But all he wanted to do was break his arm. I guess he figured he could get away with that."
"They court-martial him?"
"No. For what? The DI said, `Try to kill me." The guy was just obeying orders. The platoon DI came to me and explained the situation, and I transferred the guy to another platoon."
"Is this guy a sleaze, Teddy?" McCoy asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what does he look like, what does he act like?"
"I don't know. I never actually seen him. His platoon DI's a friend of mine, and he must have sort of liked this guy or he wouldn't have come to me about him."
"Or, like you said, the assistant DI is an asshole and he figured he deserved a broken arm. I want to see him, Teddy. Can you arrange that?"
"No problem," Osgood said. "I'll have him there with the others."
"You want another one of these?" McCoy asked, extending the pint of scotch to Moore. He suspected, correctly, that Moore was both exhausted by their trip and in pain.
"Please," Moore said, taking the bottle.
"What about now?" McCoy said. "Let's see how he reacts to getting up in the middle of the night."
"You're serious, aren't you?" Osgood asked.
"Yeah, I'm serious," McCoy said. He looked at Moore.
"After I talked to your new boss, I talked to Captain Sessions.
He said I should also ask about getting your new boss an orderly, or a driver, but really somebody to pick up the papers he leaves lying around when he's not supposed to."
"Oh," Moore said.
"He also used the word `bodyguard' but said we shouldn't say it around your boss."
"Yeah," Moore said, understanding.
"Why not?" Sergeant Major Osgood said. "Everybody knows people in the supply business need bodyguards. Who is your boss, anyway?"
"None of your fucking business," McCoy said. "Since you asked." The sergeant major chuckled. He went to the bedside table, pulled open a drawer, took out a mimeographed telephone directory, found the number he was looking for, and dialed it.
"This is the sergeant major," he said "Roll Private Hart, George F., out of the sack. Have him standing by in full field gear in five minutes. I'll send a vehicle for him."
Private Hart was not surprised when the lights in the squad bay came on in the middle of the night. That happened all the time. Nor was he particularly surprised when the drill instructor marched down the aisle between the rows of double bunks, his heels crashing against the wooden, washed-nearly-white flooring, and stopped at his bunk.
At least I'm out of the sack and at attention, he thought, taking some small solace from the situation.
It was not the first time since he had been transferred to his new platoon that he'd been singled out for what was euphemistically called "extra training." This most often consisted of an order to get dressed and take a couple of double-time laps around the barracks area with his rifle held over his head. But a couple of times they woke him at two in the morning to practice "basic elements of field fortification." That meant digging a man-sized hole with his entrenching tool and filling it up again. Then they let him shower and get back in the sack.
He understood now why they'd done those things. His new DI and his assistants wanted to make sure he was not a wiseass who had to be broken to fit the Marine mold. Although what he had almost done to Corporal Clayton C. Warren, USMC, had not officially happened and was supposed to be kept as quiet as possible to protect the dignity of the DI Corps, they knew about it, obviously, and so they wanted to make sure about him.
For his part, he'd obeyed their orders without complaint and to the best of his ability. And the DI here and his assistants, while they were a stiff-necked bunch of bastards, were at least a reasonably fair trio of stiff-necked bastards-a marvelous improvement over Corporal Clayton C. Warren, USMC.
It was against Holy Writ to meet the eyes of a DI; one was required to stare off into space. So it was a moment before Private Hart became aware that the DI whose face was an inch and a half from his was the DI, Staff Sergeant Homer Hungleberry, USMC, and that Staff Sergeant Hungleberry was attired in his boondockers and skivvies only.
"Caught you with your cock in your hand, did I, Hart?"
"Sir, no, Sir."
"What have you done that I don't know about, Hart?"
What the fuck is he talking about?
"Sir, I don't know."
"When I find out, and I will find out, I will have your ass twice. Once for doing something I don't know about and once for lying to me about it."
"Sir, yes, Sir."
"So there is something?"
"Sir, no, Sir."
