The Chaplain's War

by Brad R Torgersen

  “Nice of you to join us, Recruit Barlow,” said Drill Sergeant Davis. “You’ve still got ten seconds left to find you a spot on the line.”

  I walked to the nearest spot and pushed between two men, not bothering to say excuse me or look at their faces.

  Davis pulled out his e-pad from under his arm and began to tap a few items on its screen, then suddenly froze, his head coming back up slowly until he was staring straight at me.

  The DS placed his e-pad back under an arm and walked slowly and deliberately across the Dead Zone until he was standing directly in front of me, so close that I could feel and smell his breath beating hotly down on me.

  “Where is your weapon, Recruit Barlow?”

  He’d said it at almost a whisper, calmly and slowly.

  I felt my lip begin to quiver.

  “I asked you a question, Recruit. Where is your R77A5 rifle?”

  I willed my lip under control, only to feel my stomach rebel. If the man hadn’t been standing directly in front of me, I’m sure I’d have thrown up.

  “Drill Sergeant, I don’t know, Drill Sergeant.” I said, croaking the words.

  “I’m sorry, Recruit?” Davis said, still speaking in a low whisper. “I want to make sure I heard that correctly. Did you say that you don’t know where your weapon is?”

  “Drill Sergeant,” I said, still croaking, “that is correct, Drill Sergeant.”

  Davis’s breathing seemed to halt for a moment, his eyes like hot drills on my head as I couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze, lest I lose it completely.

  Then Drill Sergeant Davis drew a deep, long breath, and clenching the e-pad in his hand so tightly the tendons stood out, screamed, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE YOUR WEAPON IS?”

  My legs and arms began to physically shake.

  Davis continued, at full blast.

  “SENIOR DRILL SERGEANT TOLD YOU WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF YOU LOST YOUR WEAPON, DID HE NOT? YOU’RE AWARE, IN FACT, THAT THERE IS PRACTICALLY NO WORSE THING YOU CAN DO IN THIS BATTALION THAN LOSE YOUR WEAPON.”

  Davis didn’t even wait for me to stutter replies.

  “RECRUIT BARLOW, YOUR FILE FROM RECEPTION WAS A RATHER GOOD ONE. THEY SAID YOU DID WELL AS BAY SERGEANT. THAT YOU WERE DETAIL-ORIENTED AND COULD GET THINGS DONE. WELL, I GUESS RECEPTION LIED. YOU’RE A MISERABLE PIECE OF FORGETFUL GARBAGE, BARLOW, AND I WANT TO KNOW HOW YOU COULD POSSIBLY LOSE YOUR WEAPON IN THE FEW HOURS SINCE IT WAS GIVEN TO YOU?”

  “Drill Sergeant, I—”

  “EFF THE FORMALITIES, JUST TALK!”

  “I had it with me right up until I took a shower,” I said, my voice wavering.

  “And what happened then?”

  “I gave it to the weapons guard at the head door.”

  “And what happened after that?”

  “I came out, and none of the rifles left was mine.”

  “So you’re the only one in the whole gawtdamned bay without a weapon?”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

  “And who is this person that was guarding the weapons?”

  I pointed at the recruit I’d seen guarding the pile when I exited the shower. The recruit’s face lit up with fear, and his mouth hung open as if to plead innocence.

  Davis spun on the open-mouthed man. “WHERE IS RECRUIT BARLOW’S RIFLE?”

  “Drill Sergeant, I don’t know, I . . . I was just covering for someone else.”

  Davis grabbed me by the bicep and dragged me across the Dead Zone to stand in front of the hapless recruit that I had fingered.

  “Recruit Barlow, is this the troop you surrendered your weapon to upon entering the head?”

  “No,” I said. “When I came out, this is the recruit who had taken over.”

  “Then who is the one you gave your weapon to?”

  I turned and scanned, then pointed. “Him. Recruit Webber.”

  Now it was Webber’s turn to protest his innocence.

  “Drill Sergeant, I just had to take a quick—”

  But Webber’s plea fell on deaf ears.

  Davis dragged me, Webber, and the second guard—Recruit Ajala—into the center of the Dead Zone.

