“T
wenty-one bucks a month salary,” Moe said. “I figure that works out to about half a penny per step in drill.”
Harry’s laughter echoed off the wooden beams of the empty barracks. “Quit griping, Freed. After all, you’re teacher’s pet. Maybe the Army will give you another two bits for good behavior.”
Teacher’s pet. A few weeks before, he’d been Moishe Boruch Freed to his father, Moe to his classmates, and Moey to his sister. Now, he was simply Teacher’s Pet — like Harry the Jewboy, Laughin’ Lu, Captain Crazy, Flatfoot Freddie, and dozens of others.
Perhaps it was still another way of the military divesting its recruits of their individuality. Maybe it was an attempt to put a little humor into a humorless situation. Or, as Moe suspected, it might have been sheer spite on the part of their sergeants and drill instructors. Whatever the reason, within two weeks of starting basic training, almost everyone in their platoon had been given a nickname, most of them funny, many with an edge of nastiness or good, old-fashioned prejudice.
