One to Count Cadence (7 page)

“Well, Sgt. Krummel, I had both ends on that sked,” he said, pointing to the copy I was holding, “and this one fellow’s wife is expecting her first and the other guy’s wife has had six kids, so he was telling him not to worry. They were talking in clear text, but it just didn’t seem right to bust a guy because he gets excited about his wife having a kid. More people should care about their wives that way.” He answered me as if there could be no question about it. (He had the ability of never sounding wrong — not in any pushy way, but purely in his self-possession and confidence that he knew the truth.) It pleased me that he had confessed without being accused, but it left me in the position of either letting him get away with it or being against expectant fathers.

“Okay, Morning, but watch that sort of thing or there will be more than a father to get busted.” Already he had me on shifting ground. “I don’t like waves, and I don’t like trouble, and that kind of shit makes for stormy, stinky waters.” Who was I kidding? I was hooked. I didn’t know quite how much just yet.

“Sure. I will. I’m really sorry,” he said frankly, “but that guy was so damned excited, so worried, I just couldn’t get him in trouble.” Morning smiled, and I remembered hearing the quivering urgency of his keying when I had listened and now understood those handfuls of dits and dahs he had so frantically been throwing on the air, then I smiled too.

“God, it’s taken him eight years to make corporal, and with a kid he’s going to need the extra money,” Morning said, at ease now that he knew I wasn’t going to push him. His voice was friendly; he was talking to me, not my stripes.

“I thought they were talking about kids?”

“Yeah, this time, but I knew from before. He has such an odd fist, I can always tell when he’s working. I remember when he made corporal. He broke into clear text then too. But he doesn’t usually do that. He’s really a good op, Sarge.”

“Remind me to give the net to someone who isn’t a member of the family, Morning. Jesus.”

“He’s being transferred to an automatic Morse net next month.” Morning couldn’t keep from grinning, and he knew neither could I.

“Well, goddamn, I guess you Dear Abbys are going to miss him and his family troubles,” I said to the Trick in general. “I’ll see if the chaplain’s office doesn’t need some extra help. Or maybe I can let you all open a home for unwed mothers in your spare time.”

“Need something exciting around this fucking place,” Novotny growled, “and I reckon unwed mothers would be just the right thing.” A few chuckles followed, then they turned back to their work, not yet sure of me. It isn’t easy to trust the man who gives the orders.

“Sgt. Krummel, I’m really sorry about the trouble. But you get so damned bored around this place, and thinking of the guy on the other end of this business as a buddy makes things pass easier. No one likes to be a sneak and a tattletail to boot,” Morning said. “But I am sorry.”

“Forget it. And don’t tell me about the Chinese spy you keep in business because his mother’s sick. Don’t tell me.”

“If I don’t tell you, how will you know?”

“I don’t want to know. Anything.”

There was never any more trouble. I kept Morning on the higher echelon nets where the ops were more careful and on the training nets where the ops were sloppy and mistakes and violations came every sked. In spite of the smoothness of that problem, Morning always had the ability to get me mixed up in his crap. Never again, I said, walking back to my desk, Never again. But I was already holding my breath, waiting for the waves. (Morning would have said that my involvement with him was as much my fault as his, which is true. He was my fault. But I took care of that in Vietnam.)

The operating section of our building was contained on a single ground floor room, with most of the space taken up by electronic equipment and desks, but with a small area left open for the trick chief’s desk, coffee pot and weapons’ rack. The Detachment officers, as opposed to the company officers, a major, two captains and four lieutenants, had offices, for some never explained reason, underground, reached by an outside stairwell. They occupied these holes only in the daylight and seldom bothered with the actual operation of the Det unless an unusual problem arose. I quickly learned that work on the ground floor could proceed untroubled by the “Head Moles” as they were called. This peace was increased by a warning system installed in the air-conditioning unit by the Trick radio-repairman, Quinn. When a badge was inserted into the key slot which opened the front doors, the compressor coughed shyly. With this early warning system the men relaxed in a way unusual for enlisted men so near officers. My only real duty was to be sure that the Sked Chart was met and copied in all the bullshit sessions, the word games and general gold-bricking which made up the bulk of the hours. I settled that quickly: “Any op I catch missing skeds loses his pass for seven days, no questions asked.” I got everyone’s pass except Quinn’s the first two days, then signed the three-day passes for the Break as if I had forgotten. The Trick understood, but they weren’t my Trick yet.

