“Well, we might call it fun and games, but that’s definitely not how my dad looks at it. To him it’s serious stuff. The tank crews go through tank tables, which are qualification exercises covering everything a tank unit has to know and do well. And the conditions are tough, even at night and near live fire.”
“Okay, not fun and games.”
“And they’d better be good at hitting stuff. The tanks have to move from one place to another, shooting from different positions. While they’re moving, someone radios in with their next target. The tank crew is scored on whether they hit the target and how long it takes them to take their shot. If it takes too long to get the shot off, they lose points, even if they hit the target. Flunking says you’re not combat ready. And that is the definition of a big problem.”
Jack laughed ruefully. “And I thought nothing could be worse than reading discussion groups.”
Charlie laughed, too.
“Charlie, how do you know all this?”
“When we lived in Kentucky, we were at Fort Knox, with 3rd Armored Division. My dad was an instructor at the tanker school. He also designed and set up the new tank range at Knox. He spent a lot of nights and weekends out in our garage building a model of the proposed range. It was really keen. It kinda looked like the layout for a train set on a giant piece of plywood, except without the trains and tracks. It had hills and trails and little, tiny trees. The targets were tiny tanks, trucks, and bunkers.”
Charlie paused as the school’s janitor asked to go past them. He had a thick German accent. The spikey-haired guy was wiping down the gym walls with a damp rag, but at the pace of a slug.
“Why’s he doing that while the gym is being used?” whispered Jack.
“Dunno,” shrugged Charlie, preoccupied with his story. “One of the neatest things my dad did was set some of the model tanks and trucks on fire and get the plastic burning. Then he’d dunk ’em in water so they only half melted. They looked like they’d been hit by tank rounds. Anyway, I used to hang out with him while he worked on the model, and he told me lots of stuff about how the range worked.”
“Nice.” Jack wanted that with his dad.
They headed toward the water fountain to get a drink before the bell rang. Jack saw the janitor again. Charlie’s eyes followed Jack’s. “That man is sooo strange,” said Charlie. “What’s he doing in here anyway?”
Jack nodded. “He’s like that girl in the bus who kept leaning across the aisle to catch whatever that one boy said. But why would a janitor be so interested in what kids are saying?”
For the next several days, not much intel was forthcoming about what the tankers of 4th Armored Division were up to. There was a rumor they were up in Grafenwöhr, but Charlie and Jack had no verification. When they asked their moms, they got the standard answer: “Oh, honey, I have no idea. You don’t need to worry about that. Your dad will be back soon enough.”
Translation of adult-speak: “It’s none of your business.”
Finally, one afternoon about a week later, Jack and his gang picked up a rumor that the 4th was on their way back to Cooke Barracks. The brats headed for the cliff overlooking the Flugplatz. For once, this rumor proved correct. They could just make out a long convoy of tanks, lights on, rolling toward the right side of the airfield, headed for the tank lot.
Jack had brought his binoculars. Actually, they were his dad’s, but he had recently taken near-permanent possession of them. Through the powerful lenses, he could see that the tanks hadn’t stuck to roads and highways. They had snow, mud, and tree branches all over them. They’d obviously been out who knows where, tearing up the German countryside.
Everything was left to Jack’s and Charlie’s imaginations. No one ever sat them down and said, “Here’s where we went. Here’s what we did. Here’s the outcome.” Parents, especially Army ones, just don’t cough up that kind of info. But the tighter the information flow, the more Jack and Charlie wanted to know. They wouldn’t let it go.
“So how are we going to figure out what they were up to?” Jack asked.
“What won’t work is asking them questions like, ‘Where’d you go?’ They’d just say something lame like, ‘Oh, up the road a bit.’ And if we ask, ‘What’d you do?’ they’d probably just say, ‘We were working.’ All we’re gonna get are standard non-answers.” Obviously, Charlie had given it some thought.
They kept struggling with it, but couldn’t come up with a way to find out.
