Quicker (an Ell Donsaii story) Read online

  “Hey, Phil, how’re you doin’?” Ell just flopped down and started talking to him like they were old buddies! He guessed they probably did know each other better than any other two members of their squad, maybe the entire squadron. It just didn’t seem to him like they knew each other in a way that would be conducive to a pleasant greeting. When he didn’t answer, just sat there with his back to a little pine tree staring at her, she said, “Hey, you still pissed? I’m really, really sorry about what happened back there in Chapel Hill. You just scared me, and when my adrenalin gets pumpin’ funny things happen.”

  At the time he had some idea just what kind of things could happen when “her adrenalin got pumping” but he didn’t understand what he knew. However, Ell was finding to her relief that, with the intense work she’d been doing on it, she was developing better and better control of when and how far she went into the zone.

  In any case, it became evident that she held no grudge over his familiarities on that day last fall. Phil kinda wished the same were true for him.

  As their basic training progressed, Phil’s excellent physical conditioning stood him in good stead. Even though being in shape for wrestling wasn’t perfect conditioning for the kind of high altitude endurance running and calisthenics they were going through, his condition so far outstripped most of the other doolies that he wasn’t under a great deal of strain. Of course, there were some cross country runners and other endurance athletes who felt it even less than he did, but the biggest pain for him was having to help drag along the doolies who were out of shape. Some of them quit the Academy rather than endure the daily agony. With the biggest anchors gone, their squad’s speed picked up, but never to a level that really stressed Phil’s system.

  On the other hand, Ell’s struggles with the endurance parts of their conditioning were legendary. Passing out on that first run indicated the problem. Though she never went out cold again, she did throw up nearly every run. Annoyingly, though she herself struggled, she kept trying to help those around her; always a “buck up, there” comment for those who were dying around her. Hell, she would be looking like death’s own sister and she’d still stagger over to try to help another doolie! Phil found it frustrating because it used up her reserves faster and then she needed help sooner. Every run of a mile or more she had to be helped by her classmates. The sergeant would yell at her for being so weak and Phil would smirk inside. But then the upperclassmen would rain shit on Phil because he wasn’t trying to help; obviously, he had more reserves than she did. So, she made him look bad, and she got him more work, and he had hated her before this started, so their relationship sat in the toilet and stank. Ell couldn’t seem to understand that he hated her guts. She frequently complimented him for helping out the weak dipwads in their squad—which did make him feel good. But the warm feeling from the compliment washed over him without reflecting back on her.

  No one else seemed to hate her though. It was easy to see why—amazingly good looking young woman, trying unselfishly to help out others, even when she was in worse shape than they were. Hard to hate. Yes, her poor scores on endurance tests dragged the squad down. But, though Phil’s blind spot meant that he hardly noticed, her high scores on tests requiring speed or coordination brought the squad up. Rather than simply riding her, the upperclassmen actually seemed to be trying to help her!

  For her part Ell worried a lot. Despite all the exercise, her endurance didn’t seem to be improving. Throwing up every day seemed to be sucking the life from her, to say nothing of the physical exhaustion that had made her puke in the first place. Other Doolies were dropping out of the Academy, and every day during runs their example led her to think of dropping out herself. But she couldn’t return home with her tail between her legs. She couldn’t stand the thought of seeing that knowing smirk on Jake’s face. So, day after day, she suffered the agony of the training. She suffered the embarrassment of being dragged the last part of any endurance endeavor by her classmates. When her classmates spoke quietly outside her hearing she worried that they spoke of her and her inadequacy. Her greatest fear was that there were some other ‘minimum’ physical standards in addition to the six minute mile that she would have to measure up to by the end of the summer and that they would “wash her out” despite all her agonizing efforts.

