MATT HELM: The War Years (3 page)

March watched me quietly, waiting for the punch line, not saying anything.  After a moment, I continued.

"There was a kind of epilogue.  Three years after the incident I read in the papers that there was a big scandal at that school.  Another bunch of arrogant seniors had got hold of another poor dumb freshman whose behavior wasn't to their liking; and they'd given him the old school heave - only, it turned out, there was some kind of a rusty drainpipe out there in the muck that nobody'd ever noticed.  He landed right on it.  The last I heard, he was still alive, if you can call it living.  He can blink his eyelids once for yes and twice for no, or vice versa.  And every time I think of him, I remember my old hunting knife with much affection.  If it hadn't been for those six inches of cold, sharp steel, that human vegetable might have been me."

We sat there a while, drinking our beers and not saying anything.  I got the impression that my instructor knew exactly the way I felt and was simply waiting for my adrenalin rush to subside.  He was the first person I had ever told that story - why, I couldn't really say.  Maybe it was just the look of him, a predator with the smell of gunpowder about him, and why that thought came into my mind is anybody's guess.

He gave me a wolfish grin.  "You're all right, Helm.  You realize you don't really fit in here, don't you?"

"I know," I grinned back.  "Can't you just see me as the gung-ho leader, getting his troops all pumped up for God and country?  Hell, with my attitude, one of them would probably shoot me in the back as we went up the hill.  Maybe I shouldn't have accepted a commission."

"Have you considered sniper school?  Your scores are certainly good enough, and you've got the right instincts."

I frowned.  "Not really.  I didn't know they selected officers for sniper duty."

"Normally they don't.  But I've heard of a new program being considered, sort of a commando outfit.  They don't seem too particular whether it's bars or stripes that determine your rank.  They're more concerned with results.  If you're interested, I'll ask around."

"I'm interested."

"Good enough.  By the way, don't worry about that little fracas.  You set it up with that innocent act.  I'll make sure it sticks."

"Thanks, Sarge."  I'd found it interesting that most of the field instructors were enlisted, while the classroom instructors were officers.  It seemed kind of backwards to me.  Shouldn't the leaders be the best fighters?  Welcome to the modern military.  As he'd said, I didn't really fit in, but what the hell - you do your duty.  Nobody ever promised you'd enjoy it.

Two weeks later, after pinning the shiny new gold bar on my lapel, I was offered a chance for some special training; objective vague, unit unspecified, mission classified.  I grabbed it.  Like I said - a spy.

Chapter 3

I was shipped off to a place in Arizona, called the Ranch, never mind exactly where.  We went through some pretty silly procedures involving several detours and an open door on a parked vehicle before we pulled up in front of a shiny new gate at the end of an old weather-beaten dirt road.  As the driver got out to open the gate, I had the feeling of being watched.  Nobody else was in sight, but I didn't think I would want to open that gate without the appropriate authorization.  It was that kind of a place.

It had been a long drive and I was tired and bored and it was late.  The driver had introduced himself as Frank and that was practically the last word he said, other than polite inquiries concerning food and sanitary needs.  We drove past a couple of low buildings with a few people milling around.  No one paid us any attention, which was strange.  You'd think simple curiosity, if nothing else, would warrant a stare or two.

A short distance away, we stopped in front of a small bungalow.  Frank told me to take my things inside and wait until someone came to brief me.  I was not to wander around, but to stay inside.  It was the longest sentence I'd heard from him.  Then he surprised me.  As I started toward the front door, he waved and said, "Good luck."  It made him seem almost human.  Almost.

They didn't make me wait long.  I'd just managed to unpack a little and splash some water on my face - the bungalow was a miniature hotel room with its own bathroom complete with shower, which was okay with me since I don't fit too well in the average bathtub - when a well-built, medium-sized guy walked in without knocking.  He was quite a handsome and distinguished-looking man with thick, black well-combed hair.  He also had a look much like March, my drill instructor.  I don't mean that they looked anything alike.  It was the bearing, a hint of danger and, as I'd said before, the smell of gunpowder that is perceived by the brain if not by the nose.  I think that was the first time I started getting the feeling I'd found a home.

He smiled and held out his hand.  "The name's Vance, and you're Helm."  It wasn't a question.

I shook his hand, noticing that he felt no need to assert his masculinity with a knuckle-grinding clutch, as I would have expected from my first impression.  It was just a nice, firm handshake.  "Are you the guy who's going to explain what I'm doing here?" I asked.

"To a certain extent.  I'm going to be your trainer for a while.  Are you hungry?"

"Starving."

"Let's go over to the canteen and grab a bite and I'll explain as much as I can."

He led me to one of the low buildings I'd noticed, entering through a door on one end, the East end if it matters.  He went first and I noticed a bulge under his coat, up against his spine about belt level.  I wondered if it was what I thought it was.  As we entered, it was apparent that half the building had been divided into a combination cafeteria and bar.  Only a couple tables were occupied.  We went through the serving line, both of us helping ourselves to something that vaguely resembled roast beef and some watery mashed potatoes.  At least we had a choice of vegetables.  I picked peas while Vance went for the corn.  A couple soggy rolls topped off our plates.  There seemed to be plenty of food, if a limited choice; however, there were no people in sight behind the counter.  A door led off the back to what I assumed was a kitchen.

