Karl-Heinz Wagner headed right for the green beret sergeant, and so did three rather swarthy senior noncoms, a first sergeant, a master sergeant, and a sergeant first class. They were wearing the Big Red One insignia of the First Infantry Division, as well as regimental crests on the epaulets of their tunics, and some sort of colored ropes hanging from the epaulets down over their arms.
“On behalf of the commanding general, gentlemen,” the sergeant said drolly to the noncoms, “welcome, welcome to the U.S. Army Special Warfare School. If you will exit this building by the door to my immediate right, you will find a carryall with the rear door open and a corporal asleep at the wheel. Please deposit your luggage in said vehicle and I will join you shortly, just as soon as I am sure I have all my rabbits in the net.”
The sergeants chuckled, and turned to the carousel to find their luggage.
Karl-Heinz Wagner walked to the sergeant and came to attention.
The sergeant was obviously amused.
“You need not stand to attention, my good man,” he said. “Kissing my hand will suffice.”
“Sergeant, I have my sister with me,” Karl-Heinz Wagner said.
Sister! For some reason Geoff’s heart jumped.
“I must find a place for her to stay,” Karl-Heinz said.
“There’s the guest house at the post,” the sergeant said. “She can stay there for three days. Buck and a half a night.”
“Is it permitted for her to ride in the army vehicle?”
“No,” the sergeant said matter-of-factly, “but on the other hand, it’s a hell of a long walk to the post. Load her up. Put her in the backseat. We will infiltrate her past the MPs.”
That was a damned decent way for the sergeant to act, Geoff Craig instantly decided.
The sergeant looked at him.
“And are you, too, coming with us?”
“I’m traveling VOCG to the Special Warfare Center, Sergeant,” Craig said.
“Then you must be the famous Private G. Craig,” the sergeant said. “The rabbit I was told to ensure I netted.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Craig said.
“If you will be so good as to hold up my sign, Private G. Craig,” the sergeant said, “I will carry your duffel bag to the vehicle.”
He handed the sign to Craig. Then he went to the carousel and waited for Geoff’s duffel bag to appear. He snatched it from the carousel, lifted it easily to his shoulder, and walked out the door.
He returned in a moment and took two battered tin suitcases from Ursula Wagner. Geoff was absolutely certain that the two suitcases, plus the third, slightly larger one PFC Karl-Heinz carried in one hand, contained everything they owned.
The three of them went outside for a couple of minutes. Then the sergeant reappeared.
“Yoo-hoo!” he called. “Standard bearer! You can come now!”
Geoff walked quickly to the door, which the sergeant held open for him.
“How’s the hand?” the sergeant asked.
“Fine.”
“Damn!” the sergeant said.
The vehicle was a GMC carryall, a closed panel delivery truck that had been equipped with windows and seats and a rack on the roof. The sergeant took the pole and sign from Geoff and handed it to a corporal, who lashed it beside the suitcases and other luggage.
“You get in the backseat,” the sergeant ordered. As Geoff was squeezing past the center seat, which held two of the swarthy First Division sergeants, the sergeant said, “I don’t think they’ll stop us, but even if they do, don’t panic. They’ll just be harassing me for the trip ticket. When I give the word, miss, you just duck down and put your head in your brother’s lap until I tell you it’s okay.”
It was a twenty-minute ride to the main gate at Fort Bragg.
“Bragg Boulevard” was lined with motels and hamburger joints and honky-tonks. Very much aware of the innocent pressure of Ursula Wagner’s thigh against his, Geoff Craig decided that once he was given any free time at all, his first priority was to correct his lackanookie condition. There was only one rational explanation why this shy, timid female, who had shown absolutely no interest in him as a man, should have produced his painful erection except that he had been denied sexual release for two whole months.
He had a moment’s panic when the sergeant called out for her to duck. If she made a mistake, she would put her head in his lap, which would more than likely cause him to groan loudly and have sticky spots on his underpants.
Ursula put her head in her brother’s lap, but her movement shifted her rear end so that it pressed against Geoff’s legs. He thought of the Titanic sinking, and of a dog being run over, and finally of Staff Sergeant Foster. That seemed to put things under control.
