If you've been following this blog, you already know the story. If you've stumbled on it now, welcome. Here's the lowdown.
A few years back, I was commissioned to write a story for the 'We're Alive' podcast.
Long story short, it didn't pan out.
But I spent a very long time writing it for it to languish in my computer. I spent that time not only writing it for the 'We're Alive' folks, but mostly for my readers.
So what I've decided to do is publish my initial story here, via my blog, as a work of FAN FICTION, a completely unofficial piece about a character from the series. This is completely unofficial and unauthorized, but I think my work and time spent on this project deserve to see the light of day.
I would like to encourage everyone who might enjoy this fan fiction to check out the officials 'We're Alive' website HERE. It is a fantastic and well-developed world created by a group of professional writers and expert voice actors.
In the meantime, here's the completlely unofficial, unauthorized 'We're Alive' fan fiction, originally entitled (WORKING TITLE: BURT)
BY
BOWIE V. IBARRA
From an idea from the creators of the
“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA
4. CHANNELING ANGER
The atmosphere was tense as Max carried the dying
survivor into the post-apocalyptic refinery.
It was one of Burt’s favorite moments.
It was the first time the viewer is introduced to the ragtag team of
survivors unifying against the motorized menace of The Humongous and his
punk-style and leather-clad disciples.
It’s also the first time the Feral Kid is seen, surprised at the
audacity of Max pulling up to the makeshift stronghold.
As the survivors threatened Max
with their crude but effective medieval weapons consisting of crossbows,
knives, and traditional bows and arrows, a distant thumping sound emanated from
the apartment above him.
Burt groaned. “Goddamn afternoon delight.” He grabbed the remote and turned up the
volume.
The disabled mechanic dangled from
his swing as Max’s dog attacked the cloth wrapped around what was left of his
legs. The mechanic just watched the dog,
helpless, but amused.
Burt always wondered how his legs
had become disabled. Were his feet
missing, perhaps? Or paralysis? It reminded him of guys he had seen at the VA
who had their legs blown off by land mines.
Landmines were dirty goddamn weapons.
Or maybe the guy was in a car
accident. It could have been some sort
of vehicular rumble for the ‘juice’. The
same kind of ‘do or die’ battle royal that opened the movie. Thrown from the vehicle, the mechanic might
have had his legs broken, then amputated.
Maybe he got ran over, making his
legs lame?
Perhaps he had diabetes and they
had to have his leg, or feet, amputated.
Diabetes.
Burt lifted up his hand. He tried to hold it still, but he
couldn’t. It shook, refusing to stay
still. It had been that way for a while. Even more so when she left.
But he didn’t want to think of that
right now.
I should really get something to
eat, he thought to himself. But when
another jungle beat of a headboard against a wall started its erratic song of
lust, Burt just shook his head. His
apartment complex was far from a retirement community. Most of the tenants were students from the
college.
“Goddamn,” he muttered. “You’d think it was the end of the world or
something,” he grumbled, considering the argument he had heard outside his door
just minutes before.
Burt turned up the television ten
more clicks, just ten clicks away from being on full blast. It wasn’t that he couldn’t appreciate a young
college couple having a little fun with their bodies. He was just past all that now. High school then the Marines gave him his
fill.
He remembered…
Burt jumped out of the bedroom
window of Trina Michelle’s house at around 6am, just before the sun began to
rise over his hometown of Culver City.
Trina lived only two blocks from Burt’s house, and the late night rendezvous
were commonplace since they started dating about three weeks before. Neither of them cared what people thought of
them. People gossiped, of course. But no one ever said a harsh word in front of
Burt. They knew better.
Trina and Burt were both
loners. They both had friends, but their
broken homes made them edgier than the regular kids. Angrier.
Both of their fathers had walked out on their mothers. Both of them felt the loss in their hearts,
and found solace in each other’s
company.
Both mothers, however, had hit the bottle
after their loss. That didn’t sit well
with either of the children.
Burt was usually able to pull off
the night visits because his mother, Marsha, would get so piss-drunk she’d pass
out and wouldn’t get up until Burt had walked off to school.
Today was different when he climbed
back in his bedroom window.
“Mom,” said Burt with
surprise. His mother was sitting in the
corner of his room. A bottle of L’Amour
Whiskey sat precariously on the edge of the chair she sat on.
“Good morning, Burt,” she said,
slurring her words.
“Mom,” groaned Burt. “What are you doing in my room?”
“It’s my room, son. I pay the bills here.. for the house,
here. What are you doing?”
Burt didn’t want to fight with his
mom. But how much she drank every night
and how she sounded when she tried to talk drunk always upset him.
“C’mon,
mom. Give me a break.”
“Give you a
bray.. break? C’mon, son. How do you think I feel when find I out… find
out… I find out that you’re not in your room?
