The Making of Blackwater Jack

by Roy F. Chandler

  “You didn’t take up binge drinking and pot smoking, did you, Jack?”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Shooter.”

  Galloway grinned. “I’m just enjoying busting your hump a little, Tim. Colonel Rock says you are worth any two of the bums he usually gets to help out.”

  “He said that?”

  “Well, he at least meant that. You did well. You’ve learned stuff you should have known four years ago, so now you are ready to move on.” Galloway looked mildly uncertain. “That’s right isn’t it, Timmy?”

  “Yeah, I’m done here. This is the last sniper course for the summer, and I’ve learned enough of the other shooting stuff for now.”

  Shooter shifted as if a bit uncomfortable. “So, what is next, then?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “What?” Galloway’s over-loud exclamation turned heads. “Three months, and you still haven’t decided? What in hell did you think you were down here for, Carlisle?”

  “To learn things that you insisted I needed to know, Galloway. What did you think I was here for?”

  “You were also to choose which military service you would do best in and to adjust your extremely limited brain matter so that you could get on with it. Good God, I’ve wasted my life on a dullard.”

  Tim yawned behind his hand. “I’ve heard your pretended outrage about one thousand times over the years, Gabe. Give it a break.”

  He continued in lighter tones. “Actually, I have made decisions, but I have been waiting to talk with you before I made grand announcements. You want to hear them?”

  “Of course, I want to hear them, and they had better be substantial and sensible. It seems like I’ve been listening to you putting-off for the last decade.”

  Shooter gritted his teeth. “Don’t keep it up, Jack or I might … I just might pour brake fluid all over that fancy chrome-plated motorcycle you ride.”

  Tim smiled. “You have always been a lowlife that might take it out on a man’s equipment because he doesn’t dare face him head-on.

  “Back in the 1700s there was a guy named Shcenk who raised hogs in the county.”

  Shooter said, “Forget the history, Blackwater. I know about Shcenk. Almost everything you know I told you anyway. What have you decided?”

  Galloway squared himself at the table and prepared to listen, so Tim went ahead.

  “Coming to Blackwater was good advice, and I have learned things I would not have even heard about if I hadn’t been here.

  “It was hard choosing Marines or Army. I like ‘em both. I already knew that everyone should serve his country if he could, and my time is right now.

  “A Carlisle cop was taking the advanced sniper course, so I got to know him and we talked about it.”

  Galloway interrupted, “What was the cop’s name? I knew some of them when I was on active duty.”

  “Name is Alabaster, Frank Alabaster.”

  Galloway again interrupted.

  “I remember Alabaster. He was in my Military Police Company. Yeah, Corporal Frank Alabaster. He had prospects, I figured.”

  “I guess he did. Alabaster is a Sergeant First Class now. Anyway, Alabaster repeated almost the same advice you so often laid on me. If your main interest is being a rifleman, go to the Marine Corps. For anything else, go to the Army.”

  “Still good advice, Jack.”

  “Quit calling me Jack. It might stick. Anyway, I also remembered you hinting around that you do something close to law enforcement, and I supposed that … .”

  “I never said I did anything like law enforcement. Never, never, never, and I don’t.”

  “Well, what do you do, Shooter?”

  “We are talking about your direction in life, Tim, not mine. What have you chosen?”

  “Alabaster is getting set for another tour in the Middle East. Iraq is almost done, but he says Afghanistan is going to rumble.” Tim paused to grin. “Those are his exact words.”

  Galloway was unimpressed. “Everyone knows that, but there will be both Army and Marines in there. You know, Blackwater, you always have made simple things hard. Get to the point, Tim. All you have to say is one word. Is it Marines or Army?”

  Tim got down to it. “Which I go to is part of a bigger plan. Alabaster said that if I enlisted in the Army, got through basic, and finished the provost marshal’s school, I could get into his outfit. He said I should take the Military Policeman’s course and the Criminal Investigation course, and that I would have to get that into my enlistment contract or the Army might screw me out of part of it.”

