by Max Shulman
“A curious fact,” continued the mayor. “The Duncan Leprechaun I carried eight million dollars’ worth of bullion, by a strange coincidence the exact cost of the construction of our present ammunition plant. And damn cheap, too,” he added. “Ask anybody who owns an ammunition plant.
“But I digress. A small group of Minnesota scouts learned that the Duncan Leprechaun I was approaching, and they knew they must stop it. But how? Aha, my friends, Minnesota ingenuity won the day. They fashioned the first floating mine, a barrel of the whisky that they had brought along to trade with the Indians. The ship hit the barrel, the whisky exploded, and on the very spot where you are standing, my constituents, the Duncan Leprechaun I went down with all hands.
“Thus it is obvious that this historic spot is eminently suited for a plant that will be dedicated to the destruction of our enemies.
“And now what could be more fitting than that this dedication ceremony should be highlighted by Minneapolis’ own hero, born, bred, and schooled in this city to which I have given all my life, Sergeant Daniel Miller? Sergeant Miller is going to help defeat our enemies here, just as he did in Morocco, by blowing up a bridge. This time it is only a small wooden bridge, not the kind he is accustomed to destroying, but if it is only child’s play to the sergeant, to us it is a wonderful thing that our hero should have a part in our most heroic achievement. Minneapolis is truly grateful that I was able to persuade Sergeant Miller to be with us today.
“And as a token of our gratitude I want to present to Sergeant Miller this diamond ring to give to Miss Estherlee McCracken, to whom he has just become engaged.”
Estherlee pushed my slack body upright. The mayor laid the ring in my hand, and it immediately slipped through my trembling fingers. “Isn’t that life?” laughed His Honor. “This man isn’t a bit afraid of the most dangerous demolition, but he’s scared to death of giving his girl a ring. I’ll put it on her finger, Sergeant. You go over to the bridge. You’ll feel more at ease.”
He gave me a little shove that sent me reeling off the platform. Slowly, slowly, with every step a major struggle not to turn and bolt, I walked the hundred feet from the war plant to the bridge. My eyes burned and my throat ached and my stomach churned and the sweat rolled off me in streams. My breath rattled through my open mouth; my elbows and kneecaps twitched. I reached the black wooden box.
I froze like a well-trained pointer. The noise of my heart was roaring in my ears. I bent over and took the top off the box. Inside were four bundles of dynamite sticks, a dozen in a bundle, a box the size of a gasoline can with a handle on top, a bunch of wires, each with a small mechanism at the end, a roll of tape, and another long coil of wire. I trembled anew as I noted each item.
Then I noticed a small card with writing on it on the inside of the box’s lid. I lunged at it with a haste that would make a drowning man grasping at straws look hesitant. Perhaps it would tell me what to do with these devil’s instruments.
“DANGER—HIGH EXPLOSIVE,” it said.
I gnashed my teeth and began to tear the card in half. Suddenly I saw the small print on the back. My salvation! Directions.
“Take pointed stick and bore hole in top of each dynamite stick. Place cap in hole. Splice cap wires to exploder wire. Unroll to length desired. Attach to exploder. Press plunger.”
I looked over the box’s contents. The dynamite I recognized. The wires with the little things at the end must be caps. The long coil would be the exploder wire, and the box with the handle the exploder. The tape was for splicing.
All right. Now, how many sticks of dynamite should I use? One on each of the bridge’s four supports should do it. Still, one didn’t seem like enough. Why would they leave four dozen sticks in the box if all I needed was four? Sure, that’s it. I needed four dozen—one dozen for each support. Sure, that was obvious. They even had them bunched up by dozens.
I placed a dozen sticks of dynamite under each of the bridge’s four supports.
Now. Take pointed stick and bore hole in the top of each dynamite stick. Oh, my God. Boring holes in dynamite sticks. Oh, my God. I took a pencil from my pocket and gingerly pressed the point of it into the top of the dynamite stick. Then I leaped back. All quiet. Well, what the hell. Here goes. I stuck the pencil in deep. Nothing happened. My heart came down from my hard palate. I bored holes in all forty-eight sticks.
Next. Place cap in hole. I stuck the tip of each wire into the holes. That’s easy. Splice cap wires to exploder wires. You know, this is kind of fun. I hummed a little as I gathered the four dozen cap wires and taped them to the long exploder wire.
Unroll to length desired. That’s the part I liked best. I picked up the exploder and started walking backward. “Come on, everybody,” I called with authority. “Move back with me. Can’t have people getting hurt, you know.”
Estherlee ran over to my side. “You’re wonderful, dear,” she said. “So efficient. So calm. I’d be scared to death.”
“Oh, pshaw,” I murmured.
