The sergeant marched us straight through the bay doors and stopped just inside, his boots planted wide under the buzzing fluorescents.
"Single file to medical! Strip to underwear! Everything off except skivvies and socks! No talking! Move!"
I pulled off my boots with the rest of them. The concrete floor hit my socks like ice. I peeled down to my underwear fast, skin tightening up the second the cold air hit. My arms felt too long, too naked. I kept them close to my sides.
I saw Tommy rubbing his arms like he was trying to warm up. Kyle had his elbows locked tight against his ribs. Frank was standing funny, putting most of his weight on his left leg so the right knee wouldn't have to take it. Roy just stood there bare-chested, like none of this bothered him at all. Dale, Walt, Leon, and Mitch were all doing the same thing stripping down quiet, eyes mostly on the floor or the next table.
None of us had bodies you'd wanna look at anyway.
The sergeant was still prowling somewhere behind us. I could feel him watching.
A tired corpsman with a clipboard stood by the old wall scale and stadiometer. He didn't look up much.
"Name. Step on."
Tommy went first, voice small.
"Tommy Hayes."
"Five-nine. One-thirty-two."
Kyle next.
"Kyle Reynolds."
"Five-eleven. One-sixty-eight."
"Next."
"Walt Cooper."
"Five-seven. One-ninety-one."
"Next."
"Leon Whitaker."
"Five-ten. Two-oh-four."
"Next."
"Mitch Caldwell."
"Five-nine. One-seventy-nine."
"Next."
"Dale Voss."
"Six-one. One-fifty-three."
Frank stepped up, favoring his bad right leg.
"Frank Russo."
"Five-ten. Two-twenty-three."
Roy stepped up, voice flat and rough.
"Roy Ellis."
"Six feet even. One-eighty-seven."
Then me.
"Eli Elias."
The corpsman's pen scratched.
"Six feet. One-eighty."
I didn't like how I felt like an animal. We all did.
The corpsman waved me off the scale before I even had time to step down properly.
"Next station."
I walkedthe few feet to the next table, concrete sucking the heat out of my feet with every step. The sergeant was still somewhere behind us, boots clicking slow. I could feel him watching the whole line.
A different corpsman—younger, bored—had the blood pressure cuff ready. He didn't look at my face.
"Left arm."
I stuck my arm out. The cuff went on tight, the Velcro ripping loud in the quiet bay. The machine started pumping. My heart was beating hard enough that I was sure the numbers were going to come out stupid. The corpsman watched the gauge, then my pulse on his watch.
"Pulse one-oh-four. Pressure one-thirty over eighty-eight," he said flat, like he was reading a grocery list. He wrote it down next to my name and the six feet, one-eighty they'd just measured.
"Any allergies?"
"Cats and dogs."
He didn't react. Just kept the pen on the page.
"Any injuries from the ride over?"
I touched my elbow without thinking. It was still sore where the soldier's fingers dug in. "My elbow hurts a little. Where they grabbed me. It's not broken or anything."
He didn't even write that down. Just checked a box.
"Seizures? Asthma? Depression? Anxiety? Anything that might make you fall out in the field?"
"Asthma."
The word came out before I could stop it. I wasn't gonna admit the anxiety. I get anxiety thinking about my anxiety. Actually, I should probably tell him I have it. That's the whole thing—if I don't tell him, and something happens, then what? They'll say I lied. They'll say I hid it. They'll—
The corpsman paused. Half a second. First real pause he'd made since I stepped up. He actually looked at me this time instead of just the form.
"Asthma," he said. Like the word tasted bad. "Inhaler?"
I shook my head. "Left it at home. They didn't exactly give me time to pack."
He let out a short breath through his nose. The kind that wasn't quite a sigh. Flipped to a different page on the clipboard. Checked a box. Wrote something. The pen scratched loud.
"Severity?"
"Mild, I guess. Usually just when it's cold. Or I run too much."
He wrote that down too. "We'll mark you as 'pre-existing respiratory condition.' They'll decide later if that means limited duty or straight to the line anyway."
Limited duty. I almost laughed. They pulled me out of my house for limited duty?