  Phil couldn’t reconcile this “wimp” chick with no staying power with the woman who’d beat the crap out of him one night back home. The second thing that Basic eventually began to reveal about her, even to Phil, was her surprising speed. Her performance on the beginning of the obstacle course seemed freakish. She would start way faster than anyone else could. Climbing, jumping, swinging, leaping over stuff—Ell was the best in the squad, significantly quicker than any of the guys even. She performed some amazing feats at the start of the course. No one, not even any of the guys could stay close behind her in the first half of the route. But the obstacle course was pretty long and by the end, she’d be dragging horribly. A run that started out like it would break records would finish with her staggering across the finish line with a time that actually dragged the squadron’s average score down. When Zymonds told her to start slower, it just made things worse! She still dragged badly by the end and, without the lead provided by her jackrabbit start, her time on the course was even worse.

  A few weeks into Basic, a long run took them out into the woods where they took a break in the shade for lunch. After lunch they had a short break while waiting for an instructor to arrive to give them a survival lecture. It was hot and a lot of the guys took off their shirts, Phil among them. Ell’s eyebrows ascended, the guy was built like a Greek God! Wide shoulders, narrow waist, ripped abs, huge arms, his physique was amazing. She found it hard to take her eyes off him. Then Phil got into a hand-slapping contest with Jason, another doolie who’d also been recruited for the wrestling team. It was that quickness competition where you put your hands out face up, and your opponent puts his hands over yours face down. Then you try to flip your hands out, over and down to slap your opponent on the backs of the hands. Phil’d always been very quick at it but, to his surprise, Jason almost held his own with him. Ell’d been covertly studying Phil’s amazing musculature, so was watching them at this game. She wondered if she could break through the distance Phil always kept between the two of them by joining into something he enjoyed. She walked over to them and said, “Can I try?”

  Phil just ignored her but Jason said, “Sure cuteness.” Ell stepped forward with her trademark crooked smile and then noticed that everyone’s attention had suddenly focused on her. The girls rarely ever challenged the guys on physical contests and Jason was a real stud, so her act had grabbed the squad’s attention. But, she was kinda pissed about being called “cuteness” and in addition the spotlight gave her a little stage fright. She felt heart beat start to throb. She felt herself slipping into the zone and took a couple deep breaths to damp it down, reminding herself not to go too fast. However, she did kinda want to put Jason in his place so she didn’t force herself all the way out of the zone.

  “I’m usually pretty good at reaction time stuff,” she said nervously, putting her hands over Jason’s. Inwardly Phil sneered because Jason was very good and he was sure Jason was gonna put some hurt on her. Then Jason flipped to strike but her hands were gone! The first time he flipped and no contact! Phil blinked.

  Jason said, “Oooohh, got lucky.”

  Well, Phil thought, after all, usually there’s a little luck involved in not getting smacked, especially the first time you play. Part of winning is guessing when your opponent is going to flip and actually starting your withdrawal before he moves. Lotta luck against someone as good as Jason but it can happen.

  Real lucky, Phil thought to himself. But it won’t last.

  Ell put her hands back out, palms up and Jason put his on top. Her pulse sounded as a slow throb in her ears and she realized that she had slid deeper into her “zone” than she wanted. She knew she’d jerked her hands away too fast wh
en they were on top but thought no one had noticed. Slow down! She reminded herself. So, at a pace that felt slow, she pulled her hands out from under his and slid them smoothly out and around to come down on the backs of his hands. She realized from the fact that his hands hadn’t even started moving when hers were coming down that she was still moving way too fast! No! She tried to slow more in the last milliseconds but it was too late. Her hands smacked his. It sounded like a gunshot! The palms of her hands stung badly and she wondered what it was going to feel like on the more sensitive backs of Jason’s hands. Ell danced around with her fingers in her mouth, mumbling, “Sorry, sorry, too hard, too hard.” Jason’s hands flew downward with the force of the blow and his eyes widened as he realized just how badly he’d been beaten.

  When Jason put his trembling hands back out there, the backs of his hands were scarlet! Phil saw with amazement that Jason’s eyes were watering! Ell asked, “You OK to go again? I really am sorry.” Jason just nodded, an astonished/apprehensive look on his face.

  Phil watched with wide eyes. She didn’t hit him hard again but she whacked him over and over with ease, maybe twenty—thirty times. Then she seemed to realize how people were gawking and suddenly slowed down. Way down from the blurs her hands had been before and Jason finally managed a pull away. But before he got to try slapping her again, the squad was called to “form up” for the lecture.