  “Yeah, he’s got that right. The services are famous for promising the world but delivering almost nothing. However, the contract system where you have in writing exactly what was agreed upon by you and the recruiter works a lot better.”

  Galloway seemed to consider, apparently turning possibilities over in his mind.

  “Alabaster is still part of my old outfit, I guess, the 620th Military Police Battalion, but so much has changed since I got sidelined that I barely know the system anymore.

  “I’ve heard that they have done away with the old system of Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie Companies and now give every unit four digit numbers because, with all of the shipping in and out, an outfit could end up with two or three “A” Companies—which would surely cause confusion.

  “You know that I am out of it until the medics clear me on the head injury they claim puts me in danger. So, I won’t be influencing your service either pro or con, and … “

  “Yeah, sure, Shooter. I won’t even hear from you for? Hey, maybe twenty-four hours? Crap!

  “Every time I look up somebody will ask, ‘Don’t you know Major Galloway that shot the hell out of everything in the Middle East a few years back?

  “And, not incidentally, I would appreciate it if you didn’t make a point of telling everyone in the battalion that I had the nickname of Blackwater Jack.”

  Tim frowned ferociously at his friend. “I can imagine you just happening to mention that nickname, only you will probably change it to ‘Slackwater’ or something. Damn! I may go into the Marines after all.”

  Galloway almost smirked. “I know a lot of Marines, too, Blackwater. It wouldn’t do you any good. So, don’t worry about it, Jack. You will have bigger things than a nickname to worry about no matter where you settle.”

  Galloway shifted the subject a little.

  “The 620th has been a darned good outfit, Tim. Alabaster’s recommendations are solid. Take the shortest hitch you can sign up for, do your duty the best you can manage, and be proud of your service, no matter what it is.

  “One other thing, buddy. Don’t waste your military years hanging out in the PX and working out in the gyms. Go back to college, even if it is on-line courses. My God, you only need one semester to get a degree. Get that paper and file it away. You may want to apply for Officer Candidate’s School or something more demanding than patrol officer.”

  “Yeah, I’m going to buck for Stockade Guard.”

  Walking away, Shooter Galloway called back, “I’m heading home. Keep in touch, Jack. Don’t sweat any of it, Blackwater. I’ll be diligent in keeping our locals informed of your progress.”

  A loud call came through the night. “Hey Jack?” The voice was Galloway’s.

  The answer was a few voices, “What Jack?”

  All available voices demanded in unison, “Blackwater Jack.”

  Tim Carlisle muttered. “Maybe I’ll try the French Foreign Legion.”

  Wasted effort he knew. The first bozo he would see in their secret desert camp would be Gabriel Galloway.

  11

  Afghanistan

  (A year later)

  Tim was late for lunch and the Mess Hall, these days more usually termed The Dining Hall, was nearly empty. Not that it made any difference. The chow line was open twenty-four hours a day every day feeding troops coming and going at all hours. Most were ordinary grunts assigned to infantry or military police units operating in this
part of Afghanistan.

  Unlike most others, newly promoted Corporal Tim Carlisle made every meal on every day. He slept nearby, and his duty took him only as far as the firing ranges a bit beyond the barbed wire and always under the protecting weapons of the fighting towers surrounding the base.

  Tim chose an empty four-man table and eased his fully loaded tray and drink down carefully. He parked himself, unfolded a paper napkin and began eating.

  It was a strange war, Tim thought. Unlike those he had heard of all of his life, fighting men of this conflict came home on most nights to clean sheets and even air conditioning. Men groused and complained as he had heard they always did, but compared to soldiers of earlier times they really had it made.

  Of course, there were many exceptions, and some warriors existed in primitive conditions, fighting in the broiling heat of day and bone chilling cold of night, living on Meals Ready to Eat and water tainted by purification tablets.

  But not the 620th Military Police Battalion’s Headquarters Section. Their duties were close-in, a lot of them were clerical, and he, the deadly shooting “Blackwater Jack,” spent his hours on the rifle and pistol ranges improving the marksmanship of anybody sent to him.