The Trick and I seemed to work well in the beginning — more credit to them than to me. They were a good group. Only Quinn and Peterson had not been to college, which might have been unusual for the Army as a whole, but was about the average for the 721st. None of the men were draftees dislodged from their life plans, but all had enlisted, probably because their lives were already out of joint. Only Collins had finished college; the others had flunked out or quit. Any one of them might, and did, cause God knows what trouble in Town, but only Franklin would at Operations. He was an unhappy kid who had gone to MIT on a math scholarship, then been ejected for peeing in a main lounge on Mother’s Day. He never caused any real trouble because he, alone, thought my return to the Army a gallant gesture: a big, fat finger to the world. He liked that.

We worked well together then, the Trick and I, but it wasn’t like later when we would march down the streets of Town ten men strong, and they would sing “We are Krummers Raiders / We’re rapists of the night / We’re dirty son of a bitches / And rather fuck than fight!” That was fine.

Oddly enough it was through Franklin, rather than my first friends, Novotny, Cagle, and Morning, that the Trick and I became united. The seventh night of my first set of mids Franklin came to work drunk. Nothing unusual. In fact at least half of the men came to every mid-trick a little bit drunk. And Franklin had been having problems with his family since he had written a letter home telling about his being busted for indecent exposure — peeing in the street; everyone did it, but not on AP jeeps — and that he was in love with a Filipino barmaid, a nice girl who didn’t work in the rooms out back, a lovely girl, and he couldn’t believe she loved him. He had acne, a dead-white skin and long, greasy blond hair. The Devil as a juvenile delinquent. His parents had replied to his honest confession and plea for understanding with a Dear John asking him not to return home, ever. Franklin was nineteen and believed it. The first thing he did was seduce the girl, first with a cigarette, then a drink, then a trip out back. He stayed drunk for a week afterward, but had caused me no trouble, until this night.

He passed out. I saw him resting his head on his mill, and I shook him to remind him of his next sked. The swivel chair rolled toward the wall, dumping him at my feet with a thump I felt through my boots. Cagle turned around and said, “God-damnit, Franklin! If I told you one time, I’ve told you a thousand, to leave those fucking kites alone.” He helped me lay him between the wall and console, then copied Franklin’s sked.

Morning, who acted as if he had invented mitigating circumstances, checked with me. “You going to turn him in, Krummel? If anyone’s had a tough deal out of life, that poor bastard has.”

“Morning, I don’t care if all you sons of bitches sleep. Forever.” I left Franklin to sleep it off. Several bad jokes were made to ease the tension, then everyone went about their business.

Around 0400 Cagle dropped through the trap door which led to the roof and shouted that a jeep was turning down our road. Lt. Dottlinger was the Officer of the Day. If he didn’t kill Franklin right then, he was sure to stick him in the stockade and prefer charges. Being the able leader of men that I was, I didn’t know what to do. But the Trick looked at me. It would be my decision. I tried not to think, but grabbed Franklin’s shirt front and dragged him over to the ladder. Morning helped me lift him to the roof. Cagle let Dottlinger in the gate, then followed us down the ladder and took his position.

Dottlinger entered to an “OH, no!” sigh of the compressor. He had been passed over for captain twice, and when the lists came out once more without his name on it, he would revert to his former enlisted rank of sergeant which he hadn’t really made but was a gratuitous benefit of OCS. He loved being an officer, and looked for chances to seem efficient.

“Sgt. Krummel,” he said, returning my greeting, “What are those men doing out of uniform?” Several of the men had removed their fatigue shirts.

“Operations policy, I understand, sir. The men on the mid-trick may remove their shirts while inside the building.”

“Not when I’m Officer of the Day, Sgt. Krummel.”

“I’m sorry sir, I didn’t know. You men get your shirts on. And button up those flapping pockets.” Dottlinger didn’t like the pockets bit. He wanted to do it. He suspected me for finishing college. He hadn’t made it.

Morning was copying very intently, and had not stopped to put on his shirt, though he heard me.

“That man is still out of uniform, Sgt. Krummel.”

“He’s copying, sir. He has a sked.”

