Suddenly I sat up in bed.  I had been jarred awake by a glaring light and a terrible clatter.  Sergeant Kennedy had snapped on the light switch in our barracks and was pounding a metal garbage can with a crow bar.  This was our drill sergeant's gentle way of waking our platoon each morning at 5:30.  Instantly, the groans of thirty sleepy recruits were added to the clamor.  My muscles ached from our field maneuvers the previous day, and I longed to stay in my bunk. 

 

          It was August 1968, and my six weeks of boot camp at Fort Dix were drawing to a close.  It was difficult to believe I had just graduated from Jefferson High in Atlanta in June.  The Vietnam War was at its worst, and the army had wasted no time in drafting me.  I was a smart kid, but my parents had not saved a penny for my college education; I had no hope of a college deferment.  I tried telling my draft board I was gay, which was the truth, but they didn't believe me.  In those days, guys would do or say anything to stay out of the war.  Rather than wait to be drafted, my best friend, Scott Campbell, and I enlisted to get a better chance of a post other than the front lines.  Unfortunately, so did Greg Bulling, nicknamed “Bull,” who had bullied me all through school.  He still blamed me for a brutal paddling Coach Anders had given him our sophomore year.  The hairy, blonde jock was nearly three years older than the rest of our class, which only made him seem more intimidating.

 

          As I lay on my right side in the lower bunk, Scott Campbell jumped down from the upper bunk and began making his bed.  This gave me a full frontal view of his naked young body, and I decided to enjoy the show.  Although he had bright blue eyes and a fair complexion, he had tanned beautifully in the summer sun.  His strawberry blonde hair was buzzed “high ‘n’ tight.”  I could still remember the mortified look on his face our second day in camp as he sat in the barber chair next to mine.  Now, I watched transfixed as his nuts swung inches from my face while he worked to perfect the military corners of the blanket on the upper bunk.  I caught a whiff of the unique scent of a man's genitals before he squatted beside my bed.  The muscles of his powerful thighs rippled from the strain of this position.

 

          He said, "Come on, Bill Miller, you lazy fucker, get your ass out of bed before you get us all in deep shit!"  He turned and bent over to pick up his black rubber shower sandals.  Scott's bubble butt was smooth and white as marble compared to the golden skin on his lower back.  The dark line that divided it into two perfect hemispheres hinted at the mysteries beyond.

 

          Not yet fully awake, I swung my own long, hairy legs out of my bunk and shoved my feet into my flip-flops.  As I leaned over to do this, my two metal "dog tags" jingled from the chain around my neck.  I could still hear our drill sergeant's voice booming inside my head.  "If I ever catch any of you gopher balls without your dog tags, I'll run your worthless asses all night!"         

 

          My morning erection strained at the fabric of my olive drab boxer shorts as I shuffled toward the large room full of toilets shared by the entire platoon.  Twenty-four toilets were arranged in four rows of six in the middle of the room without a thought of privacy, and on every one sat a naked recruit with his own roll of toilet paper.  As soon as Steve Adams stood up, Scott Campbell took his place.  To my left was a big circular urinal near the shower room.  Recruits were packed around the trough, and the tinkling sound of their piss streams mixed with the sounds of the showers behind me.  As I waited for my turn, I studied the muscular legs and backs in front of me.

 

          Joe Morgan's legs were definitely the biggest as well as the blackest.  Although the Army forced total integration in the barracks, the whites enforced an invisible barrier between the races.  The black recruits kept to themselves, and the mystery that surrounded them made them seem all the more erotic to me.  Joe turned around while still shaking his enormous black penis.  The head seemed bright pink in contrast to the dark shaft, which was marked by a thin, pink scar that remained from his recent circumcision.  The army insisted that all recruits be cut, and any draftee who still had his foreskin didn't keep it for long.  The day we arrived at boot camp we were lined up and checked.  Three recruits, all of them black, were taken away and circumcised despite their loud protests.  Apparently, the procedure was done using only a local anesthetic.  When it wore off, the men complained bitterly for pain medication, but none was given.  Joe said he was told pain pills weren't given for “minor surgery.”

 

          I wedged myself into the narrow space he had occupied.  My bare shoulders brushed against those of the massive black recruits on either side of me.  Remembering they were the other two soldiers who got snipped, I studied their cocks carefully.  No trace of foreskin remained to cover the large, pink heads that spouted strong, steady streams of gold.  As the piss drained from my own cock, I suddenly remembered that today was the dreaded day.

