EPISODE 4
Act I, Scene 3 –a barracks at a secret base
A corporal knocks on a door. Within a Spartan room is a grizzled drill sergeant. There is a portrait of Queen Victoria on the wall. The sergeant hastily puts away a copy of “Lady Chatterley’s Lover”.
HARTMAN:
Come in.
JAECKEL:
[sneering] The new crop is here, sarge.HARTMAN: Okay. “Orientation” time.
They march into the bunk area where the misfits have assembled.
*** I’m sure you will recognize the scene. I have replaced the cursing with their equivalent from the 19th Century.
HARTMAN: I am Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, your Senior Drill Instructor. From now on, you will speak only when spoken to, and the first and last words out of your filthy privies will be "Sir!" Do you nackle-asses understand that?
RECRUITS: Sir, yes, sir!
HARTMAN: Thunderation! I can't hear you. Sound off like you got bullocks!
RECRUITS (louder): Sir, yes, sir!
HARTMAN: If you strumpets leave my island, if you survive commando training ... you will be a weapon, you will be a minister of death praying for a suicide mission. But until that day you are bootlickers! You're the lowest form of life on Earth. You are not even human cussed beings! You are nothing but unorganized grabarsetic fartleberries. Because I am hard, you will not like me. But the more you hate me, the more you will learn. I am hard, but I am fair! There is no racial bigotry here! I do not look down on micks, hebes, dagos, pollocks, or Brooklynites. Here you are all equally burnt-arsed! And my orders are to weed out all non-hackers who do not pack the gear to serve in my beloved OSS! Do you sodomites understand that?
RECRUITS: Sir, yes, sir!
HARTMAN: Bejabbers! I can't hear you!
RECRUITS: Sir, yes, sir!
Sergeant Hartman stops in front of Bronson
HARTMAN: What's your name, godemiche?
BRONSON: Sir, Private Bronson, sir!
HARTMAN: Consarn! Do you like being a pollock?
BRONSON: Sir, yes, sir!
HARTMAN: Well, there's one thing that you won't like, Private Pollock! They
don't serve kielbasa or borscht on a daily basis in my mess hall!
BRONSON: Sir, yes, sir!
THOMAS: (under his breath) Is that you, John Mills? Is this me?
HARTMAN: Who said that? Who the blazes said that? Who's the slimy little Marxist twinkle-toed twiddly-poof down here, who just signed his own death warrant? Nobody, huh?! The fairy godmother said it! Out-bloody-standing! I will P.T. you all until you bleeding die! I'll P.T. you until your quims are sucking buttermilk.
Sergeant Hartman grabs Eastwood by the poncho.
HARTMAN: Was it you, you scroungy little lick-spittle, huh?!
EASTWOOD: Sir, no, sir!
HARTMAN: You little piece of night soil! You look like a dratted worm! I'll bet it was you!
EASTWOOD: Sir, no, sir!
THOMAS: Sir, I said it, sir!
Sergeant Hartman steps up to Thomas.
HARTMAN: Well ... no bowel movement. What have we got here, a darn-tooting vaudevilian? Private Thomas? I admire your honesty. Dad-sizzle, I like you. You can come over to my house and beardsplit my sister.
Sergeant Hartman pokes Thomas in the eyes. Thomas starts crying.
HARTMAN: You little scalawag! I've got your name! I've got your hind quarters! You will not laugh! You will not cry! You will learn by the numbers. I will teach you. Now get up! Get on your feet! You had best unhuffle yourself or I will unscrew your head and use the loo down your neck!
THOMAS: Sir, yes, sir!
HARTMAN: Private Thomas, why did you join my beloved commando unit?
THOMAS: Sir, to get killed, sir!
HARTMAN: So you're a killee!
THOMAS: Sir, yes, sir!
HARTMAN: Let me hear your death scream!
THOMAS: Sir?
HARTMAN: You've got a death scream? Arrrrgh! That's a death scream.
Now let me hear your death scream!
THOMAS: Arrgh!
HARTMAN: Balls! You didn't convince me! Let me hear your real death scream!
THOMAS: Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!
HARTMAN: You didn't move me! Work on it!
THOMAS: Sir, yes, sir!
HARTMAN [to CAINE]: How tall are you, Private?
CAINE: Sir, five foot nine, sir!
HARTMAN: Gosh-all-Potomac. I didn't know they stacked crap that high! You trying to squeeze an inch in on me somewhere, huh?
CAINE: Sir, no, sir.
HARTMAN: ‘Snails! It looks to me like the best part of you ran down the crack of your mum's bum and ended up as a brown stain on the mattress! I think you've been cheated. Where in botheration are you from anyway, Private?
CAINE: Sir, Scotland, sir!
HARTMAN: Holy dog droppings! Scotland! Only snails and plugtails come from Scotland, Private Caine! And you don't look much like a snail to me, so that kinda narrows it down! Do you gamahuche?
COWBOY: Sir, no, sir!
HARTMAN: Are you a bagpiper?
CAINE: Sir, no, sir!
HARTMAN: I'll bet you're the kind of guy that would lark a cherry between the bubbies and not even have the guldurned common courtesy to give her a mint! I'll be watching you!
HARTMAN [to Quinn]: Did your parents have any children that lived?
QUINN: Sir, yes, sir!
HARTMAN: I'll bet they regret that! You're so ugly you could be a post-impressionist masterpiece! You look Greek. Do you suck rantallions?
QUINN: Sir, no, sir!
HARTMAN: G. Rover Cripes! I'll bet you could suck a cricket ball through a tea kettle spout!
QUINN: Sir, no, sir!
Hartman turns to Knotts who has a grin on his face.
HARTMAN: Do you think I'm cute, Private Knotts? Do you think I'm funny?
KNOTTS: Sir, no, sir!
HARTMAN: Then wipe that disgusting grin off your face!
KNOTTS: Sir, yes, sir!
HARTMAN: Well, any rogering time, Nancy!
KNOTTS: Sir, I'm trying, sir.
HARTMAN: Private Pyle, I'm gonna give you three seconds--exactly three blasted seconds—to wipe that stupid-looking grin off your face, or I will gouge out your peepers and have your greens! One! Two! Three!
Knotts purses his lips but continues to smiles involuntarily.
KNOTTS: Sir, I can't help it, sir!
HARTMAN: By St. Boogar and all the saints at the backside door of Purgatory! Sit on your footlocker, used prophylactic! Now slap yourself!
Knotts slaps himself until his cheeks are red and tear-stained.
HARTMAN: Are you through grinning?
KNOTTS: (barely able to speak) Sir, yes, sir!
HARTMAN: By the double-barrelled jumping jiminetty! I can't hear you!
KNOTTS: (gasping like a fish out of water) Sir, yes, sir!
HARTMAN: Private Pyle, you had best square your arse away and start pooping me the Crown Jewels... or I will definitely blast and bugger you!
PYLE: Sir, yes, sir!
Hartman turns to Jaeckel who has been shaking his head.
HARTMAN: Corporal, make sure these catamites are up at 0500. We've got a lot of work to do to turn them into redemption material. [he leaves]
JAECKEL: Gentlemen, your training begins tomorrow. Those of you who survive will become experts at: throat slashing, eye-gouging, fighting on a moving vehicle, avoiding trees in parachuting, pulling grenade pins with your teeth, sneaking, watch synchronizing - among other things. Good night.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please fell free to comment. I would love to hear what you think and will respond.