The Shooters

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Had the cadet lieutenant done so?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who was he? A friend?”

  “Me, sir. When my tac officer called me on it, I admitted it, and he had no choice but to bust me, sir.”

  “For just sneaking into the city on a weekend? I did that routinely.”

  “I was on academic restriction at the time, sir,” Castillo said.

  “Oh, God, you are your father’s son,” General Wilson said.

  “Sir?”

  “We had a captain who had the unpleasant habit of grabbing the nearest soldier and having him clean his bird. I’m not talking about shining it up for an IG inspection. I’m talking about getting rid of the vomit and blood and excreta with which they were too often fouled. Your father told the captain that the next time he grabbed our crew chief to do his dirty work, he was going to shove him headfirst into a honey bucket. You know what a honey bucket is, presumably?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The captain did, and your father did, and the captain had him brought up on charges of assault upon a senior officer. The company commander—a wise, senior major—just about told your father that if he would take an Article 15, he could expect no worse punishment than being restricted to the company area for two weeks. That was meaningless, actually, as we were in the boonies, and there was nowhere to go.

  “Your father demanded trial by court-martial. And he exercised his right to defense counsel of his choice. Me. He could not be dissuaded from that, either. He told me when they put his accuser on the stand, I was to get into great detail about his shoving the captain’s head in the honey bucket.

  “I was convinced your father was going to go to the Long Bihn stockade. But—your dad was one of those natural leaders who are able to get people to do whatever they are asked to do, even if it sounds insane—I did what he asked.”

  He stopped when Miller handed him his fresh drink.

  “I’m not at all sure I need this,” General Wilson said. “But thank you.”

  And then he laughed.

  “Well, as I said,” he went on, smiling, “I did my best to carry out my client’s instructions. I asked the captain over and over about the details of the assault upon him. Finally, the president of the court had enough. ‘Wind it up, Lieutenant, you’ve been over and over this. One more question.’ So I said, ‘Yes, sir.’ And I tried to think of a good final question. I came up with a doozy. Not on purpose. It just came out of my mouth. ‘Captain,’ I said, ‘please tell the court what you found in the honey bucket when you allege Mr. Castillo shoved your head in it.’”

  “Jesus Christ!” Miller said, and laughed delightedly.

  “That caused some coughing on the part of the members of the court,” General Wilson went on. “Then the captain replied, very angrily, ‘Shit is what I found in the honey bucket. I damned near drowned in it.’

  “Well, the court broke up, literally became hysterical. The president banged his gavel and fled the room. The other members followed him. The trial was held in a Quonset hut, and we could hear them laughing in the other end of the building for a long time.

  “Finally, they came back in. I announced that the defense rested. The lieutenant prosecuting gave his closing argument, which was of course devastating, and I gave mine, which was ludicrous. Then the court retired. They were out thirty minutes, and then they came back and found your father not guilty of all charges and specifications.”

  “That’s a great story,” Castillo said, smiling.

  “Unfortunately, he didn’t have much time to savor his victory. Two weeks later, he was dead.”

  General Wilson took a sip of his scotch, then went on: “I had a purpose in telling that story. For one thing, it has been my experience that there is more justice in the Army than people are usually willing to recognize. We are supposed to be judged by our peers. In the Army, we really are. Soldiers who understand soldiering judge their fellow soldiers. They almost always return verdicts that are just, even if they sort of stray from legal niceties. I would suggest that court of honor which found you two not guilty and the court which found Charley’s father not guilty based their decision on the circumstances rather than on the cold facts.

  “I suspect your fellow cadets liked Cadet Lieutenant Castillo and thought Randy had gotten what he deserved from him. And I suspect that the officers on the court liked your father, admired his sticking up for our crew chief, and that the captain got what he deserved, too, and that it would serve neither justice nor good order and discipline to make things any worse than they were.

