One to Count Cadence (12 page)

* * *

Only Joe Morning had the personality, the voice and the gall to convince so many men to even agree to such madness, much less carry it out. But he did it. He talked in private to every enlisted man in the Operations section, and then hit them again with a band of converts. I learned from Novotny that Morning had first mentioned the idea during the wee hours of a ditch party, but only mentioned it. Then the next day, when everyone had forgotten, he spoke about it again in the back of the three-quarter going to work, and then again coming back. He convinced Novotny in a long talk that night. Quinn and Franklin wondered why they hadn’t thought of such a great idea. Cagle was ready for anything. The rest of the Trick was easy to convince. Once he had the Trick, he had their close friends on the other tricks, then their buddies, then the whole damned Company. That they only had to use physical persuasion on two men is an indication of the mood of the Company. And keeping it quiet was even easier, since the men were already security conscious because of the work.

It was beautiful and funny and I loved and feared the whole idea, but stayed in my room, sleeping with the door locked, while it took place.

* * *

I was blasted out about midmorning by Lt. Dottlinger on the handle of a bull horn. It was so loud I didn’t understand what had been screamed, and I charged out in my shorts, thinking partly of Pearl Harbor and partly of a public execution. Lt. Dottlinger stood at my end of the hall calmly announcing, “Company formation in fifteen minutes!” He had known what was up when he opened the door to Morning and saw the line, but he didn’t say anything. He had already given a blanket permission for anyone knowing anything about the broken bottles to see him without going through the 1st Sgt. He let them all in, asked questions about the bottles, made notes, and took names. Outside Tetrick was racing up and down the line, bald, sweat-shining head in hands, pleading with them to break it up and go away before they were all killed. He remembered a pile of heads he had seen in Burma left by the Japanese. But Lt. Dottlinger was calm and controlled through it all, though his control must have been the absolute hold which marks the final stage of hysteria. He quietly ordered each man back to his quarters after the interview. The men in the back of the line were frightened, as well they might have been, by this quiet approach of the lieutenant’s. Many might have broken line, but Morning, intrepid, wily Joe Morning, had placed men he could trust on either side of those he couldn’t; and he knew just exactly which were which. But he hadn’t counted on Lt. Dottlinger’s anger taking this form. More than men have hung on the nature of another man’s mood in the morning. When I saw Lt. Dottlinger in the hall, speaking pleasantly into the electric megaphone like a daytime television game-show announcer, I knew Morning’s plans had failed. I wondered what was going to happen, as I got into uniform; I should have wondered who was going to pay. When Lt. Dottlinger had first seen me in the hall, he had smiled, nodded, and said, “Good morning, Sgt. Krummel.” How little he knew.

* * *

The Company had been assembled on the volleyball court between the barracks and the drainage ditches for nearly an hour before Lt. Dottlinger came out. He was walking from the waist down, a smug, arrogant strut like Brando in
The Wild One.
Ah, he was loose. I thought for a moment he might mumble too, but he had added an English undertone to his Southern accent to strut a bit more. He accepted Tetrick’s “Hall pre’nt an’ ‘counted for, sir,” with a salute of languid grace. I wanted to laugh. But it would have been a nervous giggle. I, the whole Company too, was caught by that creepy version of fear which only comes when you’re faced with someone who is crazy. It isn’t so much that you’re frightened that you might come to physical harm, but that you’re faced with something not human anymore. You don’t know what it is, and you don’t care because you realize what it isn’t, and you can only run and run until you wipe the face of insanity from the deepest regions of your memory; but as you run, you understand that some unsuspecting night you will dream that tormented, twisted face, and wake, oh my God, scream for the savior you had forgotten, and scream again, for the face is yours. Dottlinger scared us like that. If he had taken a rifle and shot the first rank of men or snatched a rose from his shirt and sniffed, none of us would have blinked.

