The Camp Robinson military reservation seemed big as a county. Its red-clay hills were covered mostly with scrub oak. The more moderate terrain had mixed woods of larger trees, laced with creeks and interspersed with abandoned fields. Part of the camp itself had new, cream-colored frame buildings, but most of the trainees lived in squad tents boasting wooden floors and a small round sheet metal stove. It was the second week in March, and winter had launched a counteroffensive against encroaching spring. The tent sides were tightly secured to keep out the wind, rain, sleet and snow.
At the end of each row of tents was a coal bin from which they took their fuel. The real problem was lighting it. Even with the draft and damper closed, fire in the little knee-high stove burned out in a few hours and had to be restarted, which was hard to do without wood for kindling. And usually there was no wood. The men did the best they could, using cookie cartons, newspapers, and lighter fluid. A few of the more adventurous foraged in the night, hunting for kindling in the bins of other companies. On the third night, four men from Company B were caught stealing wood from the fuel bin at D Company's messhall, and the resulting fight sent three of them to the dispensary with minor injuries, notably split lips.
In the nine years since returning from Yuulith, Macurdy had mostly avoided showing his powers. Except for that night in the jungle outside Miles City, he'd let no one but Mary see him use magic to light a fire. On Macurdy's fourth morning in 2nd Squad, 2nd Platoon of Company B, and with the grass crisp and white with frost, the stove was out as usual. While several other trainees looked on, he knelt before it. Poking a finger through the opened draft, he drew on the Web of the World and directed a thin stream of white hot plasma into the coal. None of them could see what he did, but within seconds they could hear the fire, and stood variously gawping or frowning. Then one asked, "How the hell did you do that?"
Macurdy had learned in Yuulith that a poor explanation often works better than a good one. "It's something my Aunt Varia taught me years ago," he said.
Actually it was Arbel, not Varia, who'd taught him to start fires, but "Aunt Varia" sounded more innocuous and required no elaboration. Besides, Arbel had done it differently; Arbel's technique, though fine for wood, seemed to Macurdy not intense enough to ignite coal. Later, also in Yuulith, Macurdy had learned by sheer chance to create and cast small balls of plasma, but he'd wanted to provide more intense and prolonged eat. So improvising, he'd created a plasma jet. Of course it got talked about, and that evening, men from other squads were asking him, hopefully but skeptically, to show them how to start fires. His solution was to start a small coal fire on the ground behind the company shower room, from which they could take coals with a shovel; the latrine orderly could keep it burning. The company officers were soon aware of the fire and whose idea it had been, but assumed he'd started it from the firebox in the big water heater. They credited him with resourcefulness, rather than magic, a resourcefulness that went into his personnel record.
They became aware of Macurdy in other respects, as well, for in his new circumstances, he showed leadership qualities he'd mostly subdued after leaving Yuulith. After the first week, he was made trainee leader of 2nd Platoon. He excelled at everything—the obstacle course, the rifle range, boxing matches ... even foot races! The company clerk noticed his birth date, and certain it was a typo, called him in. "Macurdy," he said, "your birthdate is listed as 1904, but you're obviously not 38 years old. Assuming that only one digit was typed in wrong, it's got to be 1914, right?"
Here, it seemed to Macurdy, was a chance to bring his official age more in line with his appearance. "Right," he answered, "1914."
There was one minor awkward incident. In the showers, his virtual lack of body hair, even pubic hair, impelled someone to say, "Jesus Christ, Macurdy! Whataya do? Shave your body?"
"Nobody in my family's got enough body hair to notice," he answered mildly. "I don't even shave my face. Probably never will." Then his gaze and voice turned cold. "Is there anything about it you don't like?"
And that was the end of that.
Training had started mildly but built rapidly. At the end of the first two weeks, an ordinary training day might start with an hour in the exercise pits and on the obstacle course, followed by hiking four or five miles with full field pack (usually routed over Drag-Ass Hill) to some field training area, for a lecture followed by hands-on training of some sort, capped by a four or five-mile march back. And it continued to get tougher. Commonly, lunch was served from a truck, about as close to a vehicle as the trainees ever got. More often than not they trained in the evening, too, perhaps with an hour's speed march—again with full field pack—or a night combat problem. Captain Reid was especially strong on filling open hours with speed marches and bayonet drill.
Normally, after an indeterminate number of weeks at infantry camp—as few as seven to as many as seventeen—the trainees were shipped off to one or another of the new divisions constantly being formed. After six weeks, Macurdy was ordered to report to the company's executive officer after breakfast. The XO, a 1st lieutenant, smiled genially.