  “Furthermore, that’s all water long under the dam. Vietnam and West Point are both long ago. Tonight, when you see Randy, I’m sure that what passed between you will seem—as indeed it is—no longer important. You might even be glad you had a chance to get together with him. He really can’t be all bad. Beth is absolutely crazy about him.”

  Castillo and Miller did not respond.

  “Beth is of course off-limits. But there will be other young women there tonight and—presuming they are neither engaged nor married—the hunting may interest you. And I promised my wife you would be there. My quarters—Number Two—are on Red Cloud Road. Can you find that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Miller said. “I know where it is.”

  “Well, having talked too much, drunk too much, and pontificated too much, Tom and I will now leave. We will see you in about thirty minutes, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Miller and Castillo said in chorus.

  “Thank you for your hospitality, gentlemen,” General Wilson said.

  “Our pleasure, sir,” Miller and Castillo said, almost in chorus.

  General Wilson was almost at the door when he stopped and turned.

  “Two things,” he said.

  “Yes, sir?” they said.

  “One, the dress is informal”—he pointed at Miller’s sweatshirt—“but, two, not that informal.”

  “Yes, sir,” Miller said.

  Wilson looked at Castillo.

  “Did I pick up that you’re Class of ’90 too, Charley? You and Miller and your good friend Randy are all classmates?”

  “Yes, sir,” Castillo said.

  “Then how in hell did you manage to get to the Desert War flying an Apache?”

  “That’s a long story, sir.”

  “It can’t be that long.”

  “Sir, I had just reported to Fort Knox to begin the basic officer course when I was told I had been selected to fill an ‘unexpected’ slot in Rotary Wing Primary Class 90-7. I suspect it was because of my father. When I got here, they found out I had two-hundred-odd hours of Huey time, so they gave me my wings, transferred me to RW Advanced Class 90-8, and the next thing I knew, there I was flying over the Iraqi desert with Mr. Kowalski at oh dark hundred in an Apache with people shooting at us. The distinction I really have, sir, was in having been the least qualified Apache pilot in the Army.”

  “Warrant Officer Kowalski? The Blue Flight Instructor Pilot?”

  “Yes, sir. There we were, probably the best Apache pilot in the Army and the worst one.”

  “I will want to hear that story more in detail, Charley. But you’re wrong. The distinction you have is the Distinguished Flying Cross you earned flying a shot-up Apache a hundred miles or so across the Iraqi sand at oh dark hundred.” He paused. “Thirty minutes, gentlemen. Thank you again for your hospitality.”

  Captain Prentiss opened the door for General Wilson, they went through it, and Prentiss pulled it shut behind him.

  After a moment, Miller moved aside the venetian blind of the front window to make sure General Wilson was really gone. He turned to Castillo and said, “I think that’s what they call a memorable experience.”

  “Yeah. I suspect the general had more to drink than he usually does.”

  “I got the feeling from Prentiss that he doesn’t drink at all. This upset him. And why not? ‘Get the fuck out, Harry. You’re shaking so much you’ll get us both killed.’ As
opposed to the heroic bullshit on the whatever you call it on that building.”

  Castillo nodded. “When I got that Apache back across the berm, and they started pulling Kowalski out of the Apache—he wasn’t hurt as bad as it looked, but all I could see was blood where his face was supposed to be, and there was blood all over the cockpit—I started to shake so bad they had to hold me up. Then I started throwing up stuff I had eaten two years before.” Castillo paused, then went on, “I understand that. I think he thinks he did the wrong thing by getting out. He didn’t.”

  “You never told me about that before,” Miller said softly.

  “You don’t want to think about it; you put it out of your mind. Jesus, Dick, think about what they went through. They’d been picking up bloody bodies for hours. What’s amazing is they were still doing it. Better men than thee and me, Richard. All it took was one shot-up helicopter and Kowalski and I were out of it.”

  Miller looked at him for a long moment without responding. Then he forced a laugh to change the subject and said, “And your father shoved some chickenshit captain down a honey bucket. He must have been quite a guy.”

