MATT HELM: The War Years (5 page)

Somehow, I already knew this outfit was for me if they'd have me; and I wasn't too proud to take what advantage I could get from a good stiff back and liberal use of the word "sir."  I'd already been in the Army long enough to know they'd practically give the joint to anybody who could shoot, salute and say "sir."  Anyway, when you're six feet four, even if kind of skinny and bony, the word doesn't sound humble, merely nice and respectful.

"Yes, sir," I said, "I wouldn't mind learning why I've been assigned here, sir, if it's time for me to know."

He said, "You've got a good record, Helm.  Handy with weapons.  Westerner, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hunter?"

"Yes, sir."

"Upland game?"

"Yes, sir."

"Waterfowl?"

"Yes, sir."

"Big game?"

"Yes, sir."

"Deer?"

"Yes, sir."

"Elk?"

"Yes, sir."

"Bear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Dress them out yourself?"

"Yes, sir.  When I can't get somebody to help me."

"That's fine," he said.  "For this job we need a man who isn't scared of getting his hands bloody."

He was looking at me in a measuring and weighing manner as he went into his talk.  As he explained it, it was merely a matter of degree.  I was in the Army anyway.  If the enemy attacked my unit, I'd shoot back, wouldn't I?  And when the orders came through for us to attack, I'd jump up and do my damnedest to kill some more.  I'd be dealing with them
en masse
under these conditions; but I was known to be pretty good with a rifle, so in spite of my commission it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that one day I'd find myself squinting through a telescopic sight, waiting for some individual poor dope to expose himself four or five hundred yards away.  But I'd still just be selecting my victims by blind chance.  What if I were offered the opportunity to serve my country in a less haphazard way?

Mac paused here, long enough to indicate that I was supposed to say something.  I said, "You mean, go over and stalk them in their native habitat, sir?"

Chapter 6

My second trip to the ranch was more relaxed.  Good old Frank was waiting at the airport to pick us up - I'd acquired a companion on the trip down from Washington, a guy called Daryl.  That was his code name, as mine was Eric.  After I'd failed to walk out in horror following my first meeting with Mac, I'd been assigned the name and instructed to use it exclusively on official business, including training.  It wasn't really so much a cloak and dagger tactic as it was a means of giving each of us something to call the other without giving away unnecessary information such as our real names and ranks.

Daryl was older, in his late twenties, and, unlike me, had already had some combat experience before being recruited by Mac and was just a little smug about it - an attitude I was looking forward to erasing with a demonstration of my superior skills.  I guess I qualified as being a little big-headed back then, too.  Of course, both of us would have it knocked out of us very shortly.  Daryl was my opposite in looks: just under five foot ten and stocky where I was tall and thin.  He had short, dark-brown hair and brown eyes and the general look we usually defined as black Irish, although he had no trace of an Irish accent.

I disliked him on sight, probably because I've always had an instinctive distrust of brown eyes, a prejudice which I'll cheerfully admit is perfectly ridiculous.  Daryl, on the other hand, seemed to take a liking to me in a condescending manner, and as training progressed, he kind of adopted me as his younger brother, more than once pulling someone off me when tempers flared.  I gradually warmed up to him and, a few months later, felt ashamed of my initial feelings when he took a bullet pushing me out of the line of fire on our first mission.  He came through it all right, but I felt like a heel.

Frank had greeted us like old comrades, surprising the hell out of me.  It seemed I was past the probation period and was now part of the group, officially acknowledged and accepted rather than being treated like some intruder.  It turned out that Frank was our surveillance and interrogation instructor and had come to us from Army Intelligence.  He was friendly and talkative during our drive out to the Ranch, but I noticed he was careful not to give us any hint as to his personal life or background other than the reference to his former unit.

We went through the same routine as on my first visit, but this time people looked at us and actually waved as we drove up.  Frank explained that the Ranch had been reserved for new recruits only the first time - Daryl had been there too, even though I'd never seen him.  This time only the survivors were present for final training and security had been relaxed accordingly.

Frank let us off at a different bungalow this time and told us we were bunkmates.  "You two are the last to arrive," he said.  "Initial briefing is at twenty hundred in the opposite end of the canteen building.  You've got about an hour to settle in and get a bite to eat.  Don't be late."

I never did find out how many of us started the first phase of training, but only nine of us survived it - at least in this group.  I found out later that we were the second such group.  How the initial instructors were selected and trained I don't know and was afraid to ask.  When Daryl and I walked into the canteen, everyone was there, including one woman, much to the surprise of both of us.  Somehow I'd gotten the impression that this was a men-only club, which just goes to show you how wrong my first impressions often were.

I caught a glimpse of someone in an apron heading through the door behind the counter - our shy cook, I guessed - but otherwise it was laid out the same, even to the watery mashed potatoes and synthetic beef.  I was mildly surprised to find the peas replaced by green beans.  Apparently Mac - or whoever planned the menus - didn't feel we were entitled to anything spectacular by way of our culinary preferences, regardless of our highly regarded talents.  Well, that was okay with me.  As an old ranch hand, I'm a meat and potatoes man most of the time although I do like a freshly prepared fish now and then - preferably one I've caught myself.