Huh?”
“Mom,”
groaned Burt. “I gotta get ready for
school.”
“Yeah. School.
Your senior year in high school, and you can’t make any A’s. Why is that, Burt?”
“I make B’s
and C’s.”
“Why not
A’s?”
“Enough,
mom.”
“I’ll why
you…I’ll tell you why? Fights. You’ve been getting in fights and trouble,
son. What happened to you?”
“You know
what happened to me, mom,” said Burt, defiantly.
“Don’t
blame this on your father.”
“I don’t
blame it on dad. I blame your
drinking on dad.”
“Goddammit,
boy,” grunted Marsha. “You don’t need…
you don’t need to understand… You don’t understand why.”
“Mom,
please. The only thing I don’t
understand is what you’re saying. Can we
talk about this later.”
“We’ll
talk… we’ll…”
Marsha
burped. Then she cringed, burping again.
“Oh, mom.”
Marsha
stumbled from her seat, grabbing the bottle of whiskey as she raced from Burt’s
room.
“Oh, God,”
grumbled Burt, following her. He knew
where she was going.
The
bathroom.
Marsha
almost fell headlong into the toilet itself when she barfed a stream of vomit
into and around the toilet.
Sympathetically, Burt held up her mother’s hair as she wretched into the
toilet once, twice, three times, four.
By the
seventh and eighth heave, there was nothing left to throw up. Dry heaves.
Burt couldn’t believe how violent the heaves were.
Finally,
she stopped. Burt pulled the towel from
the rod on the bathroom wall and handed it to his mother. She wiped the thick line of saliva and bile
from her chin. She then started to weep.
“I’m so
sorry, son,” she whimpered, moving into his embrace. “I’m so sorry. I miss him.
I miss him so much.”
“I do, too,
mom.”
“I loved
him. I love h.. him. He was my first love.”
Burt just
sat quietly. The conversation was
shifting in intensity. Though it made
him uncomfortable, he couldn’t leave his mother like this.
“I gave him
thing.. everything I could. I did,
son. I’m so sorry.”
Burt tried
to change the subject. “Look, mom. Let’s get you someplace close to the restroom
where you can lie down for a little while.
Get some rest.” He pulled the
bottle of whiskey away from her. She
gave little resistance.
“I’m so
sorry, son. Burtie.”
“Stop it,
mom. It’s alright.”
“I’m so
sorry.”
Burt gently
put his mother into a soft comfy chair in the living room, just a few steps
away from the bathroom.
“My head
hurts. The spin… the room is spinning.”
“That’s why
you need to lay off the sauce for the rest of the day, mom. Just stop it.”
“Okay. Okay,” she groaned as if she was panting for
breath.
“I need to
go get ready, mom. You stay here and
rest, okay?”
“Son,” she
said, reaching out for his hand. “I love
you.”
“I love
you, too, mom.”
“We stay…
we gotta stay… we gotta work together, okay.”
Burt was
frustrated. He just wanted to run away
from the conversation, make things change with the wave of a hand. But it wasn’t to be.
“Okay,
mom.”
Marsha
pulled her hand away, resting her head on the back of the chair.
Burt took a
deep breath and pulled away, frustrated as all get out. He felt so ashamed when his mother got messed
up on liquor.
Walking
back into the bathroom, he flushed the toilet.
The vomit swished and swirled before being swallowed by the drain. He pulled off a piece of toilet paper and
wiped the rim clean with disgust. He
threw the paper in the wastebasket before turning on the shower.
As he began
to undress, he saw the bottle of whiskey on the counter by the sink. He wanted to throw the bottle against the
wall, or pour it down the toilet.
Instead, he
knew Trina liked to drink. He knew what
he would do to keep it away from his mother.
He would imbibe the libation with Trina later that night.
Or, even better, they could take
some sips later at school. He could give
it to her there so that way they wouldn’t have to get into Trina’s mom’s stash
that night.
His dad drank.
His mom drank.
Now, Burt drank.
First thing
was first, however. He had to clean up
for school.
Burt walked
to school and arrived around twenty minutes before class. He sat at a stone table near the flagpole
where Trina would meet him.
While he
waited, the smiles and laughter of the kids around him upset him more than they
usually did. A side of him wished he had
their lives. He knew most of them were
happy, taken care of, and had fathers who were positive influences in their
lives.
“Hey,” came
a familiar voice. Burt turned to see
Trina.
“Hey,
kitten,” he said, reaching up to kiss her on the lips.
“Did I miss
anything?”
“Not yet,”
he said, pulling the bottle of whiskey.
“Oh,
shit. Where’d you get that?”
“Had to
confiscate it from my mom,” he chuckled.
“Wanna sip?”
“Are the
Pope’s balls worthless?” she chuckled.
“Give it here.”