“Well,” he began, striding along the Company front, his hands clasped casually behind him. For once he didn’t have his ball-point swagger stick. “It seems we have a small mutiny on our hands, troopers. Or at least a conspiracy to mutiny, troopers, which carries an equally harsh penalty. I would only guess, but I could probably put each and every one of you behind bars for the rest of your natural lives.” He pivoted, paused and reflected. It wasn’t a particularly hot day, but two large sweat stains were slowly creeping from under Lt. Dottlinger’s arms like cancerous stigmata. He wasn’t quite so frightening now. He was beginning to lose his edge, and was forced to begin to play himself. It had taken too long to write his speech. “But I’m not going to do that,” he continued. “At least not right this minute. I’m sure most of you men didn’t mean to cause this much trouble, or face such a stiff charge. Certainly your leaders lied to you about this — you’re surprised I know there were leaders. Don’t be, don’t be. It was obvious. Yes, I’m sure there were leaders, perhaps even a single organizer.” He paused, “And I would like to put him behind bars. I really want that. I want him!” He could barely control himself now.

“But I’ll let that go. Let it go,” he said, smiling suddenly, a forced, theatrical smile. “Yes, even that. Just to let you know I’m a fair and understanding officer. Yes, I’ll forget this whole little affair ever took place, and I’ll even lose the names of the men. Yes.

“But I want, I still want, and I will have the man whobrokethe… bottles.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “I have an idea, mind you, just a hint of an idea, that he will be the same man who organized this childish little demonstration.” Morning grunted with anger behind me. “This same whining disrespect for authority applies to property too and comes out of the same Godless overeducated under-spanked children.

“Until such time as the man who broke the four cases of Coke bottles, the ninety-six bottles, confesses, you are restricted to the Company and Operations Area, and to your quarters when not working, eating, or relieving yourself,” he said, very businesslike now. A communal moan drifted up from the men. Morning grunted again, this time like a frustrated wart hog preparing to charge.

“At ease!” Tetrick growled.

“The day-trick will relieve the mid-trick after noon chow, and then make up the lost time by going to work at 0400 tomorrow morning.” Nice move. The day-trick was going on Break, and my Trick would have to make up the time.

It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t disaster either. Then I heard another grunt from Morning, a furious exhalation, and he started to say, “Request permission…” But I overruled him.

“Request permission to speak to the Company Commander, sir,” I sang out. Dottlinger wouldn’t hold to his word about forgetting about the mutiny charges if he got hold of Morning. Why he hadn’t figured it out by this time was a wonder to me.

“Certainly, Sgt. Krummel.”

I said dreadful things to myself as I walked toward him, but I wasn’t afraid of him anymore. I just didn’t know what I was going to say.

“Could I speak to you in private, sir?” I asked after saluting. The sweat blackened areas of his shirt had grown, and his face was pale, but his eyes still glittered with fire enough for one more encounter. He told Tetrick to have the men stand easy. I followed him a few steps toward the barracks.

“Yes, Sgt. Krummel?”

“Sir. Sir, I know I’m off base, but the events of this morning seem to call for unusual actions.”

“They are unusual events.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, sergeant, what did you want?” he inquired when I hadn’t spoken for several seconds.

“Well, sir, it’s about the restriction to the Company Area.”

“What about it?”

“Well, sir, ah, I’m worried about the quality of the work at Operations. It is already low due to the tension, and this harsher restriction, sir, will probably lower it even further. The Filipino liaison officer has already threatened to go to the major if the work doesn’t pick up.” One lie. “And the men are terribly on edge, sir, already. Might even say they’re horny as hell, sir.” I giggled like a high school virgin. I was willing to be anything.

“I think the men can curb their physical appetites, sergeant. There’s too much of that sort of thing happening in this Company anyway. And as for the quality of the work — send them to me if it doesn’t pick up. This outfit is getting soft. It needs a little iron, and I intend to see that they get it.”

“Yes, sir, I agree.” Two lies. “But the men feel that if the man who broke the bottles…” (God, I thought, is this really about some broken bottles.) “… is in the Company, sir, then he has confessed and, sir, no matter how silly this logic sounds, or how much a play on words it is, that’s the way the men feel, sir, and…”

“Well, if they think I’m going to be threatened…”

“Excuse me, sir, but they don’t mean that, I’m sure.” Three lies. “They’re just desperate, sir, and I’m afraid, sir, that we might have a real mutiny on our hands. I saw one in Korea, sir, and it was bad.” Four lies. “Everyone’s record took a permanent blemish, sir.”

