[50--The Hexagon-We]

There is a building on Offutt ASC, called the Hexagon. 

I have no doubts some clever architect, seeking to make a name for heomself decided to call it that after the famous military complex with four walls and a spare, located in Washington, D.C.

I spent all of the next day in that building.

The Hexagon is the Peace Corps administrative center and is the core of the Corps, so to speak.  It's also huge.

The morning was full of paperwork, and a review of my medical records, which had already been forwarded, in anticipation of my arrival.

"So you are a neuter," the RN who was interviewing me asked.  She was quite old, well over sixty, and looked rather decrepit.  Her nametag said her name was Willow Ward.

"Yes," I explained, not being used to people who even knew neuters existed.  "I'm a Rarebit."

"Yes.  So it seems.  Any health problems related to the condition?"

"I don't think so, unless you mean a severe tendency not to break down in hysterics every twenty-nine days."

"No," she said sourly, "I didn't mean that."

"Do you see many Rarebits?"

"We see a few—mostly in the field, and mostly very young.  There are more in Africa and Southeast Asia than anywhere else, because of the pattern of Rarin use."

Wow!  She seemed remarkably well-informed.  I guess this was all routine to them.

She took several more minutes reading my chart and flipped it closed.

"Well, you seem remarkably healthy Danielle.  What do you prefer to be called?"

"Dani."

"Okay, Dani.  Having found nothing wrong with you, I'm going to pass you on to the next stage."

She signed a form and stamped it, then put it in my chart.

"Here, take these to Medical Records.  They'll make a copy for you while you wait.  You are to keep a copy with you whenever you travel, and at any post to which you are assigned."

"So what's after that?"

"Dental exam and x-rays, and immunizations.  Be prepared for lots of shots."

***

Dental was routine, and immunizations were painful, but easily enough endured.  I got done just in time for lunch.

The food was bland but certainly serviceable.  I found I missed Topher's culinary excellence.

There were six or seven of us from the previous night all huddled together at a table.  Master Baldwin saw us and sat down with his tray.

"Good morning babies," he misquoted, "welcome to Earth."

"Good morning, Master," I replied, hoping overuse of his lofty title would make him ask me to call him familiar.

"Good morning, Genie."

Clever.

"How are you doing, Heywood?"

He knew my name.  I wasn't sure how; we'd spent little time with him this since our introduction last night.

"Fine," I admitted. 

We ate in silence for a moment.

"Say, Theo," I said, trying out a little boldness.  "I have some paperwork that my recruiter gave me, told me to sign it and give it over at Offutt.  Who do I give it to?"

"You have it with you?"

"Yes, it's in my satchel."  I dug it out.

"Let me see those."  He looked them over briefly.  "Yes, we'd wondered where those got off to.  Take 'em with you and give 'em to the next clerk you see.  "

"So what's next?"

"You had your shots?"

"Yes."

"And your x-rays?  They need to have pictures of those pearly whites, just in case that's all there is left if you get blown to bits by incontinent ordnance, or a crocodile eats you."

"Thanks."

"No sweat.  It's one of the many services we offer.  Aptitude tests are next—though I suspect you will skip that step—and then assignment of specialty and creation of your training regimen.

"You in some kind of a hurry, Heywood?"

"No, Master."

"Good," he laughed.  "I think I'll keep you a while."

***

The 'next clerk' turned out to be a Third Class named Hickam who looked even younger than me.  I wondered if he was a Rarebit, but I'd already learned not to ask personal questions.  They didn't like it in the Peace Corps.

I handed him my papers and he looked them over carefully.

"You speak all these languages," he asked incredulously. 

"Yes."

"I find that hard to believe."

"My high-school transcripts are in my records.  Have a look if you don't believe me."

"No," he said, stamping the forms Tipper had given me and handed me a copy back.  "You're done here."

"No testing?"

"Why," he asked.  "You already know it all."

Smart ass.

***

My last stop was uniforms.  I'd expected a great big Duffel, full of all nature of clothing appropriate for any climate.