  “I want to know one good reason why I shouldn’t send all three of you to effing Alcatraz for this. One good gawtdamned reason.”

  I stared dumbly into space, unable to come up with a sufficient response.

  “Do you know how much that rifle costs? Do you? Well, guess what happens now, recruits. I have to call Drill Sergeant Malvino, and tell him a weapon is missing. And then he has to inform the first sergeant, who then informs the captain, who then informs the colonel, and then the colonel is going to put the entire gawtdamned effing battalion on lockdown until that weapon is recovered. We will go through every locker, every bunk, look in every closet, every stall, crawl up every last asshole, until we find it. We’ll be up all night doing it, if necessary. All of us. You, me, and every other living soul in the battalion.”

  Ajala and Webber appeared nearly as ill as I felt.

  Someone suddenly shouted, “Drill Sergeant, what’s that over there under that bunk?”

  Davis spun and marched across the Dead Zone—recruits making a hole for him without being asked—and got down on his hands and knees, coming back up with an R77A5 in his hands. He flipped it over and examined the sticker on the stock.

  “Recruit Barlow, did you memorize your serial number as instructed?”

  “Drill Sergeant, yes, Drill Sergeant,” I said, amazed and immediately angry to see the rifle—which had been under all their noses the whole time, yet nobody had had the effing decency to help me check for it. They’d just stood on the line and waited for the shit to come down.

  “What is it?” Davis asked.

  “Seven zero delta zero zero niner foxtrot one eight one zero,” I said.

  Davis marched back into the Dead Zone and thrust the weapon into my hands.

  “Here’s your effing rifle, Recruit. All three of you, get back on the line. Now.”

  The three of us scattered, taking up spaces where we could find them at the edge of the Dead Zone.

  Davis glared around the entire bay, making eye contact with each of us as he went.

  “All of you, get in the front-leaning rest,” he said. His voice not even raised. But it was as loud as a firecracker in my ears. I dropped where I was, my palms out to either side of my shoulders and my back straight, toes on the tile below. My rifle balanced across the tops of my hands.

  “This shouldn’t have happened,” Drill Sergeant Davis said, his voice made sandpapery from his previous hyperbolic outburst. “You aren’t individuals anymore. You’re a team. A team that’s expected to work together. You’re only as strong or as weak as you make yourselves. You’re going to learn that it’s not enough to just keep your own ass clean. If you think your shit is straight, and you’re just standing there thinking that’s enough, you are wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Recruit Barlow trusted Recruit Webber to watch the weapons, and Recruit Webber trusted Recruit Ajala to watch the weapons, but in the process, all three of them forgot the purpose of that exercise.

  “It’s not just because these rifles are expensive and we don’t want to lose an expensive item. It’s because in garrison and in combat you will only have each other to stand by. And if you’re all wandering through this thing like it’s just you by yourselves and you don’t really have to give an eff about someone else when the fuel hits the afterburner, then none of you is going to make it until graduation. You will all wash out. The Fleet doesn’t tolerate individuals who think like individuals. The Fleet is a team that thinks like a team. Works like a team. And tonight this bay showed absolutely no teamwork. None.

  “I could smoke you, but I’m so tired of hearing myself talk, I’m not going to bother. It’s too late in the damned day for this crap. So I’m gonna let you have this one—and only one—freebie. Mess up like this again, and it’s no mercy. Do I make myself absolutely and one hundred percent clear, recruits?”

  Bay,
together and straining, “YES, DRILL SERGEANT!!”

  “I said is that one thousand percent burned into your little minds, recruits?”

  “YES, DRILL SERGEANT!”

  “Good. Now get to the position of attention and stay on the line while I check your miserable names off.”

  We got back to our feet. Most of us sweating.

  I stood where I was, face slowly drying in the gentle air from the overhead ducts. My heart rate slowly began to slow. The awful feeling in my stomach subsiding. For many seconds I had been positive that ultimate extinction was falling down on my head, and I had been powerless to prevent it. Now . . . ?

  Now, I flicked my eyes around the rectangle, checking blank—and mostly relieved—faces, for signs of culpability or guilt. Webber and Ajala looked ashamed, and wouldn’t meet my gaze, but I couldn’t bring myself to blame them because I knew they weren’t the ones at fault.

