Summer Shorts-Four Short Stories (3 page)

The prisoner paused to face Radar and angrily
muttered "Yeah, it's you alright. Now you tell me the truth, is
that no good drunken bastard in there?" Radar chuckled…surprising
the intern…and then he said to the prisoner "Yeah, he's in there…
but you just missed him…again."

The intern asked "What the hell?" Radar
looked down at him and replied "You might say we've met."

The grass was
dripping with dew, and steam slowly wafted upwards from every leaf,
branch, and petal creating a waist high cloud layer of fog. The
late night tropical dampness soaked through every article of
clothing where it blended with his sweat. His limbs ached as the
adrenaline began to give way to the exhaustion, muscle cramps
tugged at his legs from kneeling so long in such a constricted
space.

The chatter---those damned monkey-like
voices--their voices --continually filled the dark thick air,
blended with the noise of the distant artillery to make dull, white
noise that surrounded us in a tiny bubble of silence. He gasped for
air, flexed his knees for circulation, shook off the cold dew, and
waited for them.

******

They were Japanese or Germans back in the
home-made cardboard shooting gallery he'd set up in the dank, bare
concrete basement of his childhood. Then it was just them, him, and
his rifle. Shy, sickly, and introverted as he was as a child,
Father thought the new BB gun would be just thing to draw his only
male child out of his imaginary world and deliver him into the
sunlight. Sports hadn't worked, but they require more than one
person. Father was rarely around due to his traveling sales job and
due to his preference of spending time in taverns instead of with a
boy who lived in a pretend world. When home, Father's patience was
as short as his temper when it came to a pudgy, tow-headed son who
just couldn't seem to do anything right.

Instead of delight, Father was again
disappointed when the Boy invited him down to the musky dank
basement to view his creation: an indoor shooting gallery. Father
tried a couple of shots with the new BB gun, but then left to pour
out his disgust to buddies at the bar of the local American Legion
hall. One of his listening buddies suggested that they gather up
their boys the next morning and drive into the country to an old
abandoned gravel pit to teach them some real target shooting---with
real rifles. Bolstered by several beers, Father and the other men
agreed.

The next day, Father grabbed his 22 caliber
rifle and a sack of empty beer cans and the boy, then they drove to
the Legion parking lot and met up with the others. Father was
pleased to see how thrilled the boy was to be in the company of
others his age and how unexpectedly elated the boy was to go
shooting. At age six, the 22 was too heavy for the Boy to fire from
a standing position, so Father had him lay the rifle across the top
of a discarded bridge handrail. The boy's first shot missed, but
just as Father was about to write the day off as another failure,
the man who suggested the outing leaned over the Boy. "You got your
thumb in the way of your sights. Try holding it like this". In
World War II, that man had been in the Army infantry, and unlike
the Boy's Father, had fought using a rifle. With a few minutes of
expert coaching, the Boy was taking down pyramids of beer cans one
can at a time from top to bottom.

"By God, he's a natural" the Army veteran
announced to the others. Father was both somewhat proud and
somewhat confused by what had just transpired. He had taught the
Boy to shoot, but this interloper suddenly worked a miracle. The
day was such a success that the group agreed to make it a regular
Sunday morning activity. Other men, some of whom had no boys of
their own, soon joined the group.

When the Boy wasn't shooting real rifles with
the men, he was in his basement with his BB gun or else watching
TV, soaking up war movies, cowboys, World War II documentaries, and
kiddie shows. The kiddie shows were designed to sell toys, and one
commercial seemed to leap out of the tube and right into the heart
of the Boy. Its sponsor was the manufacturer of his BB gun, and it
announced a national shooting contest for boys age six to ten. The
winner would receive a special edition, one-of-a-kind BB rifle and
get to appear on TV commercials for the company. The Boy was
mesmerized by the idea and had his mother help him to complete his
application.

