I think my disdain for the sheer evil was discerned early on in my military basics when a breath-reeking dirty-mouthed two-striper screamed into my face from such proximity that I could smell and see his back teeth. 

Mixing Afrikaans and English he proclaimed with anger that by the time he was finished and done, “finished and klaar,” with me, me specifically, I would be a real soldier, an “ordentlike soldaat.”

He said  I would be able to march, not walk, march, in those shiny boots right over my mother’s dead body and feel nothing, nothing at all.

I gathered my thoughts. 

He waited. 

He expected the routine. 

He waited for me to jump to attention and scream, “Ja, Bombardier. Bombardier is always correct, Bombardier,” in Afrikaans. 

This response was expected, an individual response when addressed as an individual, or blurted in unison if addressed as a group. There were times it reminded me or 7-year-olds singing their times tables for a teacher. 

“Do you know that you are stupid, and you are for nothing good?” would be said to all of us. 

“Ja, Bombardier. You are correct, Bombardier. Bombardier is always correct, Bombardier,” we had to reply but in Afrikaans. 

Agreement was essential no matter what insults were hurled. 

This particular insult, that we were for nothing good, I found amusing. The “for nothing good” is a direct translation from Afrikaans and the bombardier would have had no idea how stupid he sounded in his desire to parade comfort in both official languages.

This time was different. 

This was no routine insult. 

He was screaming at me about my Mother, a woman he did not know, a woman about whom he knew nothing. 

He was addressing me, a man he did not know. 

A man about whom he knew nothing. 

A man he had spent no time trying to know. 

He was shouting so all could hear and be impressed by his evil aspirations with words tailored for me. 

I waited. 

I did not jump to attention and scream “Ja, Bombardier. Bombardier is always correct, Bombardier.” 

I did come to attention and yelled, “Bombardier!” 

Then, rather quietly, having now gained his full attention, I told the depraved man, in my faulty Afrikaans, as faulty as his English, that despite all of his efforts, I would indeed never, not ever, not in a thousand years, would I be that soldier. 

I talked quietly and I was clear. 

The bombardier appeared taken aback that I would dare reply with an unanticipated response. 

He backed off. 

In his retreat he did not send me or the whole squad running to the fence or make all of us do 30 push-ups. He moved away, stepping backwards, losing eye contact for brief seconds as his eyes darted seeking back-up from fellow bombardiers. 

I did not drop my gaze. 

I gave him all the eye-contact he ever could want.

Somehow, waiting to reply had knocked him off balance, stopped him in his tracks. 

His peers made no moves of support.  

He was alone in this and he knew it.

Perhaps it made him think of his mother but I will never know. 

A violation had occurred and I refused to cooperate with pure evil. 

He kept his distance. 

He limited his involvement with our particular squad and seemed to forever regard me with suspicion mixed with a dose of fear and healthy respect. 

That’s all I wanted; a lot of respect for my  Mother and a little respect for me. 

And, I wanted not to be that soldier. 

Not ever. 

So, I told him. 

I wanted him to know I would never be that soldier.

Not in a thousand years.