  I rapid-scanned until I found the one person I suddenly was sure in my bones had been behind it.

  Thukhan wouldn’t meet my gaze either, even though I glared at Batbayar with enough seething rage to melt holes in a tank’s hull.

  He just stood there, as if oblivious to the whole thing.

  Only, a little curl crept up at the corner of his mouth.

  And I suddenly wished very much for a magazine of live ammunition.

  CHAPTER 25

  SOMETHING NUDGED ME AWAKE.

  I slowly pulled the jacket off of my head. There was a sensation of fine grit in every pore and crevice of my skin. My lips were dry and my throat parched.

  It was dusk, or getting on towards it. The storm had passed, and the air was clear. So clear, in fact, that I could see the stars, sharp and precise in the purpling sky.

  I saw the captain’s pack in front of me, but no Adanaho.

  The Professor hovered nearby.

  “Is everyone okay?” I asked, my tongue rubbery. Saliva flowed into my mouth, and I spit several times to get the dust out—though I still felt it on my teeth. My eyes were crusted and I wiped at them with hands that felt caked in powder.

  “Yes,” said the Professor.

  I slowly stood up, yawning and stretching my back. There were wind storms on Purgatory too, but in the valley where my chapel was built, things had been more or less protected.

  Not so, here. Though the hill had done us good. I couldn’t begin to guess what might have happened if we’d been caught out in the open with nowhere to run and nothing to hide behind. There weren’t any mountains on this world, from what I could see. No recent or ongoing geologic activity. Everything had been slowly worn flat by wind and occasional water. It was probable we’d see several more sandstorms before our journey was over.

  My bowels suddenly told me it was time to do God’s work.

  “Excuse me,” I said. And began walking away from our hill, looking for something farther and smaller—just big enough to crouch behind and relieve myself.

  When I was done I made my way back. The far horizon still glowed with the setting sun. I stopped short, seeing two silhouettes at the top of our hill: one human, distinctly female, and the other mantis. I observed them for a time. They were both facing into the setting sun, their heads erect and their eyes forward. I thought I could just barely hear the sound of Adanaho’s voice.

  Coming back to the makeshift camp in the hollow at the base of the hill, I quietly spoke to the Professor.

  “What are they doing?” I asked.

  “When the storm lifted, your Captain was the first to rouse. She checked the status of myself and the Queen Mother, then she shed her equipment and went to the top of the hill to survey the surround. When we heard her voice coming softly down to us, the Queen Mother asked me what your Captain was saying. I told the Queen Mother that it sounded like prayer.”

  Prayer.

  I was surprised, though I don’t know why. I’d not known the captain long enough to inquire as to her upbringing or spiritual affiliation. If any. Was she Muslim? She had mentioned North Africa.

  “So how did the Queen Mother get up there?”

  “I carried her,” said the Professor. “She was curious. She’d never seen a human engaged in religious rite. Of any sort. Your captain did not seem to mind. The Queen Mother asked that she be left alone with your captain, and I have done this. I suggest you do it too.”

  “It sounds to me like Adanaho is still talking,” I said. “She has to know that the Queen Mother isn’t able to understand.”

  “Perhaps her words are not for the Queen Mother?” the Professor said.

  Yes, perhaps.

  I sat down in the hollow and retrieved some water and a concentrated food bar from my pack, drinking and eating in slow, deliberate portions. The Professor softly landed his disc next to me, and I felt his alien eyes studying me as I stared at the gravel in front of my toes.

  “You are a curiosity,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, assistant-to-the-chaplain. In all the time we have known each other—through all of the work that you have performed in my presence, as a religious human—I have never known you to be overt about your feelings in the way other humans are overt.”

  I felt my face get warm.

  He was treading in uncomfortable territory.

  “I don’t believe it’s my place to be showy,” I said. “It might make some of the chapel’s attendees think I was playing favorites. In terms of which ‘flavor’ I subscribe to.”

  “But we are not in your chapel,” said the Professor. “And there are no other humans around us to see you, save your Captain. Who is now occupied. Our circumstances are dire. I know from studying the human history of belief that this is the ideal time for supplication. Harry, why do you not pray?”

