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I wrote this fiction with intentions of letting personal experience help with my work, for the first time. 90% of the writing is all original, excluding things I experienced while attending military school. I am a young writer with little experience, hopefuly you enjoy THE FIRST PART of my writing.

Matthew Earl-

"Christ....Jesus fucking Christ man" I said; staring at the beaten bloody shell of a person that used to be Jesse Jacobs.
I looked up to Drake and Mills, both of them looked unimpressed by this. Directly in front of me was Hans Birnbrich. Jesse Jacobs wasn't a big kid. He had a big mouth, with a little frame.
The mess he was now is a result of his mouth. That is atleast, what was his mouth, saying a few too many stupid things. Stupid things to that giant ogry of a German that was Hans Birnbrich. I let out a soft sigh as a shook my head, this was bad. I looked over to Mills, and he smirked a bit, shrugging. "Take the money of out his wallet, and his cigarette's. Hans I want you to clean this up. Christ man, next time make sure that shit's not too loud. I heard it from my room. " he said, moving out the door with Drake and I behind him.


My name is John David Fairchild. Two years ago I was dismissed from a prestigious private school in Arizona due to habitual drug use. Two weeks later I was a student at Hatcett Military Academy in Rawford, Connecticut. Let me explain some things to you about Hatchett. It is the epitome of all aggression and violence in America's youth.
The brochure makes it sounds as though it will change your son. That it will reform him into a disciplined hardworking cadet. Yea, it changes you all right. What happens here goes beyond formation. It goes beyond attention, right face and at ease. You look past the bland uniforms and rough faced teens and you'll see the true face of H. M. A.

