Miss Taylor Young
Chapter Five
Boot Camp
Camp Gordon, Atlanta, Georgia
August 4, 1944
12:46 hours (12:46pm)
“A’ight, there’s one objective: Shoot the pig. If you hit and it dies, you win. If you hit it, and it doesn’t die, shoot it again! And if you miss, then you would be dead. Your plan is to determine your aim, and efficiency. Good luck, you runty, filthy sons of–” The Drill Sergeant’s voice was cut off by Tom’s accidental reloading of his Winchester gun. Or–technically not accidental. More like, ‘At a bad time.’
“Seaman Telegrant. Are you trying to be obnoxious?” Drill Sergeant Marshall said.
Tom stood straighter, and responded in his ‘Sir Yes/No Sir’ tone of voice. “No, Sir.”
“Good, because you don’t !”
“Yes, Sir!” Seaman Telegraunt stood as straight as a ruler that you use in school, in fact so straight, that his back started to hurt. The other young men beside him snickered at Tom for being naive. It was hardly ignorable, but he managed to keep his cool.
The group of Seaman and Drill Sergeant, and the supervising officer (That would be Ensign Smith) were at the shooting grounds, using live pigs as targets. They all stood behind a hill, about one-hundred feet away from them. Each of their own pigs was standing on a platform elevated four feet off the ground. Luckily, the pigs were runts, so they wouldn’t survive either way: being shot to death or dying of hunger.
The Drill Sergeant stepped out of the way for the men, so they could shoot at the pigs, and not himself.
“Ready!” He shouted, commandingly. When he said this, everyone (Except Tom, as he already had) cocked their guns.
Click. Clack.
“Aim!” Everyone aimed for the pig’s centers, where all the organs were.
“Fire!”
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The pigs bodies fell to the ground, their blood-stained bodies, and some of their organs laying still in the grass. But not Tom’s. His was standing there, completely unharmed. Not even the smallest of cuts. A little shook up, but completely clean. Some blood was splattered on his face from his fallen friends.
Drill Sergeant Marshall congratulated everyone who shot their pig, and said they could cook it, and eat it if they liked, instead of having their usual. And as for Tom, the Drill Sergeant made a ‘cwak’ noise, and drew the edge of his hand across his throat, signaling that if that pig were an armed Nazi, then he would be dead in an instant.
The Drill Sergeant grabbed his pistol and shot the pig, killing it instantly and putting it out of its misery.