Vance headed toward a back table, well away from the other diners, and I followed, careful not to stumble on the rough wood floor.  The whole place looked like a hastily-converted bunkhouse with no attention being given to dressing it up.  I kept wondering what happened to the horses.  I mean, it was obviously some kind of horse ranch.  Having been brought up in New Mexico, I grew up around the corrals where the interesting characters hung out.  I felt right at home.

In between bites, Vance told me what I could expect during my time here.  "You're on a sort of probation," he said.  "You've got some specialized abilities we're interested in and an aptitude for acquiring some others.  That's
my
job.  There are a few other things to be determined before we decide to keep you around, but you'll find out what those are as we go."

I started to object and then decided against it.

Vance smiled.  "That's one, self control.  I don't like blowhards, no matter how good they are - or think they are.  We're going to get along just fine."

I rather doubted that.  There was just a little tension between us and I wasn't sure why.  I figured it out later, of course.  This kind of business tends to attract loners and, as a rule we - I'm definitely included in that category - don't get along "just fine."  Most of the time we're wondering if we can take the other by hand or if we'll need a gun...

He continued, "We have a rather unique training program.  There's one instructor to each student, at least in the beginning.  This is a highly classified operation and if you don't make the grade, you can be returned to your former branch of the service - in your case the Army - without too much interesting information in your head.

"Here's the way it goes.  For the next few weeks, I'm your chaperone.  You don't eat, walk, shit or even look at another person without me around.  You do get to sleep by yourself, and any free time is spent in your room, not that you'll have much free time.  In between learning new skills, we'll concentrate on refining existing ones.  Any questions?"

"No, sir."  I mean, he'd made it quite clear.  I was in the Army; I was used to taking orders, even stupid, meaningless and totally nonsensical orders.  They're all security happy in the military and if it made them feel good to say "Top Secret" every time they didn't want to tell you something, who was I to complain?  But I made up my mind that I would take everything this guy told me with a grain of salt.

He bent forward a bit and reached behind him.  I tensed a little as he brought out the standard Army-issue Colt .45 automatic, Model 1911, black and deadly-looking.  He laid it on the table and pushed it toward me, watching carefully.

The hell with him.  I hadn't needed the Army course to respect firearms.  I grew up with them, including one just like this that my father had owned.  I picked it up and, turning in my chair to point it downward, popped out the magazine to make sure it was loaded and checked the chamber to see if there was a cartridge in it.  There wasn't.  Well, you don't carry a pistol in your belt with a cartridge chambered, not if you want to keep all the various parts of your anatomy in working order.  I slipped the magazine back in and made sure the safety was set.

"Very good," he said as I grinned at him.  "That's yours for the duration.  Your job is to learn it to the point you can strip and reassemble it blindfolded, and that's not a figure of speech.  Then we'll teach you how to shoot it."

"I know how to shoot it.  My dad had one."

"You just think you know.  Just like you think you know a lot of things."  He held up his hand to stop me, but I was disciplined.  I wasn't going to protest.  I was just going to wait and show him.  He nodded in approval and went on, smiling.

"I'm not being obnoxious.  I'm just being honest.  I had a lot of training before I came here the first time and thought I knew everything there was to know about shooting, too.  We all do, until we go through this very specialized course."

I smiled back, relaxing a little.  Maybe he wasn't such a jackass after all.  "Okay, you're the boss.  When do we get started?"

"First thing in the morning.  Get a good night's sleep, 'cause you'll need it.  I'll be by at six o'clock to take you to breakfast."

Chapter 4

They've got a funny damn way of waking you up in that place.  First they tell you what time to get up so you can set your alarm clock.  Then, about an hour or so before that, they walk into your room and start shooting holes in the ceiling with a cannon.  Well, it's not really a cannon, just a little old .45, and he didn't really shoot holes in the ceiling.  He used blanks.  At least I hoped they were blanks - in that place you never knew for sure.

That first morning, Vance walked into my room at about four o'clock and fired off three shots.  I came out of the bed like a shot - pun intended - and crashed to the floor all wrapped up in the bedclothes.  Even then, to my later satisfaction, I had enough presence of mind to crawl under the bed with my shorts unsoiled.  That, of course, wasn't the proper response, but at least I was thinking and not just scared shitless.  The scatological terminology is Vance's.  He told me later that a lot of the recruits actually shit themselves - which I guess, is how the phrase originated.

When I heard Vance laughing, I crawled out from under the bed as he turned on the light.  I didn't hit him - after all I knew he had a gun - I just thought about it.  He could tell what I was thinking and, to my amazement, grinned in approval.

"Good," he said, "you don't scare easily.  That's the biggest step."

I was beginning to realize that this had been part of my training, not just a stupid prank.  "The hell I wasn't scared," I yelled.  "I damn near had a heart attack."

"That's permissible, just as long as you're not too scared to act.  Some of the kids we get here are on their way back out the first time I pull this trick on them."  He was a fine one to talk about kids - he couldn't be more than a year or two older than me - but in dangerous professions, especially the military, the "kid" label is applied more by experience, or lack thereof, than by chronology.

"Where's your gun?"  When I nodded toward the beat-up dresser against the wall, he walked over and picked it up and tossed it to me.  I think that scared me more than the shots he'd fired.  I'd been taught never to throw a loaded gun - they have a nasty habit of going off when dropped, something you never see in the movies where they're forever pitching pistols around with no loud bangs.