Burt handed
her the bottle, and she discreetly turned away to take a swig straight from the
bottle. She made a sweet sigh of relief
as she passed it to Burt, who took a swig as well.
“That’s
some good stuff,” said Burt.
“It’s
shit,” said Trina. “But it will do.”
The two
giggled when one of their friends showed up.
“Hey, you
guys.”
“Jethro,”
said Burt. “What’s up?”
“Nothin’. You guys?”
Trina
looked devilishly at Burt. “Oh, just
getting warmed up for class.”
“Cool. Did you guys finish reading ‘Cyrano’?”
“Actually,
we did,” said Burt. “It took a while,
but we read it.”
“What the
hell is the ‘white panache’ at the end?” asked Jethro.
“Oh,” said
Burt. “That’s the feather in his hat.”
“I thought
it was, like, his pride,” said Trina.
“Well, it
is. The feather is like a symbol of his
pride,” said Burt.
“Oh, I get
it,” said Jethro. “Actually, that makes
sense.”
“You’re
welcome,” said Burt with a smile.
Jethro
chuckled. “Thanks, Burt. Hey, will I see you guys at lunch?”
“We’ll be
there,” said Trina.
“Cool. I got to get ready for gym class. I’ll see you guys at lunch.”
The friends
said their goodbyes and Jethro walked to the gym that was just across from
where Burt and Trina were sitting. They
started talking to each other again.
A little
time had passed when Burt noticed a commotion out by the gym. He watched as Jethro ran out of the gym, but
was quickly yanked back in by some jocks Burt couldn’t identify.
“What the
hell?” said Burt, rising.
“What is
it?” said Trina.
“I don’t
know, but I’m going to go find out.”
Trina just
shrugged. She didn’t respond like other
girls. She knew what Burt was capable
of. “Take care of business, Burt.”
Burt
trotted to the gym to see what exactly was going down.
When he
walked into the gym, he could see people walking into the boys’ dressing
room. There were shouts and
laughter. He couldn’t see Jethro.
Burt
trotted to the boy’s dressing room.
When he
arrived, he saw a group of people crowded around the bathroom. They were shouting, laughing. A crowd in a primitive frenzy.
Paper and books were scattered on
the floor. Burt inspected the papers
closer and could see they belonged to Jethro.
Burt shoved his way through the
crowd of kids. When the kids saw who was
shoving them aside, many of them got out of the way. Some even shouted his name. “It’s Burt!”
When Burt
turned the corner, he saw all he needed to see.
The first string quarterback and class president Chuck Wilson was
shoving Jethro’s head in the toilet. He
was flushing the toilet, giving Jethro a ‘swirlie’.
“Have a
drink, you little nigger,” chuckled Chuck.
Burt
grabbed Chuck by his letterman jacket and yanked him forcefully out of the
stall, tossing him against the wall.
Chuck
barely had a moment to regain his senses when Burt went on the attack. He kicked Chuck in the crotch before
peppering his face with punches. Chuck
shoved Burt away and into the waiting arms of Chuck’s friends, who grabbed Burt
and started to strike at his body and face.
Burt rocked one with a knockout punch to the mouth. As he was struck by two others, Burt shoved
one away and kicked another in the pills.
Chuck took
the opportunity to jump on Burt’s back, trying to choke him when Burt grabbed
the football star by his jacket collar and tossed him to the ground.
Burt then
picked up one of Jethro’s heavy English books off the floor. The same book that had a version of the
subject of their previous discussion: Cyrano de Bergerac.
Burt
smacked Chuck across the face with the book twice. The heavy bludgeon made the crowd groan in
pain as it smacked the star quarterback across the face and head.
Before he
could strike Chuck with a kick, one of Chuck’s football buddies tackled Burt,
slamming him up against the wall. He
dropped the book, but Burt kneed the guy in the crotch and punched him in the
face.
But then, Chuck was smacked across
the face with the same book he hit Chuck with.
He was dazed, but conscious enough to dodge the next whack, which ended
up hitting one of the other football jocks in the face. Burt used the missed shot to deliver one of
his own, clocking the player in the nose.
Then, a whistle blew loudly, stopping the fight
cold. Everyone knew who the whistle
belonged to. Especially Chuck.
Chuck ran
toward Coach Douglas, who stood at the mouth of the bathroom, clearing the
space of all onlookers.
“He
attacked us, coach,” said Chuck. “He was
giving Jethro a swirlie and attacked us.”
“Bullshit,
Coach,” said Burt. “I stopped Chuck from
attacking Jethro.”
“Sir,
Burt’s right,” said Jethro, still soaking wet and whimpering.
“Shut up,
freshman,” said Coach Douglas. “Get out
of here.”
Jethro
looked with humiliated helplessness at Burt and raced out of the bathroom.
“You’re in
deep trouble, Burt,” shouted the coach.