  “And got away with it,” Castillo added, grinning.

  “You’re not going to tell your folks about that?”

  “Not Abuela. Grandpa, sure. If I don’t, Fernando will, and I definitely have to share that story with Fernando.”

  Miller nodded, then said, “We are to be reunited with Righteous Randolph. I’ve bumped into him a half dozen times here. I’m invisible to him. As far as he’s concerned, I am a disgrace to the Long Gray Line.”

  “Just you? I’d hoped never to see the miserable sonofabitch again. I think he was born a prick.”

  “I just had a very unpleasant thought,” Miller said.

  “I didn’t know you had any other kind.”

  “Charley, you’re not thinking of nailing Wilson’s daughter, are you?”

  “Where did that come from?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “For one thing, she’s a general’s daughter. I learned, painfully, the dangers of nailing a general’s daughter with Jennifer.”

  “That didn’t slow you down with the next one, Casanova. What was her name? Delores?”

  “Daphne,” Castillo furnished. “Hey, General Wilson is not only a nice guy, but he was my father’s buddy. I’m not going to try to nail his daughter. What kind of a prick do you think I am?”

  “I know damned well what kind: The kind who will forget all those noble sentiments the instant you start thinking with your dick. And/or that it might be fun to nail Righteous Randolph’s girlfriend, just for old times’ sake. Don’t do it, Charley.”

  “Put your evil imagination at rest.”

  “In case I didn’t say this before: Don’t do it, Charley. I’m serious.”

  [-III-]

  2002 Red Cloud Road

  Fort Rucker, Alabama

  1735 5 February 1992

  The quarters assigned to the deputy commanding general of the Army Aviation Center and Fort Rucker, Alabama, were larger, but not by much, than the quarters assigned to officers of lesser rank.

  Castillo thought the dependent housing area of Fort Rucker—more than a thousand one-story frame buildings, ninety percent of them duplexes, spread over several hundred acres of pine-covered, gently rolling land—looked like an Absolutely no money down! Move right in! housing development outside, say, Houston or Philadelphia.

  His boss, Brigadier General Bruce J. McNab, lived in a spacious, two-story brick colonial house on an elm-shaded street at Fort Bragg. The reason for the difference was that the senior officer housing at Bragg had been built before World War II, while all the housing at Rucker had gone up immediately before and during the Vietnam War.

  The driveway to General Wilson’s quarters was lined with automobiles, half of them ordinary Fords and Chevrolets, the other half sports cars. Miller said that was how you told which lieutenants were married and which were not. It was impossible to support both a wife and a Porsche on a lieutenant’s pay, even a lieutenant on flight pay. Miller himself drove a Ford; Castillo, a Chevrolet coupe.

  There was a handmade sign on the front door of Quarters Two. It had an arrow and the words “Around in Back” in bold type.

  Around in back of the house was the patio. This consisted of a concrete pad enclosed by an eight-foot slat fence painted an odd shade of blue. On the patio were two gas-fired barbecue stoves, two picnic tables, two round tables with folded umbrellas, four large ice-filled containers, and about twenty young men and women.

  All the young men—including Miller and Castillo—were dressed very much alike: sports jackets, slacks, open-collared shirts, and well-shined shoes. It was not hard to imagine them in uniform.

  The young women were similarly dressed in their own same style: skirts and either sweaters or blouses.

  Castillo’s eye fell on one of the latter, a blonde standing by one of the smoking stoves. Even across the patio, Castillo could see her brassiere through the sheer blouse. He had always found this fascinating, and was so taken with this one that he didn’t notice a couple walking across the patio until Miller whispered, “Heads-up, here comes Righteous Randolph.”

  The female with Righteous Randolph, also a blonde, was every bit as good-looking as the one cooking steaks. She wore a skirt topped with a tight sweater.

  “And good evening to you, Righteous,” Miller said.

  “You’re Miller and Castillo, right?” the blonde asked.