  Over the next few weeks, other people would occasionally try to get her to hand-slap but she always had an excuse and, if it happened, Phil never saw it. He thought of challenging her himself, but didn’t. He told himself that it was because he couldn’t stand her, but really, deep inside… he knew that he didn’t stand a chance against her.

  They had some self-defense/combat sessions in Basic. They were aimed at developing self-confidence and aggression as well as teaching future warriors how to fight. Self defense dealt with what to do if attacked. If attacked by a bigger, or by a smaller assailant. If attacked by an assailant with a knife. If assailed with a gun from afar they were to seek cover or submit. If threatened with a pistol from very close, and you didn’t think submitting would save your life, you might try to disarm by striking or twisting the weapon in the direction that flexes the attacker’s wrist and relaxes the fingers to prevent the trigger being pulled. Multiple different techniques were taught, based in different fighting styles, many of them “fighting dirty” in common parlance, but when your life is on the line…

  For combat sessions they squared off in marked circles they called “pits,” wearing cushioned headgear and swinging pugil sticks. The sticks were about four and a half feet long with heavy pads at the end. Of course, Phil thrived at it. His wrestling physique, conditioning, speed, and combative tendencies stood him well. Sergeant Mason, their large black instructor, took one look at Phil and used him for a demonstration bout. Phil and Mason moved through some of the strikes and counters in slow motion and finally went through a very brief bout where Phil tried to break through Mason’s defenses without success. The sergeant then paired off same sex cadets of approximately equal size and they took turns in the pits while the Sergeant Mason bellowed directions. Most of the matches were real flails. At that altitude, after a preliminary run out and around the fields, swinging those big staffs while someone else tried to pound you wore a body out in a hurry. Phil’d been paired with Jason, the other guy who’d done some wrestling, because Jason was almost a physical match. Jason busted him a couple of good ones but Phil knocked him out of the circle without too much trouble. They took a tongue-lashing from the instructor for their tendency to wrestle with the sticks instead of striking with them, but you could tell Sergeant Mason wasn’t really very upset. Phil really didn’t take too much interest in the other matches until the first time Ell got in the circle—then that contest held his rapt attention!

  Ell had been paired off with a woman named Joy Denson who had a couple of inches on Ell. Thinking about his parking lot encounter, Phil found himself expecting Joy to be crushed by the bitch. Well they fought like a couple of ladies at tea. Tap, tap, tap with their staffs, no single swing hard enough that the other woman couldn’t catch it on her staff with plenty of time. Sergeant Mason purpled up, looking to explode. “You GIRLS knitting out here?”

  They stopped, “No, Sir!” In unison no less.

  “Well those sticks aren’t clickin’ together any harder’n my old grandma’s needles! Denson, you afraid you might hurt cadet Donsaii?”

  “No Sir!”

  “You ladies think, when lives are on the line, that kind of effort’ll be good enough?”

  In unison again, “No, Sir!”

  “Well then. You ATTACK, for god’s sake, ATTACK!”

  Donsaii and Denson turned back toward one another and Denson, Phil gave her credit, she really waded in. She swung that staff, hard as she could, fast as she could and managed to look like her life might actually depend on it. But she didn’t touch Ell. Most of the other cadets probably didn’t notice what was happening out there but it sent a chill up Phil’s spine. Denson didn’t even rap her on the knuckles. Every swing Denson made struck nothing but wood. Donsaii’s staff magically interposed itself over and over and over and over… Most of the other cadets thought Denson was wailing on her, and in a sense she was… but not even an accidental whack struck home amidst all of Denson’s fury.

  Mason bellowed again, “YOU THERE, STOP! Donsaii!”

  “Yes Sir!”

  “You ever hear that the best defense is a good offense?”

  “Yes Sir!”

  “You think you maaght sumday ever take a poke at Denson, or you too afraid she might actually land a blow?”

  “Yes Sir… I mean, No Sir!”

  “Let’s try it again ladies.” A sneer dripped from the word “ladies.” They turned to face each other and Mason roared, “BEGIN!”

