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by Gump

  In this, Mister McGivver was never more wrong in his life.

  We gone on out to his ship in a launch. At first I thought the launch was the ship, but when we finally got there, I couldn't believe my eyes. The ship is so big that from a distance it looks like a mountain range! It is about half a mile long an twenty stories high.

  Exxon-Valdez is the ship's name.

  "Climb aboard," Mister McGivver shouts. It is cold as a well digger's ass, but we climbed up the ladder an gone onto the ship's bridge. Mister McGivver pulls out a big bottle of scotch an offers me a drink, but since I gotta get back to the weather station, I turn it down. He proceeds to drink it hissef, no ice, no water, just straight in the glass, an we talked over ole times for a while.

  "Ya know, Forrest, there's one thing I'd have given a lot of money to see," he says, "that is, if I'd had any."

  "What's that?"

  "The expressions on those bozos' faces when the pig shit blew up."

  "Yessir," I says, "it was kinda a sight."

  "By the way," Mister McGivver says, "what ever happened to that sow I gave little Forrest—what'd you call her?"

  "Wanda."

  "Yeah, she was a nice pig. Smart pig."

  "She's at the National Zoo in Washington."

  "Really? Doing what?"

  "In a cage. They are showin her off."

  "Well, I'll be damned," he says. "A monument to all our folly."

  After a little while, it become apparent to me that Mister McGivver is drunk again. In fact, he is not only drunk, he is reelin. At one point he reeled over to the ship control panels an begun turnin on switches an pullin levers an knobs. Suddenly, the Exxon-Valdez begun to shudder an tremble. Somehow, Mister McGivver had turned on the engine.

  "Wanna go for a little spin?" he ast.

  "Well, ah, thanks," I says, "but I gotta get back to the weather station. I'm on duty in a hour or so."

  "Nonsense!" says Mister McGivver. "This won't take but a few minutes. We'll just go out in the sound for a little spin."

  By now, he is lurchin an stumblin an tryin to put the Exxon-Valdez in gear. He grapped hold of the wheel an when it begin to turn he follered with it—right down onto the floor. Then he begun to jabber.

  "Hoot, mon!" Mister McGivver shouts. "I think I'm about four sheets to the wind! Arrr, me buckoes, we be forty leagues from Portobello! Run out the guns! You've a bit of the animal in you, young Jim—Long John Silver's my name—What's yours...?"

  Shit like that. Anyhow, I got ole Mister McGivver up off the floor, an about that time a sailor come onto the bridge, must of heard the commotion.

  "I think Mister McGivver's had one too many," I says. "Maybe we oughta take him to his cabin."

  "Yeah," say the sailor, "but I seen him a lot drunker."

  "It's the Black Spot for you, laddie buck!" shouts Mister McGivver. "Old Blind Pew knows the score. Hoist up the Jolly Roger! You'll all walk the plank!"

  Me an the sailor carried Mister McGivver to his bunk an laid him down. "I'll keelhaul the lot of you" is the last thing Mister McGivver says.

  "Say," the sailor ast, "you know why Captain McGivver turned on the engines?"

  "Nope—I don't know nothin. I'm with the weather station."

  "What!" says the sailor. "Hell, I thought you were the bar pilot!"

  "Me, no. I am a private in the army."

  "Greatgodamighty!" he says. "We got ten million gallons of crude oil on board!" An he runs out the door.

  It was apparent I could not do nothin for Mister McGivver, account of he is asleep—if that's what you want to call it. So I gone on back to the bridge. Nobody is there an the ship seems to be sailin along, buoy markers an things be passin us at top speed. I didn't know what else to do, so I grapped the ship's wheel an tried to steer us at least in a straight direction. We had not gone too far when suddenly there is a great big bump. I am figgerin this is good, since the Exxon-Valdez has finally stopped. Turns out, though, it is not.

  All of a sudden, it seems like there is about a hundrit people runnin around on the bridge, everbody hollerin an screamin an givin each other orders, an some of them even be givin each other the finger. Not long afterward, some fellers from the Coast Guard come aboard, complainin we has just dumped ten million gallons of crude awl into Prince William Sound. Birds, seals, fish, polar bears, whales, an Exkimos—all will be destroyed by what we has now done. An there is gonna be hell to pay.

