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------- ------- ------- ------- ------- ------- ------- ------- “Do me a favor, Bob?” ------- I looked over my shoulder and saw Mr. Dalek looking cautiously out of the supply room. I hadn’t seen him go in. ------- “Yeah, Mr. Dalek?” ------- “Get me a couple of burgers, with a lot of mustard and raw onion.” ------- “I’m on duty, Mr. Valek,” I said, “but Cookie’s around. I’ll get him.” ------- “Thanks, son.” He waved a five at me. ------- “You might want to open a window in there,” I said. ------- “Good idea. Tell Cookie to keep the change. And you haven’t seen me right?” ------- “Right,” I agreed. ------- He slipped back in the supply room. Everybody knew Dalek was a drunk, but nobody wanted him kicked out now. In a month he’d retire as a Warrant Officer IV. And he was right, they’d rather not have to see him. ------- I found Cookie in the squad room shortening the sleeves on a fatigue shirt. ------- “Dalek’s wasted and hiding in the supply room,” I said, waving the five. “Could you get him a couple burgers with lots of mustard and raw onion? He says keep the change. I’ll go, if you’ll answer the phone.” Cookie reached for the bill. ------- I didn’t blame him. The best place to be around here was out of sight. I went back to the desk and picked up my book. Cookie was back in twenty minutes with Dalek’s burgers. The door to the supply room opened and closed quietly. ------- I was halfway through, “In the depths of the abyss,” when somebody poked his head in and asked for Colonel Dolby. ------- “He’s in the field,” I said. “Sir,” I added. He was a little fireplug of a guy. ------- “Don’t you know how to report to an officer, private?” he barked at me. ------- I jumped up. -------“PFC Wilson reporting, sir!” The fact is, except for the Colonel and Major Prato, we pretty much ignored the officers. Besides Dolby and Prato, we had just Mr. Valek, Sergeant Gaines, and twenty three practically anonymous second lieutenants. We were an artillery test team, with only a dozen enlisted men in the whole outfit. There were two stars on this guy’s collar. His name tag said “Harris”. Airborne Harris, the jumping general. This was bad shit. ------- “Come here, private.” ------- He looked me up and down. It was lucky I’d put on a fresh set of starched fatigues. I was even wearing cans to blouse my cuffs, but I knew what he was looking at. ------- “You have another pair of boots?” ------- “Yes, sir,” I said. ------- “Run and get ‘em. I want to see you in the colonel’s office in two minutes.” ------- “Yes sir,” I said. I started out the door. ------- “I SAID RUN!” ------- I was in the colonel’s office with the boots in 30 seconds. “PFC Wilson, reporting, sir.” My jump boots were in better shape. A lot of guys had them, and some genuine airborne troops didn’t like that. ------- “Find my driver and ask him to show you how to spit shine a boot. I’ll see you when you’re done.” ------- “Yes sir,” I said. I hoped Dalek had heard what was going on and would lay low. ------- I found the general’s driver polishing his jeep. Busser was a kid of eighteen or nineteen, with a brush cut and very shiny boots. ------- “The general said you’re to show me how to do a spit shine,” I said, “but I know how.” I grinned at him. ------- He didn’t smile. He held out his hand, and I gave him a boot. ------- I do know how to spit shine a boot. It’s not hard, and you don’t use spit. You get yourself a little cup of water. The only thing I learned from watching Busser was that you can put more time into shining a boot than I’d ever thought possible. When he was done with the first one, I went back to the office and spent an hour on the other three. They weren’t as good as Busser’s, but they were the best I could do. I put on the jump boots and reported to the general. ------- He barely gave them a glance. “What outfit are you from, private?” I didn’t like the sound of that. The Corps Artillery Test Team was made up of guys from all over. Any trouble could send me back to my battalion, and that was the last place I wanted to go. ------- “First of the thirty-eighth, sir.” ------- “You’re Seventh Army, private. Why are you wearing a V Corps patch?” ------- “Sir, I’ve been on temporary duty with Corps Arty for the past year, sir. “Change it. I don’t want to see you out of uniform again.” ------- “Yes sir,” I said. ------- “You don’t like the army, do you son?” ------- That really threw me. I liked the army all right, probably for the wrong reasons. I liked the crazy guys I’d never have met otherwise. I liked being in Germany. It was an adventure and two years with no decisions to make. I even got a kick out of dressing up in combat gear once in a while, especially since I had no choice. But that was the part I didn’t like, not having a choice. Your ass was theirs twenty four hours a day. ------- “It’s not what I want to do with my life, sir,” I said. ------- “And what would that be, private?” ------- “Graduate school, sir. Probably teach.” ------- He looked at me. “No one ever did anything ‘probably,’ son. How much time do you have in?” ------- “A month to go, sir.” That was my real worry. He could bust me from PFC to buck private and I could care less. I’d do KP and guard duty every day, so long as I was on that boat. ------- He shook his head. “You put two years of your life in the army, son, and you’ve just now learned to do one thing right. Tell my driver I’m ready. Dismissed.” He looked down at his papers. ------- ------- I didn’t see the general again, but four years later I heard on the news that Major General Charles Archer ‘Airborne’ Harris had been killed when his plane went down near Da Nang, probably as the result of enemy fire. I figured there was no probably about it. ------- 7 August 07 ------- |