He was an awesome figure. Tall, lean and grizzled, his uniform was immaculate, tailored to fit his trim musculature. He stood austere and menacing before his platoon, monitoring the issuance of a rifle to each soldier. He was impatient with the recording of serial numbers. Clearly, administration was not his forte. "Snap into it!" he repeated over and over, as if the remark itself could hasten the inexorable authority of the Company Clerk.
When they were finally formed for the training session, he had his revenge. He called, "Attention!" in his booming voice and kept the men thus transfixed for what seemed an eternity.
Derek tried not to wobble. He cursed the intrusive insect that trod across his forehead, daring him to twitch and thus invoke the wrath of this new power in his life--the Master Sergeant--three stripes down, three up, and a diamond in the middle.
Now for you of this distorted generation where a one or two star Genera can be deposed by a civilian structure for such minor infractions as adultery, there can be no comprehension of the impact of a single stripe on a teen-age draftee from the Bronx. Three up and three down--with a diamond in the middle, alas.
"Christ," he muttered. "We hit the friggin' jackpot!" "At ease," came the booming voice, releasing them from their immobility.
Derek moved gratefully to the at ease position, his feet tingling from the tension of not being able to move. His relief was momentary.
"You, soldier," the voice was definitely addressing him. "Yes, YOU. Front and center with the rifle. Snap into it!"
Apprehension and anger merged in his gut. He especially hated the repetitive expression, "Snap into it!". He hated the Sergeant more. He hated the Army--he hated the world and that abominable lottery that gave him such a low number.
So, for the rest of that hot and humid afternoon, under a blazing South Carolina sun, he became the robot, performing under the crisp orders of the Sergeant, "Right shoulder arms; left shoulder arms, order arms, present arms", ad nauseam for the edification of the rest of the platoon. It was the first of many disagreeable experiences, one following the other like ten Biblical plagues--guard duty, P, fifteen mile hikes with full field pack, iron helmet and that damned nine pound Enfield rifle of his first travail, with the Sergeant of multiple stripes--three up, three down and a diamond in the middle.
There was worse. He was assigned extra duty as bartender at the Officers' Club. Now, all you experts, don't observe that this kind of duty was illegal. It was. But that did not make a damn bit of difference in 1942, I don't care how many years you think you had lying on your olive drab cot during your hitch.
He was given bartender duty, and that's that.
The sight of all these shiny first and second lieutenants parading the town Scarlett O'Hara's over the dance floor was painful.
"Bourbon on the rocks and a creme de menthe for the lady, and snap into it!"
That was the proverbial straw. After his duty, he repaired to the barracks, straight to Sgt. Greenspan's room, for consultation. Greenspan was his only friend, an anomalous relationship, based on the fact that they came from the Bronx and, consequently, were fellow aliens in the land of mint juleps. Besides, Greenspan was a master of the intricacies of morning reports, soft duty assignments and was not above a modicum of skulduggery.
"You can apply for Officer Candidate School," he said.
"What do I have to do?" Derek asked.
"Well," said Greenspan, "you need an IQ of 110 or better."
"Well, you SOB," Derek posited, "you have all the files, what is mine?"
"Can't tell you, classified," he said, adopting his official demeanor, and enjoying it.
"Never mind the horseshit, Greenspan," Derek shouted, "Just stamp your hoof, once for yes or two for no."
In reverence to his Bronx friend, whom he never saw again after being ordered to Officer Candidate School, Derek was before the selection board within two weeks. He starched his uniform, sat in the prescribed fashion before a panel of Colonels and Majors, answered practically every question wrong, and was selected.
"Snap into it," said Greenspan, "the truck for that 90 day wonderland is leaving." He then whispered a magic-spell word from the Bronx into his ear. "Mazeltov," said the good Sergeant and all he had was three up, three down and a miserly one up, but Derek remembered the incantation still with great affection.
There is no great climax to this story, perhaps though, a little irony. The Master Sergeant, whose name was Unger, his earlier nemesis, was the last to mount the truck for the journey. He had apparently applied for Officer Candidate School and he too was accepted. His shirt sleeves were curiously bare. He had been required to remove the formidable three up, three down, with the diamond in the middle. He didn't mount the truck fast enough for the Sergeant now in charge,
"Snap into it, soldier!"
Former Sergeant Unger sat across from me, folded his arms across his chest and stared past me.
I could still see the residual imprints of the stripes. How transitory are the symbols of power of one man over another.
For now they were starting as equals. Derek felt greater kinship now than he had before. He wished Unger luck mentally, and all the rest of the guys on the truck, for good measure.
"More that goddamn truck," bellowed the ubiquitous voice of the times. "Snap into it! There's a war going on, you know. Snap into it!"
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