Red Jungle by Kent Harrington Page B

curtain, and slid his feet over his bed. The boys were standing near the door.
    “Close the door,” Russell said. One of the smallest boys closed the door behind him, and they all came closer.
    Officers had the best rooms, and only one roommate. Younger boys lived four to a room.
    “At ease, gentlemen.” There was, despite everything, a true military order to the boys’ lives. They respected the Lieutenant deeply, as Russell had when he first arrived. The boys didn’t really relax. “What’s the problem?” Russell asked. The PFC stepped forward, a real tow-head who wasn’t afraid of much and who would one day die in Lebanon. (Several of Russell’s schoolmates would die in the armed forces.)
    “The Greek’s coming down onto the first floor at night, sir. He tries to do stuff . . . to the younger boys.” He spoke as if he wasn’t one of them.
    “What kind of stuff?” Russell asked. He knew what kind, or at least he suspected that he knew, but he had to be certain what he was dealing with.
    The boy turned away and looked at his friends. No one who hasn’t been through it understands what happens to children who are forced to leave home at an early age. They mature and they make new bonds, bonds that may be even stronger than the familial ones they’ve been forced to break (this break is very profound). Ironically, this new family was what would make them good soldiers later. The military was their mother and father.
    The boy looked Russell in the eye. “He . . . you know, wants to touch.” The boy started to turn crimson. His friends looked everywhere but at Russell.
    “I get it,” Russell said. He held his hand up.
    “We’ve spoken to the house mother, Mrs. Crimp, but she hasn’t done anything about it, sir. She’s always asleep when he comes down.” Russell watched the boys nod in unison.
    Lisa Crimp had been a dottering old shrew who smelled of lilac water and fish when he’d been on the first floor years before; she couldn’t have gotten any better with age. Her biggest concern was that sick boys not bother her during the day, when she was watching soap operas. God help you if you ventured into her room then. She’d cuff you and tell you to get out. If you told anyone, it was your word against hers. She was his first lesson in fascism.
    Russell stood up and went to the little bookcase he shared with his roommate. He slid his copy of Dana’s Two Years Before The Mast in with the other books he’d collected. He turned and looked at the boys, and saw the time. Taps would play in a few minutes, and if they weren’t in their rooms, their house mother would give them five demerits.
    Demerits were not just a silly way of dehumanizing children; they were a real scorecard. If boys got too many during the week, those who lived close enough couldn’t leave the school to spend the weekend at home. For the boys who rarely went home, like Russell, demerits meant they couldn’t leave the school to go to the shopping center on Saturday, to see a film or meet girls or play pick-up basketball. You would be confined to the school. Nothing was more horrible or lonely than those hours after the movie let out, as they made their way back in groups through the Saturday evening streets, with their sidewalks lined with homes. Each step carried its own kind of disappointment and the promise of a better day, when they would be in charge of their lives.
    Russell always felt stupidest on Saturdays, and dehumanized on Sundays by the trip to church to listen to old men prattle on about something they called God. God didn’t go to school with them, so who gave a shit about him?
    Russell waited for Paterson to get back from playing taps. Paterson and he went back to their first days here, in the second grade. Paterson’s mother had died that year, and he wasn’t talking much. His taps were lovely, soft, pitiful things.
    Russell watched Paterson put the trumpet down on his desk. He pulled the mouthpiece out, as he always