What you will see will haunt you. Brutal hazing, consistent fighting and drug abuse. A lifestyle which could only be matched by prison. Which in a sense, is what Hatchett Military Academy is; a prison.
Your first day you are placed in a regiment, then a battalion, the a company, then a platoon, and last but not least, a squad. The company determines which barracks you will sleep in. There are two regiments with two battalions in each of them. There are two companies per battalion. That equals 8 companies. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Easy, Fox-trot, Headquarters Detachment, and Band and Staff. The people in charge of a company are the Company Commander (CO) the 1st Lieutenant (XO's) the platoon leaders (2nd Lieutenants) and the First Sergeant. The people in charge of the Battalion is the staff. The Lt. Colonel (Battalion Commander), the Major (Adjutant) and then a mix of Captains.
At the top there are three. The Elite. These three cadets run everything within the cadet chains. They have been at Hatchett from 7th grade to Senior year. That is 6 years. That means a lot more than you would think. They have survived the abuse, the hazing, the loss, the pain, the treachery, the narcs. They are the only three 6 year old boys this year.
Old boys are cadets who have come back. Your first year you're a turd. A first year piece of shit. Your second year that makes you a new boy; a returning cadet. Your third year. Your third year, you're an old boy. If you're a junior and it's your fifth year, you're a protege. That means next year you will be a member of the elite. You will most like get rank (since the cadets choose who gets what rank) and you will be in charge of something. I realize this is complicated, but when you're there, it makes sense real fast.
The three Elite this year are Colonel's Mahew Drake, Simon Mills, and Sid Thomas. Now what you must realize that these ranks are official only to the faculty of Hatchett. Beyond that the school is run by an oligarchy consisting of the 3 elite. This runs pretty strict due to the heavy tradition Hatchett has upheld for 45 years.
It is very underground. All 6 and 5 year seniors have some sort of duty or job. There are 12-14 5 year seniors this year. They consist of company commanders, battalion commanders and so forth. They run things in the company. The oversee the hazing, and all drugs and so forth in their battalion and/or company. The one person in charge of all hazing is Sid Thomas.
Sid Thomas was born in Miami, Florida. Sid was pretty normal, pretty much the most normal out of all the old boys. Raised on the beach in Point Beach, California, he was always a calm, mild mannered type of guy. When Sid turned 11, his mother succumbed to a drawn out battle with cancer. That's when Sid took a turn for the worse. By the time he was twelve he would throw fits of rage, biting and scratching, hitting and worse to not just family, but teachers too. He would start fights for no reason, and would break things at home and outside. Finally things got to the point where Sid's father couldn't handle him anymore, and that's when Sid was sent to Hatcher Military Academy for his 7th grade year.
Now it was Sid's senior year. He was a tall, tan kid. Standing at about, I don't know, 6'3. His old shaggy blonde hair was now short, almost Caesarian. Sid was a calm guy, he had proved himself through numerous fights and victories that he was not with whom to fuck with. Now, as one of the three members of the Elite, he was in charge of tradition. All hazing, organized fights, fight night's (I'll go into those later) and pranks that were held pretty much were overseen, or went through him.
After Sid there was Mahew Drake. Well, Drake was definitely not the most normal of the three, so that made him the most interesting. He was born in the boondocks of Boston to a poor fatherless family. His mother was a nurse and could barely make due, so Drake was raised by his older brother Jared. The thing was, Jared was not the best older brother. He was in and out of Juvenile hall, and instead of teaching Mahew the basics of life, he taught him the basics of crime. By them time Mahew was 12, he knew how to sell, cut, smoke, snort, price, weigh and deal cocaine, marijuana, hash and more. The thing was, Mahew didn't do drugs, he just knew how to. For him it wasn't about the pleasure of addiction, or the dangerous, exciting lifestyle. It was about the money. Mahew Drake lived for one thing and one thing only; and that was cold, hard, cash.
During 6th grade, Mahews brother Jared was arrested for possession and intent to distribute. That's when life got a little bit busier for young Mahew. He was the only 12 year old St. Mary Catherine's who was selling hash and other drugs to an entire Senior class. That was until he got caught. Mahews mother had no idea what happened, or how it happened, she was lost and didn't know how to deal with this. That was until Mahews P.E. teacher told her about Hatchett Military Academy. And on Mahews first day of 7th grade, he was in uniform, in formation at H.M.A. Things looked pretty but, but by Drake's sophomore year he was selling pot, medication, cigarette's and alcohol to 90% of the school. Drake was not like Sid. He was tough but in a different way. He relied on his intelligence and street smart to deal with things. Systematically he dealt with every since competitor at school and by Junior year he was the only one distributing goods to other cadets. Of course he didn't do this on his own. He invested wisely with football players and weightlifters as enforcers and protection. He used fear to gain respect.
And now, Mahews senior year, he was in charge of all distribution of goods at Hatchett. He had 16 cadets selling goods for them. He would buy the goods, give it to them, and they would sell for him. Of course he still sold on his own. The difference between the real world and Hatchett is that all goods at Hatchett are outrageously over price. Since no one else could or would sell without Hatchett's permission, he earned 100%. $10 for a pack of Newport's or Camels. $50-$60 for a bottle of Bacardi. $30 for two tabs of Codine. I won't even get started on his drug prices. For the past 4 years Drake has been addicting to kids to narcotics, and for the past 4 years the faculty could not, no matter how hard they tried, catch him. Now a 6'0 fair skinned, brown haired Bostonian teenager ran every single bit of illegal activity at H.M.A.
Last but not least was my best friend, Simon Mills. When I was a new boy Simon took my under his wing. That is not a good thing. I was put through every single old boy beating and hazing in the book. I was burnt, stomped, punched, kicked, even electrocuted. By the end of my second semester, every old boy at Hatchett considered my one of their own. Simon was the boss man. His first year at Hatchett was a strange one. On the first night of school, Simon mouthed off to Sergeant Pressley Buchanan, his squad leader. This was not good. That night, at about 11 o'clock he was taken outside in the rain and beaten. It is said that you could hear his cries all the way from Bravo to Band and Staff on the other side of campus. People watched from the back porch, trying to catch a glimpse. Then, abruptly, the screams stopped. There was silence. No one really knows what happened, but I am told that when Simon Mills came out from behind the barracks, he looked like Hannibal Lector. His face and white shirt soaked with rain and blood. He didn't walk, he stumbled, crawled almost, out in the open. Sid told me that he looked like a monster. In his hand, was what looked like the handle of an ax, without the head. I was told it belonged to Buchanan, but I really don't know.
No one knew what happened back there, but when the faculty pulled Pressley Buchanan and his friend Jeremy Bartlett out from behind the barracks, it looked like a truck hit them. Both of the sophomores had to be sent to the hospital for corrective surgery. Sid said the only thing he really remembers is Simon laying there, in the rain. His eyes red with tears. Yet he wasn't crying, he was smiling, as though he'd experienced a whole new world. As though his sins had been washed away and he had been rediscovered. After that, Simon was left alone. He had become close with the older cadets and was considered a protege all the way from 7th to 11th grade. He was obviously the heir to the throne that was Hatchett Military Academy.
Simon was tall. About the same height as Sid. His light brown hair matched his eyes. He was fairly muscular, and had a slight tan. The thing you noticed the most about him was his eyes. They held something in them, like a joke that he only knew the answer to. Simon was the boss. Yet he never held himself like one. He was quick-witted, his words were smooth, as though he'd pre-thought everything he was going to say that day the night before. I'd met them all my first year, three years ago. We'd all become friends relatively quickly, and I'd stuck with them since.
Although we'd never said it to each other, we all knew it. This year would be different. This would be the year where everything came together. Outside of Hatchett we were nobodies, we had no power or respect. Inside these walls we were kings of our own domains. This was the year that would become the highlight of our lives. This was our senior year at Hatchett Military Academy.

Matthew H. Earl


The following comments are for "Hatchett Military Academy"
by 22CatchMattE

Liked It
"Sid was a calm guy, he had proved himself through numerous fights and victories that he was not with whom to fuck with."
Structured wrong.

Minor other grammatical and spelling errors, nothing major.

What's your obsession with height? Every guy in there is at least 6'0".

Is this a completely fictional tale? Or rooted in fact, or all true?

I was born 24th of Sept. '86. What day for you?

So, liked it well enough. It has potential to be gripping and gritty and all that other shit. Keep 'em coming.

( Posted by: Washer [Member] On: September 14, 2003 )

I liked the story. You are really good at descriptive narrative. You know about grammar and spell check, right? I do think this is a good story and hope you tell more about Hatchett.

( Posted by: stonecold [Member] On: September 15, 2003 )

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