It was a good long wire. I unrolled and unrolled. The crowd followed me admiringly as I retreated. Mama nudged Papa. “Look, look, our son,” she said. I winked at them.
I walked backward with my flock. By God, I said to myself, I’m getting away with it. I’m going to carry it off. I’ll blow that little bridge. I should with four dozen sticks of dynamite. Jesus, that seems like a lot of dynamite for a little wooden bridge. Well, why did they leave four dozen sticks in the box if I wasn’t supposed to use them? It still seems like a lot of dynamite. Well, I’ve got plenty of wire here. I’ll use every inch of it. No use taking chances.
“Move back, folks,” I called. “No use taking chances.”
I continued walking back. “Nothing like a little walk on a spring morning,” I said lightly to Estherlee.
“Darling,” she breathed.
The retreat continued. The ammunition plant was getting smaller and smaller. I could scarcely see it now through the mist that hung over the swamp. There was still more wire. I still walked back.
The plant was a speck on the horizon when Colonel Swatch hollered, “God damn it, Sergeant, we’re nearing the Dakota line. I’ve seen men blow bridges ten times that big from a hundred yards. Will you stop?”
“Yeah,” called somebody in the crowd. “Where you going?”
“No use taking chances, folks,” I said. Another hundred feet of wire remained, and I ran it out. Attach to exploder. I did. Press plunger. I took the handle in my hands. My confidence suddenly began to ebb. I wiped my forehead. “Give me a kiss, Estherlee,” I said.
She gladly complied.
Well, press plunger. I pressed.
The air was filled with a noise like a million bowling alleys. The ground trembled, and a pillar of dust and smoke rose from Sunrise Aerie. Then it was still.
Papa took the binoculars from the case on his Sam Browne belt and looked toward the war plant. “Oh, my God, my God!” he cried.
I snatched the glasses from his hands. I looked and didn’t believe. I adjusted the glasses, wiped them. No, I was not mistaken.
The ammunition plant was sinking leisurely into the swamp.
Suddenly another object began to emerge beside the war plant. This certainly was a mirage. I watched, transfixed. No. No. It was happening.
As the mire closed over the ammunition factory, up came the Duncan Leprechaun I!
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The provost marshal rang for a guard. “I must admit,” he said, “that I’ve never heard one quite like that. Here, have a cigarette.”
I took one and he held a match for me. “You agree, don’t you, Captain, that in my case there are certain extenuating circumstances?”
“I agree that there are circumstances. The court-martial will decide how extenuating they are.”
“You mean I have to stand trial?”
“Did you expect the Good Conduct Medal?”
“No sir,” I said truthfully.
“Naturally you’ll have a chance to tell you
r story to the court. And an officer will be appointed to act as your counsel. His choice will be subject to your approval.”
“Yes sir. How do you think I’ll come out?”
“Hard to say, Sergeant. It’s a rather unusual case.”
“Extenuating circumstances?” I asked hopefully.
“Well, circumstances, anyway,” he said.
The guard came in and took me off to the guardhouse. We walked through the streets of the camp. All around me I saw soldiers. Everywhere men in uniform. Soldiers, nothing but soldiers.
It was good to be back.
About the Author
Max Shulman (1919–1988) was an American novelist, playwright, screenwriter, and short story writer best known as the author of Rally Round the Flag, Boys! (1957), The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis (1951), and the popular television series of the same name. The son of Russian immigrants, Shulman was born in St. Paul, Minnesota, and attended the University of Minnesota, where he wrote a celebrated column for the campus newspaper and edited the humor magazine. His bestselling debut novel, Barefoot Boy with Cheek (1943), was followed by two books written while he served in the Army during World War II: The Feather Merchants (1944) and The Zebra Derby (1946). The Tender Trap (1954), a Broadway play co-written with Robert Paul Smith, was adapted into a movie starring Frank Sinatra and Debbie Reynolds. His acclaimed novel Rally Round the Flag, Boys! became a film starring Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. Shulman’s other books include Sleep till Noon (1950), a hilarious reinvention of the rags-to-riches tale; I Was a Teenage Dwarf (1959), which chronicles the further adventures of Dobie Gillis; Anyone Got a Match? (1964), a prescient satire of the tobacco, television, and food industries; and Potatoes Are Cheaper (1971), the tale of a romantic Jewish college student in depression-era St. Paul. His movies include The Affairs of Dobie Gillis (with Debbie Reynolds and Bob Fosse) and House Calls (with Walter Mathau and Glenda Jackson). One of America’s premier humorists, he greatly influenced the comedy of Woody Allen and Bob Newhart, among many others.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1944 by Max Shulman
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2779-3
This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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