Full Circle: 1978 - A Gallagher Girls Story

1978: Chapter One

He can't see much of anything in the mountains.

If a person stands at one end of Nebraska then they can, conceivably, see all the way to the other end without much strain. There might be a forest along the way that blocks the view, or maybe they get caught up in the occasional field of roadside sunflowers, but generally speaking: if there's a big enough tornado in Omaha, then it's likely to be seen from Hay Springs. Which is good, considering the fact that Hay Springs ain't got much to offer by way of sightseeing.

South Carolina is different. South Carolina is very, very different. This state is effortlessly devoured by its own darkness. Earth towers beyond the edge of sight. Rock overtakes even the stars as the mountains embrace the night, the inky absence somehow bleeding into his very eyes. The only respite exists in the form of fleeting glances, granted by the crescent moon as it casts a stark white glow against the tops of distant, blackened trees. But then the Appalachia consumes him once more and he returns to a void in which the shadows are his only company.

An intimately distant silence sinks deeper into every mindless second, filling him with this inexplicable urge to fall. Just fall. Because at least if he fell, he might reach some sort of edge to this vast nothingness and finally find peace among the vertiginous unknown.

His own insignificance is transparent. His meager existence means nothing to the mountains. He sits silently in the emptiness, encompassed by the inevitability of an eventual and finite end.

It's the squeal of the brakes that keys him back into the moment, tires crunching over a rough gravel drive. The slower the bus gets, the faster his heart races, beat, beat, beating against the backs of his eardrums. There's the slightest sense of shuffling around him—shoulders straightening, toes tapping, and the occasional courageous zipper. The bus settles with a hiss that cuts through the dense discomfort, and there's no going back now.

The lights flicker on above him and Matthew Morgan sees his own reflection staring back at him.

He's a sight for sore eyes, which is probably for the better considering the fact that sore eyes is exactly what tends to accompany the sudden interruption of 41 consecutive minutes in absolute darkness. Between the squinting and the stretching, he doesn't even have time to wonder what the Hell he's doing here before the doors at the beginning of the aisle rattle open.

That part will come later. The wondering. And it'll never stop coming, he's sure.

But for now, there's a man at the front of the bus who demands every ounce of attention that Matt's ever known himself to have. He's dressed in the same olive green garb that Matt's seen buried away at the back of his father's closet, except that this gentleman also wears a very tall, very round hat.

"Alright, listen up." His voice seems to echo before it even leaves his mouth. "I am a drill sergeant. Anyone you see wearing this hat is a drill sergeant. From now on, the last three words out of your mouth will either be 'Yes Drill Sergeant' or 'No Drill Sergeant.' Do you understand?"

The chorus of voices answers before Matt fully understands what's being said, sharp and short and synchronized. "Yes Drill Sergeant."

The man continues on without so much as an acknowledgement. He's not quite bored, but he is well practiced. This ain't the first time he's given this speech, and it won't be his last. "On behalf of the United States Army and your Commander-In-Chief President Carter, welcome to Fort Jackson, South Carolina."

The bus is split into freezers and fiddlers—folks either too scared to move, or too scared to stop. Matt finds himself leaning more towards the former than the latter, with sole exception of the steady tap of his fingertip against his pack.

The drill sergeant rolls through his orders as though he's got someplace better to be. As though he knows how to move mountains. "Here's what's gonna happen: first, when I tell you to get off my bus, females will exit first and stand on the vertical yellow lines to the left. Males, you will stand on the vertical yellow lines to the right, do you understand?"

Matt stumbles over his words this time, barely managing to spit out a, "Yes, sir," among the surrounding chant of, "Yes Drill Sergeant."

"Your bags will be in your left hand. Your paperwork will be in your right hand. Do you understand?"

"Yes Drill Sergeant."

Nailed it.

"Bags: left. Paperwork: right. Women: left. Men: right. You will have both of your heels together on the yellow vertical line. Do you understand?"

"Yes Drill Sergeant."

"You have two minutes to get off my bus—go."

In the same moment that the drill sergeant exits the bus, twenty-seven recruits rise from their seats with the kind of urgency and determination that only comes from very tall men giving very loud instructions. Matt's closer to the back of the bus than he is to the front, but even so, he's able to slide into the aisle in a matter of moments. Everything empties at a brisk pace compared to the usual inconvenient shuffle that he's used to back home. It's nine, ten, eleven steps before the rumble of an idling bus gives way to the yelling outside.

More booming voices call to the crowd with demands of quickness and efficiency. Move. Let's go. Faster. There is no welcome. There is no hello. Just a whole handful of new drill sergeants who look identical to the first, screaming in his ear and determined to tell him that he isn't good enough. That none of them are. And to get on the damn yellow line.

Boys file in front of him. More file behind. Round white lights blaze across the pavement, casting day across night, and the kid in front of Matt isn't quite tall enough to block their glare. Drill sergeants are even louder when they're standing on concrete, and the cacophony leaves him with the distinct and constant impression that he's doing something—everything—wrong.

Oh, God. What has he gotten himself into?

It's an actual prayer. Admittedly, those are pretty rare for him these days, which is a fact that seems especially inconvenient in the chill of that October evening. He thinks back on all the skipped Sundays. All the missed bible studies. All of the homilies he didn't pay enough attention to. He's cashing in on every last moment of his faith, and he can't help but feel like maybe he's coming up a little short on change.

One of the drill sergeants hones in on a boy that's just a few feet back, screaming about posture and pride and a hundred other things. The boy replies with a clear, "Yes Drill Sergeant," and Matt figures he could never be so brave.

Above all else, Matt only wants one, singular thing: he wants to blend in.

So he sinks into himself. He manifests invisibility. The drill sergeants weave through the ranks, ready to tear into the tiniest tick, but Matt doesn't move. He doesn't shift. In those moments, he's not a boy from Nebraska. He's not some kind of future soldier. He's not even Matthew Morgan. He just is, absently and purposelessly existing.

They tear into the kid in front of him. About thirty seconds later, they take a turn with the guy at his back. Matt, somehow, manages to go unnoticed.

It's that first drill sergeant who brings them all back, a flock of vultures flying back to their nest at the center of the platform. On the bus, he had been all strict and square and solid, but now, legs apart and hands clutched at his back, he seems looser.

Matt learns that night that there are many terrifying things in the world. The top of that list is a grinning drill sergeant.

At his rear, the bus hisses and the doors click shut. A strange sense of yearning lands at the center of Matt's chest as he hears it drive away and then, with delight in his tone, the drill sergeant says, "Ladies. Gentlemen. Welcome to Boot Camp."