Ever notice how assholes just have to show off, even when they know better? I haven't yet met an exception to that rule—and I figure I know myself as well as I'm going to by now.
Most of the time, nothing serious happens when some idiot shows his true colors. People nearby mutter, "What an asshole" and that's an end to it. (Of course, kids kill themselves all the time pulling stupid stunts like falling off hotel balconies while they're drunk, and driving off bridges at a hundred miles per hour, and doing enough crack cocaine to give the entire Rams front line a buzz. Dumb schmucks.)
But for those of us who survive puberty, being an asshole is generally limited to minor idiocies like proving that your dick won't fit through a toilet-paper tube, or ordering the meal in French just to prove to her that you can pronounce it (whether you can or not). If we all stayed as stupid as we are when we're young, the species wouldn't continue breeding very long. Despite the reputation most infantrymen get, I know perfectly well that women are one hell of a lot smarter than men. (I can prove it—act like you did when you were seventeen, and see how many second dates you get.)
Unfortunately, showing off—adult asshole style—generally means that the damned fool involved is getting careless.
And when men get careless, the gods take advantage.
After nearly three years on Pershing duty, I knew better than to show off in front of an L-T. But some things are like trying not to scratch an itch. And besides, it was something I was really good at; and inordinately proud of; and who would have figured that something so innocent would prove to be the catalyst that led to my hiking solo through the middle of a Norwegian mountain, looking for a god, just so I could strangle him with my bare hands?
What hurt worst was the fact that damned near everything which had happened had been avoidable; but I'd never been one to avoid anything I could go out of my way to step into. (Witness my presence in this cave. . . .)
It had begun, innocently enough, when Sergeant Pritchard stomped into the barracks mess room. He stamped his feet, shook snow off his clothes, and began to unpeel.
"Gentlemen," he nodded, carefully avoiding looking at us.
It occurred to me that he looked uncomfortable, and not because of the weather. I'd been in the Army long enough to know that a sergeant with a problem is like the common cold—he doesn't get over it; he gives it to somebody else. And there was nobody here but us. . . .
Pritchard snagged a coffee mug and poured himself a cup. He sighed and drank again, letting the brew warm him up slowly.
"What's up?" Wally asked suspiciously. Bright boy, Wallenstein . . .
Pritchard cleared his throat self-consciously. "You gentlemen are scheduled for qualifying next week."
"Boom, rat-tat-tat!"
"Hot damn, we get to shoot next week!"
"Brrrup, brrupp-upp!"
Maybe I was just more paranoid than the rest of the guys, but instead of contributing to the general nonsense, I found myself waiting for the other shoe. Pritchard waited for the silly-season furor to die down before continuing.
"I don't have to tell you the political situation we've got here. Brass doesn't want any incidents with unqualified troopies, so we'll have one hundred percent qualification from this outfit—and I mean no exceptions. I don't care how long it takes some of you to do it."
Without exception, we glanced at Butler's half-closed eyes. He was struggling to stay awake, at least while the sergeant was in the room.
"We pull out at oh-nine-hundred Monday, after your shift, so be ready. Well, snowbunnies, carry on. I'll be expecting a good qualification round from all of you."
He pulled on his snow gear again and disappeared back into the blizzard. Probably had a warm truck waiting for him down at the gate.
He was no sooner gone than the discussion broke out.
"What'll we do about Butler?" Crater wanted to know.
"Get him off the damn Quaaludes for starters," Chuck replied.
"We'll have to nursemaid him, all right," Gary said. "I hate to admit it, but brass does have a point. We've got to be sure all of us qualify. With the number of incidents up, we've got to have guard personnel on the towers who can use their weapons."
"Damn straight," I nodded. "And anyone who can't qualify should have his ass kicked right out of security clearance and back into rock-painting duty, or wherever it is they find some of these losers."
I noticed that Gary was carefully avoiding my eye, and I knew what was coming.
"You know we're too short-shifted to do that," he said quietly.
"Dammit, Vernon! It's our lives on the line out there. If a guy can't cut it after a fair chance to qualify, he doesn't need to be out there bumbling around in the dark. And you know blessed well those qualifications are so simple a chimpanzee could do them."
