Rogue Messiah:The Philisophical Wanderer by Stewart N. Taba Chapter 2 Pgs. 15-17

     Six or seven years later, I was in basic training at Fort Bening, Georgia, and I could sense a daily testing of my mettle at the age of nineteen. There was this drill corporal named Stout from the deep south who targeted me for his special scrutiny. (I thought the lean, fit soldier was training to become a drill sergeant, but he actually was just out of basic training himself, and I think he just went on to his first assigned base after the three- month training ended.) He always seemed ready to verbally pounce on me whenever I let my guard down. :-[ (Emoticon sideways meaning I am unhappy.)
     One day, my platoon was at a field-training site standing in line and Corporal Stout was watching our group. I heard him ask another Japanese recruit from Hawaii, "Are you a Jap?" That other guy passed it off as a joke, but I told myself if Corporal Stout asked me the same, I'd say, "Corporal Stout, 'Jap' is a racial slur I don't cater to;if you want to settle this man to man, just take off your stripes and we can--though I think we're one man short."
     When the line moved forward, I was standing right beside Stout, but he said nothing-just kinda sized me up. When the three month cycle ended, I thought about telling him off but didn't. :-\ (Emoticon sideways meaning I am resolved.)
     Then there was this time in basic where we got to go to a weekend night ballgame in Columbus. The drill sergeant in charge allowed only some of us to go to the stadium concessions stand, and I was one who went. A couple of East coast men in my platoon asked me to pick up some snacks for them and I said sure. I should have stopped at that, but a handful of recruits from other training groups begged me to pick up stuff for them. Before I knew it, I was in way over my head, and I was unable to fulfill all the orders. :-\  I got dirty looks from the guys whose orders I failed to get, and the East Cost guys in my platoon groused that I should have prioritized them, since they were in my platoon. I felt under the gun, but Moore, an African American recruit whose bunk was across mine, later assured me that I had done nothing wrong. In fact, Moore said the East coast recruits were in the wrong for getting pissed at me. Apparently hearing this sentiment after awhile-or arriving on it themselves-they confirmed that I had acted properly. "You're a good man, Taba," one of them said to me awhile later, with a respectful tuck of the chin. The lifelong test continues. :-\