The Myrmidons

The Myrmidons

TOW STOOD STOCK STILL, pinching the seams of his dress blue trousers,
shiny vinyl hat brim pulled low over his marbled, prognathic features,
overbite clenched in concentration. Priests, black robes powdered with
chalk arrayed in the stands-wire spectacles, hair trimmed, oiled,
combed back. This was Catholic military school, the worst of both
worlds. Tow, so called because of the way he propels his body across
the swimming pool, like a clipped manatee, and the way he trudges
through thought, like a barge. Flat feet, bowed legs, two hundred
pounds of baby fat tucked into an ill-fitting dress blouse. Veins in
his neck bulging from the tourniquet of his tie. Dumber than a sack of
hammers.
"Officers draw-sabres!"
Schiinng
"Carry-sabers!"
Friday afternoon formation, five companies drawn up in platoons of
three facing the bleachers, the battalion staff, the flag and all that
shite.
"Delmar, if I have to tell you eyes front again, it's five."
"Yes, sir."
"Yes First Sergeant."
He concentrated on the back of McLin's head. Lint and fuzz trapped in
loose Velcro curls. He smells like onions. Dandruff flakes all over his
shoulders. His mother there in the stands, white gloves, yellow hat,
gold Jaguar out in the lot.
The honor guard flanked, pivoted, intersected with itself, spinning
rifles and dipping colors, stamping shiny chloroform heels on the
parquet floor bam bam bam halt.
"Delmar-" Blevins was in his face again, oily acne, halitosis, green
bits stuck in his braces.
"Shhh! Watch."
Tow fell straight as a tree, his occipital knob whacking against the
wood like a bowling ball, hat bouncing high in the air.
The C Company people dragged him away, kicking, convulsing, eyes
rolling up into his head.
"That'll cost you five, Delmar. If I see you looking anywhere but the
back of McLip's head for the rest of formation, it's ten more. I'm
tired of telling you. I'll just write it up."
The band played the Star Spangled Banner, Delmar performed his Kegel
exercises.
Blinks lounged in first squad, back smeared with chalk, bulge of
chewing tobacco in his jaw. It didn't matter for him because he had a
full ride to play football at Purdue. Fuller's flute twittered,
fibrillated through the rockets red glare, bombs bursting in air.
Rosary girls, plaid, pleated skirts, dark ankle socks, penny loafers.
At a party once, Sue Garvin passed out in his lap, so he had grabbed
her breast and said, "Honk."
"You bastard!"
"Take your pants off."
She punched him in the face.
"Pass and review!"
They struck up the march, trumpets blaring, tubas thumping, drums
pounding, cymbals crashing, shaking the atmosphere. Squad by squad the
young men filed out, platoon leaders calling their commands over the
left shoulder.
"Forward, harch!"
"Column right, harch!"
"Eyes-right!"
Hawklike the second and third squads turned their eyes to the
battalion staff, austere braniacs, yellow braids slung through their
epaulets signifying their place in the hierarchy, bedecked with ribbons
and medals, white-gloved, sabers held forward in salute. Column left,
column right, left, right, left, right they went, knees lifting, arms
swinging, feet falling, hands cupped with the thumb on the knuckle,
eyes front, left, right, left, right Marmion, out the gymnasium
door.