"Macurdy," he said, "I've heard good things about you from Lieutenant Bosler and Sergeant Hogan—among other things that you're an outstanding soldier, and someone the men in your platoon look up to. So I looked over your personnel papers. No high school, but your alpha score is high. And you have experience in law enforcement; obviously you're accustomed to exercising authority. In other words—" He paused, looking meaningfully at Macurdy. "You'd make a fine officer, the kind the army's looking for. I want to recommend you go to Officer Candidate School when you've finished here."
Macurdy's response lag was about one second. "No disrespect, sir," he said, "but I'm not at all sure I want to be an officer."
The XO's eyebrows rose. "Well, you don't need to decide now. But being an officer is a lot more agreeable than being an enlisted man. Think about it. If you change your mind, let me know. But don't take too long. Training here can be cut short any time, and you could be shipped off to a new division somewhere. At which point it may be too late.
"Incidentally, you might like to know that Sergeant Samuels caught an error in your birthdate—someone had typed in 1904! The correction's been passed up lines."
He dismissed Macurdy then, and the once self-made warlord of Yuulith's Rude Lands, now a buck private, left wondering why he'd declined to volunteer for OCS.
But over the next several weeks, he wasn't even tempted to change his mind. He'd learned long ago to trust his intuitions. Someday they might lead him into something he'd regret, but so far... He paused to review a few of them: marrying Varia, following the old conjure woman up Injun Knob, beating up Zassfel and his bullies in the House of Heroes, invading the Ylvin marches.... He'd felt regret a few times—a time or two almost more than he could handle—but things had worked out. He wasn't going to change the way he operated now.
In their tenth week, at the end of a training day, an unfamiliar officer addressed the company before they were dismissed. On his blouse he wore a stylized silver parachute with wings, and on his overseas cap, a large patch with a parachute symbol. Instead of an officer's neat oxford shoes, or rough G.I. clodhoppers and lace-up canvas leggings, he wore boots that gleamed like polished teak.
The officer told them that parachute regiments were being formed. The requirements for joining were stringent, but if you were accepted, and if you made it through the training, you'd be in one of the toughest outfits in the world, outfits that would be given the most difficult assignments. And in addition to the regular pay for your rank, you'd earn fifty dollars a month jump pay. "Any of you who are interested," he concluded, "be at the orderly room at 2000 hours."
Macurdy's guts had tightened like a fiddle string, and he felt a powerful, inexplicable, even shocking desire to volunteer. My God! he told himself, this isn't something for you! You're a married man!
The announcement dominated conversation in the showers and mess line that evening. Mostly the talk was of the supposed near certainty of getting killed, and the fifty dollar a month bonus—a bonus twice the base pay of an ordinary buck private: "Talk about sitting ducks! The fucking krauts (or japs) will be shooting at you all the way down. Anyone who'd volunteer for that kind of bullshit is out of their fucking mind." And "the extra money's for your funeral."
At 2000 hours, Macurdy and twelve others were at B Company's orderly room. He was, he told himself, just there to hear more about it. From there they were marched to a nearby lecture shed, where some thirty-five candidates from the battalion's other companies also were gathered. There the parachute officer described the training; it made infantry training sound leisurely. When he'd finished his description, he asked how many were still interested. Some thirty held up their hands.
"All right," he said, "the men who raised their hands remain seated. The rest of you fall in outside and wait at ease." When the others had left, the men who'd raised their hands were lined up in front and ordered to "drop down and prepare to do twenty-five pushups. GOOD pushups! Airborne pushups! None of that halfway crap! Your sergeants will be watching. Anyone who cheats will be on company punishment. Now! By the numbers!" And he began to count, pausing now and then to shout "Touch those chins to the floor! All the way! All the way! Straighten those arms! Get those butts in line! Sergeant, take that man's name! The one with his ass in the air like a goddamn tent ridge!"
In spite of getting little serious exercise during his years as a deputy, Macurdy hadn't lost much strength. What he had lost was condition, endurance. But during nine weeks of infantry training, he'd gotten a great deal of exercise, and his endurance was at least as good as it had ever been. After reaching twenty-five, the officer had continued to count, for those who were still pumping. Macurdy, despite his two hundred seventeen pounds, had lasted through fifty-eight. Only two had surpassed him. The seemingly tireless Shorty Lyle, from Macurdy's squad, was still grinding them out when the officer stopped counting at one hundred.
When Shorty was on his feet again, the officer put his hand on the trainee's shoulder. "This," he said, "is the kind of man we're looking for." But obviously didn't require, because all nineteen who'd done twenty-five had their names taken down; they were accepted. Seven were from B Company.
They were all pleased with themselves. Shorty Lyle was a bit miffed, though, that the officer hadn't kept counting, so he could show how many he could do.