"That's not fair, and you know it." Gary's tone was calm, assured. Sometimes that knack of his, never losing his temper in an argument, really drove me crazy. "If a guy comes from the city, never has a chance to practice, maybe never even sees a rifle, how is he going to compete with those of us who grew up with them? We need all the qualified personnel we can get, and if a man can't qualify right away, he ought to have another chance—because we might need him to give us a chance out there."
He pointed into the blizzard outside. I glared at him. It was an old argument, one of the rare points we didn't agree on. He was all for fixing the screw-ups, while I felt screw-ups shouldn't be allowed to happen in the first place. For me, it was perfection or nothing, because anything less could make you very dead when the brown stuff hit the fan blades. We weren't going to solve this today—and from the unease on everyone else's faces, our argument wasn't helping already bad morale.
"Good of the unit, huh?" I said finally. "You know what I think, and I know what you think, so we'll just let it go at that, okay, Vernon?"
He relaxed and nodded, and I felt relief sweep through the rest of the room. It made me very uneasy to realize that Gary Vernon and I were holding the morale of A-Shift together practically by ourselves. The situation could get worse real fast if our next patrol together wasn't quite as lucky as the other night's had been.
Monday's qualifications were held on one of the German Army's "million-mark" rifle ranges, which they rented out to the Americans on an as-needed basis. Snow covered the ground under a weak winter sun. At least the high protective dirt berms kept the worst of the wind off us. We had to shoot a combination course of bull's-eye targets at one hundred meters, and pop-up targets at two and three hundred meters. What made the morning's shoot interesting was that we had ridden two hours in deuce-and-a-halves to get here, directly after coming off of twenty-four hours of guard. Most of us hadn't had more than about four hours of sleep. I'd have been surprised if guys like Butler could even have seen the targets, never mind hit them.
"Man, this snow is a real pain," Crater complained, lying prone in the freezing stuff.
"Just shoot, Private." Lieutenant Donaldson frowned.
I got a good sight picture on my first target and was just beginning to squeeze the trigger when I heard the L-T's voice above me: "Your head's too far back, Barnes. Get it down there where it belongs; see all you can through that rear sight aperture."
"But, sir, I always shoot like this."
"The Virginia Military Institute taught me how to fire a rifle, Private. I'm not interested in how you shoot; I'm interested in seeing you shoot correctly."
I cast a pained look up at Donaldson. "Sir, I've made Expert every time during the last two years." Briefly I debated adding that I had just placed in the top five in the German National Match competition but decided against it. An enlisted man can only get away with being right when doing so doesn't prove an officer wrong.
Fortunately at this point Sergeant Brown approached. Closing in on retirement, he was our platoon sergeant. Like most good noncoms, he was more interested in results than gold braid, and he knew my score at the Nationals.
"Lieutenant . . ." It's always heartwarming to watch a professional in action; Brown sounded genuinely respectful ". . . Private Barnes is the best shot in the platoon. Hell, half the time he's the best shot in the company. Tell you what, L-T, if anybody in this bunch outshoots him, you can teach him to your heart's content. Otherwise, please let the man do his job."
Donaldson's lips thinned. "Okay, Sergeant, I'll do just that. But if he shoots less than an eighty-five on these bull's-eyes, for the next month you and he will have an opportunity to explore a theory of mine that suggests that the amount of time spent pulling grounds maintenance is directly proportional to a man's level of small-arms proficiency."
From somewhere down the line I thought I heard the beginnings of a snicker, muffled instantly.
"Yes, sir," replied the sergeant, sounding more confident than I felt. (I wasn't looking forward to a month of shoveling snow and rearranging rocks any more than he was—but the potential consequences of having caused it for him thrilled me even less.)
Now, shooting accurately with somebody standing behind you slapping his own leg with a cleaning rod as if it were a riding crop isn't as easy as it sounds; but I managed to get off all ten shots well before the time limit.
It didn't take any longer than usual for the range phone to ring, I'm sure.
However.
I did have to suppress a start when it rang, and remind myself to look disinterested as the scores were read. Simpkins, down on Lane One, had his usual sixty-something, and Crater barely beat him out.
Then the sergeant turned to me. In bored tones, he said, "Barnes, you're letting your group drift a little into the nine ring, low at six o'clock. You only scored ninety-seven. I don't know what's wrong with you today."
I grinned nonchalantly. "Must be the cold, Sergeant."
—and belatedly resumed breathing.
After all the scores had been read off, the lieutenant said, "Very well, Sergeant, I'll talk to both of you later about this."
