Forty-eight Petty Officer. Forty-Nine Petty Officer. Fifty Petty Officer. I’m really getting sick of doing pushups. I get dropped more times a day than anyone else in the division, not because I’m some sort of idiot that can’t follow instructions but because I command a bunch of idiots that can’t follow instructions. It’s a brisk morning in September 2002, shortly after the first year anniversary of the September 11th terrorist attacks and I’m doing pushups on the grinder (giant concrete slab for assembling divisions and drill practice) because some shipwreck recruit in my section couldn’t figure out that his uniform didn’t match the 79 other people in the division. Nevermind the loudspeaker announcement that told us all what to wear this morning. I made a mental note to smother this kid in his sleep. If he survived that I’d show him how to dress himself in the morning.