The day after Jack’s dad got home was a Sunday. Lt. Col. McMasters had to work that whole weekend. The 4th’s absolute priority was getting the tanks, trucks, equipment, and men back into a state of readiness so they could roll again at a moment’s notice. But Lt. Col. McMasters did manage to get his kids to church before returning to duty.
Everything went fine until Jack yawned. At that first yawn, Queenie dug him in the ribs and the colonel glared in his direction. That panicked him. I can’t shut down now. I can’t get in trouble just when Dad gets back in town. It’ll spoil everything. He chomped down on the inside of his cheeks to keep his jaws from opening in another yawn. That seemed to help. But then they had to kneel. His legs started to weaken and his mind to drift. He caught his head just as it fell to one side, sleep almost overtaking him.
He screamed inside his head. Snap out of it, Jack! You’re gonna ruin everything.
Desperate, he knew he had to do something. What had Mr. Reynolds said? Why’d I take that stupid blue rubber band off and throw it in my desk? Dumb, dumb, dumb!
He pretended it was on his wrist and gave it a pretend snap. But he knew it was a useless gesture. He could hear Mr. Reynolds’s words: ‘That only works if you practice before you need it.’ And, of course, he’d never practiced. Not even once.
Jack tried coming up with an imaginary protector, but that proved worthless. He didn’t need somebody tough to help him fight. He just needed to stay awake. When he imagined Superman, the Man of Steel was smacking him upside the head for letting his eyes drift shut.
Mr. Reynolds had said that I should close my eyes. Why? Jack remembered. To use my senses.
Jack squeezed his eyes. Think, Jack. What can you smell?
Heat.
Heat wasn’t exactly a smell, but that’s what came to mind. It was very hot in the Army chapel.
Concentrate, Jack!
He tried to detect the smell of incense. Nothing. Not in this church. He just wasn’t any good at this.
What was that?
He’d heard a click.
Ah, the heater must have kicked on. Great, just what we need—more heat. Concentrate.
He felt a slight breeze on his face. Hot air from the chapel’s heating system. Maybe he could do this.
The next thing he knew, they were walking up to communion, and shortly after that mass ended. He’d made it. He wasn’t convinced the techniques had worked, but then again, he hadn’t shut down.
Later in the week, Jack’s mom went on a tear. She started working the entire household mercilessly, having them shine and double shine everything. Seems that on Friday night his parents were having one of their cocktail parties.
When Jack found out that Charlie, Sam, and Jayla’s parents were on the invitation list, he asked to invite a friend and his mom agreed. He invited Charlie, because this was their best opportunity to get the intel. He and Charlie devised a plan for how to extract it. They wouldn’t ask any questions about where 4th Armored had been. Instead, they’d ask something totally different: a question that made it sound like they already knew.
They figured 4th Armored had been up to Grafenwöhr. Since everyone and everything came back in one piece, it must have been an exercise and not a real battle. Since they needed the live ammunition, they must have used it for range scores. All that decided, they came up with an irresistible question Charlie could ask his dad at the party.
Mrs
. McMasters had, of course, laid down the law about how things would operate. Queenie, Rabbit, Jack, and Charlie were given clear instructions: The kids would greet the guests when they arrived. They would be on their very best behavior. Once the party got going, they would disappear into their bedrooms and not run around the apartment during the party.
All four children solemnly agreed to these rules, knowing that occasionally they could sneak into the party to snitch food, provided they ate it back in the bedrooms.
By Friday evening, everything at the McMasterses’ quarters was set and elegant. Jazz music was playing in the background on their new Grundig hi-fi turntable. The dining-room table was lit with candles, and some of Mrs. McMasters’s best appetizers were already on it. Lt. Col. McMasters had a bar set up off to one side of the living room. Bartending was his main job. The kids, including Charlie, were dressed up, shined up, combed up, and strack. Now that all the preparations were complete, it was starting to get fun. Jack and Charlie greeted the arriving guests, taking their coats to lay on Mrs. McMasters’s bed.
