Copyright 2015 by the author. For private use.
garystayton@yahoo.com
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ELITE FORCE TRAINING
The furniture was makeshift, and there wasn't much of it. A single, long table on trestles was arranged symmetrically in one half of the room with seven folding chairs on one side. They faced the center. The floor was black pavement paint. In the middle, facing the table was a muster-stand for the interview subject – a yellow circle on the floor of twelve inches in diameter, transfixed by a three-foot line, directly under a suspended light-fixture, three yards from the table.
Hank McCloud appreciated the opportunity of being on the interview panel. He saw the necessity and wanted to be part of the selection process, and the sixteen chosen men, over a six-week period, would be entirely his business, so he wanted a say in who would take part. But sometimes it was tedious. An interview session could go for four or five or six hours. Often it was over in less.
McCloud was a Sergeant – a senior one. His years, experience, and presumably toughness had seen him appointed as an instructor. Elite Force School chose its staff as carefully as it chose its trainees. He seated himself between Sergeant Bryson and Captain Clissold and faced the newest hopeful.
An interview subject may as well begin to learn the new rules – the new way to stand to attention, how to stand at inspection-posture, and how to address superiors. The statutes of the muster-stand were a given quantity, and they were expected to be known immediately. Attention' was with fingers straight down by the sides, together with the thumb. Feet were wholly within the yellow circle. Inspection-posture' was adopted with the feet now placed on the ends of the line, three feet apart, big toes on the very extremity of the narrow strip of yellow – not before it or over it. Hands were placed behind the skull, left over right, fingers together and pointing straight down. Elbows were held well up and well back, armpits opened and chin raised.
There was a small red circle on the wall near the ceiling behind the trestle-table. The subject was told to keep his eyes on that "target" and not look anywhere else, so the members of the panel questioned the young hopeful as he stared diligently over their heads with his chin pointedly elevated.
A medical examination was conducted in the same session, in the same room, on the muster-stand, although the subject's physical prowess had already been established. "Strip," came the curt order from the Doctor. "Hurry!"
Consequently, much of the interview was conducted with the subject naked. There was no room for modesty at Elite Force School. The subject was not released from the stand and stood at attention or at inspection-posture for all of the hours under examination. Coffee breaks were for the staff.
Seven panel members sat. McCloud opened the slim beige file and read. There was nothing in here but the most basic service paperwork. The kid was a buck-Private. Joshua Jeremy Jaeger – age nineteen.
Jesus, Joseph, and James, McCloud thought. What's with those initials?
"Name?"
"SIR! PRIVATE JOSHUA JAEGER! SIR! ONE-FOUR-ONE-SIX-FIVE-TWO! SIR!"
"I asked for your name, Private! Not your number!"
That was a terse, abrupt snap from Captain Damme.
"SIR! SORRY, SIR!"
Oh Jesus. The kid was a noisy, yippy dumb-ass who didn't know how to address his superiors. McCloud surmised that this interview would result in a check in a box labeled "No."
"Private," McCloud said sternly. "Don't speak unless directly asked a question."
"SIR! YES! SIR!"
McCloud thought he was about to hear someone snap a pencil.
From then on, McCloud's attention began to waver. He assumed this was some little punk who wouldn't pass. Oh, there was earnest and solemn intentions in that jumpy voice which answered too quickly – even intensity. The kid had a good heart and should probably apply for Clearance Diver. But this was no Elite Force member which occupied the stand.
The eyes were narrowed with sincerity as they stared across the heads of the panel at the red target. There was a little furrow of seriousness at the brow, above the squishy little nose. Cute. Actually, McCloud now noticed deep, burning sparks in those eyes. He always looked for something in the eyes.
He also listened for a certain determination in the voice – not the strident pup-yips of Private Joshua Jeremy Jaeger – although it must be said that the kid possessed a healthy pair of lungs. McCloud searched for more in the face. The mouth was wide, with red, blooded lips. They were supple, expressive, and slurpy. The skin was tanned. Stripped for inspection, the kid presented a full, hammer-hard erection. That happened a lot. It was a good sign.
The dopey, tilted head extended on a slender stalk of a neck, and looked as if it would bob about like a clown on a spring were it not for the hands folded firmly behind it. Bad sign. A long neck is vulnerable to injury. The shoulders were moderately wide and the rounded breasts were pert, high, and upstanding, and tipped with little brown nips which pouted visibly in the cool of the concrete room. The torso tapered in a scalloped `V' to hips that were so goddamn narrow that McCloud figured them to be impossible, or belong to a snake. Very bad sign. That upper-body would drill under pack-load only with the most strenuous of effort.
But, McCloud thought, maybe he was being too fixed in his attitudes. The kid was a runner and a swimmer. There were veins in the popping muscles of the arms. The deep pits opened widely to flanks belted with muscle about the ribcage. The belly was a long, long field of twitching array-packs which swirled about the navel. There was no fat. The kid was a big, sturdy buck who happened to be of the long and lean type.
Torso became thigh at deeply etched lines which plunged from high on the hips down into the loin, and the legs were what impressed McCloud. They were long and graceful, and slightly overdeveloped in proportion to everything else. The thighs sprung and flared with networks of overlapping sinew like snakes in a silk bag anytime they shifted weight. The kid was obviously super-fast.
