Date: Tue, 21 Apr 2015 01:55:27 +0000 (UTC)
From: Gary Stayton <garystayton@yahoo.com>
Subject: Elite Force Training chapter 2

Copyright 2015 by the author. For private use only.

garystayton@yahoo.com

DISCLAIMER: For adults only. Not for minors.

*****

Author's note: Comments and suggestions most welcome.

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Author's note: I feel compelled to admit that some scenic elements in this
story are repetitions from earlier works of mine – just in case some
reader recognizes a feeling of *déjà vu*. Such are the fixations of
those of us who frequent the Authoritarian section. This time I'm hoping
for a more character-driven and balanced story.


***ELITE FORCE TRAINING***

2.

Josh Jaeger was of the belief that Christmas had come early. He skipped
down the linoleum-floor of the barrack corridor at Fort Roland (he wasn't
supposed to run on that polished surface) holding a fluttering piece of
paper in his hand, hoping one of his roommates would be present in his
four-man cabin. One was. It was Benjie. Benjie was lounging, reading a
magazine.

This occupation of Benjie – lounging – was an eagerly pursued
pastime. When Josh was at the gym, Benjie was lounging. When Josh went into
town, Benjie lounged. Whenever Josh himself was of the lounging persuasion,
Benjie could, in all likelihood, be found beside him, also lounging. Fort
Roland made available all the healthy activities a young soldier off duty
might want. There was an auto-club, and so on, yet Josh's friend Benjie
found solace only in the sedentary pursuits, it seemed.

Josh had exciting news, and he fully expected Benjie to leap from his
reclined position on his bunk and pump Josh's hand, and demand to read the
letter, and propose a solemn toast – had the equipment for proposing
toasts and drinking them been available in the barracks at Fort Roland. It
was not. But still, Benjie would wish Josh all the best of luck for his
future.

"Elite Force Training School?" Benjie said with raised eyebrows. Indeed,
Private Benjamin McPhee was of the considered and certain opinion that
people who engage with things containing the word `elite' and having the
reputation of the named facility were "off their chops," in his own
words. Benjie yawned. "I think there's a buffalo-wings special at the PX
tonight. I know there is two-for-one beers at Stardust, but the doormen
know we're under twenty-one."

"Benjie!" Josh said, waving the letter. "I'm in! I'm in Elite Force! This
is it! I'm going to Fort Drexel!"

"When?"

"January!"

"Holy fuck! Josh... the weather at Coldbath Point is completely filthy at
that time of year! It freezes! Everyone says it's the shittest place on
Earth! Are you off your fucking chops?"

Josh glowed with pleasure. "I'm going to Coldbath Poi-oint! I'm going to
Coldbath Poi-oint! I'm going to Elite For-orce!"

"Shutup you nutbag!"

Young Josh Jaeger was so energised with excitement that he hopped from foot
to foot, and seemed to use his precious letter as a steering-wheel,
gripping its edges with both hands and turning it before him as he
bewildered his roommate.

"Sergeant Crawley will be jealous of me-ee! I'll show him a thing or
two-oo! And so will Corporal Al-mez!" he sing-songed. "He's been trying for
Elite Force for year-ears!"

"Josh," Benjie said. "I thought these guys were serious. So you got through
that interview?"

"Yep!" Josh's grin split his face. "But I did the local test-course too!
That was tough."

"Josh, get a grip! I just thought that interview would fuck you off the
list. *You?* They took *you?*"

"They soaked me up, Benj. I just stood there and told `em how Elite Force
would benefit from having me in it! It was a great speech! And how going to
the gym and my swim training and judo should be put to good use! Elite
Force, Benj! That's what it's all about!" Josh slapped Benjie's bunk. "And
I'm going to Elite Force School!"

"Must have been a hell of an interview."

"There was this Sergeant. He looked me right in the eye and said `Son,
Elite Force needs young men like you. Men who will..."

"Must have been one hell of a *dumb* Sergeant."

"I don't think he was dumb, Benj."

Josh didn't try to explain to Benjie how the hard, granite-grey eyes of
that Sergeant had held him stilled on the painted line for six hours, or
how the voice had murmured deeply in the pit of his belly. Those stern
eyes, the sharply proportioned nose, and the hard-set mouth had made
something inside Josh turn to jelly. When that powerful face regarded him,
it was like being scrutinised to the bottom of the soul.