He favored me with a level stare. "Be glad we didn't conduct this exercise with those damned forty-fives."
"What do you mean, sir?" I asked. (I never knew when to keep my mouth shut.)
"Well, everybody knows how inaccurate these forty-year-old pistols are."
"Oh. Uh, right." And barely remembered to add, "Sir." It never fails to amaze me how many otherwise knowledgeable people have bought that particular myth. The forty-five automatic is one of the finest combat pistols ever made.
The sergeant caught my eye. "Say, Lieutenant," he interjected, his face a mask of deadpan sincerity, "are you a bettin' man?" I didn't know what he was up to; but sometimes even I know when not to jostle somebody's elbow.
The lieutenant looked puzzled for a moment. "I only bet on sure things, Sergeant."
"Well, would you be willing to bet me twenty dollars that Barnes can't knock down three out of five of the pop-up targets from here with your forty-five?" Suddenly I understood. Quickly, though not without effort, I affected what I hoped would pass for a worried expression.
"Sergeant," drawled the L-T, "I don't as a rule steal money from subordinates; but I will pick it up when I find it thrown away."
He pulled out his forty-five, shucked the top two rounds out of the magazine, turned to me, and said, "You know how to work one of these things, boy?"
"I think so, sir." I took it from him with both hands and turned it over and around like a chimpanzee inspecting a new toy. I didn't quite stare down the muzzle; I thought that might be overdoing it.
I glanced up at the lieutenant. "Uh, sir, could I get Gary Vernon to spot for me?"
By this time Lieutenant Donaldson was visibly having trouble restraining a smile. "Sure, why not. Sergeant, have 'em stand up a target on this lane and set it for automatic reset." (Who says the gods don't have a sense of humor . . . ?)
I took up my stance. Rather than the wimpy one-handed pistol stance shown in "the book," I use the solid two-handed "Weaver stance." The first round thumped into the backstop one hundred meters away, a little high, I knew, because I saw the dirt fly.
Gary called out, "Looks like it was just over the shoulder on the left."
So I dropped the sights to the lower right-hand corner of the target and squeezed again, and this time when the pistol came down from recoiling the target was falling. Three seconds later the target had reset; in another three, it was down again.
While waiting for the target to reset for the fourth shot, it occurred to me that I had a golden opportunity to correct not only the lieutenant's misapprehension; but potentially even to send a message concerning common-sense methods back up the chain of command.
Twenty dollars isn't much of a lesson. . . .
Carefully I planted the fourth shot in the backstop to one side of the target; then pushed the safety up and lowered the pistol. Glancing over my shoulder, I said, "Sergeant, you are splitting that twenty dollars with me, aren't you?"
The sergeant's smile reminded me of a TV minister reviewing his ratings. "Long as you share it with the boys."
"Lieutenant, sir, how much is it worth to you for me to miss this next one?"
Donaldson snorted. "Soldier, I hardly think two hits out of four are reason to gloat."
"Double or nothing, sir?" Richard Nixon would have been proud to claim the look of wide-eyed innocence I achieved at that moment.
"You're on!"
I let my face relax into a grin. I slipped off the safety, took careful aim, and pulled the trigger.
While watching the lieutenant dig out his money, I noticed that Crater was handing a few bills to Simpkins. "You asshole," I blurted indignantly, "you bet against me!"
He grinned. "No, you sorry shit. I bet you'd hit four."
The lieutenant watched the sergeant hand me a twenty. He looked around thoughtfully; then said, "You know, back at Virginia Military Institute, Captain Proctor was fond of saying that hard experience had taught him that the book didn't have all the answers. He regularly advised us to keep our eyes open in the field. Maybe this is what he meant. I guess a second lieutenant can learn from his platoon sergeant. And an occasional private."
Brown's eyes twinkled as he said, "Good thinking, sir."
The lieutenant was actually grinning as he walked off.
Unfortunately, I didn't have long to gloat. A day and a half later, Sergeant Brown walked in on us as we packed our gear to head out. Wally had been telling Crater that he was flying his wife, Annie, over for the holidays, and Gary and I had been making our final plans to go on the annual tour of the HK firearms factory over in Oberndorf am Neckar next weekend, something we'd been planning for at least ten weeks.
When Brown shut the door and didn't say anything at all, I got an itch between my shoulder blades that wouldn't go away. Something about his expression made it worse.