Burt just
huffed in disbelief, shaking his head.
“No,” said
Burt. “Chuck’s in deep trouble when this
is all done,” said Burt.
“Why do you even come to school,
Burt? You’re useless.”
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
Principal Baines’ anger grew as
Burt defiantly flaunted his authority.
“You little bastard,” growled
Baines. “You like fighting, don’t
you? That’s it, isn’t it?”
“I hate fighting. But I hate bullies more,” Burt replied.
“Then why did you attack Chuck
Wilson?”
“Because he was a bully, that’s
why. Bullies deserve to get their asses
kicked.”
He was telling the truth. The bitterness that started his morning
turned into a sweet anger manifesting from the scars on his heart. He was too good to be a bully. Smart, too.
But he could be a bully to the bullies.
Nothing mattered to him anymore
anyway, at least when it came to policing the mean kids after school. He did have enough respect for his mother to
continue making the grade. But getting
in trouble was no way to do that as efficiently as he’d done it before.
“Chuck Wilson is an All-State athlete, and your
senior class president.”
“He was also giving Jethro
Washington swirlies in the gym,” replied Burt.
“Sometimes hazing occurs with
freshman.”
“He was calling him a nigger,
too. You going to stand for that?”
“You lie.”
The comment cut Burt to the
core. He growled, “I am not a liar,
Baines.”
“This is the fifth time you’ve done
this, Burt. I’ve given you detention,
the paddle. Why won’t you behave?”
“Because I can’t stand someone
who’s not behaving, and nobody, teachers, you, do anything about it.”
Baines’ pale white face was turning
red. Veins in his head pulsed to the
surface as if his head was about to burst.
“Chuck knows not to do that around
me. I did the same thing to him at the
dance when he made fun of Terry and told him he and his mom should go back to
the Jap camp.”
“Enough,” said Baines, about to
burst.
“And to Pedro when he asked him to
make him a taco,” said Burt, defiantly.
He was not going to shut up. He
was going to make Baines know what was going on.
“I said enough,” shouted Baines,
pounding his fist on his desk like a child throwing a tantrum.
Burt just smiled. He made sure the bad choices Baines made did
not go unnoticed. The outburst was just
what he wanted from the school principal.
Over the summer, when he wasn’t chasing California girls, Burt enjoyed
reading. In his reading, he remembered
one quote that really stood out to him:
When a man angers you, he conquers you.
The quote punched Burt in the heart
when he first read it. He knew it was
true. For close to six years after the
event at the rifle range, it was hard for Burt not to trance out with visions
of hatred and anger. All of the visions
were centered around punishing his father violently. Sometimes in the visions, he used
weapons. Some were medieval or modern
torture devices. Still others visions
had him using his own bare hands. It was
a sad mental state he was able to temper at the rifle range and at school with
anyone who deserved his brand of righteous discipline.
Right now, Burt thought Baines
deserved some of that, too. He couldn’t
hit him with his fist like he wanted to.
But he could beat him up verbally.
“You’re on a one way train to
reform school, Burt Scott.”
“I’ll drop out or get drafted
before I go there,” stated Burt calmly.
He wanted to stoke the fire of Baines’ anger, warming his hands by it,
as if standing over an October campfire.
“Those so-called teachers are worse than you. I’ve heard the stories that go on there. I’m surprised you don’t work there yourself.”
Baines wanted to slap Burt. He could see himself striking the young man
across the face, feel Burt’s flesh as his hand smacked against his face.
But he knew the right answer. The boy provided his solution. Baines was going to see if the boy was
bluffing, because if he was, he would find great joy putting him in reform school.
“I think we’ve come to a crossroads
here, Burt. You have two choices.” Baines knew Burt had three, but did not want
to include dropping out as one of them.
So he was just going to provide two alternatives. “You can go to the Daniel’s School for
Boys. Or you can register for the…”
“I’ll register for the draft,” said Burt before
Baines could finish. “Make sure I get
selected, too. Can you do that?”
A large smile grew across Baines’
face, the likes of which the old scowling school administrator never shared
with the world.
“I promise, Burt Scott. You will be selected.”
“And I want my diploma,” said
Burt. “My grades are good. I want my diploma,” he said again for
emphasis. “Deal?”
Baines groaned, taking a moment,
but gave in. “Deal. I help you get drafted and you get your
diploma.”
Burt rose from his seat. He offered his hand to Baines, who
reluctantly took it. “It’s a deal now,”
said Burt.
Burt saluted the principal with a
“Thank you, sir.” He proceeded to walk
out of the office.
Baines felt a massive burden was
released from his shoulders. A sense of
relief washed over him as he moved to the door to watch Burt walk away.
“God speed, Burt Scott,” whispered
Baines.
Burt walked the abandoned hallways
during first period. He walked to Ms.