But I didn't say that. I just stood there in my underwear while he wrote.
Then he looked past me.
"Next."
I didn't tell him about my anxiety. I planned to. I had the words right there. But then he was done. Then it was over. And I was walking to the next station with my blood pressure numbers on a form somewhere and asthma written in a box and the rest of it still sitting in my chest, nowhere to go.
Roy stepped past me toward the table. I stepped aside. Watched him put his arm out for the cuff like he'd done this a hundred times before.
The photo corpsman waved me forward.
"Photo station. On the X. Look straight ahead. Neutral face."
I stepped onto the taped mark on the concrete. My feet were freezing. The white sheet taped to the wall in front of me was dirty and wrinkled, like nobody had bothered to replace it in weeks. I tried to stand straight, chin up, shoulders back—the way the sergeant had screamed at me—but my body kept wanting to curl in.
The specialist behind the camera didn't even look at me.
"Eyes forward. No smile."
The flash went off right in my face. Bright white. For a second I couldn't see anything except spots.
"Name?"
I blinked. Tried to clear my vision.
"Eli Elias."
He wrote something down without looking up. The camera clicked again. Another flash.
"Next."
I hoped I got a good picture. Would be a cool relic to show my family later. Who am I kidding, good relic for them to get after I get shot or something.
I walked past the photo guy. There was one last corpsman sitting at a desk, boots up on the corner like he had all day.
"Name?"
"Eli."
"Full name, retard. That includes the first letter of your middle name."
Why is everyone here a dick to us?
"Eli P. Elias."
I hated my middle name. It didn't go with the rest. Sounded like someone trying too hard to sound old.
The corpsman wrote it down. "Good. EPI. Now do you know the last four digits of your social security number?"
"Uh, hold on."
What was it? I'd only ever seen the card a few times. Mom kept it in the lockbox with the birth certificates. I only ever needed it at doctor's appointments. And even then she was the one who rattled it off.
"I'll put unknown—"
"9431."
He raised an eyebrow. "9431."
"Yeah."
"Blood type?"
"I've never been told."
"You never donated blood in high school? Do they still do that?"
"Yeah, they do. I just never signed up."
I was always scared to talk to those guys. There was always a line and I didn't wanna be late for class. That was the real reason. Not fear of needles. Just... not wanting to be seen standing there.
"Guess it's unknown."
He marked the box. Then leaned back in his chair. Didn't wave me off yet.
"Religion?"
I have never really thought about religion very much. The more I thought about it, the less I knew. I mean, Jesus—I was always told He was real. I never thought to challenge it. But I never prayed. Never went to church. I felt guilty thinking about praying now. Only talk to God when you need something. That's how most people go about it, right? Only when something's wrong.
"I don't know."
"Well, there's Christianity, Catholic, Muslim—"
"I know religions. I just... don't know."
He let that sit for a second. "You've gone your entire life without religion? In the Midwest of all things? Religion's the only thing around here to look forward to."
"Only if you're a pedophile."
I hoped that joke landed. Otherwise this was about to get really awkward.
The corpsman laughed. Loud. Sharp. The first real laugh I'd heard since all this started.
"Yeah, that's why I liked going to church so much."
We both laughed. It felt weird. Good, but weird. Like my face forgot how to do it.
"I'm joking, I'm joking," he said, waving his hand. "But really though. You're most likely going to die out there."
The laugh died in my chest.
I probably am going to die.
"Just a thing to think about, you know. I'll put 'no preference' if that's okay."
"Can I get a raincheck on that?"
He shook his head. "No."
"No preference, then."
"Alright."
He wrote it down. Looked up at me. Didn't look away right away.
"You're way more talkative than the other guys."
I didn't know what to say to that. Was that bad? Was that good?
He answered before I could figure it out.
"This is the easiest part of my job. I like to stretch it out as long as possible."
"Oh."
"Next!"
I got out of the way.
Walked past him toward the line of guys in their underwear waiting for the next thing. Whatever the next thing was. Tommy was staring at the floor. Kyle was rubbing his shoulder. Frank was leaning against the wall, trying to take weight off his leg.
I found my spot and stood there.