******

The only persons not surprised that the Boy
won the competition were his coach, the Army veteran, and the Boy
who knew in his heart he was meant to shoot. All through the
whirlwind process of transforming the Boy into the "BB Boy", the
television kiddies show trick shot artist, the Boy remained
introverted and alone. He did exactly what he was told to do at the
public appearances and on the TV commercial set, but then
disappeared from the view of the public. It seemed that wherever he
went, there was always some kid who would yell "Phony Freak",
sending BB Boy into a fit of rage and tears. "I am real. I do what
I do for real." He would cry, and then run off to sulk and swear he
would never perform for them again. Until the next time his
managers said so.

The public watched him grow in size and in
skill every Saturday morning on TV, at state fairs, and large toy
store openings. In his signature red cowboy hat and red leather
cowboy vest, chaps, gauntlets and bright blonde crew cut hair; he
had become one of the most recognizable celebrities in America. In
spite of his fame, he was never paid more than a fraction of what
an adult actor would make. The BB gun manufacturer held the rights
to his image, and so when the BB Boy commercials ended just before
his thirteenth birthday, his parents were relieved. The strain of
the travel and the cost of replacing the costumes as he grew had
left them with only a meager return over expenses. Perhaps BB Boy
could become a "normal kid" and do the things normal kids do…they
hoped.

That didn't happen. At school, BB Boy was
taunted so much that his parents had to move to a different city
where he went by a different name. Try as hard as he might, sooner
or later he would hear that old familiar "Hey, I know you!" and the
teasing and taunting would start over again. Girls his age would
have nothing to do with him since he was viewed as an outcast and
as a 'has-been' child commercial actor. The jocks ridiculed him
because he had never learned any sports other than shooting, a
skill he maintained privately through participation in a skeet club
and also a private arrangement with the local police department
shooting range manager.

******

By age seventeen, he had aggregated enough
school credits to graduate at the end of his junior year. BB Boy
wanted nothing more than to escape high school and his tormentors,
so with his parents' permission he enlisted before his eighteenth
birthday just as his Father had done. BB Boy however chose to join
the Army where he thought his rifle skills would be appreciated.
What BB Boy had not anticipated was how much physical strength,
endurance, and coordination he lacked. The taunting and humiliation
BB Boy had experienced in school were nothing remotely close to the
badgering and bulling the Army could dish out. "If I could just
shoot for them" he prayed under his breath as he staggered to catch
up to the rest of his trainees during five mile runs.

His drill instructor was convinced that BB
Boy was a total lost cause and wanted to have him discharged as
being a hazard to his own health and that of the unit. Before the
paperwork could be processed, the day finally came when the
recruits cycled through to the target range. At first, the drill
instructor held back on letting BB Boy fire for fear he might
accidentally hit one of his own recruits or even the drill
instructor. As all of the other favored recruits finished, he
finally let the bottom of the barrel recruits fire their
weapons.

Instructed to fire from the prone position,
BB Boy struggled with the bulky M14 rifle. It appeared that he
would not qualify and the drill instructor had seen enough. BB Boy
then unexpectedly stood up with the M14 and fired another few
rounds at the target, infuriating the DI. "Who gave you permission
to stand and fire, numb nuts?" the DI shrieked into BB Boy's face,
oblivious to the perfect bulls eyes BB had just scored.

A voice boomed from behind the firing line
"Have him do that again, Sergeant". Spinning around, the DI saw two
officers standing beside a jeep. He had no idea of why or how long
they had been there, but he did as instructed. "Reload and fire at
will, numb nuts!" the DI barked and BB Boy responded. His bullets
obliterated the black bulls eye of the target, making a near
perfect cut-out of the black circle. "Jee-zuzz K -rime-eny!"
blurted out the DI. "Just where the hell did you learn to do
that?"

The two officers smiled and one ordered
"Sergeant-we would like a word with the private." The DI barked
"You heard the man. Move it numb nuts." Reaching the two officers,
BB Boy saluted and snapped to attention. The older officer, a
major, spoke: "Nice shooting son. Or should I say "BB Boy". The
Army has a job for you."