Johnson’s math class, where Trina was.
He peekd through the window of the closed door, getting her
attention. She smiled, asking permission
to step outside. The teacher granted it,
and Trina walked outside.
“So, everyone’s talking about how
you whipped Chuck’s ass.”
“I do what I can,” said Burt.
“The jerk deserved it,” she said. “Jethro’s in class with his gym clothes. He had to change out of his regular clothes.”
“I got there too late.”
“Yeah. That’s what they said. But you took on his friends, too?”
“I do what I can,” he repeated.
“So, going to class?”
“No,” said Burt. “I’m out of here.”
“Leaving?”
“Drafted.”
Trina’s looked at Burt with
surprise. “Drafted? Since when?”
“Baines tried to stick me in the
Daniel’s school or draft me. So I chose
drafting.”
Trina sighed. “Well, at least you get to get out of this
dumb shit.”
“Exactly,” said Burt.
“Are we still going to hang out?”
she asked, frowning.
“Hell yeah. I got nothing but time now.”
Trina smiled. “Great.
Does your mom know?” she asked as Ms. Johnson came to the door and
called for Trina to come in.
“I’m about to go tell her. Don’t get in trouble. We’ll talk later.”
“Okay,” she said, smiling. She reached up and gave him a peck on the
lips. “Call me.”
Burt spent the afternoon at
Weaver’s Icehouse playing pool before going home to tell his mom.
When he walked in the door, she was
still in the chair he had left her in.
But she looked a lot better. She
was watching ‘I Love Lucy’.
“Hey, mom.”
“Burt, I am so sorry.”
“Stop it, mom. It’s done,” he said, leaning down for a
hug. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. Fierce headache, and I haven’t eaten
anything. But better.”
Burt went to the sink and drew his
mother a cup of water. He walked back to
the living room and handed it to her.
“Here, mom. Have something to drink.”
She groaned. “Well, I need something.”
She took a sip, wiping her lips of
the excess water.
“Mom, I got something to tell you.”
“She’s pregnant, isn’t she?”
Burt chuckled. “No, mom.
Listen. Trina’s not
pregnant. This is the news.” He paused.
“I’m getting drafted.”
Marsha’s eyes widened in horror. “What?”
“Baines is getting me drafted.”
“What the hell is all this about?”
she shouted.
“Mom, listen. It’s a good thing. You were talking about how tough a time I was
having in school.”
“Yeah, but I wanted you to improve
in school. This is your senior year.”
“He’s going to give me my
diploma. I’ll have graduated.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, mom. It’s the best move.”
“How did all this come about? It’s just happened so fast.”
“I got in trouble again at school.”
“Oh, Burt.”
“No. It’s okay.
I kicked the star quarterback’s ass for giving my friend a swirlie. But listen, it’s a good thing because Baines
was going to put me at the Daniel’s school if he didn’t draft me.”
“Oh, good God,” moaned Marsha. “I see your point now.”
“Exactly,” said Burt. “And I think it will be good for me. Just go in for a few years, get out, make
some money, I’ll be in good shape.”
“But Burt, they’re going to send
you to Vietnam.”
“Maybe.”
“May… Maybe?” said Marsha, immediately becoming worried for
her son. “Burtie, you’re my only
son. I don’t want you going to some
strange jungle and getting killed.”
“I’ll be fine, mom.”
“No,” said Marsha. “I’m not losing you, Burt. I need you.”
What Burt thought was going to be a
good conversation was suddenly escalating.
“Mom, I’m going.”
“No. You’re not going.”
“I’m eighteen, mom. You can’t tell me what to do. It’s for the best.”
“You’re going to die, Burt. You’re not coming back to Culver City as a
corpse, son. Have you seen all those
boys who are dying?”
“Mom, I’m not going to die. I’ll just serve a couple of years, get out of
this stupid town for a while, and come back.
I promise.”
“No,” said his mother on the verge
of tears. “No, you’re not leaving me.”
“I’m going, mom.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Mom, I thought you’d be proud. Your brothers were in the military.”
“I’m not allowing it.”
Burt was upset. “Mom.
Goddammit, I’m going and that’s it.
I can’t take school. I can’t take
the idiots that go there. And I can’t
take you getting drunk every night.”
“How dare you,” said Marsha. “I love you.
I provide for you. I give you a
roof over your head. And this is how you
reward me?”
“Mom, I’m going to serve for our
country.”
“Then go,” she shouted over the
laugh track of the ‘I Love Lucy’ show.
“Go to your damn war. Get yourself
killed. See if I care. See if I care that you get blown up. See if I care that you kill yourself.”
“Then you’ll know how I feel
watching you drink yourself to death every night,” he shouted back.
It was a verbal deathblow. Marsha slowly broke down and started crying,
shouting, “Get out! Get out, now!”