 

          According to Sergeant Kennedy, we would strip to the waist and then march over to the infirmary to receive our "full military series."  This was the complete set of five injections given to all new recruits at the end of basic training.  Our sergeant explained that the army waited until we were ready for our three-week leave because our arms would be too sore for PT, and the shots could make some of us slightly sick for a few days.  The army was always so considerate.  Worst of all, the "full military series" included a new small pox vaccination that was rumored to hurt like hell.  I had dreaded it for years.

 

          Now my time had come.  I stood in line behind Scott.  His closely cropped hair shone like copper in the sunlight, and I studied the intricacies of the freckles on his powerful neck and shoulders.  I noticed his childhood vaccination scar in the exact center of his left shoulder.  It was perfectly round and not quite the size of a penny.  I counted five puncture marks around its perimeter.  I began wondering about specifics I had not considered before.  Would the medics put our new scar over the top of our old scar?  Probably not, since the army never gave anyone a break.

 

          The line moved up and I followed Scott through the door of the infirmary.  A medic grabbed his freckled right arm and swabbed it from the shoulder to the elbow with alcohol.  I hated the smell of alcohol because I had associated it since childhood with the needle that inevitably followed.  As he stepped forward, the same medic now began swabbing my arm.  At first it felt cold, but soon it began to sting as it was rubbed deeply into my sunburned arm.  Another medic pointed a needle at Scott’s arm and gave him a jab.  He jumped as the liquid passed into his arm.   Another serious looking medic grabbed the same arm and jabbed him again.  I felt a sharp piercing of my right triceps, then felt the burning deep inside my arm muscle.  An aching moved slowly down my arm toward my fingers as I felt the second jab just below the first.  As I took my third shot, I realized Scott had dropped his pants and boxers to his knees and was bending over to grab his ankles.  His smooth, pale ass was lightly freckled, and the skin glistened as alcohol was generously applied.  The medic placed his left hand gently on Scott’s tan back and jabbed the first syringe into his right cheek.  He then pushed the large, red plunger down unmercifully as Scott yelled, "OUCH!  That burns!"  He laid the needle aside and picked up another with a bright blue plunger.  He quickly stuck this in Scott’s exposed left cheek and injected the vaccine.

 

          "Oh!  That burns! Oh! OH!" was his reaction.  He reached back with both hands and rubbed his naked buttocks vigorously.  "Man!  Could you jab it in any harder?" he asked the medic angrily.

 

          "Sure," said the dark, beefy medic.  "Want me to try?"

 

          I had dropped my pants and could feel the air on my exposed butt.  As Scott pulled up his shorts, I stepped forward and stood there watching him.

 

          "Bend over and grab your ankles!" barked the medic, who was now a little irritated.  He quickly swabbed my ass and jabbed the needles in.  These must have been the shots for jungle diseases that I had heard rumors about, for they burned like fire and kept my ass throbbing for days.  As I tugged at my shorts, I remembered that the worst was yet to come.   

         

          About a hundred feet ahead, I could see two rows, each with four metal chairs.  One row was facing away and the other row was facing us.  I knew I was getting my first look at the infamous chairs where recruits were given smallpox vaccinations.  A cold shiver ran down my back when I realized for the first time that the chairs had restraints attached.  From the back of each seat bottom hung a pair of black leather cuffs with heavy snaps used to secure a recruit’s wrists behind his lower back as he sat in the chair.  In each chair sat a shirtless recruit with his deltoids and triceps protruding from the angle at which the restraints forced his arms behind him.  To the left of each recruit, an army medic sat on a stool with wheels.  Behind each chair stood an MP responsible for fastening the restraints and keeping the recruit still while he was vaccinated.  The MP’s were some of the most muscular soldiers I had seen so far.  There were plenty of them, and they looked ready to prevent any trouble.  I knew the procedure was going to hurt, but this set up stopped just short of resembling a torture chamber.  Sergeants and corporals stood nearby where they could get a good view of each recruit as he received his "soldier's mark," as the scar was often called.

 

          Although his back was to me, I was sure the boot in the first chair was Greg Bulling, or “Bull,” the one who had bullied me in school and had continued to do so the first few days in camp until Scott Campbell had "taken care of it."  I recognized the large tattoo of an eagle over his right shoulder blade.  I was glad I had the best view of him, but I really wished I could see his face.