Mrs. McMasters was about to introduce Jack and Charlie to Lt. Col. and Mrs. Jones, when Mrs. Jones gave them a big smile and said, “Good evening, Jack. And, good evening to you as well, Charlie. Don’t you two young men look sharp.”
“It looks like you already know my son,” Mrs. McMasters said, seeming a bit surprised.
“Oh, absolutely! You must realize that Jack knows how to make a first impression,” she said, giving him a quick wink.
“I certainly hope that that first impression was good,” his mother said, giving him “the eye.”
“Oh, definitely. In fact, it was quite memorable.” Mrs. Jones quickly added, “Jayla brought Samantha, Jack, Charlie home on Saturday.”
His mom smiled. “Isn’t that nice. Jack had them all over here for hot cocoa another day after playing outdoors. The Sandses should be along any moment. Jack, Charlie, why don’t you take Colonel and Mrs. Jones’s coats?”
As Mrs. Jones shrugged off her coat, Mrs. McMasters’s face lit up. “Shannel Jones, that is a fabulous dress. You put us all to shame.”
“Why, thank you, Lorraine. That’s high praise, coming from the best-dressed woman in Göppingen.”
Jack looked around at that. Every lady in the room was dressed up very fancy, but these two ladies did look the best.
Friday-night cocktail parties were dress-up affairs, but since this was the first social event since the tankers returned from maneuvers, everyone seemed especially motivated to come all decked out and ready for a good time.
Heading down the hall with the coats, Charlie said, “Jayla’s mom definitely was messing with you, Jack.”
“She certainly was,” he said. “I thought she was gonna spill the beans about the lipstick.”
After finishing coat duty, they hung out in Jack’s room, letting the party get going. Jack wanted to time things so they didn’t miss out on the big roast beef his mother had made. He was desperate to sink his teeth into that rare roast. They also wanted their dads to be in relaxed, happy moods when Charlie sprang the question.
When their growling stomachs could be patient no longer, the boys made their move. The plan was simple: Get their food (their excuse for being out there), casually pass by Charlie’s dad, and spring the question.
“Excellent,” exclaimed Charlie, growing wide-eyed at the feast. “But where are the real plates?”
Being a cocktail party, there was no formal, sit-down dinner. Instead all the food was served in small portions, designed to be eaten with fingers or tiny forks. Guests just walked around with tiny plates of food they ate standing up, or sitting on chairs or the couch. They would come back to the table and add to their plates as many times as they wanted.
Well, that system didn’t suit Jack and Charlie. Eating off those tiny plates would have required too many return trips, and Mrs. McMasters would never put up with that. She’d throw them out after their second trip to the table. Jack went into the kitchen and got them regular dinner plates.
That luscious roast beef had little buns next to it. Most people were making tiny roast-beef sandwiches.
The boys passed on the sandwich idea and piled massive mounds of beef on their plates. Jack’s mouth was watering by the time he had added ham, shrimp with cocktail sauce, some cheeses, apple slices, and grapes. They passed on the smoked oysters, the stuffed dates, and a bunch of other adult-looking food.
Plates loaded, they scanned the party for Charlie’s dad. He was sitting with some other men near where Jack’s dad was tending bar. It didn’t look like they’d gotten food yet—only drinks. The boys eased over, and Lt. Col. McMasters immediately spotted them and their mountain of food. “Whoa! You boys get enough to eat?”
“Holy cow, Charlie, did you leave any roast for us?” Lt. Col. Carron asked, flashing a quick smile at the other men. Fortunately, the boys could tell they were kidding around with them.
“Oh, don’t worry, sir. That roast beef is really big,” Charlie said, with the well-practiced look of an innocent angel. Then, before they were told to get lost, he sprang the question on his dad. “So, was the tank range at Grafenwöhr tougher than the one you built at Fort Knox?”
Before any of the men had time to wonder how two young kids knew enough to ask such a question, one grinned at Charlie and said, “Oh, the one your dad built at Knox was a lot tougher. I know. I got scored there twice, and I did a lot better up at Graf.”