  "Who was in charge on this bridge?" says a Coast Guard officer.

  "He was!" everbody on the bridge shouted at once, all pointin they fingers right at me.

  I knowed right then that I am in the doghouse for sure.

  MANIAC ARMY MAN AT HELM OF DISASTER SHIP, says one of the headlines. CERTIFIED NUT DRIVING OIL SPILL BOAT, says another. CATACLYSM CAUSED BY DANGEROUS FOOL; this is typical of the kind of shit I got to endure.

  In any case, they sent up a three-star general from Washington to deal with me an my problems. In a way this is sort of lucky, since the army does not wish to get involved in any sense with the blame for the Exxon-Valdez mess, an the best thing they can do is get me the hell out of there—quick.

  "Gump," the general says, "if it was up to me, I would have you before a firing squad for this, but since it isn't, I am gonna do the next best thing, which is to have your big stupid ass transferred as far away from here as possible, which, in this case, is to Berlin, Germany. Maybe, if we are lucky, nobody is gonna be able to find you there, and so they'll have to put all the blame on old Captain McGivver for this disaster. Do you read me?"

  "Yessir," I says, "but how I'm gonna get there?"

  "The plane, Gump, is on the runway. Its motors are running. You got five minutes."

  Chapter Ten

  Goin to Germany was not all it was cracked up to be. This was account of I was escorted there in handcuffs an leg irons by four MPs who kept remindin me that their orders was, if I done anythin funny, they was to immediately crack me over the head with their nightsticks.

  Somebody high up in command had apparently give the order that I was to be assigned the dirtiest job in the entire army, an the order was faithfully carried out. I was sent to a tank company, where my duty was to clean all the mud off the tank treads—an let me say this: There is plenty of mud on the tank tracks in Germany in the winter.

  Also, word had apparently got out that I am a Jonah or somethin, cause ain't nobody wants to speak to me except the sergeants, an all they do is holler at me. The days are cold an wet, an the nights are miserable, an I ain't never felt so lonely. I wrote some letters to little Forrest, but his answers are kind of short an I get the impression maybe he is sort of forgettin me. Sometimes at night, I tried to dream about Jenny but it ain't no use. Looks like she done forgot about me, too.

  One day somebody tole me I am getting a helper to clean the tank treads an I gotta show him the ropes. I gone on out to the motor pool an they is a feller standin there starin down at a tread got about a hundrit pounds of mud on it.

  "Say, you the new guy?" I ast.

  When he turn around, I almost fainted dead away! It is ole Sergeant Kranz from Vietnam an the army base where me an Mister McGivver collected the garbage for our pigs! Cept I noticed right away, Sergeant Kranz, he ain't a sergeant major no more—he is only a buck private.

  "Oh, no" is the first thing out of his mouth when he sees me.

  It seems that Sergeant Kranz blames me for the misfortune of being busted from sergeant-major to private, though even a moron like me can see he is stretchin things a bit.

  What had happened was this: After me an Mister McGivver got out of the pig bidness, Sergeant Kranz decided that the army could actually sell their garbage to pig farmers all over the area, an after a while they had so much money they didn't know what to do with it. So he suggested they use it to build a new officers' club, an the general was so pleased with this he put Sergeant Kranz in charge of buildin the new club.

  On the day of the grand openin, they had a big ce
lebration, with bands an free drinks an all, an to cap it off at the end of the evenin, they had hired a striptease dancer all the way from Australia to do her thing on the stage. Said she was not only the best stripper in Australia, she was the best stripper in the world.

  Anyhow, the officers' club was mobbed so's you could barely see the stripper, an at some point the general hissef got up on a table in the back of the room to get a better look. However, it seems Sergeant Kranz has installed the ceilin fans about a foot lower than normal, an when the general stands up on the table, it got him in the head. Scalped him, just like a Indian might do.

  The general was furious, hollerin an yellin about "How am I gonna explain this to my wife?" An, of course, he blames Sergeant Kranz an has him busted on the spot an sent here, to the dirtiest job in the army.