As we found a table, there were nods of welcome and even a couple smiles, but nobody jumped up to introduce himself - or herself.  Actually the woman was not bad looking, in a cold, calculating sort of way.  Her red hair was trimmed a little shorter than I liked and her clear, green eyes looked considerably older and more experienced than the rest of her.  There were no freckles that I normally associated with that color of hair and her mouth looked a little odd before I realized she had a hairline scar running from her left ear to the corner of her mouth.  The rest of her was slim and taut in a pair of tight denims and some kind of a woolen blouse or shirt.  Finishing it off was a worn pair of sneakers.

After that brief look due to the surprise of seeing a woman - girl, really; she couldn't be any older than my 23 - in that presumably male group, I turned away with no further masculine interest.  I mean, as a good New Mexican, I lived in the land of blue jeans and squaw dresses, of bare brown legs and thong sandals, but I prefer the impractical, fragile, feminine look of a woman in a dress or skirt and stockings and high heels; and I can see no particular reason for a female to appear publicly in pants unless she's going to ride a horse.  I'll even go so far as to say that the side-saddle and riding skirt made an attractive combination, and I regret that they passed before my time.

Please don't think this means I'm prudish and consider it sinful for women to reveal themselves in trousers.  Quite the contrary.  I object on the grounds that it makes my life very dull.  We all respond to different stimuli, and the fact is that I don't respond at all to pants, no matter whom they may contain or how tight they may be.  Daryl obviously didn't have my hang-ups and continued to stare at her until she glared back challengingly.  With a faint flush of embarrassment, he also turned away and sat down next to me.  "Looks like this might be more fun than I thought," he said in a low voice.  "I wouldn't mind having a piece of that."

I looked over at him.  "Yeah," I said.  "Not bad at all."

I mean, with a certain type of guy, especially in the military or other organizations where men gather in groups, you've got to pretend to be leching after every woman in sight or he'll think you're not normal.  It turned out that my new bunkmate was one of those who, having once started, could discuss the subject indefinitely while we ate and drank a couple of beers.  I'd had a long day and I found it hard to keep from yawning.  Not that sex itself bores me you understand, but talking about it just seems like a pointless form of masturbation.

Presently Vance walked in, which gave me an excuse to break into Daryl's erotic monologue.  I stood up as he saw me and came over to shake hands and welcome me back.  I introduced him to Daryl and they shook hands in that measuring way I was beginning to recognize, the one that says, "can I take this guy?"

I invited him to sit down, but he looked at his watch and said, "It's getting close to eight, we'd better get next door."  He seemed to feel no need to use military time; maybe he'd never been in the military.  I realized I didn't know.  "The master of ceremonies doesn't like to be kept waiting," he  elaborated with a small smile.

"The master of -"

He laughed.  "MC," he said, "Mac.  It is a joke."

"I'm not up on all the jokes yet," I said.

"This briefing is no joke, however.  Mac is not the joking kind."  The three of us walked out the door to go around to the opposite entrance.  As at a signal, the others got up to follow us.  We all found seats and sat there until, precisely at eight o'clock - twenty hundred hours to be militarily correct - Mac walked in, looking just the same as he had the day before.  Even the suit looked the same, although I doubted it was the same one.  No one could stay that neat after a long plane and car ride.

Still relatively fresh from OTS, I started to stand up as we were taught to do when a superior officer enters a briefing room.  Vance put a restraining arm on my shoulder, saving me from the small embarrassment suffered by two others who did stand briefly before looking around in confusion and sitting down again.  Mac didn't crack a smile.

"Gentlemen - and lady," he nodded in the direction of the lone girl in the room.  "You are about to start a training program - at least continue one - which is unique in
America's history.  While working with the military, we are actually operating apart from it and will dispense with the military formalities.  I am called Mac, not sir, and the same goes for your instructors, Frank, Vance, Abraham, Fedder and Rasmussen."  He pointed to each in turn.  I looked at each one as he named them, congratulating myself on identifying them as instructors in the canteen.  A couple, Frank and Abraham especially, looked older than the rest of us, but they, as well as the others, stood out somehow.  I'm not sure quite why, other than all of them seemed to have a "finished" look - and don't ask me what
that
means.

Mac was continuing, "Frank will be your surveillance and interrogation instructor. Vance, here, will conduct small arms and hand-to-hand training, a continuation of your earlier education.  Abraham will take you through the intricacies of codes, ciphers and similar intelligence skills.  Fedder will teach you about explosives, Rasmussen about the more exotic forms of mayhem and together they will show you how to perform with a partner.  I will occasionally be here to add to your education as best I can."

I was disappointed that he didn't mention rifle, knife and fencing training, not that I felt I needed them, but I was still young and naive enough to want to show off.  I got my chance sooner than I thought.

"There is one change in our faculty.  Vance, who normally also teaches rifle and knife classes, has informed me that you would be better served with a different instructor.  So, one of our students here, Eric, will take over those classes."

I started to look around before I realized he meant
me
!  I was shocked and immensely flattered all at once.  I also remembered Vance's comment on not being too proud to use an expert and realized it was practiced all the way to the top.  I think it was at that point that I really
knew
I had found a home.  I caught Vance's eye and nodded to him in thanks.  He nodded back with an amused look.  I refrained from looking at any of the other students.