Instead they issued me a list and sent me to a warehouse.  It was divided in two, presumably symmetrical, halves, each serving one of the two major sexes.  I went through the women's side.

The first item on the list was DUFFEL, 1 EA., POWDER BLUE.

I handed the list to the clerk behind the counter.  He checked off the first three items and handed me a smallish package.

There was indeed a Duffel bag inside, but it was smaller than any I'd ever seen.  Robbie's books from the Great War showed similar short bags.  I believe they were used originally for paratroops. 

It was about a foot square by eighteen inches tall.  I wondered why so small.

Besides the bag, the package also contained a haversack with two side pockets, two laundry pens, a sewing kit, and a paint pen.  I had no idea what to do with that.

The next stop was undershirts, grey, and fatigues.  I had to strip down for fitting.  The clerk at that station did yeoman's service to find uniforms that fit me, but eventually, I had two pairs of trousers, two short-sleeved and one long-sleeved fatigue shirts, all in powder blue.

The next stop netted me a web belt, a garrison cap, and a field cap that looked remarkably like a kepi.

Finally, I got to the last station, boots.  My list specified jungle boots, so I had to wait for almost an hour before they could find a pair in size 3, extra narrow.  They gave them over with seven pairs of black cotton socks.

I stuffed them in my bag, which was now about full, and slung the boots, laces tied together, the way I'd seen the other recruits carrying them.

I was just about to leave, when a Third Class in a dress uniform, flagged me down and told me I wasn't finished.

All the others had already left, so I asked him why.

"Because," he explained, "you have to get your rank insignia."

"What rank insignia?  I'm a recruit."

"Not according to this, you're not."  He had another copy of my uniform issue list in his hand.  "I've got you listed as a Temporary Translator, Third Class."

He took me back into the insignia room, where I'd already gotten my shield pins for my collar, and took three pairs of insignia from a bin.

They were silver pins, shaped like the Rosetta Stone, but simplified with a score on the face separating two letters:  one an English 'a', the other a Greek 'alpha'.  Each was set on a blue felt backing shaped like a hysteresis loop.

"You need to sew the backing to your sleeve, centered half way between the tip of your elbow and the crown of your shoulder, for the long-sleeves, and two inches above the cuff on the short-sleeves.  They'll expect to see everyone in uniform by dinner time."

***

I hate sewing.  I'm as bad at it as Gina is good, and I've always managed to pay, bribe, harass or harangue my little sister into doing it for me.

Besides the blue patches, I had to hem the cuffs of my pants, only one of which I managed to finish before supper, and re-sew a few buttons that had failed me.

"Third Class Heywood," Master Baldwin called out when I saw him at dinner, "looking good.  Have you been assigned a camp yet?"

"Camp?"

"Yes."  He dug into his potatoes and blew on them.  "You do know you're not staying in the Hexagon for the next four years?"

"Certainly," I said, "but I was under the impression that I was headed for Camp Winsome.  You made it sound like I might go somewhere else."

He whistled.

"Somewhere else.  That's a good way to put it."

"I don't understand," I told him simply.

"No," he took a bite of his food.  "I don't suppose you would.  What I meant, was, have they decided where to send you yet?  Some of these kids are still in phase I testing and won't know whether they're going to be an orderly in Kamchatka, or scrubbing bedpans in Tristan de Cuhna."

"I know where the Kamchadal are from, but where is Tristan de Cuhna?"

"In the South Atlantic.  So far South you can smell penguins.  Hope you don't go there."

"I'm not," I said, matter-of-factly.  "I'm going to Guatemala."

"Oh yeah, that's right," he said, as if that jogged his memory.  "You're the one with the walking papers."

"Walking papers?"

"Yeah, an offer to skip most or all of Winsome and go to the field at a brevet rank.  You sure don't see them often.  Does it have anything to do with your new badges?"  He looked pointedly at them.

"Yes, it does," I told him proudly.  "I speak seven languages fluently, and am learning several others."

"Well don't that just purdy?"

"Excuse me?"

"Old Cajun saying.  Congratulations, Heywood.  I'm sure you'll pan out."