 

          Like most of them, his medic was in his mid twenties and had likely gotten this Stateside post by re-enlisting for a sizable bonus.   I could tell the medic had a huge upper body even through his uniform.  The short sleeves were tight at the biceps and revealed strong, hairy forearms.  He lifted Bull’s dog tags from his hairy chest and compared the data to a printed list.  The two tags jingled together as he dropped them back into the mat of platinum hair between Bull’s pink nipples.  He calmly picked up a plastic object from a box and twisted the end until it snapped off.  I assumed this was the “bifurcated scarifier” I had heard about.   Its recent invention would spare us the even more painful rotary lancet.  Bull twisted his wrists in the restraints as if checking to be sure he couldn’t move.  The medic turned on his stool, slipped his left hand around Bull’s arm just above his elbow and held the needle in his right hand.  He aimed it at the center of Bull’s large shoulder muscle, and then began jabbing about once a second with a steady rhythm.   I must admit I enjoyed watching as he suddenly began to grunt and twist in his chair.   As the medic beside him began to increase the rapid motion near his left shoulder, he jerked at the wrist restraints to no avail.  I wanted my revenge, and I really enjoyed seeing how much it hurt him.  The huge MP behind him stepped forward and placed his strong hands on the boot's shoulders to prevent him from sliding sideways in the chair.  Suddenly, he threw his head back, and I saw the face of the bastard who had made my first week of “basic” even more hellish.  His eyes were squeezed shut, and his jaw was locked.  I knew he was as macho as they came, and he would never act like that if he weren’t in agony.  I was reminded of the day I watched our high school coach give him twelve swats on his bare ass.

 

          "Oh!  Son of a bitch!  MY ARM!" cried the helpless hunk.  “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!!!”

 

          "Hold still, soldier.  It's almost over," shouted the medic.

 

          By now the other seven guys were getting theirs.  They grunted and yelled obscenities as they too twisted in their chairs.  Wide plastic bandages were hastily slapped over thick gauze pads on their left shoulders, and it was done.  A scar on each man's left shoulder would record this day for the rest of his life.  As soon as they stood and walked out a side door, eight more reluctant recruits took their seats.  Scott and I were now the next two in line.

 

          I watched Scott begin to tremble as we stood watching eight of our buddies squirm and grunt profanities.  My heart was pounding and my stomach was burning.  I tried to relax, but there was no way.  Scott walked to the first chair, and I followed him automatically.  The metal chair felt cold and uncomfortable against the bare skin on my back.  It was then that I noticed the chair was securely bolted to the floor.  As I sat down, I realized Steve Adams, who had been behind me, had not moved.  The third medic pointed to the empty chair and said, "Sit down and make yourself comfortable, soldier."

 

          As Steve sat down, I felt the MP grab my wrists in his powerful hands and saw my medic rip open the foil around an alcohol swab.  I looked to my right to avoid watching him, and saw the next medic already held a scarifier and was studying Scott’s freckled shoulder for the best site.  Faster and faster the needle danced among the freckles as it did its work.  My friend’s face showed his suffering as he began to grunt with the pain of each sharp jab.

 

          The medic was checking my dog tags.  I could smell the alcohol and feel its coolness on my left deltoid.  My mind worked frantically for a way to avoid my fate.  I remembered that they would only delay your vaccination if you had a medical excuse, such as an infection.  I looked at the young medic for the first time.  He was about twenty-three, and his face was framed by his high ‘n’ tight buzz cut.  His dog tags had fallen out of his shirt and jingled on his olive drab uniform.  I said, “I don’t think I should do this today.  I have a sinus infection.”

 

          “Sure.  Every recruit has an infection. Yesterday, we did second lieutenants fresh from the ROTC camp.  They were all sick.”

          “No, really, it’s true.”

          “So you’re telling me you want to be examined.”

          “Uh, yes.  I think I should be.”

          He yelled to another medic, “Hey, doc.  Come check out this guy.”

          The other medic turned, and I could see lieutenant’s bars on the collar of his uniform.  He walked over and asked, “What’s the story?”

          “Says he has a sinus infection.”

 

          The army doctor put a thermometer in my mouth, and listened to my lungs with his stethoscope.  He wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my right arm.  As he pumped air into the cuff, it tightly squeezed the arm that had just received three painful injections until I could barely keep from screaming.

 

Suddenly, I heard Steve Adams crying over and over, “Son of a bitch, it hurts...Son of a bitch.  Oh, son of a bitch!”

 

Then the doctor looked at the thermometer, glanced at the medic, and simply said,  “Vaccinate.”  He said it as if the word meant nothing at all, but to me it meant pain and an ugly scar.  He walked away, and I knew my idea had failed.  Instantly, the MP grabbed my wrists and secured them this time.

 

          I looked at the medic who took a plastic syringe from a box and twisted one end until the plastic snapped.  He pulled off the plastic cover, and I could see a pair of one-inch needles with barbed tips protruding from the end.  A drop of oily liquid ran down each needle and clung to its tip.  The sight was too much for my emotions.  In a desperate voice I pleaded, “No, please, I don’t want one!”