"Utilities, full field gear, helmet, piece, in five minutes!"
"Sir, aye, aye, Sir." Staff Sergeant Hungleberry withdrew his face from Private Hart's, did a left-face, and marched back down the aisle between the rows of double bunks. When he reached the light switch, he turned off the lights.
Private Hart, in the dark, located a set of utilities, his socks, boondockers, field equipment, and helmet and carried them down the aisle toward the head, where one 40-watt bulb (others were ritually unscrewed from their sockets) was allowed to burn all night.
The firewatch, a boot required to stay awake all night, was in the head.
"What the fuck did you do now?" he inquired.
"Does it fucking matter?" Hart replied as he hastily pulled on his utilities, the field equipment, his socks, and shoved his feet into his boondockers and tied them.
"You did something," the firewatch said helpfully. "And he knows. "
"Fuck you," Private Hart said as he put his helmet on his head.
How the hell am I going to get my piece? My fucking piece is in the fucking arms rack, and the fucking arms rack is locked.
The answer came: When he comes out of his room, he will find me standing at fucking attention by the arms rack waiting for him to unlock the sonofabitch.
Staff Sergeant Hungleberry, now fully dressed, appeared. He examined Private Hart, who was standing at rigid attention.
"You have hearing problems, Hart?"
"Sir, no, Sir."
"Do I speak indistinctly Or was I maybe talking in Chinese?"
"Sir, no, Sir."
"Then you did understand me to say, Ùtilities, full field gear, helmet, and piece in five minutes'?"
"Sir, yes, Sir."
"Then where is your fucking piece?"
"Sir, in the arms rack, Sir, and the arms rack, Sir, is locked, Sir."
"Do you really think I would ask you to take your piece from a locked arms rack?"
"Sir, no, Sir."
"Then get your fucking piece from the arms rack!" The sonofabitch unlocked the fucking rack before he came storming down the aisle!
"Sir, aye, aye, Sir!" He retrieved his piece, U.S. Rifle, Springfield, Model of 1903, Serial Number 2456577, from its assigned place, third from the right on the squad bay side, worked the action to ensure that it was empty, and came to attention again.
on are still telling me that you have no idea why the ant major wants to see you?" The sergeant major?
What the fuck does the sergeant major want with me at midnight?
"Sir, yes, Sir. I don't know why the sergeant major wants to see me, Sir."
"'Ten-HUT! Right SHOULDER, Harms! Right Face! Fohwud, Harch! Open the door when you get to it!" Private Hart marched off, opened the door when he came to it, marched through it, down the shallow stairs and toward the next barracks.
"Detail, HALT!" After approximately two minutes, which seemed like much longer, the headlights of a Chevrolet pickup truck illuminated the area, and then the truck stopped about eight inches from Private Hart.
He could faintly but clearly hear the conversation between his DI and the corporal driving the truck.
"What the fuck is going on here?"
"Beats the shit out of me. All I know is I was told to come here and get some boot named Hart and take him to the BOQ."
"To the sergeant major at the BOQ," the corporal clarified.
"Shit!"
"That's all I know, Sergeant," the corporal said righteously. "You coming, or just him? That is him?"
"Hart, get in the fucking truck!"
"Sir, aye, aye, Sir." The opening and then slamming of the passenger door told Private Hart that his DI had decided his duty required him to accompany him to the sergeant major at the BOQ.
The sergeant major at the BOQ? What the hell is going on?
Ten minutes later the pickup stopped in front of a two-story frame building in a part of Parris Island Private Hart had never been to.
He saw a man he had never seen before. But to judge by the stripes on his sleeves and his assured manner as he approached the truck, he was certainly the sergeant major.
"Who are you?"
"Hungleberry, Sergeant Major."
"That Hart?"
"Yes, Sergeant Major."
"What took you so long?"
"We was ready when the truck got there," Staff Sergeant Hungleberry said righteously.
"Get him out of the truck and march him to room twelve.