Crater missed it. "So, how did Second Relief do on the range yesterday?" he asked breezily.
"Not bad. We got back early, too—we didn't let them use the `French PX' after you guys and Sergeant Pritchard bought that case of French wine yesterday. By the way"—his mood lightened momentarily—"how was it?"
"Most likely just like the bottle we left in your room, Sergeant, sir," Crater said innocently.
"Oh. —Oh! That's where that came from. Thanks." Brown's flinch was visible this time; the news must be really bad. "The lieutenant didn't think Captain Jones would appreciate it if he let you guys keep buying black-market booze from the back of a deuce-and-a-half."
Then he turned to me. I could see in his eyes that he was about to drop a shoe—first or second didn't matter; I knew I wasn't going to like it. Diffidently he said, "Say, Barnes, didn't you spend some of your time off this past week teaching Johnson how to shoot?"
Uh-oh. "Yeah, Johnson and all those other no-gos on that relief. Why?" (Never ever show off in front of second lieutenants: they'll either bust your ass—or put you to work. Donaldson was the latter type. I'd spent hours out in that freezing snow drilling those idiots, showing them how to hold their weapons properly, how to read their sight pictures accurately, how not to jerk on the trigger or take a deep breath for luck just as you're squeezing the shot off. . . .)
Brown grimaced. "Well, all the others did okay; but Johnson didn't even qualify."
"That's no surprise," Wally groused. "He doesn't qualify to be a human being."
"Well, damn." So that's what had been dripping off the fan blades. "I knew he wasn't paying attention; but I've never had anybody not qualify." To the astonishment of nearly everyone, I'd even managed to nurse Butler through his qualification.
"Well, you have now," Brown said. "Fortunately, one of the other platoons in training has the range today and the L-T wants you to take Johnson over right now and get him qualified."
Now? As in right now?
Great . . .
I truly loved this guy—I hadn't had any real time off in a week, and now I got to play wet nurse. I sighed. "So who's coming off our shift to take Johnson's place on the other relief?"
Johnson's relief worked opposite us on the missile site; when we were on site, they were either off duty or pulling patrols, and vice versa. We rarely saw the guys on the other relief (except when we changed reliefs), unless someone changed shifts and they shuffled people around.
Brown wouldn't meet my eyes. I knew then that my suspicion had been right on the money. Another shoe was falling and it had my name on it.
"Well-l-l," Brown drawled, gaze glued to the ceiling, "we don't really have anybody on slack. Peters fell and sprained his knee on the ice yesterday, and the L-T let Wilson go in this morning 'cause his wife's having a baby, and Whitney has pneumonia. One of you guys is going to have to pull forty-eight hours straight and be on the other relief for a while."
"I wouldn't take his place if his life depended on it!" Wally exploded.
Fuck. I hate it when the handwriting on the wall conflicts with my plans. I avoided looking at Gary. I was already seeing red, and he hadn't even said it yet. Good of the unit . . .
"I'll do it," he said. Just as I knew he was going to.
Wally and Crater made outraged sounds: "Hey, man, you can't—" "Sheeiit, Vernon, what're you doin'; you crazy all of a sudden?"
I lunged to my feet. "Damn you to hell, Vernon! You know goddamn well if you switch with that little prickhead, the HK tour is screwed—"
Gary met my eyes squarely. "Randy, hang on to your temper a minute—"
"Fuck you very much, Vernon."
I turned without another word and left with my gear slung across my back, not even stomping or hurrying. When I got to the door, I slammed it open and stalked out into the cold.
Dammit! It was about time Vernon let somebody else take the shit for a change. Screw morale . . . along with everything else about the goddamned Army. . . .
As I stormed toward the waiting jeep—where Johnson already huddled, looking less miserable than he was going to by the time I got through with his ass—I wondered if I'd get any sleep on the drive over.
Johnson grinned at me and said, "Hey, man, you know how it is . . ." with that stupid look of his pasted all over his bony face.
I wanted to shoot him.
Instead, I drove out to the goddamned range with him, and got the misbegotten little shirker qualified. By the time we finished, Johnson wasn't smiling anymore. Hell, by the time I finished with him, I wasn't sure Archibald Johnson would ever smile again, and didn't give a bald rat's ass one way or the other. It didn't help my temper any to realize that while Gary Vernon's pact with Odin had brought him nothing but good luck, mine seemed to have brought nothing but bad.