The guy was a solid rock. That was how Josh remembered him – like a rock
– and if that was what Elite Force School offered, then Josh wanted to
go there. The neat-pressed enclosure of the Sergeant's green uniform had
been filled with hard, large-sized arms and a wide, shelved chest. You
didn't need to see under the clean fabric to know how formidable the man
was.

Days passed at Fort Roland. The sun shined on the neatly cut grass and the
fresh-painted pointer signposts of a typical military base. Private
Benjamin McPhee tried to talk some sense into his pal and colleague,
Private Josh Jaeger.

"Josh," he said while the pair was snipping weeds in the vicinity of the
Enlisted Ranks' Galley. "You've really got to shape up. Come out tonight
with me and get some buffalo-wings."

"No can do, buddy," Josh said happily. "Gotta get to the gym and get
pumped!"

Benjie sighed. When would this madness stop? Josh had been floating around
in a daze ever since he'd received that letter. While Benjie secured an
agreeable duty (for them both) cleaning the pool at the NCOs' Mess, Josh
was signing up for submerge-training at the Enlisted indoor facility.

Submerge-training? What the fuck was that? Josh was off his chops, and of
that fact there could be no doubt.

Private Jaeger was summoned to the Supply Store where he was issued with a
pair of boots by order of Fort Drexel. The Private and Corporal Storemen
behind the counter eyed him with respect. They knew the source of the order
– Elite Force Training School. The boots were combat-specials with big,
steel studs nailed to the undersoles and long, long laces of
hide-leather. They came accompanied by two directives printed on Elite
Force letterhead.

One: The boots were to be fully worn-in by their new owner using
drill-track procedures.

Two: They were to be shined to parade-standard.

Josh ran with the white, cardboard box under his arm back to his cabin, his
heart lurching in his throat. Rattling heavily in the box were those
brand-new possessions. They felt substantial, their weight carrying much
import.

It may not be a well-known fact, but the black leather of newly issued
boots is nowhere near parade-standard, and Josh felt he should field his
new footwear for the first time only after some polishing work. Hereby the
preoccupation of the paraded, booted soldier is learned.

The equipment is a teaspoon, a cigarette-lighter, a very soft cloth, and a
nugget of black Parade Gloss from a small tin. A crumb of the fine polish
is melted in the teaspoon using the lighter. Already we are given to the
images of the drug-trade, and indeed, the little, fizzing amount of liquid
Parade Gloss is a potent mixture. It penetrates the porous leather and is
rubbed in hard with the cloth. The other ingredient is spit. The spit must
be used with the oily gloss in generally equal quantities, and all the
chemical sciences attached to this process were completely lost on Private
Joshua Jaeger. But we may know this; he knew what he was doing. The toes of
those boots began to achieve their mirror finish.

He exercised them on the South Gate Road with his dinky little flip-floppy
running-shorts. Benjie playfully wiped those tiny shorts into the
marble-hard crack from behind – his hand running like a card in a slot –
when the sweating, track-drilled Josh had returned from his run. A
wrestling-match was initiated. The cabin was hot with the smell of fresh
sweat, and hard, slippery muscles responded to Benjie's attack with eager
vitality.

"Wait!" Josh cried. "Don't scuff-up my boots!"

So during this time, Benjie's cabin-mate became somewhat boring, not even
wanting to watch TV. In the afternoons he was out jogging, and at night, it
was the polishing of those boots.

It may be little known among the population of Benjie and his type, but
within the infantry, the shining of boots can become an obsession. The more
one rubs with the cloth stretched over one's finger – in squeaking
little circles on the lustred surface – the shinier the shoe
becomes. Shinier and shinier. One sees one's face in the toe, and adds more
spit and polish and is pleased with the result.

But it is not among the habits of nineteen year-olds to be industrious
one-hundred percent of the time. Josh was out running, his boots making
their rhythmic *clack*-*clack*-*clack* on the South Gate Road with their
steel studs. Alongside in the canopied fir plantation there appeared a
certain Private with whom Josh had exchanged certain looks at the gym. The
habits of nineteen year-olds are not always to be discussed in polite
company, those habits sometimes being pursued in a ditch under the cool
canopy of a forest. The other Private was a tidy little stud, and Josh
fucked him neatly, rutting quickly and without discussion.

They did it kneeling, the other boy in Josh's lap, his hair in Josh's
fist. The young private reached around behind to grab the lunging, fucking
Josh, desperately trying to hold the bucking formation together while a
squirrel watched curiously at a short distance.

They panted in unison as Josh thrusted proficiently, with leaves sticking
to his sweat and his open, huffing mouth raised to the branches which
reached across the sky overhead. He squirted happily inside the warm,
slippery hole, and withdrew perspiring more profusely than before.