Left corridor, last door on the right. Report to the officers."
"Right," Sergeant Hungleberry replied. Then he raised his voice: "Out of the truck, Hart!" Hart got out of the truck.
"'Ten-HUT! PORT, Harms! Lu-eft, FACE! Foh-wud, HARCH! Up the stairs and into the building."
When Private Hart passed the sergeant major, the sergeant ma3or leaned forward to get a good look at Private Hart.
Private Hart could smell his breath; he had been in enough bars to recognize the smell of whiskey there.
Indeed, his experience as a vice squad detective had given him the expertise to make a professional judgment: The sergeant major had been drinking scotch, and in quantities sufficient to place in grave doubt his ability to walk a straight line or to close his eyes and touch his nose with his finger.
Jesus Christ, now what? What the fuck is this all about? I've heard they take people out behind barracks and beat the shit out of them. Is that why nothing happened to me for trying to break that asshole's arm?
They were saving me for this? Are the sergeant major, drunk -and maybe a couple of drunken officers really going to leach me that they just won't tolerate trying to break a DIs arm?
Staff Sergeant Hungleberry marched Private Hart into the room, again ordered, "De-tail, HALT!" and then barked, "Sir, Staff Sergeant Hungleberry reporting to the Lieutenant with a detail of one, Sir!"
"Come!"
"Put your detail at ease, Sergeant," the officer ordered conversationally.
"Aww-duh, HARMS! Puh-rade, REST!"
"I said, àt ease,' Sergeant," the officer said.
"At EASE!"
After Private Hart complied, he dared to look around the room. There were two officers, both young.
One was a second lieutenant, sprawled on a bed, a whiskey glass resting on his stomach. He was wearing khakis. His field scarf was pulled down the top three buttons of his shirt were open.
Hart recognized the Purple Heart among the ribbons pinned to the shirt.
The other officer was a first lieutenant, and he too had ribbons pinned to his shirt, including the Purple Heart. In the fleeting instant when their eyes met, Private Hart's professional experience told him, this guy can be one mean sonofabitch.
"You're his DI?" the mean-looking officer asked.
"Yes, Sir. Staff Sergeant Hungleberry, Sir."
"OK, Sergeant. Tell me, is this guy going to be a Marine or not?" The question surprised Hungleberry. It was a moment before he replied:
"I guess he'll be all right, Sir." That's the nicest thing anybody has said about me since I came to this fucking hellhole.
"I didn't ask for a guess, Sergeant. I asked whether this guy make a Marine or not?" The hesitation this time was longer.
"Yes, Sir, in my opinion, he'll be all right."
"Thank you," the officer said. He turned to the dresser behind him and picked up a pint of scotch. "Sorry to keep you out of the sack at this time of night, but we want to talk to him.
He tossed the pint to the sergeant major, who had come into the room.
"Take the sergeant someplace and give him a little taste, Teddy, would you, please?" the officer said.
"Aye, aye, Sir," the sergeant major said. In a moment Hart heard the door close.
"My name is McCoy," the officer said. "That's Lieutenant Moore."
"Yes, Sir."
"I understand you're a tough guy," McCoy said.
Hart could not think of a proper reply to that. He did not answer.
"I understand you tried to break your DI's arm. Yes or no?"
"Yes, Sir.
"I also understand you know how to use a knife?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Why didn't you kill the DI? Everybody seems agreed that he's an asshole."
"I didn't want to go to Portsmouth, Sir."
"Good reason," McCoy said. "I asked you a question before. Are you a tough guy or not?"
"I used to be a cop, Lieutenant," Hart said. "I suppose I'm as tough as most cops."
"Tougher than some7"
"Yes, Sir."
"You look like you could use a drink," McCoy said. "Lean your piece against the wall." The offer completely surprised Hart. McCoy saw his hesitation and laughed.
"Go ahead," he said. "You're not the first guy to go through here, including me, who wanted to kill his DI.