He nodded. He knew who was threatening whom, and he didn’t like it. He thought for a bit, then smiled slowly as if he knew something. “You’re perfectly correct, sergeant, a real mutiny would be quite disastrous. But I don’t see how I can go back on my word, do you?”

“Sir?”

“Well, everyone hasn’t confessed.”

“Sir?”

“You haven’t confessed, Sgt. Krummel. You might have done it, for all I know.” He smiled again, a smile which said, “I’ve got you Mr. Master’s Degree.”

“Sir, I’d like to make a statement. I’m the one, sir, who broke your Coke bottles in the Day Room.” Five lies. “I’ll make restitution to the Company Fund, sir, and plead guilty to any charges you would like to make in connection with the actual destruction of the bottles, sir.”

“Were you drunk, sergeant?” Oh, he was loving this.

“No, sir.”

“Then why did you do it?” His best fatherly tone.

“Momentary loss of perspective, sir. The machine took my coin and refused me a Coke, and since the machine was unbreakable, I avenged myself on the innocent bottles, sir.”

“Sounds as if you might be mentally unbalanced, sergeant.” How he would like me to plead that.

“No, not at all, sir. Like all good soldiers, sir, I have a quick temper and a strong sense of right which, under the direction of competent officers, can be a formidable weapon in combat, sir.”

For a second he had forgotten whom he was playing with. “Well… Well, this isn’t combat. Return to your Trick, and report to me after this formation.”

“Right, sir.” I saluted sharply, whirled and marched back.

Lt. Dottlinger turned to Tetrick, told him to dismiss the Company after informing the men that all prior restrictions were lifted and the pass box would be open immediately. The Day Room would be reopened after proper cleaning. The men had already heard the lieutenant’s words, and they cheered when Tetrick dismissed them. Most ran for the barracks to change for Town, but a few paused to ask unanswered questions of me.

I told Tetrick what I had done before I went in to see Dottlinger. He assured me that Dottlinger would not dare any more than an Article 15, Company Punishment. Tetrick seemed resigned that someone would be slaughtered for the greatest good, and seemed not to mind particularly that that someone was me. His attitude seemed to say, “It’s for the best.”

“To hell with it,” I said. “Maybe I’ll kiss the bastard and let him queer me out, or maybe bust his pussylick face for him and let him hang my stripes for teeth he ain’t going to have.”

“If you do, holler, so I can be a witness that he hit you first,” Tetrick laughed.

But I had already thought of the worst thing he could do: ignore my confession, let me go, and then single out any enlisted man and bust him with evidence he would say I’d given; and if I didn’t agree to this, then the Company would be back on restriction again. I was surprised how much I hated Dottlinger at that moment, but even more surprised to discover that I wasn’t worried about my stripes and that I cared about the respect of my men. I had said, when I reenlisted back in Seattle, that God couldn’t involve me with anything or anybody again; I wanted to be a happy, stupid, payday drunk. But what God couldn’t do, Joe Morning managed.

Dottlinger did, as Tetrick had predicted, give me Company Punishment: two hours extra duty for fifteen days. One hour policing the Day Room and one hour marching in front of the barracks as an example with full field pack and blanket roll. “To begin immediately,” he had said. He unlocked the Day Room, had me open the louvers, and gloated while I swept the floor with a short broom.

So for fifteen days no one spoke to me for fear I’d take their heads off. The whole thing was so public, marching in daylight, squatting in the Day Room like a recruit. Once at a particularly bleak moment Tetrick had said, “Tell him to fuck himself. He hasn’t got a leg to stand on. He can’t touch you within the regs.”

“For a man with no legs, he’s stepping on my toes pretty heavily,” I answered — but thought about his suggestion more than I care to admit.

I had nearly decided that what I had done wasn’t worth it when the only good thing of the time happened. This kid from Trick One came out of the barracks one day when the sun was pouring into my fatigues like lava, and at that dark, sun-bunded moment, had said, “Look at the little tin soldier. It walks, it talks, it’s almost human.” I don’t suppose he intended that I hear him, but I had. Someone else had too. From the second floor above the door an invisible voice roared like the wrath of Jehovah. “Shut your wise mouth, fuckhead!” The kid jumped, looked around, then dashed back in the barracks, perhaps wondering if God hadn’t spoken to him.