“Okay,” the sergeant said when they were rolling again. “We have successfully infiltrated. You can sit up now, miss.”
Quite by accident, when Ursula sat up, she shifted herself into position with her right hand. The proof that she knew she had set it right down in his wang came when she audibly sucked in her breath and flung back her hand as if it had landed on a hot stove.
“Barring violent objection,” the sergeant said, “we’ll take the lady by the guest house before we go to Smoke Bomb Hill.”
The two sergeants in the seat in front of them had a brief conversation in Spanish.
Jesus, where am I headed? The tower of Babel?
The Enlisted Guest House turned out to be a collection of four barracks. The term meant nothing to Geoff, but it was reasonable to presume that it was a place provided by the army for wives of enlisted men to stay until they could find someplace else to live.
The corporal driving the van and the sergeant got out of the carryall. Ursula and Karl-Heinz crawled over Geoff to get out. She took great pains to keep her body from touching his.
“It was nice to have met you, Ursula,” Geoff said. “I hope to see you again.”
“Auf Wiedersehen,” she said, barely audibly.
The sergeant and the corporal helped Karl-Heinz and Ursula with their tin suitcases, and they went inside the building with them.
The three Spanish-speaking sergeants carried on what sounded like an excited conversation until the sergeant and Karl-Heinz reappeared. They then clammed up.
The U.S. Army Special Warfare Center and School did not look much unlike the Eleventh Infantry Regiment (Training) at Fort Jackson. It was a collection of wooden buildings, most of them two-story barracks built in the early 1940’s. The buildings looked tired.
The carryall stopped before a one story building identified by a sign painted on a four-by-eight sheet of plywood as Headquarters, Fifth Special Forces Group.
Everybody got out of the carryall and followed the sergeant into the building. There were several noncoms and an officer in the room. The noncoms played liar’s poker while the officer watched.
The officer smiled when he saw them coming in the door.
A master sergeant stood up, jammed a fistful of folded dollar bills into his pocket, and pleasantly asked for orders and service records.
The first sergeant from the First Division handed him a stack of service record envelopes and a sheath of orders. Karl-Heinz Wagner handed him his service record and sheath of orders. Geoff Craig handed over his service record and began the rehearsed speech.
“I’m traveling VOCG—”
“Ah,” the sergeant interrupted him, smiling. “Private Craig. Sergeant Dempster has been waiting for you.”
Geoff naturally interpreted that to mean that they knew all about him, and all meant that he had been released on sort of probation from the stockade. Whatever happened next was going to be humiliating. He had had six, seven hours of freedom, and now it was all going to start all over again.
“Gentlemen,” the lieutenant said, “I’m Lieutenant Martin. On behalf of the center commander, Colonel Paul—”
He was interrupted by cries of “Shame!” “My God!” “Heresy!” and “Bite your tongue!”
“As you
were,” Lieutenant Martin went on. “On behalf of the Center Commander, Brigadier General Paul T. Hanrahan—” He was interrupted again, this time with applause and cries of “Try to remember that!” “Write that down, Lieutenant!” and “That’s much better!”
Laughing, Lieutenant Martin went on: “—welcome to the U.S. Special Warfare Center. We’re glad to have you with us. First things first: Have you eaten?”
Everybody chorused “Yes, sir.”
“That will doubtless cheer the cook who waited up for you no end,” Lieutenant Martin said. “Next question: Did all your luggage manage to arrive, or are we going to have to go back to the airport for it later?”
There was a chorus of “All here, sir.”
“Splendid,” Lieutenant Martin said. “This is your schedule. You noncoms go in the transient BNCOQ right across the street.” He handed each of them a key. “You can settle who gets which room among yourselves. Just make sure you put your name on the door. Reveille goes at 0700. You don’t have to stand it. The mess serves from 0715. Take the morning to get settled—this applies to you two, too,” Lieutenant Martin said, turning to Geoff and Karl-Heinz—“which means, really, taking care of your personal business. Official business, like getting paid, that sort of thing, we’ll take care of starting at 1300. You come here at 1300 tomorrow. Get rid of your old insignia. In your case, Sergeant, that means swapping those first-soldier stripes for master sergeant’s stripes.”