Burt turned around and stormed out
of the house, slamming the door behind him.
That night, Burt drank the night
away with Trina, banging it out with her in her backyard before they both
passed out on a blanket under the cool Culver City night.
Burt said his goodbye to
Trina. She just shrugged, wishing him
luck.
Burt didn’t go home again.
As promised, Baines made it
happen. He talked to a recruiter that
always visited the school and had him pull strings to get Burt drafted. Burt prepared at his Uncle Oscar’s house in
Sacramento, where he went to live.
Within the month, he was on a bus to Marine Boot Camp in San Diego.
Burt had a lot to think about on
his trip to boot camp. Mostly, how he
would deal with his superiors. He knew
they were going to be harsh hard-asses and ball busters. They were going to set the bar very
high. The stories his father and uncles
told him prepared him for just that.
They would test him. But in his
youthful arrogance, he would test them, too.
Burt would regret that choice.
“You think you’re funny, Mr.
Funnyman?” shouted the drill instructor, moving directly in Burt’s face.
Burt had not spent five minutes on
the bus before a Marine drill instructor was already on his case.
“No.”
“What did you say to me, you
worthless maggot?”
“I said no,” shouted Burt.
“You said no? Are you ignoring my commands, boy?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
The drill instructor was
livid. “You think you’re going to walk
in to be a part of my beloved corps and be stupid enough to disrespect me like
that?”
This was very different,
indeed. It was nothing like punking
principal Baines, the other teachers, and the bullies back in school. No. This
guy was the king of the jungle here, and Burt realized he made a
mistake. There was no turning back
now. He knew he was about to pay.
“No,” said Burt, realizing his
mistake and knowing he was about to pay for it.
He even subconsciously held up his hands, trying to wave off the rabid
Devil Dog.
“No, what?”
Just answer him, stupid,
Burt thought to himself. “Sir, no, sir,”
shouted Burt.
The drill instructor grabbed him by
the wrist and dragged him back outside the bus.
He tossed Burt to the ground.
“Twenty push-ups right now, you
little sonovabitch,” yelled the DI. “Or
are you too stupid to do that?”
“No, sir!”
“Sir, no, sir!” shouted the DI,
squatting down above Burt as he started to pump out the pushups.
“Sir, no, sir!” shouted Burt back.
“Sir, no, sir!” shouted Burt back.
“You’re not counting, soldier,”
shouted the DI right in Burt’s ears, turning up the pressure and trying to make
the experience as unpleasant as possible.
“How do I know you’re not trying to fuck me over in front of these other
maggots, boy?”
“Six,” grunted Burt. “Seven.”
The other recruits on the bus
looked out with a mix of fearful
respect. It was a fight Burt
picked. And it was a pissing match the
DI was not going to lose.
“Bullshit, maggot. You’re fucking me, aren’t you?”
“Eight. Sir, no, sir,” grunted Burt.
“From the top, you little piece of
shit. Right now!” shouted the DI. “Right now, or you can stay the hell off my
bus. Right now! One!”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Burt quickly
conceded. “One! Two! Three!”
The DI then turned to the
frightened faces on the bus. He shouted,
“If any of you dumb fucks have a problem with my authority like this
cock-smoking sonovabitch, they you will eat my shit until you no longer have a
problem with my authority or get the hell out of my beloved corps.”
Burt was popping out the pushups as
the DI loomed over him again.
“When you don’t listen to me,
maggot, you eat my shit and do PT. When
you don’t listen to your commanding officer in battle, you eat shit and
die. Do you understand me?”
“… sixteen. Sir, yes, sir,” replied
Burt, running out of breath.
“I want ten more starting now. Go!”
“Sir, yes, sir,” said Burt. He was running out of strength. He was breaking. “One.
Two…”
The anger in his heart was burning
hot, and he poured its molten hate into the push-ups, powering ten out. Tears welled up in his bloodshot eyes. He placed the blame of this moment squarely
on his father. The hate pulled him
through, and he tried to keep it together.
Though he listened to the stories his father and uncles told, he missed
the true meaning of those stories. But
he found the meaning in the DI’s words. War
was serious business. The Marines were
artisans of combat, sculptors of war.
This was no game. People died if
they played around.
Burt stood up, standing at
attention. He prayed no tears would
fall.
“Listen, maggot,” shouted the Drill
Instructor. “I smell that fire in you to
be a proud Marine, because most of these soft pussy recruits would have melted
here. But you didn’t. You held it
together. But you won’t get there being
a dumb fuck. I will train you and find a
place for you to excel. Or I will wipe
my ass with your soul. The choice is
yours. Do you understand?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” shouted Burt. He was now completely in check.
As he was commanded, he ran back to
the bus. When he sat down, he wiped the
tears away. The guy beside him saw him
do it. But he did not say a word.