  More of the same ensued. Denson flailing away, Donsaii catching every blow. Mason bellowed again and Ell started taking an occasional whack. Phil’s hair prickled on his neck. Every stroke she took hit Denson somewhere. Nary a one of them would have whisked dandruff off Denson’s shoulder, but everyone struck skin somewhere.

  “DONSAII!”

  They halted again, “Yes Sir!”

  “That was pitiful! My old gramma would do better with the aforementioned knittin’ needles for Chrissake! Denson, outta the pit.” The Sarge took Denson’s staff and stepped menacingly into the pit across from Donsaii. “Donsaii!”

  “Yes Sir!”

  “Hit me with that stick!” He held Denson’s staff in the approved defensive position.

  “Sir?”

  “Hit me with that goddamn stick! I see you’re afraid Denson might break—do I look tough enough to take a lickin’?”

  “Yes Sir!”

  “Well. Don’t just stand there, take a swing at me!”

  “No Sir! Striking a superior officer is a court martial offense, Sir!”

  “Aw fer Chrissake, we got ourselves a ‘barracks lawyer’? I’m a Sergeant, not an officer. You outrank me! You shouldn’t even be ‘sirring’ me. Here I’ll take off my insignia and tell you that if I order you to strike me in the course of training that it ain’t no ‘courts martial offense,’ OK?” He stripped his insignia off its Velcro patch and toss it aside.

  “Yes Sir!” Ell took a swing at him. A looping, roundhouse, poofter that Mason, dropping one end of his staff, easily blocked by grabbing the cushioned tip with the palm of his hand.

  “My GOD that was pitiful!” Ell drooped while Mason berated her for her lack of aggression, finishing with, “If you don’t get up the gumption to hit me a decent whack you’ll be givin’ me ten laps, ya delicate little puke!”

  Ell lifted her staff, staring at him like a deer in the headlights. She was already tired, though it hadn’t taken much exertion to block the strikes aimed at her so far. Ten laps in addition though, would exhaust her. “Sir?”

  “Hit me goddammit!” Ell took a couple of medium speed swings th
at Mason also blocked easily. “Come on, ATTACK! DON’T STOP, DON’T STOP.” She slipped a few blows past his stick but whacked him with the same light glancing blows she had used on Denson. “DONSAII?”

  “Yes Sir!” She kept up her attack but still, you could tell, none of those blows would really have hurt anyone.

  “May I have your permission to attack you? You see it’s also a courts martial offense for me to strike you without your consent.”

  “Yes Sir!” Phil didn’t see how it happened but Ell’s insignia patch flew over to land next to Mason’s.

  Mason started swinging at Ell. But just like with Denson, she blocked every blow perfectly. The whole time Mason screamed at her to attack him. “If you don’t hit me a good hard whack I’m gonna wail away ‘til your arms are dyin’. You’ll miss a block and you’ll get hurt… Who’s it gonna be, you or me? Hit me so’s I can feel it! Who’s it gonna be, you or me?” Mason panted and grunted through this last and Phil could see Mason’s swings getting harder and harder, then confusion crossing his face as he failed over and over and over to connect. Blow after blow, swung harder and harder, came down on her staff. They sounded like rifle shots! He was big, and strong, and quick, and Phil doubted that Mason had ever failed to connect in the first few blows when he tried this maneuver with timid cadets in the past.

  Now Ell felt exhausted. She’d been in the pit for quite a while now and even just blocking the blows coming at her was wearing out her limited endurance. She realized that when she reached her limit and failed to block one of Mason’s blows it likely would injure her. She tried to let one slip in and hit her so he would stop, but the velocity of Mason’s swing scared her badly and she danced away, though barely. This caused her panic and she slipped moderately deeply into her dreaded “zone.” Well then, she decided that she’d just hit him a medium blow to get him to acknowledge that she had attacked and that might get this over with. As Mason swung a powerful overhead blow she stepped in, deflected it just to her side with the center of her staff and then let the right pad on the end of her staff swing around to lightly strike the side of his head.