“By tomorrow, sir?”
“By 1300 tomorrow, Sergeant,” Lieutenant Martin said. “There’s a PX tailor shop down the street. Everybody is to show up in starched fatigues, with the patch—which the PX tailor shop will happily sell you—at 1300.”
He turned to Karl-Heinz Wagner.
“You go to the orderly room at the end of the second row of barracks across the street. They’ll show you where your bunk is. You will stand reveille.”
PFC Karl-Heinz Wagner snapped to attention
“Yes, sir,” he barked.
Geoff thought he looked as if he were going to click his heels.
“And then you come back here and fetch Private Craig,” Lieutenant Martin said.
“Yes, sir,” Karl-Heinz barked again.
“We have heard about your hand, Private Craig,” Lieutenant Martin said. “You could say that Sergeant Dempster has been eagerly anticipating your arrival. Isn’t that so, Sergeant Dempster?”
“I am merely doing my duty, sir,” Sergeant Dempster, a ruddy-faced, heavy-faced master sergeant said, straight-faced, “as God has given me the light to see that duty.”
He turned and looked at Geoff.
“How is your hand, my boy?”
“My hand’s fine,” Geoff said.
“Damn,” Dempster said. “I dared hope, considering that absolutely disgusting cast that there would be complications worthy of my attention.”
“My hand’s fine,” Geoff repeated.
Lieutenant Martin spotted PFC Karl-Heinz Wagner, still standing rigidly at attention.
“You can go, son.”
“Sir, will the lieutenant permit me to wait for Private Craig?”
“It’s likely to be a sight that will turn your stomach, Wagner,” Lieutenant Martin said. “I am personally washing my hands of the whole idea.”
Wagner didn’t understand that.
“Sir, I think I help him carry duffel bag.”
“If you promise not to throw up on the floor, you may stay,” Lieutenant Martin said.
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” Karl-Heinz said.
“Private Craig,” one of the other sergeants said, “when the commanding general of Fort Jackson was kind enough to TWX us the information that you were about to grace Special Forces with your talents, whatever in hell they might be, he also mentioned that your right digital extremity would more than likely require medical attention.”
“Which, of course, thrilled Sergeant Dempster,” another sergeant said.
“The good news, Private Craig,” the sergeant said, “is that Master Sergeant Dempster is an honor graduate of the Special Forces Medical Course at Fort Sam, and the bad news is that he graduated last week.”
“Since which time, he has been stalking around with glazed eyes, praying for an accident,” Lieutenant Martin said. “He therefore regards you as a gift from heaven.”
“My hand’s fine, sir,” Geoff said uneasily.
“You can’t possibly know that,” Master Sergeant Dempster said. “That sort of professional medical opinion can be issued only by someone like myself, who has been certified by the army as capable of performing any medical procedure short of opening the cranial cavity.”
“He can also cure the clap,” one of the sergeants said.
“Indeed I can,” Master Sergeant Dempster said. “And a good thing for you I can. Now, if you’ll just come this way, Private Craig, we’ll have a look at that hand.”
This is obviously a joke, Geoff decided. I am the butt of some elaborate practical joke.
He allowed Master Sergeant Dempster to lead him to a desk.
“Sergeant Fitts,” Dempster said, “would you be kind enough to hand me my doctor tools, please?”
“I would be honored,” Sergeant Fitts said, and a moment later laid a large rolled up bundle of canvas on the desk. Dempster unrolled it. It contained an imposing array of bona fide surgical tools.
“I don’t think we’ll be needing the amputation saw,” Dempster said, “but it’s nice to know it’s there if something goes wrong.”
He sat down at the desk and took Geoff’s cast in his hand. He was now dead serious, Geoff saw, and that alarmed him more than the bantering had.
Dempster, one by one, manipulated Geoff’s fingers.
“If that causes pain, speak up,” he said.
It felt strange, but there was no pain.
“No pain?” Dempster asked.
“No.”
“And if the Jackson TWX is to be believed, this somewhat sloppy cast has been in place for ten days?”