You're the first sane one I've met who actually tried to." He walked to Hart, took his rifle from him, and motioned him into a chair. He leaned the rifle against a wall, and then he poured whiskey into a glass and handed it to him.
"You want some water?"
"No, thank you, Sir."
"Why did you want to be a cop?"
"My whole family is cops."
"When you were a cop, did you ever use your weapon? Kill somebody? Or try to?"
"Yes, Sir." Hart took a sip of the whiskey. For the first time he saw Moore's cane.
"Which? Tried to? Or did?"
"I had to kill a couple of people, Sir, when I was a cop."
"Is that why you joined the crotch?" Moore asked somewhat thickly. "To kill people?"
What did he say? The crotch?
Hart saw McCoy flash Moore an angry look, but then he turned to Hart:
"Answer the question."
"A goddamn recruiter lied to me," Hart blurted.
"No shit?" McCoy replied sarcastically. "I thought a cop would be smarter than that."
"This was a clever sonofabitch," Hart said, and a split second later remembered to append, "Sir."
"What did he tell you?" McCoy asked.
"That The Corps wanted guys who had been cops to be sort of cops for The Corps, Sir."
"And you believed him?"
"I believed the sonofabitch who told me I'd get a commission when I got through here," Moore said.
He's drunk, Hart realized.
"You have a commission." McCoy chuckled.
"Yeah, now."
"You're plastered," McCoy added, still chuckling, as if the realization pleased him. "You've been an officer forty-eight hours and already you're guilty of conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. Try not to fall out of bed."
"Fuck you, McCoy." McCoy shook his head and turned to Hart.
"You know what a full background investigation is?"
"Yes, Sir."
"I want straight answers now. Don't try to be clever. If we ran one on you, what would it turn up?" Hart considered the question. Before he had formed a reply, McCoy went on.
"You're German, right? You or anybody in your family ever been involved with the German-American Bund? Anything like that?"
"No, Sir."
"How about the Communist Party? You, or anybody close, family, friends, ever been involved with that?
Maybe the Abraham Lincoln Briga
de?"
"No, Sir."
"Now don't get hot under the collar, but you're not a secret faggot, are you?"
"Jesus Christ, McCoy!" Moore complained.
"Are you?"
"No, Sir."
"How do you feel about rich people?"
"Excuse me?"
"How do you feel about rich people. I mean, really rich people?"
"I never met any," Hart replied, hesitated, and added, "Sir."
"The Lieutenant is asking," Moore explained, carefully pronouncing each syllable, "if you would be comfortable working with someone who is enormously wealthy, or whether you would disgrace the crotch by pissing in the potted palms."
What the fuck is this all about?
McCoy laughed.
"He doesn't usually get this pissed on a couple of drinks. I'm beginning to be sorry I brought you down here with me."
"I'm not pissed," Moore said. "How could I possibly be pissed? I've only had two or three little nips."
"You answer the question," McCoy said. "How do you think... could he work with the General?"
"I think the General would like him," Moore said. "But then, I have been wrong before."
"Hart, what we're looking for is someone to be a bodyguard for a general. The General is not going to like the idea of having a bodyguard. Could you handle something like that?"
"I didn't know generals had bodyguards," Hart blurted.
"Most of them don't. This one needs one."
"I really don't know."
"Your other option is taking your piece on a ship and going to a line company in someplace like Guadalcanal," Moore said. "They shoot people on Guadalcanal. It smarts when they shoot you."
"You've gone too far," McCoy flared. "Shut your fucking mouth!"
"Aye, aye, Sir," Moore said and threw McCoy an insulting mockery of a salute.
"The other qualification is the ability to keep your mouth shut," McCoy said to Hart.
"I think I could do that," Hart said.
"Yeah, so do I," McCoy said. "OK. Decision made. If you don't get along with... the officer we're talking about, we'll find something else for you to do. But one last time, if a CBI turns up something you're concealing from me, I will personally guarantee that you'll spend the rest of the war in an infantry line company."
Line of Fire Page 19
