Initials (Only) -- Flash Fiction

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"B. J., you got everything you need?"

"Yes, sir. I think I do." The young man put his duffel bag on the rider's side floor of his old red pickup.

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?"

"Too late to change my mind now. Already signed the papers. It's pretty much up to them." He stuck his hands in his pockets and gazed at his feet. "Long as I pass their tests, they'll let me stay."

"Oh, they'll let you stay all right, but four years. That's a long time." He put his hands in his pockets and looked down at his feet, too.

The two men stood there, the younger one almost a reflection of the older one. In many ways he looked more like his uncle than he did his own father. His father had been gone too long.

"Uncle Arthur, you did twenty years. Made Master Sergeant. Raised two girls."

"I did. Worked well for your Aunt Dora and me." He followed his brother's son to the driver's side of the truck.

B. J. climbed in, closed the door, and rolled down the window.

Arthur pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and withdrew a crisp $100 bill.

"Nah, I got enough money to get there."

"I know you do." The uncle chuckled. "I know you do. You put this in the back of your bill fold and don't take it out except for an emergency."

B. J. pulled his seat belt across his chest.

The uncle rested a weathered hand on the open window, the money held loosely between his second and middle finger. "Let me give you some advice. Basic is rough. Your Drill Instructor will be the toughest, meanest man you'll ever meet, but he'll teach you everything you need to know."

B. J. tucked the $100 bill in his chest pocket and laughed. "Or maybe a woman."

"Well if it's a woman, she'll be even tougher. Whoever it is, don't draw attention to yourself. Don't do anything that might show you know something they don't. I guarantee they'll pick some poor slob to be the butt for the whole ten weeks. And you don't want to be him."

He drove seven hours to Fort Leonard Wood. Under the supervision of two Drill Instructors, one of whom was a woman, he waited nearly three hours for the rest of his group to arrive.

Wearing clean dockers and a buttoned shirt, B. J. observed his fellow recruits. One shaggy looking slacker lounged against a pole, his baggy shorts hanging from skinny hips under a dirty tank top. He looked like he'd partied all night long. B. J. thought he'd i.d.'d his group's butt.

Finally the woman Drill Instructor ordered, "Platoon, fall in. Four rows of ten."

The shaggy one finally found his place and the Drill Instructor took a clip board from her fellow D.I.

"Andrews, Carl David," she shouted and someone answered.

"Burkhardt, Donald Eugene."

"Don," came the answer.

She lowered the clipboard and searched the ranks.

A burly blond guy from the middle of the pack raised his hand. "I go by Don," he said.

"Well, excuse me all to hell. Did your mother name you Donald? Or did she not?"

He lowered his hand, "Donald."

"Donald what?" She glared at him.

"Donald Eugene," he barely whispered.

"Donald, Drill Sergeant." Turning on the rest of the platoon, she graciously explained, "the correct answer is always what I say followed by Drill Sergeant.

A few more names down the list she called "Bonly Jonly Christ."

No one answered.

Twice more she called "Bonly Jonly Christ."

Still no one answered.

Finally she stepped to the side and conferred with the other Drill Instructor.

She resumed her position center front and growled, "B. only J. only Christ."

B. J. swallowed hard. "Yes, ma'am. I'm here."

"Well, by Christ, I'm glad we got that straightened out. What do the B and the J stand for?"

"Nothing, ma'am. It's just the initials. And my last name rhymes with 'mist,' ma'am."

"Copy that Bonly Jonly. And don't call me ma'am. I work for a living. Drop and give me twenty-five. NOW."

B. J. had no doubt who the butt was.

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