  The warm feeling in my face grew more intense.

  “I don’t know,” I said. He was asking me questions I didn’t dare ask myself.

  “You built a holy house with your own hands, and you maintain this house for use by any human who comes through your door. You do this out of loyalty to your deceased chaplain. Yet, you do not perform services in your chapel. Never have you offered a sermon. You do not pray, nor have I ever known you to habitually carry out any religious ritual of any sort—save for demonstration purposes, for the educational benefit of myself and my students.”

  “Stop,” I said. Though perhaps too quietly. It was a plea, not a command. My eyes were closed, but that didn’t prevent the tears.

  “My apologies,” said the Professor, when he noticed the muddy streaks on my cheeks. “It was not my intent to cause you grief. I was merely curious. It seems to me a very large irony that you of all humans should be a non-believer. Yet this has been my slow, hesitant conclusion. After spending many years away from you, during which I was able to further digest our mutual experiences. You support and feed the belief of others. You have made it your mission in life. Yet you cannot partake of that which you give.”

  “I’m . . . I’m not sure what I goddamned believe,” I said, though perhaps too loudly. The gentle, whispery sound of Adanaho’s voice had ceased. And suddenly the clicky-clacky speech of the Queen Mother replaced it. The Professor listened intently for a few moments, then looked down at me—his body and disc just faint outlines in the near darkness.

  “I must go. The Queen Mother wishes me to translate.”

  He left me there, feeling embarrassed and miserable.

  I put away my food and water and rewrapped myself in my jacket. Nights in the desert—any desert—tend to be cold. Though I didn’t think the chill was entirely physical.

  CHAPTER 26

  Earth, 2153 A.D.

  I WAITED SIX DAYS.

  Acting any sooner would have been a mistake. With the situation between Thukhan and I coming to a head, any immediate action on my part would have been expected, or even planned for, by him. So I hid my rage behind a mask, and plowed through the immersive marksmanship training, to include simulator exercises prior to the following week’s li
ve-fire trips to the open-air range.

  I also redoubled my efforts to find excuses to demonstrate through action what the DS had been screaming about the night my weapon went temporarily missing. It didn’t take much. Notice someone struggling to get his bunk made on time? Help him make his bunk. Spot someone’s uniform out of whack? Walk up and straighten things out for her. See an error of any sort? Correct it before the DSs did. And so on, and so forth. To the point that I got to know a goodly number of my fellow bay inmates, and a few more people around the company as well. Simply by making an extra effort to notice things, and help a brother or sister out. Usually earning me a smile, or an embarrassed thank you, or a fist bump.

  Before too long, the trick caught on. Spontaneously. Just little things, here and there. A locker left open would magically find itself locked. A latrine kit, accidentally abandoned in the head, would be secured for later return to its owner when the DSs weren’t looking. Boots and shoes not aligned properly under bunks became mysteriously aligned. Until it seemed as if the bay, and the platoon, and indeed the whole company, began to think and act on a different, almost subliminal level.

  The smokings and the chew-outs predictably dwindled in number as well as intensity. Which meant more time to actually focus on training, and less time spent locked up at the position of attention or parade rest, wondering what kind of terrible punishment was going to be dished out.

  In the back of my mind, I relaxed and waited. Just long enough for Thukhan’s eyes to begin wandering elsewhere.

  I knew I had my chance when Batbayar drew night watch assignment: midnight to three in the morning. When the bay was full of sleeping recruits and the only other person awake would be Thukhan’s assigned double on duty.

  They each took an end of the bay, per longstanding instruction from the DSs. I’d pulled a few shifts already. I knew the routine. Everybody did.

  Sweat coated my skin as I lay in my bunk, awake with nervous energy. I’m not a violent person. But even I knew that someone with Thukhan’s mentality wouldn’t stop until something drastic was done. I didn’t want to wait to find out what a man like Thukhan would do with a live weapon in his hands. Maybe the DSs didn’t have the time or the energy to see it yet, but I knew in my heart that Thukhan was going to hurt someone. If not me, it would be someone else. And in this environment there were plenty of ways for a person with ill intent to ruin someone else’s whole life.