Burt learned a hard lesson about
respect. It was something he had lost
for most grown-ups since that day at the range.
It was a lesson he knew he had to recall if he was going to survive boot
camp.
“Are you stupid, Private Scott?”
“Sir, no, sir!”
The drill instructors challenged
his mind, honing his concentration under pressure.
“Do you want to die in the field,
Private Scott?”
“Sir, no, sir!”
The drill instructors challenged
his heart in the pugil stick exercise.
“You better climb to the top of
that goddamn wall, Private Scott. Or I
swear to God I will stick my boot so far up your ass, I’ll have to open your
mouth to shine them.”
The drill instructor challenged his
body in the obstacle course.
For weeks, the DI’s tried to break
him. A couple of times, they did. It hurt, but Burt understood it was necessary
to get what he wanted. A means to an
end.
Burt was familiar with the
realities of war. But when it was
illustrated to him in a slide show, it made him nauseous. He was the only one.
“You need to be ready for this in
the field, Pvt. Scott. You will see this
and you will be ready to save your Marine brother.”
As the instructor for the first-aid
course continued scrolling through the slides, Burt pulled himself together.
“This is a soldier who lost his
legs because of a landmine. You will see
this in the field and you will be ready to assist the combat medic if needed.”
More missing limbs were
displayed. Severed hands. Gouged bellies dripping blood and
innards. Gangrenous legs.
There was a nobility to fighting in
combat, jumping into the jaws of danger to play a game of death. The stories his uncles told him were not
glamorized by any means. But perhaps the
youthful naiveté of his childhood produced more of a John Wayne-style hero in
his mind’s eye than the harsh truth of war.
He was capable. But now he wasn’t
sure he had the heart (or the stomach) for combat.
“Now everyone listen closely,”
shouted the instructor. “We are going to
provide the basics for first-aid in a combat situation. Pay close attention because this information will save the lives of your fellow
Marines, and you.”
Burt could smell the sweet scent of
gunpowder in the air as they marched for the first time to the rifle
range. On the trail to the range was a
yellow wooden sign with red letters. It
read, “Every Marine is a rifleman.” It
was a motto that made sense to Burt. The
way his DI’s spoke of their rifle training with such reverence made them out to
be some kind of religious fanatics. In a
way, they were. Their idol was the
rifle. Their temple was the shooting
range.
Burt remembered how his uncles
spoke of their skill with the rifle.
They also held the same kind of fanaticsm for their M-1’s.
The first-aid training was making
Burt reconsider his options. He was an
amazing shot, he already knew that. Now,
his instructors were about to know that.
This was not the rifle range back in (his hometown of Culver City). And he was not carrying a .22 rifle. This was an M-1 Garand with .30-06
rounds. It was his first chance to fire
the weapon since he lost his chance with his father years before. He was excited. Shooting the .22 was going to be different
than firing the M-1, he thought.
In essence, it wasn’t.
He knew the M-1 was going to have a
lot more kick to it, just like his father warned him. But it was something Burt would quickly get
accustomed to. His first few shots went
into the area near the black. But his
adjustments quickly put the rest of his shots in the black.
And his father was right. There was a serious kick to the rifle.
“Those are great shots there,
soldier,” said the rifle range instructor.
“You’re going to make a great infantryman.”
Burt gulped. His reasonable fear was coming true. He just knew his skills would stand out. But he was no fool. This trip to the Marine Corps was meant to
escape a bad situation back home. But
the last thing he wanted was to die.
Sure, the danger came with the job in the military. But being in infantry would put his life on the
line every day. After seeing that
first-aid presentation, that was something he did not want to do.
Now, there was only one way to
assure he would not make it. There was
one way he could make sure his instructors knew it was a bad idea to put him
with the infantry.
Burt stared purposely missing his
shots.
It was nearing the end of his basic
training. It was no secret he was going
to be stationed somewhere in Vietnam. He
was anxious, but ready.
As the weeks passed him by, he
couldn’t help but think about his mother.
It wasn’t the best way to leave her side, and the fight was the last
time he saw her. With so much time away
from her, he really missed her.
It was time to make up. He took out a piece of a paper and a pencil
and started writing.
Hi Mom,
It’s Burt. Your son.
I hope you are doing well.
Mom, boot camp was
really hard. But I think you’ll be proud
to know I made it through. The drill
sergeants really helped me find direction, more so than Baines and the rest of the
staff there at school. I think this is
the kind of discipline that will help me in the long run. I hope you will understand that I had to make
this choice. It was for the best.
I’m one of the best
shots in my company, but I’m not letting on that I am. I’ve been messing up my shots, you’ll be
happy to hear. Maybe they’ll put me
somewhere outside of the shit. I’m sure
that will make you happy, huh? Me, too. I know
I can do so much more than this, but I think it’s a good starting point for
me. When I get out, I’ll have some good
experience to get a good job, maybe help out with some of the bills at the
house.