 

          The medic answered in a down-home accent, “There ain’t never been a soldier who did.  We all know these needles is right sharp.”  He lifted the sleeve of his uniform until the corporal stripes were hidden, and I saw a small scar, a large scar, and a huge scab clustered on his enormous shoulder.  “But every five years, no soldier gets a choice.”  Then in a flat, mechanical tone of voice, he said, “Don’t tense like that.  Just let your arm relax.”

 

I felt the hands of the MP behind me press down hard on my shoulders, and the medic gripped my left biceps so hard it hurt.  I looked straight into the medic’s eyes and again begged, “No, please don’t.”

 

          He paused and answered gruffly, “Don’t eye ball me, soldier.  This here’s from the army.  I got to do this.  You got to get this.  Now hold still, or you’ll just make it tear worse.”  He gripped my arm even harder and began to jab my shoulder just below my childhood scar.

 

          At first it only seemed a mild irritation, but quickly a burning began to spread through my shoulder.  It supposedly took about one minute, but time seemed to slow down, and I felt as if I had been in the chair forever.  Deeper and deeper the scarifier penetrated my muscle as chills ran down my spine.  I heard grunts and cries from both sides of me, but my eyes were now squeezed closed.  I could no longer focus on anything except the dull ache moving slowly down my arm toward my fingers.  My left arm began to throb rhythmically with the beat of my heart.  The twin needles seemed ready to come out the other side of my body, and I could endure it no more.

 

I yelled, "Shit, my arm, my arm.  Stop, please stop!" as I twisted to the right.  I felt a firm grip on my right arm as an MP shoved me back toward the tormenting pain. 

 

There was a break in the sharp, piercing agony.  The country voice said, “It’s half done, soldier.  You ain’t gonna puke, are you?”

 

I shook my head, and the agony returned.  My right calf began to cramp badly, adding to my misery.  I pressed my foot into the floor trying to make it stop.  The spot on my shoulder felt like it was being seared with a hot branding iron.  I was totally out of control as I screamed, “FUCK THAT HURTS!  FUCK!”  But then I sensed the softness of gauze against the fire in my left shoulder followed by the stickiness of a plastic bandage.  The medic said without a trace of emotion, “You’re done, soldier.”  Then a little louder he yelled, “Sarge, I can take one over here.”  As I stood, the MP held my arm in case I felt faint.  “You’re not gonna faint on me, buddy?” 

 

          “No,” I stammered through tightly controlled tears.  As I struggled not to cry, I saw Tim McDermot walking toward my empty chair with a terrified look on his face.  In a mindless daze, I instinctively followed Scott’s muscular, freckled back out the side door into the sunlight.  Behind me, I heard McDermot say frantically, “No, wait!  Not with that thing.  Please, no!”

 

          Our company stood outside the building in small clusters.  Steve Adams and Scott talked quietly beside the flagpole.  As I approached, Scott smiled at me in embarrassment and said with emphasis, "That fucking hurt, dude, that fucking HURT!"

 

          "Oh, man, you're not kidding," I said.  "I've had plenty of shots before, but I never felt anything like that in my life."

 

           “God damn, man, they jab you with that needle thing like mad!” Scott said as he pulled his bandage off to examine the damage.  "Fuck, look at that mess.  Now I won't be pretty any more," he joked.

 

          "Jenny won't want to sleep with you when you get home," I said of his high school sweet heart.

 

          "Fucking bastards.  I really think they enjoy it."

   

          I walked back to our barracks with Scott and Steve Adams.  Steve was one of the nicest guys in camp, but I had always thought of the blonde as pale and scrawny.  In fact, he was the only one in our platoon who I thought might also be gay.  For the first time, I noticed the effects of six weeks of intense physical training on Steve's body.  He had begun to tan slightly, and his arms had developed beautifully. 

 

          We walked past a long line of young, shirtless soldiers waiting for their shots.  A short, muscular one yelled, "Hey, Scott!  Did it hurt?"

 

          "No!" he shouted back.  "You can hardly feel it!"

         

          Bull caught up with us as we entered the barracks.  He spoke to Scott, but it seemed clear he was addressing all of us.  "I'm organizing a circle jerk for 09:00.  Ya interested?"

 

          "Sure," said Scott, "I'm horny as hell.  Where's it gonna be?"

 

          "We'll meet behind the barracks, then jog out to the old rifle range.  I cleared it with Sergeant Kennedy."

