[BREATHING HEAVILY] [GROANING SOFTLY]
There's something off in your presentation, Private. Can't place it. Is it your hair? Is it the wrinkle in your trousers?
I have a knife in my foot, Sergeant.
Oh, yes, of course, that's it. The knife. What is your name, soldier?
Smitty Ryker.
No, your name is Private Idiot. Do you know why?
Because I have a knife in my foot.
Who placed the knife there, Private?
It was an accident, Sarge. We was playing Stretch.
I am heartened by the knowledge you did not place it there with intention. Who threw the knife?
I did, Sergeant. Private Kirzinski.
You look part Indian. To what tribe do you belong, son?
No, I'm Polish.
Wrong. I believe you must have Cherokee or Shawnee blood in you.
No, Sergeant.
Are you contradicting me, you wagon-burning son of a bitch?
No, Sergeant!
Let me see your Indian war cry, son.
I don't...
[IMITATING WAR CRY]
[BOTH IMITATING WAR CRY]
Louder! Let me see it.
[IMITATES WAR CRY LOUDER]
What is your animal spirit? Are you a garter snake?
No, Sergeant!
Are you a chipmunk?
No, Sergeant!
Are you a dancing reindeer?
No, Sergeant!
Are you contradicting me, Private?
No, Sergeant!
Good. Then I shall henceforth call you "Chief" as a sign of great respect to your people.
Thank you, Sergeant!