  “Guilty,” Miller said.

  “I couldn’t believe Randy when he said you would have the gall to show up here,” the blonde said.

  “Charles, my boy,” Miller said. “I suspect that our invitation to mingle with these charming people has been withdrawn.”

  “Odd, I’m getting the same feeling,” Castillo said. “I suspect we withdraw. With Righteous’s permission, of course.”

  “You’re right, sweetheart,” the blonde said. “They think it’s funny, and they’re oh, so clever.”

  “And hers, too, of course,” Castillo said.

  “You two are really disgusting,” Lieutenant Randolph Richardson said.

  Castillo was already behind the wheel of his Chevrolet and Miller was having his usual trouble fastening the seat belt around his bulk when Captain Prentiss came running down the drive.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Prentiss demanded.

  “We tried to tell the general—you were there—that our coming here was probably going to be a mistake,” Castillo said. “A stunning blonde, who I strongly suspect is the general’s daughter, just confirmed that prognosis.”

  “My feelings are crushed beyond measure,” Miller said. “Righteous Randolph just told us we are really disgusting. I’m about to break into tears, and I didn’t want to do that for fear of bringing discredit upon the Long Gray Line.”

  “Gentlemen,” Prentiss said. “General Wilson’s compliments. The general requests that you attend him at your earliest convenience.”

  “What the blonde said was she couldn’t believe we’d have the gall to show up here,” Castillo said.

  “Gentlemen,” Prentiss repeated. “General Wilson’s compliments. The general requests that you attend him at your earliest convenience.”

  “That sounds pretty goddamn official, Tom,” Miller said.

  “As goddamn official as I know how to make it, Lieutenant,” Prentiss said.

  He pulled open the passenger-side door.

  A trim blonde who was visibly the mother of the one on the patio was waiting at the open door of Quarters Two.

  “You’re Miller and Castillo, right? Dick and Charley?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they said.

  “I’m Bethany Wilson,” she said with a smile. “Where were you going?”

  Prentiss answered for them.

  “Beth apparently believes they are responsible for the general’s condition,” he said. “And greeted them with something less than ent
husiasm.”

  “If anyone is responsible for the general’s condition, you are, Tom,” Mrs. Wilson said. “What did Beth say?”

  “The one responsible for the general’s condition is the general,” General Wilson said, coming to the door from inside the house.

  “Good evening, sir,” Miller and Castillo said.

  “The general’s condition, in case you’re wondering,” he said, “is that he cannot—never has been able to—handle any more than one drink in a ninety-minute period. As you may have noticed, I had four drinks in about forty-five minutes at your apartment. And then I came home. And fell out of the car, before at least a dozen of my daughter’s guests. Then, to prove to the world that all I had done was stumble a little, I got onto my wife’s bicycle and went merrily down the drive—until I collided with the car of another arriving guest. At that point, Tom finally caught up with me and got me into the house.”

  He looked between Miller and Castillo and said, “You may smile. It certainly wasn’t your fault, but I would consider it a personal favor, Lieutenant Miller, if you did not tell your father about this amusing little episode.”

  “I beg the general’s pardon, but I didn’t hear a thing that was said,” Miller said.

  “Quickly changing the subject,” Mrs. Wilson said, “what can I get you to drink? Or would you rather just go out to the patio and join the other young people?”

  “There’s one more thing, dear,” General Wilson said. “Dick and Charley don’t get along well with Randy.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “Do I get to hear why?”

  “No,” General Wilson said. “You were saying something about offering them drinks? Then I suggest we show them the scrapbook—there’s a number of pictures of your dad, Charley, and yours too, Dick—and then, throwing poor Tom yet again into the breach, Tom can cook us some steaks to eat in here.”

  “Sir,” Prentiss said, “I’m sorry that I didn’t—”

  “Didn’t what?” Wilson interrupted, and looked at Castillo. “Charley, you’re an aide. Would you dare to tell your general to go easy on the sauce?”