 

          "How could you do that?" I asked.

 

          "I just told him we wanted to practice our shooting, which basically is true."

 

          "And he believed you?" Steve asked.

 

          "I doubt it.  He probably knows exactly which guns we'll be shooting.  Why should he care?  This is our last day, and they’re letting us rest after all those shots."

 

          "But what if we get caught?" I asked.

 

          "We'll be on the base and where we're supposed to be.  That's all they care about.  I never heard of a soldier getting a court martial for popping his nuts.  They wouldn't have a fucking army left."  As usual, Bull made perfect sense in his ignorant way. 

 

          We reached the grassy clearing in the woods and began to spread out our blankets in a circle.  I could hardly believe this was happening, but when young guys get horny enough they will do just about anything.  It was almost impossible to masturbate in the barracks.  By forming a pact to do it together, no one could make fun of anyone else.  Tee shirts were pulled up and off, and boots and socks were yanked from hot, sweaty feet.

 

          "Okay, guys, time to pay up," Bull said.  "We each put in twenty bucks, and the last one to shoot gets the money.  The first one to cum gets the paddle.  Once we start stroking, you're allowed to slow down but not completely stop.  You can say whatever you want to get a guy off."

 

          I hadn’t expected this bizarre game, but coming from Bull, it didn’t surprise me.  Since I had never mingled with guys like him in high school, I really didn’t know how they acted.  He went around collecting the twenties, and then stuffed the wad of money into his boot, which he placed in the center of the circle.  Next to his boot, he placed a wooden paddle that had been wrapped in his blanket.  It had some holes drilled in it and had adhesive tape around the handle.  I can’t imagine where Bull had gotten it.  He walked to his blanket and lay down almost directly across from where I now lay.  The bottoms of our feet were separated only by a few inches.

 

          "Leave a little space beside you," he said.  "We ain't fags, and I don't want any of you fuckers shooting off on me."

 

          Steve Adams spread out his blanket and lay down next to me.  Scott Campbell lay down next to Steve.  I felt the warmth of Steve's hairy leg against mine, and I looked over at him.  He gave me a look that said more than words.  He reached down and took hold of his manhood with his right hand.

 

          He spoke quietly to me.  "Oh, man, am I horny.  I bet it's been at least a week."

 

          "Yeah, me, too," I said.

 

          Scott grunted to the group, "Shit, I wish I had a soft, wet pussy to fuck."

 

          To my total amazement, Steve whispered in my ear, "I'd rather have you."

 

          I looked at him not sure what to say.  He looked scared that my reaction might not be what he hoped for.  I smiled at him and said loudly, "Oh, man, me, too."  Everyone assumed I was agreeing with my buddy Scott.  Only Steve knew what I really meant.  His fearful look immediately changed to gleeful, and he began to rub his soft nipples.

 

          I looked around the circle at the ten naked young men stroking themselves.  Directly across from me lay Bull, my tormenting, sexy nemesis.  I extended my feet enough to touch the bottoms of his bare feet with mine, but he paid no attention.  His eyes were closed, and he was deep in fantasy.  His feet and ankles were white where his boots and socks had blocked the sun, but the rest of his hairy legs were golden from the sun.  He spread his legs wider and accidentally brushed against the leg of the soldier next to him, who quickly moved away.  His cock was stiff in his strong, masculine hand as it moved slowly up and down his erection.  He opened his eyes and looked at me, but only said, "Oh, yeah, Miller.  Can't you just see her big, pink tits?"

 

          "Yeah, Bull," I said as I gazed at his handsome face.  "I sure can.  And her pale, slim legs."  I looked directly at Steve, whose leg still pressed against mine.

 

          Bull curled the toes on his big, masculine feet, and panted, "Can't you just see her sweet, young ass as she stands in the bathroom naked, Campbell.  Or the way her cunt twitches as she lowers herself onto your hard-on." 

 

I could hear Scott off to one side as he began to breathe faster and faster.  "Damn you, Bull.  You're making me cum."

 

          “That’s the idea,” Bull replied with a devilish chuckle.

 

          I looked over just in time to see Scott point his toes straight down, tensing the muscles in his long, tan legs.  His boyish face was contorted with the pleasure that almost looks like agony.  His head began to thrash from side to side as his right hand pumped his rod so fast it was a blur.  He grunted, "Uhng, uhng, uhng," as a white jet of semen shot into the air and fell onto his firm chest.

 

          "Good, Campbell," said Bull.  "You were the first to cum.  I've wanted to kick your ass with a paddle ever since you tried to give our D.I. the finger behind his back, and he had us digging a ditch all night."