All the men laughed at that, and another said, “Yeah, but that’s just because you like shooting in the cold and snow.”
“And you, Harry, never did like gunning up in the winter.”
“You got that right!”
They all laughed again.
The men were no longer paying much attention to the boys. They were back to smokin’ and jokin’ with each other. Jack and Charlie would have gladly hung out there longer, trying to learn more, but Jack’s dad started shaking the ice cubes in his own drink. The tinkling sound of the cubes was a clear signal to Jack. His dad was getting impatient. He’d been okay with the boys stopping by, but clearly it was time for them to hit the dusty trail.
“Let’s am-scray,” said Jack.
Charlie looked at him, confused.
“That’s pig Latin for scram.”
Once back in Jack’s bedroom they grinned, victorious.
Charlie slammed his palm down on the edge of Jack’s desk. ”We did it!”
“Indeed, we did. We broke the code on that one. It was Grafenwöhr. The live rounds were for winter range exercises,” Jack said triumphantly.
While most adults considered it an exceptional cocktail party, Jack and Charlie thought of it as a roaring success.
16
Ingrid
Jack’s eyes were closed in concentration. It was one of those slightly warmer January days. He could actually feel the sun’s warmth on his face. He breathed in the faint smell of the forest floor, dampened by the melting snow. And maybe he was picking up on the scent of pine—or was he making that part up because he knew there were some evergreen trees out there?
I’m wasting my time, Jack thought. This is never gonna work.
He was alone on the balcony of his quarters, practicing his self-imposed drills. He thought of them as his anti-shutdown drills; touch, scent, hearing, sight. Once again his doubts broke his concentration. Why am I doing this? Even if it somehow manages to keep me awake in church—so what? It’s not like I’m going to shut my eyes and try to smell pine needles the next time Kerrigan is standing there ready to kick my—
“Jack!”
He whirled around and saw his mother rapping her knuckle on the large, glass panel, signaling him to come back in.
Had she been calling him?
As he walked into the warm living room, she said, “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
&
nbsp; Queenie was shaking hands with a rather thin young lady. She was a head taller than Queenie and had short, dark, spiky hair.
“Jack, this is Ingrid, your new nanny,” Mrs. McMasters announced.
Nanny—she’s a nanny? Definitely not what Jack had expected. An older woman, sure, but . . .
Mrs. McMasters inconspicuously reached down and took hold of Jack’s arm, digging her long, red nails into his bicep just hard enough to get his undivided attention. “Manners,” she said, ever so sweetly.
He’d been staring a bit too long. “How do you do? I’m Jack McMasters.” He shrugged off his mom’s claws to extend his hand.
“Ah, yah, Jack. Guten Tag,” she said, shaking his hand with a firm grip.
Those eyes! Jack locked on them. They were huge. They were purple.
Rabbit burst through the front door. Dropping a toy-filled knapsack and her coat, she became an airplane, arms outstretched, lips making the engine noise. The plane barely screeched to a halt before colliding with Ingrid. Rabbit demanded, “Who are you?”
“Manners,” Mrs. McMasters said again, trying her best to sound pleasant.
“Also das ist sicher Kirsten. Oder soll ich dich Rabbit nennen?” Ingrid said, delighted with Rabbit.
The fact that Rabbit didn’t understand a word Ingrid said made no difference. Rabbit grabbed Ingrid’s arm and tugged. “You wanna see my room?”
Ingrid’s big, purple eyes danced with delight as she allowed herself to be dragged away from the others and down the hall. Mrs. McMasters followed after them, deciding to let things take their course.
Queenie spun around to glare at Jack. “Did you know anything about this?”
“Not a thing,” Jack said, wondering why Queenie was getting so hostile.
“I don’t think she even speaks English,” Queenie whispered before storming off down the hall to supervise Rabbit’s tour of their bedroom.
By the time Jack arrived, Rabbit was conducting an English lesson.
BRAT and the Kids of Warriors Page 20