The drill instructors
are great. They really push me to be the
best. You’ll laugh, but when I first got
here, I thought I could smart off to them like in my school days. Boy, did they make me feel like shit. I got in line pretty quickly after that. But I’m sure you knew that. I knew it would be coming, but boy did I not
expect it to be that harsh. I got it
together, though. I’m one of their
favorites now. That’s a joke, I’m really
not. But I’m dependable, and I do what
is expected of me.
Has Trina come by to
ask about me? I didn’t get her address
and didn’t think I wanted to write her once I got over here. But I find myself thinking about her, too. No, mom, she’s not pregnant. But she was pretty cool to me when all the
others around me were not cool. If you
see her, tell her I said hi and that I’m thinking about her.
I want you to know also
that I’m sorry for our fight. I have to
admit I have missed you since I’ve been here.
Not a day has passed without me thinking how I was wrong to be so mean
to you. I wanted you to know that I’m
sorry for what happened. I’m sorry for fighting arguing with you. And I’m sorry for not talking to you for so
long. I love you, mom, and will always
love you. I know it was tough when dad
left, and I know you were dealing with things your way like I was dealing with
things my way. Don’t think I didn’t see
how you were providing all that you could for me even when we were both
hurting.
I promise you, mom, I’m
going to take care of myself over here.
But I want you to promise me you’re going to start taking care of
yourself, too. Please, take it easy on
the drink, mom. It will kill you if you
let it. I know, I don’t have much room
to talk because I drink, too. But it
hurt me so much to see what drinking all that whiskey did to you. I know it’s not easy to stop, but maybe start
just cutting back on drinking. Don’t
drink to the point that you get sick.
Drink for some enjoyment or relief, but don’t abuse your body for
it. If you do that, you really let dad
win. Don’t let his memory kill what you
have left of your life. I haven’t let it
kill hope for me. But I need you around
just like you need me. I can help you as
I know you’ve helped me all your life.
Please, start taking it easy on the drink, mom. For me.
I love you, mom. I’m sorry for hurting you. I can’t wait to hear from you soon. And more than that, I can’t wait to see you
when they let me go back home.
I hope to hear from you
soon, and I can’t wait to see you again.
Please write back.
Sincerely, your son,
Burt Scott
================
Basic training was over. Graduation was quickly approaching. The recruits were about to get their
assignments by the DI.
“Man, they’re going to put me in
the shit,” grumbled one of the soldiers sitting near Burt.
“We’re all going in the shit,
that’s for damn sure,” said another one.
“They’re going to put us where they
need us,” said Burt. “Just say your
prayers its not in the shit.”
“Yeah, right,” said another. “We’re all going in the shit.”
“Well, if that’s where you’re
going, that’s where you’re going. Be a
man about it.”
Burt put up a façade to his fellow
soldiers. He didn’t want to go into the
shit, either. He crossed his fingers.
The drill instructor gave
assignments.
“Martinez. Riflemen. DiPasquale.
Rifleman.”
Burt could see the fear grow in the
eyes of the men as they got their assignments.
They were right. They would all
be put to the test in the jungles of Vietnam very soon.
But so would he.
“Scott. Artillery.”
The DI fell silent for a beat, turning to Scott. “You would have made a fine infantryman,
Scott. Enjoy your duty.”
Burt tried not to smile. The DI was right. But Burt was smarter than that.
“Lucky fucker,” said one of his
fellows.
Two months
had passed since he sent the letter to his mother. To his joy, a letter arrived at the barracks
from Culver City. Burt was elated. He was looking forward to hear what his
mother had to say to his letter.
But his joy
slowly turned to suspicion as the return address was from his Uncle Oscar’s
house.
Great,
thought Burt, opening the letter. She
must still be angry at me about the fight.
Made Uncle Oscar write back to me.
Uncle Oscar
was, indeed, the author of the letter.
But the message was drastically and tragically different than he thought
it would be.
Burt,
It’s your uncle Oscar. I hate to the be the one to tell you this,
but your mother has passed away. She
died in a car accident last week.
We
found your letter in the mailbox and thought we should write you.
I’m
sorry to tell you this. Please contact
me if you need anything.
The words
stabbed Burt in the heart like a sword taken to the chest in a sword duel. It was the last thing he thought he would be
reading about. And considering that his
uncle found is address on the letter he sent still in her mailbox, it was clear
she never had a chance to read his message to her.
He was too
late.
Though Burt
knew Uncle Oscar would help him get on his feet, his mom’s death meant he had
no home. His only home was the one he
was now living in: The USMC.
It took him a moment to let it all settle in his
mind. Once it had, Burt hung his head
and wept.====
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