Читать книгу Shrapnel - William Wharton, Уильям Уортон - Страница 7

A friend named Williams had been in charge of training Birnbaum for the daily rifle drill. After the court martial, he determines to exact revenge for Birnbaum by faking Perkins into dropping his rifle. The idea has a certain appeal, and so he manages to involve me. We stand by the hour, facing each other, practising, taking turns playing officer, feinting, trying to fake each other into making a false move. We both become better as officers than as enlisted men being inspected. But we also become fearsomely quick at letting the rifle drop. It comes to the point where we can read any slight signal of eye or body, I’ll swear Williams can even read my mind. Whenever either of us can get the ‘officer’ to miss, drop the rifle, he wins a quarter. After two weeks, I’m almost three dollars in debt. That’s a huge sum when your salary is fifty-four dollars a month.

Finally, basic training is behind us and we’re approaching final inspection, after which we’ll be shipped out. We’ll be going out to other infantry divisions being formed, or directly overseas as replacements. It’s beginning to look as if all the rifle snatching practice is going to naught, and Williams is fit to be tied.

For some reason, since Birnbaum, no officer or non-com has stopped at either of us and gone for our rifles. But then, on the big day, full dress parade, it happens. Only it doesn’t happen the way it should. Lieutenant Perkins, with a Captain beside him stops at me. I should have known, they’d never stop at Williams. He’s so spic and span, real soldierly looking, they’d never bother. I’d never be his kind of perfect.

I don’t even have time to think – after so much practice it’s automatic. At a slight wince in Perkins’ eye I let go of that rifle. The rifle spins and hits the dirt, the front sight gashing Perkins’ finger on the way down. I know Williams must be excited, happy. At the same time, disappointed because they’d passed him by. I’m just scared. I stare ahead with my hands still in the present arms position, looking straight where I’m supposed to be looking, not down at the rifle. Perkins looks briefly at his gashed finger then holds it out from his side so no blood will drip on his suntans. He glares into my eyes.

‘At ease, soldier.’

I take the position the military calls ‘at ease’. That is, you spread your legs about eighteen inches apart, stiff-legged. If I’d had my rifle, I’d have gone into something called ‘parade rest’.

‘Soldier, deliver that rifle to the orderly room when inspection is over.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

He wheels away, still holding his hand out at his side. The Captain takes over the rest of the inspection. I know I’m on ‘private report’ and dread what is sure to come.

The rifle is still lying in the parade ground dust and dirt. I reach down and pick it up. I’m probably breaking at least five army rules doing this, but I don’t care. I love that rifle. I’ve carefully zeroed it in to ‘expert’ level for everything from two hundred to five hundred yards. I still remember the serial number of that rifle, 880144.

The crazy thing, among many crazy things, is when I finally do go overseas, they issue me a new rifle, one I didn’t get to zero in, don’t know at all. I feel nothing for that rifle. I kill human beings with that ‘piece’ but it’s never really mine. I feel I don’t actually do it. Maybe that’s the way military planners want it to be – nothing personal.

When we get back to the barracks, Williams is frantic with excitement. He pulls me aside and into the latrine. He has a paper sack full of coal dust and a tube of airplane glue. I watch, numb, as he mixes them into a gooey running paste and pours this mess down my rifle barrel and into the action. He’s trembling with a combination of fury and mirth.

‘Now that bastard’s really got something to work with. Birnbaum’s revenge. I’m almost tempted to include a package of steel wool.’

I decide that would be too much, they might stand me up before a firing squad.

I deliver the rifle, with Williams pushing behind me, to the orderly room. We dash back to the barracks. Next morning the rifle is delivered by the mail clerk, it’s like new. I check the serial number and it’s mine all right. I don’t know who cleaned out that mess, or how. Not a word is said. I hope it’s Muller, I’m sure it isn’t Perkins – I suspect it’s the mail clerk.

We ship out three days later. I’m sent to Fort Jackson, South Carolina, to an infantry division. I’m hoping I’ll never see Lieutenant Perkins again and I don’t look very hard.