"We can still take Wolf with five votes," Whitlow says, getting right down to it. Recruit Wolf is the alpha dog of the guys.

"Yeah, but he'll take me with him," counters Moretty-with-a-y, glancing nervously over her shoulder. (What if Wolf has wrapped himself in gauze and is lurking in a corner, listening?)

Coddington suggests they wait on the Wolf ejection. "There's still a chance I could get a medical discharge," she says, wiping away the tears, "and that would be next time, so that would be perfect."

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The others make pitying noises and move in for a hug.

Cut to Whitlow in front of a tree: "Love ya, Coddington, but ..."

Something tells us Whitlow doesn't have too many friends back home at the soup company.

This week, Jackson is elected squad leader. We know what that means: minibio! Just like the Olympics, only less triumph over adversity.

Jackson's reason for coming to boot camp is a sentimental one. He's been dating his girlfriend for "a really long time," and while this is not something that generally calls for paramilitary training, Jackson can't afford both an engagement ring and a down payment on the apartment they have just bought. Will he have to sell his watch? Will she decide to cut off her beautiful hair? No, Jackson is hoping "Boot Camp" will help him achieve his financial goals and get on the road to economic freedom.

"Hopefully, I'll be able to make it official -- you know, get down on the knee."

Well, he's come to the right place. Next scene: He's facedown in the sand.

"I'm not here to learn discipline," Jackson explains, "and I'm not here to learn leadership -- I'm here to see how far I can go. Because, out in the world, I'm not sure if I've found the deepest point of leadership."

Indeed, we're always misplacing our deepest point of leadership. Once, we left it in a cab.

Calisthenics follow. It's strenuous just to watch, though not really that strenuous. Moretty is having an especially tough time of it, with deranged drill instructor McSweeney hovering above her, fleshy lips flapping.

Last time, we learned that Coddington was McSweeney's "cute little cuddle doll."

Moretty is his pet rock. He doesn't like her 'tude.

"Her eyeballs are always rolling around," he growls. He spends most of the day making her do pushups.

"I can do this all day, Moretty," McSweeney says, as Moretty pushes herself up and down and up and down on the grass like a tentative lizard. "As long as you keep making faces."

This is too much for Moretty: "This recruit is not making faces, sir!"

"Shut your face!" McSweeney screams, running over to her and squatting.

Moretty is in a zone: "This recruit is not making faces, sir!" she screams again.

McSweeney and she are now face to face, both screaming like banshees with their tails caught in a door.

Somewhere, wherever home is, Moretty's toddlers are wailing in terror.

"Stop spitting on meeeeee!" Moretty screeches.

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