A Whole Lot of Khaki

It was roughly ten hours too early for Private First Class James C. Bartholomew to be marching. It was especially too early for Private First Class Bartholomew to be in the middle of the First Squad of the Third Platoon of C Company of the First Battalion of the 325th Regiment of the 107th Infantry Division of the 12th Army, and he intended to get out of there as soon as he could, which would be maybe a few more years, although that's what he had told himself a few years ago, so he was most likely lying.
"Halt!" bawled the sergeant on the loudspeaker.
And James did, hut, two.

Of course, he would make it out of this situation. Maybe after he did, he would see the ugly grimacing face of his sergeant in a bar somewhere, and Sarge would say, "Lick my shoe" or "Kiss my ring" or something equally as distasteful and awkward, if not more, and, with great relish, James would say, "no." Then he would walk out with the sight of the Sarge's surprised face etched into his memory forever, and James would not have a care in the world. After that he might go to his house, which was sure to be quite large because James was a hard worker, so he'd have a steady job where all his coworkers loved him and didn't call him "Plum" for his mutilated purple birthmark on his right cheek. His mother and siblings would greet him at the door. His dad would play catch with him in the yard, even though they were both adults, because that's just the relationship they have. Plus he would never have to wear khaki ever again. Mediocrity and averageness. What a dream.

James snapped back to attention as Sarge began barking orders. And while I'm dreaming, James thought, I'd like to be president of the universe. 

Because that's not what would happen now, is it, James? After he leaves the army, instead of a wealthy businessman, he'll find himself a gutter rat, living in motels sometimes and, other times, on benches. He'll wander the Los Angeles streets, wondering how life got this bad. Maybe he'll reminisce about his childhood. He's used to being a gutter rat. The bottom of the social hierarchy pyramid tends to do that. 
James never knew his father, and his mother--
Well, the memory of her shoes dangling above the frame of his vision would haunt him for years.
So. Gutter rats.
After reminiscing, he'll probably get hungry, but there will be no food to eat and no money to buy it with (probably because he'd have spent it all on drugs to quell the PTSD).
And finally, at the end of the line, after sleeping on homeless-proof benches and begging at every stoplight in a billion-meter vicinity, he'll get picked up by those crazy gestapo agents of America everyone's been talking about because his mom was some kind of brown. 

Maybe a little more than a few years in the army.