.
"MOVE."
The armband was a piece of black cloth with the letters "SF" painted on it twice in white paint, from a stencil.
Putting on the armbands took half an hour. He wanted to weep but the ocean is made of the tears of men.
"You are all inducted into the San Francisco Resistance. You are all dead."
People looked at him strangely.
"You're here because you want to fight Homeland? OK. You will die fighting Homeland. Maybe later today. Maybe twenty years from now. More likely sometime next week.
"This is WAR. You put on that armband, you put on a uniform, to defend your people. To be a bullet stop. Some Homeland asshole puts a pistol against someone's head, you say 'Me first!' And you try to kill him before he kills you.
"We have three days. Today we teach you to work together. Tomorrow you learn to use a rifle. The day after, you learn how to use grenades. Then you go fight. Because people are dying on the lines buying this time for you to train."
He walked up to a young tough glaring at him.
"You think you''re bad."
"Sir!" he shouted.
"See that?"
He pointed to the wall, on which was painted a crude drawing of an MRAP, the Homeland armored fighting vehicle.
"Are you bad enough to kill that?"
"Fuck yeah!"
"With what? Your _dick_? We don't got any rocket launcher, man. We got this."
He handed the young tough a beer bottle with a rag sticking out the top.
"Go kill it." A pause. "MOVE!"
The youth took the pretend Molotov and ran towards the pretend tank. He threw it, it splattered across the top.
"BANG BANG BANG!" he shouted. "You are _dead_. And that fucking thing is still alive. Next?"
It took three bottles from three different irregulars until someone threw it in the right place, into the front armored windshield instead of uselessly on the top armor.
"Better. You all have a lot to learn, and some of you will die because we forgot to mention something, or because we said something once and you didn't fucking _listen_."
A case of bottles later, he formed them up into a loose group.
"Let's go for a jog. SImple rule. We leave no one behind. Not now, not ever. If someone falls, you carry them. You run, you walk, you crawl, but you never ever leave a Resistance fighter behind. Ever."
The two orderlies took up the rear, screaming and lightly hitting people with their cut-down baseball bats as needed. He set the pace.
Ten minutes later, he told them to gather around.
"You are all out of shape! There is nothing we can do about it in three days, but we are sure as fuck going to try. Now, return to the training field, at a walk."
One of the orderlies came over next to him during the walk back.
"We're so fucked," he stated.
"Not as fucked as Stalingrad," he retorted.
"I can't believe we have to go to war with these assholes," the other orderly said.
"Better than going to war without them," he muttered.
He wanted to weep.
The human raw material lined up in front of him lacked nearly every military attribute.
None were standing at attention. Most weren't even standing in line.
Not only did their clothing vary widely, but so did their hair, their physical condition (OK to awful) and even their footwear.
They only had one military virtue that he could see. They were here.
"Attention to orders," he bellowed. Startled, the recruits stopped chattering and looked at him.
"Behind me, there is a pile of armbands. You can do one of two things. Put one on your right arm and return to ranks, or go do something else. Right now."
A pause.
"MOVE."
The armband was a piece of black cloth with the letters "SF" painted on it twice in white paint, from a stencil.
Putting on the armbands took half an hour. He wanted to weep but the ocean is made of the tears of men.
"You are all inducted into the San Francisco Resistance. You are all dead."
People looked at him strangely.
"You're here because you want to fight Homeland? OK. You will die fighting Homeland. Maybe later today. Maybe twenty years from now. More likely sometime next week.
"This is WAR. You put on that armband, you put on a uniform, to defend your people. To be a bullet stop. Some Homeland asshole puts a pistol against someone's head, you say 'Me first!' And you try to kill him before he kills you.
"We have three days. Today we teach you to work together. Tomorrow you learn to use a rifle. The day after, you learn how to use grenades. Then you go fight. Because people are dying on the lines buying this time for you to train."
He walked up to a young tough glaring at him.
"You think you''re bad."
"Sir!" he shouted.
"See that?"
He pointed to the wall, on which was painted a crude drawing of an MRAP, the Homeland armored fighting vehicle.
"Are you bad enough to kill that?"
"Fuck yeah!"
"With what? Your _dick_? We don't got any rocket launcher, man. We got this."
He handed the young tough a beer bottle with a rag sticking out the top.
"Go kill it." A pause. "MOVE!"
The youth took the pretend Molotov and ran towards the pretend tank. He threw it, it splattered across the top.
"BANG BANG BANG!" he shouted. "You are _dead_. And that fucking thing is still alive. Next?"
It took three bottles from three different irregulars until someone threw it in the right place, into the front armored windshield instead of uselessly on the top armor.
"Better. You all have a lot to learn, and some of you will die because we forgot to mention something, or because we said something once and you didn't fucking _listen_."
A case of bottles later, he formed them up into a loose group.
"Let's go for a jog. SImple rule. We leave no one behind. Not now, not ever. If someone falls, you carry them. You run, you walk, you crawl, but you never ever leave a Resistance fighter behind. Ever."
The two orderlies took up the rear, screaming and lightly hitting people with their cut-down baseball bats as needed. He set the pace.
Ten minutes later, he told them to gather around.
"You are all out of shape! There is nothing we can do about it in three days, but we are sure as fuck going to try. Now, return to the training field, at a walk."
One of the orderlies came over next to him during the walk back.
"We're so fucked," he stated.
"Not as fucked as Stalingrad," he retorted.
"I can't believe we have to go to war with these assholes," the other orderly said.
"Better than going to war without them," he muttered.
