Микки Спиллейн: Primal Spillane: Early Stories 1941-1942

“See you sometime, Chief. I’m over the limit. Took me twelve hours and six minutes to catch them. I guess from now on I work on Gutter’s rag.”

Klink turned green, then orange with purple borders... tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Aw, Ossie. don’t be hasty ... I was only fooling ... Ossie, listen to me. OSSIE!... O-S S-I-E! Don’t leave me! A raise you get. Twenty, thirty!” When the ante reached forty... Ossie joined the Chronicle again.

Slamming away with the sharp “slap” of high power rifles, the boys on the firing line poured a steady stream of bullets into the distant targets. Practice was becoming a serious thing for the boys at Camp Dixon, for in a few days there was to be a meet with other regiments from out of the state.

Sergeant Kennedy walked the length of the line inspecting the group, but after each one he shook his head. Try as they might, these new recruits wouldn’t be able to match the scores of the regulars that they were coming up against. With only one week’s practice they were doing fine, but not good enough. He went over to Major Bixby. “It’s gonna be sad, Major!”

“Think so, eh? Well, don’t worry too much. These kids pick up pretty fast. Maybe they’ll surprise you!”

“I doubt it. Our pistol shooters are even worse. They can hardly hit the target, far less than the bull’s eye !”

Practice was dismissed and the boys went back to the barracks. Most of them felt sure that their camp could take the meet, although half of them had never even handled a rifle before. Kennedy went to the pistol range, only to find the same thing there. Soldiers banged away, missing three out of five. The instructors were frantic trying to correct their mistakes, but to no avail.

What a day, Kennedy thought to himself, what a day! It’s too bad we can’t bring in some of the old timers! He went to his shack and plopped in a chair, muttering to himself. If they lost this meet by the score he expected them to, he’d be the joke of the army!

On the following day, the team members were selected to represent his barrack group. Only the eight best were selected out of each group, and when the sergeant saw their targets, he turned cold. Why, they were shooting only forty out of a hundred, while the other camps could stick them in the high eighties or nineties!

Practice was held day after day, with the meet drawing closer, but there was little improvement. He bellowed and he bullied — he even babied, and all he got was a score rise of one or two points. Finally he tapped one contestant on the shoulder. “Can’t you do better than that!”

“Gorsh, Sarge, I just cain’t seem to. This li’l gun doesn’t figger to help any, either. It won’t hit what I shoot at!”

“Nerts!” said the sergeant, and stalked away.

At the pistol range it was even worse. Two of the boys, who were better than most, ran up scores of fifty, which practically set a record for the group. Kennedy tore his hair out and gave it up as hopeless. Never in a hundred years would these mugs be able to shoot a gun. What would happen when they faced an enemy?

“Sergeant. Sergeant Kennedy!”

It was the Major.

“Yes, sir?”

“How are things progressing, Sergeant?”

“Rotten, er-er — I mean, terrible, sir! The outside team has this meet in the bag!”

“That’s too bad. I understand that the winning team is getting a two week’s furlough. Well, that’s the way it goes!”

Kennedy groaned. Just when G.H.Q. was feeling generous with furloughs, he’d get stuck with a team like this one! Phooey!

Saturday was the meet — only one day off. Kennedy was so grouchy that no one could speak to him. He glared at the recruits like a cat at a dog. When his disgust was at its peak the phone rang.

“Sergeant Kennedy? This is the hospital. I’m afraid that you’re going to lose nearly every one of your men for the meet!”

“WHAT!”

“Yeah, Denrier, Mason, Giles, Stuber, Remwick, and Brian have poison ivy. They’ll be out for a while. Oh — Joe Wilson got in a fight with Archie Ward and broke a finger. Archie has a sprained wrist.”

Kennedy paled and hung up. All those men were on his team. “Ohhhhhh! What’s going to happen next?”

“What’s up, Sarge?” a shrill voice piped up.

“What’s up! Why, I just lose every man on my pistol squad and some on the rifles, and you ask what’s up! What’r ya, a wise guy!”

“Now, don’t get sore, Sarge. I know what we can do! I’ll fill in for you, and Pete and his brothers can help some. There’s seven of them, you know!”

“What do you office mice know about — pistols, anyway!”

“Oh, just a little — but we’re as good as any of the rest you have. Come on, give us a shot at it, we’re sick of being cooped up at typewriters!”

“Okay, Okay! You can’t be any worse! You’ll take over on the pistols and I’ll fill up the rifle spots with our cookie and his pot-wallopers. Once I saw them shoot a sixty , so they oughta do!”

Saturday was a beautiful day, but not for Kennedy. The men from the other camps streamed in by truck and car to see the match. Somehow the word of the terrible scores and the new substitutes got around, and the ribbing that the Dixon boys took was something awful. Rumor had it that the out-of-state contestants were shooting close to perfect scores, which meant the end of Dixon’s hopes!

But the gang was not easily discouraged. The kidding got under their skin until they were betting their shirts and what-not on the outcome. Major Bixby wore a worried frown as he met Major Johnson from the other camp. Johnson was smiling broadly. “Hello, Bixby, have you made any bets on the match?”

Bixby was mad. “Listen, Johnson, I’ll make a bet. If we win you push a peanut around the parade grounds with your nose. If you win, I’ll do it!”

“Major, you have a bet!”

The boys lined up on the range. Camp Blair was firing first, and they set about their job with a vengeance! Their rifles cracked steadily, making the targets “splat” with each hit. It was apparent that they were knocking out some fancy marks. If a new record wasn’t set it would be a wonder!

When the targets were brought in and totaled up, the scores averaged ninety-two, a new record ! Kennedy almost passed out when he saw it. He ambled up to his gang with a sigh and threw up his hands in resignation. “It’s all yours , fellows! Shoot it anyway you like!”

“You all mean we can shoot how we please , Sarge?” asked the hillbilly on the squad.

“Yeah, it won’t make any difference!” The sergeant set his jaw and put his hands in his pockets.

“Hot dog, fellers, we can squint up the li’l ole barr’l any which way!”

The hillbillies let out a funny yell and got in position. They seemed filled with new life. The spectators’ eyes almost popped out when they saw what happened. Instead of regulation positions, they lay every which way, aiming with the wrong eye, shooting lefty, using a wet finger to find wind drift and what-not. Kennedy stood dumbfounded... his mouth dropped open.

“Well, I’ll be—!” he muttered.

It was a strange story when the targets came in. The centers were shot completely out of them. They had set a new record five minutes after the other bunch! Everyone was screaming their lungs out when they moved to the pistol range.

But Kennedy was still dejected. The pistol average would be sure to lose the meet for them. Imagine having three typists on the team, men who hadn’t held a gun since they came to camp! He could’ve cried. What he wouldn’t give for just one pistol expert!