Officer Candidate School, Pensacola. I sit in my rack, my bed, listening to the early Florida morning. Soon, the drill instructors will arrive. I know — I heard the gouge from years past. My eyes close, but refuse to let me sleep.
I slip from the lower bunk to the floor. Grabbing my new Bible, I pad out of Squad Bay to the bathroom. It is 0345 (3:45 in the morning) and I expect bedlam in two hours or so. The lights in the head are blindingly loud. I squint through their pinch and nod at a guy shaving over the sink. He is a Naval Flight Officer wanna-be; we had emailed confidently before OCS. Now we have nothing to say. Because we said it all. Nothing left but the hollering and execution. We are both prior enlisted, but he looks already tired. Really, he is just resigned to our fate. Unlike me, who stupidly can’t resign.
I lean on the windowsill and rifle through the pages of the stiff Bible. It seems to know me, this new book. It senses I need a crutch and won’t play easy. The coy sheets flip closed after I press them open. It stares up at me mutely, to ask if there is some mistake. I plow through whole sections. Looking for that piece, peace to hold on to.
Read the rest at the American Thinker.
Visitors from the American Thinker: Welcome! Please peruse other military posts.