Memories

As I folded my clothes and tried to stack them neatly in the drawer, I glanced around the room and noticed Trainee Blank. Her drawer was immaculate, every item organized with meticulous care — a stark contrast to my own. She shot me a look of concern. Being bunkmates meant that if my stuff wasn’t in order, she’d also be the one getting woken up at 2 a.m. for inspections. With a loud thud, she jumped down from her bunk, her boots hitting the floor hard. They were always too tight for her feet, and she walked with a slight limp. Late at night, when she thought no one was watching, she’d pick at her ingrown nails. I think she believed she needed to physically feel the pain of her decision to be here.

“Hey, let me help you,” she said, her voice gentle but firm.

I nodded, feeling the awkwardness of being newly 18, just a week into adulthood, while she was at least ten years older. It was strange to be here, but not as strange as the reasons people joined a place like this. Most of us were just trying to escape our situations, told that our only purpose here was to kill and defend.

“You have to do it like this, and like that,” she instructed, folding everything meticulously. “And don’t sleep under the covers anymore. Learn to handle the cold. It’s just too much hassle to make the bed in the morning when you need to be out for PT.”

I scratched my head and asked, “How did you learn all this?”

“Well,” she replied, “I just practiced before coming in, then took a break from college, and, well, here I am.”

“Can you help me dismantle my rifle?” I asked hesitantly.

“Yeah, sure, but you have to remember the terms they will ask you. If you don’t know what is what, they’ll put you in the gas chamber without your mask,” she replied, quickly moving over to my chair. She expertly unbolted the charging handle, sliding it out smoothly, and set it aside. Next, she removed the bolt carrier group, separating the bolt from the carrier and placing them neatly on the chair. She worked with precision, removing the firing pin retaining pin and sliding out the firing pin. Then, she pulled out the cam pin and the bolt itself, each piece placed in perfect order.

She continued by detaching the upper receiver from the lower receiver, setting them apart carefully. She popped out the takedown and pivot pins, separating the lower receiver from the buffer tube assembly. Next, she pressed down on the buffer retainer, releasing the buffer and the buffer spring from the tube.

“See? It’s all about the sequence,” she said, removing the handguards and placing them next to the other parts. She unscrewed the barrel nut and slipped the barrel free from the upper receiver. Finally, she took off the gas tube and gas block, laying them next to the barrel.

“There you go,” she said, giving me a small smile. “Everything’s dismantled properly for inspection.”