******

The DI was more than relieved to have his
most undesirable recruit removed from the squad. Where ever he was
headed, the DI figured BB Boy was someone else's problem and good
riddance. No one was more surprised to learn BB Boy's true identity
when another of the recruits on the firing line blurted our "Well,
I'll be damned-it's the BB Boy! I remember him" and he and a few
other recruits burst into the BB Boy theme song:

"…Cold blue steel in his hands,

He's the champion of the land,

It's a rifle-not a toy,

He's our hero, BB Boy"

The impromptu sing-along was not lost on the
two officers as they drove off in their jeep. The major looked at
the other office and grinned "I told you they'd remember him". Back
at the base headquarters, the two officers sat at a table with a
couple of well-dressed civilians. BB Boy thought to himself "TV
show people". He was right.

The major laid out the situation for the
lowly private. "Son, the Army has a public relations problem and
these gentlemen think that you're the key to solving it." Looking
over the table of participants he added: "And I concur". He then
explained that problem in terms an eighteen year private could
grasp.

******

The Army had gone to war in Vietnam with what
it thought was a good, solid rifle the M14; a hybrid based on the
venerable WWII Garand rifle. But the heat of the jungle exposed a
glaring flaw in the M14; it weighed too damn much and so did its
30.06 ammunition. (BB Boy could attest to that weight, having toted
the fifteen and a half pound beast throughout basic training). Yet
with that bulk, the M14 was not heavy enough to control the power
ammunition it spewed when set to "full automatic", causing the
weapon to rise up and away from its target.

What the M14 did have in its favor was its
rugged construction and consistent reliability which endeared it to
the soldiers who were hearty enough to put up with its weight. Even
so, the U.S. military establishment had been thoroughly wined and
dined into deciding that the recently field tested M16 was the
answer to the troops' prayers. Weighing just over eight pounds and
touting new ammunition so much lighter than the 30.06 bullets, the
M16 could handle a magazine of twenty rounds and still fire
accurately on full automatic setting. But it was one other special
feature that cinched the deal for Colt Arms and the military… Colt
Arms claimed the gun was so modern that it rarely needed
cleaning.

With that sales job, in 1966 the Army wrote a
check to Colt Arms for nearly ninety-two million dollars, and the
newly purchased 840,000 M16s were rushed to the field…without
cleaning kits (who needs a cleaning kit in the jungle for a weapon
the rarely needs cleaning.). Soldiers in the fields of Viet Nam
handed over their trust-worthy M14's for the new "Black Guns". The
soldiers were taught how to use Black Guns, but not how to
field-strip and clean them. After all, the Black Guns didn't need
cleaning, so there was no reason to waste time teaching them.

By 1967, there was a rumble in the jungle.
Some blamed the new ammunition; some blamed the lack of cleaning
kits, while others blamed Colt Arms for not lining the gun barrels
with chrome per the specifications. The fact had been established:
the M16 jammed often and was downright unreliable. American
soldiers were dying because of it and that made the weapon
untrustworthy.

News reporters and parents of dead soldiers
hounded Congressmen. Congressmen hounded generals. Generals hounded
Colt Arms, which in the face of hearings and lawsuits rushed
thousands of M16 cleaning kits to the soldiers in the field. The
generals hounded their subordinates to develop and institute
training programs and pamphlets on how to clean the M16. But the
soldiers in the field just wouldn't buy into the program. They
simply didn't trust the "Black Gun".

******

"So the Army needs someone these kids
know…someone they grew up with…to convince them that the M16 is a
winner and its bad days are behind it" the major concluded. "And BB
Boy, that someone is you!" With that, the TV types took over
explaining their vision of an "updated BB Boy", with glitz and
go-go girls, touring the country side of Viet Nam. There would be
live shows featuring BB Boy's most memorable trick shots using his
commemorative BB gun, but then he'd swing into the future
performing with the newly improved M16 A1 rifle. BB Boy and his
girls would demonstrate how easy it was to clean the gun. BB Boy
would give a testimonial to the Black Gun's dependability."