“Yes,” Geoff said. “The doctor said it would be on there for ten days to two weeks.”
“The most recent medical literature with which I am familiar,” Master Sergeant Dempster said, “suggests that in a healthy young male, keeping a cast in place—and thus immobilizing the bones of the hand—is contraindicated once the bones have had a week to ten days. Atrophy of muscle tissues sets in. Stiffness in joints develops. It is therefore my decision to free you of this filthy cast, Craig.” He pulled the surgical tools toward him and took out what looked like a tool to build model airplanes.
“You sure you know what you’re doing, Dempster?” the lieutenant asked.
“You weren’t listening when I said the army says I can do everything but brain surgery,” Dempster said.
“The kid only needs one hand anyway,” one of the sergeants said.
Dempster put the tool, a sharp little saw on a stainless-steel handle, to Geoff’s cast and began to saw. He was surprisingly gentle, Geoff thought. He wished that he had been in a position to demand the services of a physician, not an enlisted medic; but under the circumstances, he had not dared that.
Very quickly, the cast was sawed in half, so that the portion over the fingers could be pulled off the fingers. Then the part of the cast that circled the heel of the hand was sawed and snapped and taken off.
His hand, Geoff thought, looked awful. The skin was white and unhealthy-looking. Master Sergeant Dempster again gently manipulated the fingers. There was no pain. He pushed a heavy glass bottle, once an inkwell and now full of paper clips, to Geoff.
“Pick that up,” he ordered.
Geoff picked it up.
Master Sergeant Dempster stood up and bowed.
“My very first solo patient,” he said. “I am overwhelmed with the emotion of it all.”
“To hell with your emotions; is his hand going to be all right?” Lieutenant Martin asked.
“I prescribe exercise,” Dempster said. “Get
a ball and squeeze it, Craig. Not your own, you understand. The kind they hit with racquets. And you may consider yourself medically excused from doing push-ups until further notice.”
Geoff looked at Lieutenant Martin, who smiled at him and shrugged.
“If it starts to hurt, Craig,” he said, “go on sick call.”
“‘Oh, ye of little faith’!” Master Sergeant Dempster said. Then he turned to Craig. “Would you like to have the cast? As a souvenir?”
“No, thank you,” Geoff said quickly. It would be a souvenir of the Fort Jackson stockade.
“In this case, I’ll take it. I will send it off to the baby-shoe people and have it bronzed.”
“You have made his day, Craig,” Lieutenant Martin said, laughing.
“May I go now, sir?”
“Yes, sure.”
“Do foolish things, Craig,” one of the sergeants said. “Take chances. Get hit by a truck. Fall in the shower. Dempster will be waiting.”
PFC Karl-Heinz Wagner staggered under the weight of both duffel bags, but refused to let Geoff try to carry his.
When they got to the orderly room, a corporal led them to a barracks. There were only six bunks on the entire floor. Three of them were made up.
“Where can we get sheets and blankets?” Wagner asked.
“You don’t like the ones I put on those bunks with my very own hands?” the corporal replied.
This was not going to be like Fort Jackson, Geoff decided. This place was almost like the real world.
Karl-Heinz Wagner went immediately to work unpacking his duffel bag. The clothing he took from it was hardly mussed at all. He hung it carefully in a wall locker, and put his already folded underwear and his already-rolled socks in the footlocker. Geoff watched, wondering if he was just the Compleat PFC or someone afflicted with compulsive neatness.
Geoff opened his duffel bag and shook everything he owned out on the floor. Everything he owned needed laundering or dry cleaning. The lieutenant had said there was a PX tailor shop. One of the great privileges the trainees of Company “C” had been promised, after they finished basic training and had begun advanced individual training, was access to the laundry and dry cleaners. Until that time they would wash their own clothing. Geoff took from the bag a set of fatigues, his field jacket, and a pair of combat boots, and hung them in the wall locker. Next he took a set of underwear and a pair of wool cushion-sole socks from the bag and laid these on the bunk. Then he found a towel and his toilet kit and sat them on his footlocker. Then he stuffed everything else back in the bag. In the morning he would put everything else into the care of the PX tailor shop.
The Berets Page 18