  Fighting men who had killed the enemy appeared for his instruction, and Tim hated it. He who had shot at nothing more dangerous than a desert rat, re-taught men who had met the enemy and survived. It was unjust, and more than a little embarrassing, Tim believed.

  He blamed First Sergeant Frank Alabaster who had requested his assignment to HQ and placed him on the ranges in a probably vain attempt to teach soldiers who simply could not hit much of anything with their M16s or their M4 mouse guns—not to mention their almost universal incompetence with their 9mm Beretta pistols.

  It was probably Alabaster who had revived the Blackwater Jack crap as well. Alabaster or not, the nickname had surfaced, and most knew him by that name. His Lieutenant often called him Blackwater, and despite his nametag, many men thought his second name really was Jack.

  If compared to those who could hardly make a bullet go down-range, his own shooting seemed sort of miraculous, and that helped clinch the nickname.

  Until he got out of this outfit, which would probably be when his enlistment contract expired, he would regularly answer to Blackwater Jack.

  Someone sat down across from him, and Tim heard his tray land on the table. He was glad his face was down and his fork half lifted because he instantly recognized the voice.

  “What in hell is this stuff, anyway, Jack?”

  Tim’s answer was clear. “It’s camel shit.”

  “Oh, I thought it might be something I wouldn’t like.”

  Despite his wish to sound disgruntled and uncaring, Tim Carlisle felt his heart lift along with his eyes.

  Tim asked with genuine amazement, “How on earth did you get here?”

  Gabriel Galloway said, “Oh, I’ve got connections, and I happened to be vacationing nearby so I thought I’d drop in.”

  Tim began, but First Sergeant Alabaster hove into view and took over the conversation.

  “My God, it’s Major Galloway. How are you, sir? Are you back on duty? Why else would you be here?”

  Then he took in Galloway’s out of uniform dress and Corporal Carlisle sitting close by. “Oh-oh. You stopped in to check on your protégé, hey, Major?”

  The two shook hands, ignoring the Corporal as if he were not present.

  “How is he doing, Frank?” Galloway was no longer an active duty commissioned officer, and he could use the familiar with an old friend regardless of the usual social distance between non-com and commissioned.

  Alabaster said, “He’s a help, Shooter. I’ve got him on our ranges trying to improve the always rotten shooting that military police are guilty of.”

  Galloway sighed, “I remember it well, Frank. I wonder what happened to the team I had going unit-to-unit teaching marksmanship? That was working pretty well when we were in Iraq a few years ago.”

  The First Sergeant said, “Yeah, that was a damn good scheme, Shooter, and I tried to reinitiate the team when I made Top Sergeant. But … well, you’ve probably heard that an old problem reappeared, and most ideas good or bad get stalled and die in their own shadows.”

  Galloway shot his gaze around the hall. “Yeah, I heard about that. I thought he was gone for good. Nothing to be done, I guess, except grit your teeth and pray for, well, who knows? Whatever might be best, I guess.”

  Alabaster warned, “He wouldn’t like finding you here, Major.”

  Shooter grinned. “I made sure he was away before I came in. I’ll be long gone before he returns.” Shooter’s teeth shone as he added, “You don’t have to mention my visit, Top.”

  Alabaster rose, shook Galloway’s hand and said, “What visit is that, Shooter?” Then he departed.

  Tim asked, “What on earth were you two talking about? What problem, and who were you talking about?”

  Galloway laid a hand on Tim’s arm as a caution to speak more softly.

  “That’s the real reason I’m here, Tim. This particular bit of information, I prefer telling you in person with nothing written down. It has to remain unspoken beyond this meeting, and never refer to it in writing.

  “I’m not kidding, Corporal Carlisle. This is serious stuff. “

  “OK, Shooter. I hear you, but what on earth could be so earth shaking?”

  “You know that you just got a new Battalion Commander, Lieutenant Colonel Frank Saltz?”

  “Sure, we all got his arrival speech. We pegged him as stiff and hugely self-serving. So far we all try to avoid him. What about Colonel Saltz?”