"Fuck!" he yipped. "My boots are scuffed!"

Josh was thereby introduced to the bane of those who must maintain a high,
parade-standard shine. The toes are unprotected, and when activities are
conducted on the knees, boots are best unlaced and left standing by on the
ground, waiting for their master to complete his business.

Josh returned to his occupation of rubbing those boots, and Benjie sighed
as he watched his cabin-mate stick his tongue from the side of his mouth in
concentration, narrow his eyes to slits, and spit-polish assiduously. Josh
was a lost cause. The boots had consumed him. Their lustre reflected the
light of a hundred suns into the soul of the boy who had been accepted to
Elite Force School. More than that, they represented the uncompromising
directive of the Sergeant who had sat at the trestle-table during the final
interview. The letter which had arrived with the boots somehow carried the
rich, resonant timbre of the voice that had strummed the strings of Josh's
belly. So he shined, eschewing TV and video-games and expeditions to get
pizza. The boots became a masterful work of art, and Josh worked them with
a cyclic *clackety-clack* on the South Gate Road until they were soft and
fitted his feet like old friends. That's what the letter had said to do.

The hard reverberation transmitted from the road, through the steel studs,
to the soles of his feet and upwards. His running shorts wrapped and clung,
and followed him by working into the moist crack. At night, he pumped his
cock and layered his bunk-sheets with wetness.

He was summoned to Captain Ball's office.

"So you're going to Elite Force School."

"Yes Sir."

"Clearly you're a very fit young man."

"Yes Sir."

"I've seen you in the gym. I like your style on the leg-thrust. I'm sure
your glutes are... admirable."

"Er... yes Sir."

Papers shuffled.

"I guess we'll be sorry to see you go, Private Jaeger. You know Elite Force
Training School is called `Hell School' don't you?"

"Yes Sir."

"Six weeks of Hell. I heard Captain Diaz in the Officers' Mess say that you
don't get to sit down once, and that they pin your dog-tag to your nipple
to avoid the choke-hazard of the chain."

"Yes Sir."

"Have you heard that, Private Jaeger?"

"Yes Sir."

"Fort Drexel isn't all that bad. I was there a couple of years ago on a
posting to the Joint Operational Support Unit. Do you know what the Joint
Operational Support Unit does, Private Jaeger?"

"No Sir."

"It organizes the communications networks for submarines exercising in the
Northern Area. It's very technical. Anyway, good luck, and I suppose I'll
see you in the gym a few times before you leave. It's a pity I never got
time to ask you for some tips on the leg-thrust."

"Yes Sir."

Private Josh Jaeger could not figure out why Captain Ball seemed to want to
tell him about submarine communications, and how he "liked his style" in
the gym. And what were glutes? Never mind. There was a spring in his step
and a whistle at his lips as he made his way back to the Enlisted
Barracks. Elite Force Training School awaited.

*****

Coldbath Point partially enclosed a wide bay. It bristled with windblown
scrub and rocky outcrops, and the occasional dotted tin-shed – evidence
of human habitation. The seaward side of the point was dashed by a black,
heaving ocean. Set back on the widened base of the peninsula was Fort
Drexel, a large, multipurpose facility supporting naval operations in the
bay and many military training objectives.

The Elite Force School was a simple, bare concrete provision within the
larger municipality of the fort. It was an open square surrounded by a high
wire fence. Within were symmetrically arranged cement bunkers and a
wide-open square with painted markings. It looked like a toy parade-ground
– except for the yellow mobile crane with its big rubber tires
positioned on the smooth asphalt, pointing its extended arm up into the
black firmament where ice-shards danced and dazzled in the raised
floodlights.

Captain Damme gripped his parade-stick with a leather glove, and used the
other hand to hitch his buttoned collar higher against the cold. Outside
the fence-line, all around, there were off-duty soldiers from other units,
evidently more curious than cold. It was approaching midnight. Captain
Damme and the entire company of the Elite Force Test School were present,
zipped into foul-weather jackets and assisting with the arrival.

The harsh white of the lights over the fenced, concrete school made a
bright stage where the colorful fragments of ice flew in the night, flicked
and tossed by a wind straight off the sea. The officers, NCO's, and
soldiers were muffled tight to their necks, burying their noses in their
collars.

