Weekend Warriors

On the very last night before shipping off to the U.S. Army's Fort Benning in Georgia, Jake, Emma, Sal and his girlfriend-of-the-week went out for dinner. While waiting for their meals to arrive, a drunken gentleman sitting nearby began banging his silverware on the table. He was acting like a spoiled child, expecting laughter. Instead, he found Sal Amaral in no mood to laugh. Sal asked him once to stop. The fool simply sputtered several more vulgarities and banged harder.

Jake sat back and said nothing. It wouldn't be long before the violent show got underway.

Again, Sal asked the belligerent bum to quit.

The man picked up a knife and slurred, "Someone's gonna get hurt!" The fool had no idea he'd picked the wrong man.

As the man jumped to his feet knife in hand, Sal stood up. In an instant, the weapon-wielding drunk felt Sal's right foot strike the left side of his face. As he fell into the booth, Sal picked him up and tossed him through a nearby partition. It took no more than two minutes before Sal beat the armed man senseless with a flurry of punches and kicks. Throughout the fight, Jake sat in the booth giggling. When it was over, they fled to the car and sped off. The girls were enraged, but to Sal and Jake, it was nothing new. Jake was the quiet one, while Sal always found his share of action. Fortunately, Sal was smart enough to keep the peace with people who didn't deserve it. Those he considered punks, however, were open game.

Ten weeks later, the boys returned home soldiers and were assigned to the First Platoon of the 114th Infantry Unit, Yankee Division. They were instantly labeled "Weekend Warriors." No one could have guessed that Sal Amaral would take the label to heart.

At the conclusion of their first drill, the boys dined with other members of the unit at a Chinese restaurant. While they stuffed their faces, two drunks sitting at a nearby table began giving the waitress a hard time. Almost too politely, she asked them to leave. The drunks looked over at the boys, caught the mean stares and smartly decided to take the woman's advice. Stupidly, they rushed out without paying the check. The waitress ran out after them, with the boys in tow.

As the drunks scrambled to their car, one of them opened the trunk and retrieved a baseball bat. He turned around to face 14 clean-cut guys, each young face prepared to fight. In an instant, Sal, the veteran of such confrontations, removed the bat from the drunk. The rest of the crew tipped him upside down and took his wallet. His friend stood frozen, looking on in terror. The waitress was paid the sum of the check, plus a hefty tip. The boys returned to their meal and gratefully accepted her round of drinks. Except for two drunken deadbeats, everybody had a good night.

Months later, the 114th was bussed to West Point Military Academy to conduct crowd control at one of the chaotic football games. The boys were less controllable than the crowd they were tasked to contain. They directed traffic and tossed drunks out of the stadium. At the end of the televised game, Army lost by 40 points. Sal celebrated the loss by doing cartwheels in the end zone. At 240 pounds, a crowd of thousands cheered him on. The regular Army Officers, seated behind the end zone, however, were horrified. Jake held his side in laughter.

That evening, the whole platoon went out for a wild night on the town. As they walked along, they were easily enticed into a sleazy bar by the flash of neon lights. Inside, the place was even nastier, but it was packed, so they decided to stay. Before the first beer was ordered, everybody put five dollars into a hat. Sergeant Daniel Calis, the boys' squad leader, set the rules for the Buffarillo Contest.

"O.K. boys, you know the routine," he announced, "The man who dances with the largest girl by midnight wins the pot. I'll be the judge and don't make a fuss! It's a private joke between us!"

Everybody laughed. Jake couldn't believe it. He watched as the boys split up and mingled. Some guys were working the bar. Others stood out in front of the ladies room. There were also a couple of guys waiting by the door for the 'big one' to arrive. It was actually a serious competition. As Sergeant Calis looked on, one after the other cordially escorted his heavy-set partner to the dance floor.

It was nearly eleven o'clock when Sal had the victory sewed up. He was slow dancing with a girl he could barely wrap his arms around. He won, hands down, and collected over a hundred dollars. With that, the boys called it a night. Staggering back to the barracks, they sang Calendar Girl by Neil Sedaka. Dan Calis took the lead, while the rest sang back-up. Several miles later, they found their way home.

The room finally stopped spinning when Jake was awakened by the smell of smoke. It was black smoke that enveloped the entire barracks. Something was burning.

He jumped up, screaming, "Fire… Fire!"