Even fixed at inspection-posture, the boy trembled, fluttered, and flexed in the most minutely visible ways. The big erection was throbbing as hard as ever, like a rearing cobra, pulsing and nudging the flattened belly, urgently begging its owner for attention. The swollen head smeared some juice on the skin near the navel. It glistened in the light from overhead.
Slowly, they got into the boy's head, trying to find his motivations. The psych asked the most ridiculous questions, making the subject stutter sometimes in confusion.
"When you're in a high place, do you sometimes feel like jumping off?"
"Sir... No...Sir..."
Papers ruffled and the questions had the appearance of being checked off from a list.
"Do you sometimes feel lonely even though you're in a crowd of people?"
"Sir... um... No, Sir."
The psych looked to Captain Damme.
"Explain," Damme said to the boy.
"Sir... How can I feel lonely if I'm in a crowd of people?... Sir."
McCloud almost laughed. The kid's logic couldn't be faulted, and he had nailed the psych – and Damme.
Captain Clissold's questions pertained to motives, and were the probably the most probing. They went on for a long time, and McCloud admired the way Clissold was able to slowly, slowly draw out the reasons for a man wanting to join Elite Force. At first, the kid's answers were textbook. The little furrow in the brow tightened as his causes were questioned. Sentences from the photocopied handwritten essay were repeated. The kid was no master of eloquence, but over a period of about one and a half hours, he convinced McCloud that he was genuine. Not a glory-seeker. Not ego-driven. Not a wish-wash who would change his mind or drop out.
There were coffee breaks. Notes were taken. The minutes by the Corporal acting as secretary were amended. The boy stayed locked at inspection-posture the whole time.
Captain Damme liked to circulate, maintaining the soldier's stance with pokes and prods from his parade-stick. A half hour was taken with Damme's corrections and adjustments.
"Clench and lift the buttocks." The teak stick tapped firmly behind.
"Suck in at the belly." The shaft of the stick pressed against the abdomen. It lowered, and tested the tension in the erect penis, bending it forward slightly and allowing it to pop back up. Jesus. Would that thing ever go down?
"Lift." The parade stick was used to raise the chin, and so it went on.
Sergeant Bryson asked about fitness routines, sports, and diet. It was all regular and expected. Later, when the thing had gone on for hours and the kid's cock was bowed toward the floor, McCloud chucked his left-field throw.
"Who's your favorite cartoon character?"
"Sir..."
"Well?"
"Sir, Donald Duck, Sir."
"Well boy, there'll be no Donald Duck at Elite Force Training School. Or Mickey or Goofy or Huey Dewey and Louis. It's called Hell School for a reason. There will be no recreation, no phones, and none of those video-games you play. We don't run a place for punk-asses to hang out. There will be no free time. Your ass will be slogged sixteen to twenty hours a day. You'll learn to sleep on your feet. Understand?"
"Sir! Yes, Sir!"
"You're already a buck Private, so if – and I mean if – you're accepted, we won't have to bust you back in rank, but know this. Other men are busted back to Private to attend Elite Force training. And as an Elite Force trainee, you'll be the lowest scum on the base. You'll be calling other Privates `Sir' and hopping to obey their orders. And you really wanna come to Hell School?"
"SIR! YES! SIR!"
He was too young. That was the estimation of some on the panel, and McCloud had to agree. Most inductees were between twenty-one and twenty-five. The kid hadn't shown any areas of special intelligence. No matter what anyone said about soldiers merely being required to 'follow orders,' the skills and knowledge of Elite Force combat-operators were put to good use. His language skills were... average – just. He'd excelled at swimming. That was good. And basketball. Hmf. There were no basketball-courts at Hell School.
McCloud guessed that most of the panel departed thinking they'd wasted six hours. Captain Damme seemed quite satisfied though. But what did McCloud think?
The staff of Elite Force Training School could be said to be the best of the best – as the saying goes – but in certain categories. Not necessarily graduates themselves (McCloud wasn't), but very tough nonetheless. They were also valued for their judgment. McCloud could go a long way toward recognizing a man's character from subtle observations. This was among the reasons men such as McCloud were selected for the duty. They generally didn't make mistakes. An Elite Force trainee was a valuable commodity, with much expense and effort applied to manufacturing the graduated Combat Operator.
The conclusions of McCloud and others were critical. Was the School willing to commit itself to Private Joshua Jeremy Jaeger?
Without knowing it at the time, McCloud was somewhat struck by the nerve and spirit which he'd discerned in the kid's face, his voice, and his answers. These were the attributes he dwelt upon later, when thinking about that supple-waisted young buck. He wasn't sure about the frame. Most men at Elite Force Training School were bigger, and the kid would, in reality, be worked ten or fifteen percent harder with that elongated figure of his, packed with muscle notwithstanding. Still, he'd be regarded as a big, strong lad by any normal person.
The younger they were, the blanker the slate. That was the decision of Captain Damme, and with McCloud's vote as well, the kid's box was ticked. He was on his way to Elite Force training with the next intake and McCloud was pleased. That funny-face nose and gulping mouth would be mustered to the stands at the Hell School. Sergeant Hank McCloud felt a strange little mixture of anticipation and guilt.
garystayton.@yahoo.com