It’s been a while, but I was explaining a story in the locker room while—you know what, it doesn’t matter. Here’s another story:

In basic training I was the Platoon Guide (trainee leader) of second platoon. We had a couple of really good drill sergeants, and I even happened to run into one of them years later while training up for a deployment. We were walking into the PX, he was walking out. A fun coincidence that nobody else really cares about except me.

One of our drill sergeants, though, was a short-timer, getting out just as soon as our cycle ended. He was still relatively youthful and energetic, chill as far as drill sergeants go, and well-liked. I remember he was bored one night while he was on CQ duty and had an impromptu singing competition to see who would be able to sing the National Anthem at our graduation. I think he must have made it up or the idea got nixed or something, because I don’t remember anybody singing at our graduation. After a couple trainees sang (badly) he belted out a pretty damn good rendition himsel, so I’ll call him DS Songbird.

One fateful night we had already been released for the evening. I immediately hit the shower to maximize my free time and be able to hit bed just as soon as lights out started. We had big communal showers, full of steam, sound, good-natured banter, and not a stitch of clothing in sight—but suddenly the sound just stopped. In an instant, everything was still except for the sound of running water. I turned around to see DS Songbird standing in the middle of the doorway to the showers, boots getting slightly splashed but untroubled by such a minor inconvenience, and everybody else was already at a perfectly disciplined position of parade rest… As if it weren’t a major taboo to be flashing six or eight small caliber arms at a drill sergeant at least three ranks senior to every one of us. (I don’t remember if there were six shower heads or eight. It’s not that important, get over it.)

DS Songbird’s face didn’t give a hint that this was anything other than the most routine of interactions. Six or eight private’s privates staring at him? Must be Tuesday. He looked over at me and calmly said, “Private PREasy, you’re the platoon guide, right? I forgot to put out a couple things…” He listed off a few minor issues: church services schedule for Sunday, or gear necessary for the following day, maybe nuclear launch codes, who knows? I was a little mentally off-balance.

He finished up, said something like, “That’s all, carry on” and walked out. The room immediately erupted into laughter, which I’m pretty sure was what he was going for, and I finished my shower simply grateful that I hadn’t said or done anything to merit shower PT now that I knew for a fact that showers were not magically Dril Sergeant free.