This is the Kettle calling...

Ah, sweet vindication!

"Get on your faces and give me fifty!"

Drill Instructor Tomingo stood at the front of the squad bay. Surrounding him were thirty one recruits in push-up position.

"Count, ladies!"

"One, two, three...!" The recruits sounded off in unison as they sweated through their punishment.

Behind them, the squad bay was littered with blankets, boots, and footlocker contents. The push-ups continued: "...twenty nine..."

They finally reached fifty, looking ready to collapse.

"Now strip every one of these racks, fold the linens at the foot of the rack, and return to your post at the position of attention. You have five minutes, slobs; WHY ARE YOU STILL STARING AT ME?!"

"Aye aye, sir!"

The young men moved with grim efficiency. There was no sound but loose bedsprings and flapping sheets.

The Drill Instructor began his customary unfair countdown. "Thirty seconds...! Twenty nine...! Twenty four, twenty, fifteen, nine, YOU'RE DONE! Get on line!"

The men lined up immediately. Although their time had been cut short, the linens were folded correctly, and the detritus of personal belongings had been secured, as well.

As if on cue, Senior Drill Instructor Victor Bath entered from outside, walking the length of the squad bay between the motionless men, looking them over.

"Alright, none of you clowns are going to be chosen for the cover of GQ, so quit standing there like models. Square yourselves away and fall out for chow."

Quickly, the men checked each other's uniforms, then bolted out the door. But before it could close all the way, Bath's angry voice echoed down the squad bay to them.

"Tomingo, look at this office. This place is a mess! Damn it— give me fifty!"

Thirty one men stood outside the brick building, motionless in the Parrish Island heat, trying unsuccessfully not to smile.

(Word Count: 298)