The initial, alarming arrival was completed with megaphones screaming
obscenities and the threat of flying truncheons and bats. The trainees were
roused from the dark innards of a transport-truck after a journey of ten
hours spent on the bouncing metal tray. Into the bright-lit quadrangle of
the yard they were kicked, squinting and yelping. Now, the sixteen new
Combat-Operator trainees stood in a row, each over a drain at the center of
the yard, three meters apart. They were all between nineteen and
twenty-five years-old, and all healthy, prize younkers. Naked and poised
like ballet-dancers, they strained on tip-toes and made elegant, curved
postures with their arms reaching high above their heads – as high as
they could – to where their wrists were shackled in handcuffs, close
together, palms facing outwards, hoisted on stainless-steel ratchet chains
to a horizontal iron pipe lifted by the crane.

Damme walked down the line, sniffing at the flesh on display and touching
here and there with his wooden stick. The lat-wings flared expansively from
exposed flanks, bearing fine bands of muscle laced with the ribcages. The
plates of breast-muscle were spread widely and flattened, the brown nips as
hard as bubble-gum, swelling in the biting cold. These youths were big and
powerful. They swiveled and swerved as each tried to find his ideal stance
on extended toes, winched upwards on the chain like prime slabs of beef in
a butcher's freezer.

As if to prove the condition and vitality – and the nervous dispositions
– of the naked flesh exhibited in the yard, male organs smacked and
cuffed in numerous states of erection, curving and flaring and showing
their pulsing undersides.

The administration had been done. The sixteen men had each been busted in
rank to shit-kicking Private. Their heads had been zip-clipped to a
prickling number-one, and the remaining hair sprayed bright yellow for
visibility in the water. They were numbered `1,' to `16' from left to
right, the big numerals stenciled in black ink, six-inches high in the
middle of their breasts between the nipples. The numbers were repeated on
their backs, and the doctor had marked respective notes with an indelible
marker on each hard, left buttock.

"Toes together," they were told. "Chins up. Forty-five degrees. Suck in the
guts. Clench the buttocks. Don't move. Don't speak unless spoken to. Use
`Sir' at the beginning and end of every sentence."

The sixteen men stopped their chattering teeth. Their knees were tensed and
locked, lifting their heels, and pushing upward toward the pipe
overhead. They posed – stretched and secured – with fingers grasping
overhead from the steel, military ratchet-cuffs.

They were arranged with the tallest at the ends, each elevated by an
adjusted length of chain to the horizontal pipe on the crane. When one
bounced on his toes, he shifted his comrades too, the suspended array of
shackled trainees all shuffling and hobbling for purchase with their toes
on the cold cement underfoot. There were more chains at the ends of the
suspended rail, held by gloved soldiers who jerked the line of naked young
men onto their designated row, facing the Quartermaster's Hut. Behind them,
the crane-driver gunned the engine, lifting them an inch further, and
improving his view of sixteen sets of outstanding butt-muscles.

It was noisy. There was yelling and megaphones and the diesel engine of the
crane. A rotating orange beacon swept the yard.

"You big buck studs are makin' a fine impression already, with yer big
hard-ons. You faggots must be in love with this place already! Good for
you!"

"What about you, Twinky? You all cosy for your first night in Hell School?"

"Sir! Yes! Sir!"

A polished wooden parade-stick thumped hard into a muscled, sucked-in gut.

"What, fuckbag?"

"*SIR!* *YES!* *SIR!*"

"Not loud enough, Twinky-boy. Can't hear ya."

Captain Damme stood back as his men made their introductions to the new
arrivals. Soon, a three-inch canvas firehose hissed and snaked on the
concrete as it was charged with one-hundred and eighty pounds per square
inch of pressure. The brass nozzle was a half-inch aperture, held by two
men. There was a moment's silence as sixteen sets of wide eyes stared into
the black, half-inch brass throat. Then the nozzle-spigot was opened on
number 1. The belting shock was met with a massive hoot from the young man
as the air was knocked from his lungs. He danced like a motherfucker,
beaten and spun in his handcuffs. The soldiers gripping the chained ends of
the hoisted pole shook the shuddering line as the water-assault thrashed
home on the shrieking number 1. The dousing lasted one, two, maybe three
minutes, then it moved to the next. Down the line the hose was trained,
lashing bare skin raw with its hammer-force, ice-needle jet. Then, back up
the line, from 16 to number 1.

This was no quick bath. It was a prolonged piece of fun. When the hose was
not on him, each naked man hip-hopped desperately on his toes for warmth,
raising his knees high and swerving his hips actively to the sides in a
fast disco-dance.

