Murder at Wrigley Field
Page 25
“Tennn ... hut!”
A rifle. Bolt-action, .30-caliber, fed by a five-round box magazine, with a bayonet attachment on the barrel. An instrument complicated in design, yet simple in purpose: to kill.
“Presennnt ... ahms!”
In the hands of a trained soldier it could do so in many ways. And during the last two weeks, I’d learned most of them. I could disembowel a straw-filled dummy with the bayonet, use the rifle stock as a cudgel in hand-to-hand combat, and fire a bullet into a target seventy-five yards away. Not often in the bull’s-eye but usually somewhere in the target.
“Shoorrr... ahms!”
With a brisk move I slammed the rifle to my shoulder. As always, the heft of the thing felt wrong; it was unwieldy, tricky to handle, and no amount of practice could make it feel comfortable in my hands. I was intimately familiar with every component of the weapon, having assembled it, broken it down, and cleaned it a hundred times. Yet it remained alien to me, and a little repellent.
Our entire company stood in formation on the rain-soaked parade ground of Fort Benning, Georgia. I was no more comfortable with my gear and uniform than I was with my rifle. Everything the Army put on my body seemed intended to restrict movement. Heavy boots anchored my feet in the mud, the puttees wrapped from boots to breeches bit into my calves, and the stiff brown wool uniform was like a scratchy strait jacket. Strapped to my back was sixty pounds of additional equipment. I had to lean slightly forward to keep my balance.
“Fowarrr... march!”
I promptly plucked my left foot from the grip of the mud and stepped forward, as did every other recruit.
As we plodded through the soupy red clay, the drill sergeant, whose personality combined the worst elements of Ty Cobb’s and John McGraw’s, barked, “Left... left... left, right, left.” In unison, our boots responded: Squish, plup, squish, plup ...
This outfit had been drilled to perfection. When we passed the reviewing stand, the order came “Eyes right!” and I could almost hear the eyeballs click into place as they turned to face the officers.
My mind wasn’t nearly as disciplined as my body. I knew that at the same time I was marching in Fort Benning, the Chicago Cubs were taking the field in Fenway Park for what could be the final game of the 1918 World Series.
While I was learning the rudiments of war, baseball had gone on without me. The regular season ended on Labor Day, a month earlier than usual. To save a month’s payroll, the owners promptly gave unconditional releases to all the players, after agreeing among themselves that they wouldn’t steal any ballplayers “freed” by another club.
The World Series opened on September 5, with Boston’s big left-hander Babe Ruth outpitching Hippo Vaughn for a 1–0 win. A few days later, Ruth won his second game of the Series, beating Shufflin’ Phil Douglas. If the Red Sox took today’s game, they would be world champions for the third time in four years. And with Babe Ruth pitching for them, the Sox would probably keep winning World Series for years to come.
Someday, though, I’d be playing in one of them.
The scene on the parade ground began to dissolve before my eyes and transform itself into a brighter vision: the felt campaign hats became baseball caps; the suffocating uniforms were now baggy, pinstriped flannels; and instead of marching in formation, we were stepping onto the green living turf of a baseball field for the opening game of the World Series. I imagined the cheers of the fans and the feel of the breeze blowing the flags and pennants. I hadn’t missed my chance to get into the Series, it had merely been deferred.
I now felt more confident that I’d be coming home alive from this war. No way was I going to die without getting into a World Series.
Yes, somehow or other, I would manage to survive. I’d even use my rifle if I had to. But I wouldn’t feel truly alive again until I had a Louisville Slugger in my grip.
Author’s Note
After selling a controlling interest of the Chicago Cubs to William Wrigley, Charles Weeghman resigned as president in December 1918.
The baseball park Weeghman built, variously known as Weeghman Park, Whales Park, and Cubs Park, was officially renamed Wrigley Field in 1926.
Wrigley Field is the only remaining Federal League ballpark.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 1996 by Troy Soos
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-8741-0
eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-8780-9
eISBN-10: 0-7582-8780-1
First Kensington Electronic Edition: May 2013