“I want his shirt on now, sergeant, right now.”

“Yes, sir.” I waved at Novotny to relieve him. He plugged his cans into Morning’s console, and picked up the man at the end of a line as Morning slipped out of his chair.

“Ahhhh,” he moaned, shaking out the muscles of his back as if he had been copying for hours instead of seconds. “Oh, hello, Lt. Dottlinger. How are you tonight? Or this morning, I should say. Haven’t seen you in quite some time, sir.” No trace of insolence in his voice. Nothing Dottlinger could hang a feather on.

“Get in uniform, Morning.”

“Sir?”

“Your shirt. Get it on.”

“Sir, we’re allowed to remove our shirts on mids.”

“I don’t want excuses, soldier. Get in uniform.” Dottlinger was red.

“Am I under arrest, sir? I don’t understand. A phone call from home, sir? Tell me.”

“What? Don’t be silly. Get your shirt on — now!”

“You had me scared there for a minute, sir. I was sure it must be trouble.” Morning started to walk away.

“Morning! Get your shirt on!”

“Yes, sir, right away. But I’ve been copying for over an hour and I ah… need to go to the latrine, sir.”

“Now!”

“Yes, sir!” Morning fumbled with his sleeves, put the wrong arm in once, then buttoned one button too high, then one too low, and all the time jumping from one foot to the other. As he undid his pants, he shouted, “Jesus!” and ran for the latrine, his shirt tails flapping and his pants tumbling around his ankles. He ran like a man trying to hold a balloon between his knees. He didn’t have any shorts on and the men laughed at his bobbing, bare white ass. He came back shortly, relieved, stretching and sighing, “Sorry about that, sir. But I just couldn’t wait another second.”

Dottlinger was twice as red in the face now, and he slapped his ball-point pen in his hand as if it were the swagger stick he couldn’t carry any more. “Why aren’t you wearing shorts, soldier?” he burst out. Levenson, our red-headed, freckled faced Jew, popped from behind the antenna patch panel, grinning like a weasel, giggling in his high-pitched voice, then ducked back as Dottlinger turned.

“Sir?” Morning asked.

“The Army went to great trouble to issue you underwear, and gives you a clothing allowance, so why aren’t you wearing shorts?” He shook his pen at Morning. “Don’t you have any, soldier?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I do.”

“Why aren’t you wearing them?”

“I always wear them for inspections, sir. Always.”

“I don’t care about inspections. Why aren’t you wearing them now?”

“It’s quite personal, sir, and I’d rather not discuss it in front of the other men, if you don’t mind, sir.” Ordinarily Dottlinger would have understood personal modesty, but not now.

“I don’t care what you’d rather not do — I want to know why, soldier!”

Morning ducked his head and mumbled something.

“Speak up!”

“They crawl… they get in the…” He even managed a blush. “In the crack of…” He seemed overcome by shame. “The crack…” Not a sound.

Dottlinger sighed, and for a moment I had visions of him ordering all pants dropped to check the shorts situation, but he caught hold of himself. “Morning, don’t let me catch you without shorts again.” Levenson giggled. You could see the resolve in Dottlinger’s face to get Morning. “You think that’s funny, Levenson.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

Dottlinger started to say something, then paused as if to say, “What can you do with a crazy bastard who sits around naked all the time in the barracks.” He knew he had been taken for a ride, and a weary, familiar one at that. He looked like four o’clock in the morning. His face told of years of being the kid chosen last for the ball games, a fox first caught, a never successful hound, the kid who could never keep up, and he was behind again. He stayed a while longer, checking the building, listlessly searching for dust or dirt in a place cleaned and inspected three times a day. When he came up from the offices below, he said to me, “I believe the area under the major’s desk could use some wax and a buffing, Sgt. Krummel, especially where he puts his feet. If you’d take care of that, please…” he said walking toward the door.

Petty bastard, I thought, no longer quite so understanding. “Yes, sir, I’ll get the shit-house mouse on it right away.”

He turned back. “I’d prefer if you didn’t refer to the Operation’s orderly in that manner, Sgt. Krummel. This is not the old Army, you know. We realize that profanity exhibits a vocabulary deficiency, and I don’t think a man with a master’s degree should suffer from that particular problem, do you?”