"Boogaloo-loo-loo you big buckeroos!" the men shouted to the tangoing
youths. "Yer big schlongs ain't so hard now!" They used their megaphones to
be heard above the rush of the hose-jet and the appalled whoops of the boys
in their sub-zero ordeal.

"*GAH!* *GAH!* *GAH!*" the young trainees shouted as they bopped and
capered, fighting the freezing wait for their next turn under the hose,
turning and jumping with their wrists held high overhead.

"Which one's the best boogie-dancer? Get the hose on Twinky again!"

Damme recognized the Number 14 Private from one of the interviews – the
youngest one – nineteen and pretty. The boy was a tapered cut of dynamic
human muscle working hard under the battering nozzle of the firehose. He
danced like a desperate, crazed slut. Illusory high-heels were enforced by
the stainless-steel manacles lifting him to his toes.

"Check out the Twink-Boy! I'm serious! Hey Twink-Boy! Shimmy hard yer purty
little thing"?

The fight against hypothermia under the battering firehose took a great
deal of vigor – driving, muscular momentum forced onto tip-toe by the
overhead steel restraints. Under the floodlights, it made a spirited show,
and the frantic energy of the dancing-boys in a row was joined by a
sizeable crowd outside the wire. The spectacle attracted all ranks from the
wider Fort Drexel, and many curious eyes hovered in the darkness, just
beyond the reach of the floodlights.

It was a noisy piece of theatre. Sixteen healthy sets of lungs screamed for
warmth, and more shouting megaphones merged with the din. And indeed, the
introductory welcome for a new intake was a popular attraction. Thermoses
of coffee were passed. Gloved hands were rubbed, and Corporals grinned.

Soon though, the show became repetitive. "*GAH!* *GAH!* *GAH!* *GAH!*" The
hosed cadets shrieked. The megaphones squawked angrily, and the pounding
hammer of the firehose continued, making swirling torrents on the concrete
which the drains could hardly swallow. The soldiers stepped back, careful
to avoid the freezing gushes. They muffled themselves more securely in
their wool scarves as they watched the bare, shackled Combat-Operators
battling in the center of the yard.

It was getting late. Captain Damme pulled his cap down low and headed
toward the Officers' Mess. Sergeant McCloud watched as the numbers melted
away to warm barracks and his sixteen men danced nakedly in a row, their
arms raised and their knees lifting wildly. The kid at number 14 had that
dark, determined wrinkle at his brow. His mouth pursed as it sucked and
blew strenuously, the kid fighting the cold and slapping the concrete
alternately with his toes, huffing hard and glaring straight ahead.

"Keep exercised and keep breathin'," McCloud said encouragingly to the
shaking line of young men. "Don't hang in your restraints. Keep boppin' and
learn to tough-out the cold. Your day starts at Morning Watch and we'll
need you lads sprightly and lively."

The bright-lit arena of the Elite Force Test School made a distant podium
for a few hidden eyes. Binoculars on tripods watched from behind windows in
quiet messes and from hillside shacks on Mount Donnegan. Even at a range of
two miles, the ongoing display was lively and self-motivated.

Later, during the very silent hours between zero-two and zero-three
hundred, the Middle-Watchmen released the chains and unlocked the steel
cuffs. The sixteen trainee combat-operators had been racked onto their toes
in the yard for two and a half hours.

The only items of kit allowed from their previous lives were their boots –
already worn-in and drill-ready. They had to be presented at parade
standard for the inspection-muster at the start of Morning Watch. Small
nuggets of hard, old boot-black were issued, and the trainees were given
sixteen twelve-inch green-painted circles on the concrete upon which to
stand. The circles were numbered `1' to `16'. Their feet were not allowed
to stray outside. The boots were not allowed to touch the ground until the
parade-ready mirror-gloss was satisfactory – so the sixteen trainees
began their work.

Spit, fingers, black lumps of polish, and boot-leather were worked
assiduously and economically. They were alone now, under the bright
floodlights on their respective numbered muster-stands, concentrating on
their task. There was no talking. Erections rose hard to their bellies and
fell, ignored, the begging male organs sadly disappointed at the rubbing
employment now occupying their owners as they worked on their boots.

The zero-four-hundred-hour Morning Watch was approaching fast, and the
trainees knew that their boots had to fucking shine – reflecting in
mirror-finish the faces of the officers and NCO's who would conduct the
inspection. The first four-hour watch of Elite Force Hell School was
closing. The sun was getting ready to rise, and the forty-eight hour
Indoc-sector remained to be completed.

*****

garystayton@yahoo.com