  "I was one of the first black soldiers to make it to the top of the enlisted ranks in this man's army," he says, "but it seems like ever time I get around you, Gump, there is some kind of shit fixin to go on."

  I tell him I'm sorry, but that it don't exactly seem fair to blame me for what happened.

  "Yeah, probly you're right, Gump. It's just that I put in twenty-eight years of a thirty-year hitch, only to find mysef spendin my final time as a buck private," he says. "Somebody got to be responsible—that's the way it is in the army. Couldn't of been me, else how do you explain that I worked my way up to the highest enlisted rank in the army?"

  "Maybe you was just lucky," I says. "I mean, at least you got to be a sergeant for a long time. Me, I have always been at the bottom of the shit heap."

  "Yeah," he says, "maybe so. Anyway, it don't matter anymore, I guess. An besides, it was almost worth it."

  "What was?" I ast.

  "Seein the fan give that old bastid a flattop," he says.

  Anyhow, me an Sergeant Kranz have got our work cut out for us. Seems like the division is always on maneuvers, an the mud is two feet deep. We are scrapin an hoein an shovelin an hosin mud from daylight to dark. When we get back to the barracks, we is too dirty to let inside, an they make us hose off in the cold.

  Sergeant Kranz, when he talks at all, mostly talks about Vietnam, which, for some reason, he remembers fondly.

  "Yeah, Gump, them was the good old days," he says. "A real war—not this police-action crap they got goin for us now. Man, we had tanks and howitzers and bombers could sure bring down a load of pee on the enemy."

  "Seems like they brought down a load of pee on us, too, sometimes," I say.

  "Yeah, well, that the way it is. In war, people are gonna get killed. That's why it's called a war."

  "I never kilt nobody," I says.

  "What! How you know that?"

  "Well, I don't think I did. I never done fired my weapon but once or twice, an then it was just at bushes or somethin."

  "That ain't nothin to be proud of, Gump. In fact, you oughta be ashamed of yoursef."

  "Well, what about Bubba?" I ast.

  "What about him? Who was that?"

  "My friend. He got kilt."

  "Oh, yeah, I remember now—the one you went out after. Well, he probably done somethin stupid."

  "Yeah," I says, "like joinin the army."

  It went on like that day after day. Sergeant Kranz was not the most interestin person to talk to, but at least he was somebody. Anyway, I was beginnin to believe I would never get off the mud detail, when one day somebody come up an say the post commander wants to see me. They hosed me down an I went up to headquarters.

  "Gump, I understand you played a little football at one time. That so?" the commander asts.

  "Yeah, a little," I says.

  "Tell me about it."

  An so I did. An when I get finished, the commander says, "Greatgodamighty!"

  At least, I ain't got to clean tanks all day no more. Unfortunately, I have now got to clean them all night. But durin the day, I play football for the post team, Swagmien Sour Krauts, we is called.

  The Sour Krauts is not a very good football team, to say the least. We was 0 for 11 last year, an 0 for 3 so far this season. Kinda remind me of the old Ain'ts, back in New Orleans. Anyhow, the quarterback is a little wiry guy called Pete, played a little ball in high school. He is fast an slippery an thows the ball okay, but he ain't no Snake, that is for sure. The post commander is of course unhappy about our record, an makes sure we get in a lot of practice. Like about twelve hours a day. An after that, I gotta go back an clean tanks till about three A.M., but it's all right by me—at least it keeps my mind off other things. Also, they has made Sergeant Kranz—oops, Private Kranz—the team manager.

  Our first football game is against the steam heat company of the post in Hamburg. They are a dirty, filthy lot, an bite an scratch an cuss the whole game, but I runned over most of them, an at the end it is 45 to 0, our way. It was like that the next three games, too, an so we are now ahead of ourselfs for the first time in memory. The commander is beside hissef an to everbody's amazement, he give us a Sunday off, so's we can go into town.

  It is a nice little ole town, with ole buildins an little cobblestone streets an gargoyles on the winder sills. Everbody in town be speakin German, about which none of us understands nothin. The extent of my German is "ja."

  Immediately, of course, the guys found a beer hall, an before long is swillin down huge glasses of beer, served by waitresses wearin German smocks. It is so good to be off post an around civilians that I even had a beer mysef—even if I couldn't understand a word anybody around us had to say.