Slowly, every drunken soldier evacuated the room. While they stumbled out, several firemen ran in. By then the room was completely engulfed.

Huddled in a sloppy formation for better than an hour, they watched Carl Anderson, a pimply-faced Private, experience projectile vomiting. Out of nowhere, Platoon Sergeant Jack Marchand appeared and called everyone to attention. He waited. Nobody moved. It was a combination of disrespect and the fact that most could hardly stand.

Marchand started, "I hope you people are happy. Bunk number 16 is destroyed. Private Anderson was smoking in bed and nearly burned the whole barracks down, killing all of you! We owe for two mattresses - Anderson's and his bunkmate's, which is saturated with urine! You two won't be leaving here until it's paid!"

Everyone turned toward Corporal Allen Correiro and giggled. He was too busy puking, however, to take notice. Furious, Marchand filed them into another barracks.

The following morning, to Platoon Sergeant Marchand's surprise, a collection was taken and the damaged mattresses paid for. During the long ride home, the bus rocked back and forth. Marchand didn't dare try to stop it. He just sat in the front seat and stared out the side window. Sal turned to Jake and whispered, "He's not as dumb as he looks!"

Several months later, Sergeant Dan Calis learned the pressures of running a squad. As Marchand put it, "When you really want something done, just put a joker in charge." The theory was true to some extent, though everybody doubted that he meant outrageous clowns like Jake Evans or Sal Amaral. In any event, Sergeant Calis soon found that some drills were no joke.

The Battalion Commander, in his infinite wisdom, decided to permit the 114th and 633rd Infantry Companies to train together. There was a long-standing feud between the sister units. It didn't take long before the potential powder keg exploded.

Both Captains agreed that Riot Control training was their best option. It was another grave mistake. The First Platoon of the 114th was assigned to play an unruly crowd - a well-suited part. Their orders were to occupy an old WWII barracks. Their counterparts, dressed in full riot gear, would flush the building out. At that time, the First was to leave peacefully. Everybody sensed that it wasn't going to happen that way. Their instincts were correct.

Private Sal Amaral walked toward the condemned building, but was stopped by a soldier holding a flak jacket, shielded helmet and wooden baton. He recognized the face, but couldn't place the name.
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Breaking the silence, the nameless man asked, "Sal, how's Paul Duhon doing - your buddy from the old neighborhood?" There was a confused pause. The stranger smirked, "Oh that's right, he committed suicide awhile back, right?"

Impulsively, Sal lunged for the man's throat and was an inch away before Jake and four others grabbed his arm.

"Not here, Sal!" Jake screamed, "We'll take care of him inside!"

With the rest of the platoon following, Jake pushed Sal through the door. Veins throbbed in Sal's forehead. His eyes swelled with tears.

He shrieked, "That guy's dead!"

As everybody filed past him, they agreed, "We're gonna do these guys, brother! Don't worry!"

The entire platoon climbed the stairs to the second floor. The open room was abandoned with the exception of several rusty bunk beds. Dan Calis and Al Correiro slid them toward the door, to be used as a barricade.

Sal pulled the beds away. He looked at his friends. "Let them come in!" he cried. The blood was still pounding hard through his veins.

Just then, Jake yelled, "Here they come!"

From then on, all hell broke loose. Jake heard glass breaking everywhere. He turned to see Sal firing rocks through the windows. Dan and Al ran out of the bathroom dragging a toilet. They opened the door and tossed it down the stairs. Men were screaming and urinals were flying. In the middle of the mayhem, Jake realized that their behavior was animalistic. Another 'Weekend War' had been waged.

Not one member of the 633rd made it up two stairs. It wasn't for their lack of effort. From the start, Platoon Sergeant Jack Marchand ordered the exercise to cease. It finally ended when there was nothing left on the second floor but cobwebs and heavy breathing.

When it was over, members of the 633rd were injured. One sustained a broken leg. There were two sprained ankles, while Sal's newfound enemy bled from a deep cut on his forearm and a broken nose. Sal saw to the last injury personally. The remainder merely suffered bruised egos. The units were separated. Jake, Sal and the boys waited for their punishment. None came. It was a terrible idea from the beginning. There were just too many people involved. The Company Commanders only wanted one thing: to sweep the nightmare under the carpet. In the end, Platoon Sergeant Marchand was harshly reprimanded for his lack of control. The boys were ecstatic.

To be continued...