In-A-Gadda-Da-Dreama

I woke up laughing. It wasn’t a high-pitched giggle that middle-school girls explode with when they observe manly 13-year-old “boy-hunks” in the hallway at school. .Not that polite chuckle that weakly acknowledges a public speaker’s dull, predictable unfunny punch line. 

No, I woke up with a genuine gut-busting, thigh-slapping get-the-hell-outta here laugh. Funny thing about dreams. The real converges with the unreal; fear sometimes forges a quirky alliance with courage. The past oddly stitches itself into the fabric of the present. When you dream, anything is possible.

For you see, I had just taken the early morning train back Z-ville, a trip which had taken me back through the matted cobwebs and wormholes of time to Ft. Jackson, S.C.. Good old 3rd Platoon, “Echo” Company, 6th Battalion, 2nd Training Brigade. 

But there I was, among swirling, vaguely familiar faces. Why there’s that nearly toothless cracker from Georgia, who patriotically signed up so he could get false teeth. And over there, the pear-shaped guy named Rodgers who could never make it through the monkey bars, a requirement as we lined up for every meal at the mess hall. And huddled together are the henna-haired Vanhooser  twins and their Coke-bottle, horn-rimmed eyeglasses.

Milling about that dizzy formation were others: the brother from Philly who called himself “Hollywood.” The California surfer guy who maxed every PT test thrown at him and rolled his eyes at everyone hailing west of Malibu. The loud-mouthed braggart from Staten Island who one night challenged any takers from New Jersey  to a defecation contest in the barracks latrine (not really a good spectator sport).

Real Yankee Doodle Dandies, all of us.

There was another familiar face. But let me preface it by saying while friends, family, lovers, enemies, business acquaintances come and go – folks you may have left behind and those who have abandoned you – you never lose the memory of your drill sergeant. 

My platoon was assigned Sergeant Harold Frierson, a twice-toured grunt of the Nam whose bloodshot feral eyes were finely accessorized by a barely authorized Fu Manchu moustache and Afro crushed under the bill of his Smokey-the-Bear campaign headgear. The sound of his  guttural voice was as spooky as Pazuzu chatting through Linda Blair with a visiting priest. 

But there I was, mind you, stretched prone in dirt on the rifle range, squinting down the sights of an M-16 at a distant target. For you see, I sailed reasonably well through the squalls of basic training; the endless PT and running, running, drill and ceremony; the mindless recitation of Armyspeak; the pointless barrage of hurry-ups and waits; and so on and so forth. The thing about getting through most ordeals is to become invisible, fly under the radar when possible.

However, one thing did paint a Day-Glo bulls-eye on me. Qualifying at the rifle range.

But I wasn’t alone in this dream scene. Drill Sergeant Frierson was squatting beside me, firing comments questioning the legitimacy of my birth and other colorful quotations. I swear to God and his sonny boy Jesus, STOO-TEE VILLE!!!! Did your mama have any kids that lived??

All of this, plus the staccato beating of his metal clearing rod against my helmet. The official "swagger" stick of Army DIs of the early 1970s.

BANG! (miss)… CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

You miserable puke! Look at the target you stupid sumbitch!!!!

BANG! (miss)… CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! 

Mah-God, you pile of maggot pus!My granny can shoot better than that and she been dead already twenty years!!!

BANG! (miss)… CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! 

Boy, you gotta reach around with one of your free hands, stuff it down the back of  yo' pants and pull out that dead meat you call a head outta ya ass!!!

With each pull of the trigger and missed target, the inside of my head resonated with the In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida drum solo being banged out on my helmet. Strangely, my lumpy, middle-aged body was convulsing with laughter on that gunpowder-perfumed rifle range, which made my drill sergeant even more enraged. Somehow, even in this dream, I knew I would end up qualifying. 

So, chill out, Frierson, ol' buddy. I know how this thing is going to play out!  But even in my dream state, I didn't have the stones to be so dangerously cavalier as to challenge my long-ago drill sergeant. Those bastards are mean enough to swim their way through oceans of time and Dreamland to find you.

That’s about the time the train slowly hissed and squealed back into town before the alarm went off. I lay there chuckling as the oscillating fan in my bedroom stirred the curtain sheers and. My deadbeat roommate raised his head from the floor and stared at me with some contempt for waking him so early.