  We was in the beer hall a number of hours, an I think we are startin to get rowdy, account of there is a bunch of German guys sort of glarin at us from the other end of the room. They is mutterin stuff at us, such as affenarschs an scheissbolles, but we do not understand them, an so go on about our bidness. After a while, one of our fellers puts his hand on the ass of one of the waitresses. It is not that she minded it so much, but it seems the German guys did. Couple of em come over to our table an begun to say a bunch of stuff real loud.

  "Du kannst mir mal en den Sac fassen!" says one of the German fellers.

  "Huh?" says our right tackle, whose name is Mongo.

  The German guy repeated hissef, an Mongo, who is about ten feet tall, just set there lookin puzzled. Finally, one of our guys who understood a little German says to Mongo, "Whatever it was, I don't think it was very nice."

  Mongo stood up an face the German. "Whatever you want, pal, we ain't buyin it—so why don't you shove off."

  German ain't buyin it neither. "Scheiss," he says.

  "What's that?" ast Mongo.

  "It is somethin to do with shit," our feller says.

  Well, that was it. Mongo grapped up the German feller an thowed him through a winder. All the other Germans come racin over, an a big ole brawl commenced. People be pokin an gougin an bitin an shoutin. Waitress be screamin an chairs be flyin. It was just like the good ole times back at Wanda's strip joint in New Orleans.

  A feller was about to crack me over the head with a beer bottle when I felt somebody grap my wrist an pull me back. It was one of the waitresses, done decided to hep me get out of there. She pulled me to a back doorway, an nex thing I knowed, we was outside. In the distance, I heard the sirens of a police car, an figgered that this time, at least, I am gonna get away from here so as not to wind up back in jail. The waitress is a nice-lookin German girl an she leads me down a side street, away from the commotion. Gretchen is her name.

  Gretchen don't speak much English, but we kind of communicated by hand an arm signals, me smilin an sayin ja an her tryin to tell me somethin in German. Anyhow, we walked for a long time, right out of the village an up onto some pretty hills outside of town. Little yellow flowers be bloomin an they is snow-covered mountain peaks in the distance, an down below, the valley is all green an dotted with little houses. In the distance, I think I hear somebody yodelin. Gretchen pointed to me an ast my name, an I tell her.

  "Ja," she says. "Forrest Gump is nice name."

 
After a while, we got up to a pretty meadow an set down, takin in the scenery. They is some sheep in the meadow an away across the valley the sun is beginnin to set in the Alps. You can look down an see a river from here that is shinin in the afternoon sun, an it is so peaceful an beautiful it makes you want to stay here forever.

  Gretchen an me, we is findin it a little easier to communicate. She gets across that she is from East Germany, which has been captured by the Russians who have built a big ole wall to keep the people from leavin. But Gretchen somehow managed to escape an has been workin as a waitress for about five years, hopin that one day she can get her family out of East Germany an over here, where they do not put you inside a wall. I tried to tell Gretchen some of my story, but I am not sure it is gettin across. That don't matter, though, account of we seems to be gettin to be friends anyhow. At one point, she took hold of my hand again an give it a squeeze, an before it was over with, she done put her head on my shoulder while we just set there, watchin the end of the day.

  Over the next few months we played a lot of football. We played some fellers from the navy an some from the air force an a lot more from the army. I used to get Gretchen to come to some of the games when we was playin close to home. She didn't seem to understand much about it, an mostly what she said was "ach!" but it didn't matter. It was just sort of nice to have her around. In a way, I guess it was a good thing we didn't speak the same language, account of she would of probly found out what a stupo I am, an gone her own way.

  One day I gone into the village, an me an Gretchen is walkin down the street an I tole her I wanted to buy some kind of present for little Forrest. She is delighted an says she would like to help. We gone into a bunch of shops, an Gretchen is showin me a bunch of stuff like little tin soldiers an wooden toy tractors, but I had to tell her little Forrest was actually not all that little anymore. Finally, I seen what I thought he'd like.

  It was a great big ole German ooompa horn, all shiny brass an everthin, just like the kind they played down to the beer hall on Saturday nights.