  Galloway cleared his throat and looked around almost furtively. “So far you people have him right. He was a Major and the battalion Executive Officer when I first came aboard. The CO got him transferred away, and everybody figured Staltz was done, passed over for promotion and would never be seen again.”

  “Well, here he is, and I’m warning you as hard as I can—stay away from him and anything he is involved in. All I am privileged to say is that he is under super-close investigation, and you don’t want to get sucked into anything he is part of.”

  Galloway seemed to consider before adding, “One other point. Saltz hated my guts. Years ago, he was a by-the-book idiot. Not anymore. Now he is a hugely involved idiot who may be criminally indicted, and he could put you into a Leavenworth cell or simply get you killed without changing much of anything he is doing.

  “Tim, I would like to list the things Saltz is suspected of, but I can’t—not allowed. Watch out for Saltz and anyone with him. He has an SFC that travels with him and a Lieutenant Gold who is his creature. Stay away, Tim, just stay clear.”

  “Got it, loud and clear.

  “Jeez, Shooter, haven’t you any news from home? Didn’t you bring me a piece of Perry County fruit pie or something? So far, this is a lousy visit.

  “Good God, Gabe, when would a Corporal ever be hanging with the Battalion Commander anyway?”

  Galloway laughed, a little hollowly, Tim thought. “Well, I wanted to be sure. This guy is bad, Tim, and deep inside he will still nourish a hate for me. He will discover where you are from, and sooner or later he will ask if you know me. Say ‘No,’ Tim. Do not give him an opening or a reason of any kind to know or remember you.”

  They put the matter to rest and swapped stories of how things were going.

  Galloway said, “Your Harley-Davidson Servi-Car is sitting in your barn. I rode it around a little before I threw a couple of old quilts over it. Handsome damned thing. I wouldn’t have believed an ancient work machine like that could look and drive so good.”

  “Did you send the money to Kentucky like I asked?”

  “Yep, and Driver said to tell you that your friends from the diner still look for you.”

  Tim chuckled. “I doubt they will appear over here, but I wish they would. Having a bunch of hillbillys hoping to find you isn’t all that desirable. I’d enjoy settli
ng it once and for all.”

  Galloway shrugged off the distant threat. “They’ll get old, and getting slugged and stomped in their youth will blend into other uncomfortable memories and be forgotten. However, you should keep in mind that the only way to end the hatred of a close-knit mountain clan like they are would be to kill ‘em all. You heard of the Hatfields and the McCoys—?”

  Galloway changed the subject. “Forget the hicks. I’ve got big news, Jack.

  “The news is, I am getting married.”

  Tim exhaled powerfully. “Holy cow! You do mean to that gorgeous gal you’ve been showing around for the last couple of years? The one from the Outdoor Channel?”

  “Her professional name is Jacque Mefford, and of course that’s who she is.”

  Tim stuck out his hand, and Galloway shook it enthusiastically.

  “Damn, Shooter, that is great news. I wish I could be there, but … “

  “That’s why I’m telling you now, Tim. I wish you could be my Best Man, but I’m not waiting so that you can drop the ring or show up late or some other dumb stunt.”

  “Damn, I miss everything. It’s your fault, Galloway. I should be at home, riding my Harley, visiting people I like, getting ready for fall hunting—and wearing a stupid looking tux while you make promises you probably won’t keep.

  “If you hadn’t tricked me into enlisting I would … “

  “Which reminds me, Blackwater, did you finish the Internet college credits you were taking? Did you bother to apply for a degree? Have you … “

  Tim’s interruption was disdainful. “Don’t you read the brilliant correspondence I send, Gabe? I got the credits and the degree, a BS in Secondary Education, and I got my teaching certificate, all from Shippensburg. Received them about a month ago.”

  “Good. Now you should put in for OCS, get a commission and … “

  “Oh no, Major Galloway. If I go that route, I’ll end up owing Uncle Sam even more time on active duty than I do now. I’ve got a bit under two years to go. Then I will be out, and looking for work probably.