Kurt Schlichter: Indian Country

“I understand.”

“You understand that you will not be able to vote in any election?”

“Yeah.”

“Or hold any elected office or any appointed office of significant responsibility?”

“Yeah.”

“You understand there may be social consequences to your decision?”

“Social consequences?”

“Yeah, like people – especially women – may think you’re a pussy.”

Marshal snorted. “Women are not going to be a problem. I make a little more than you Army guys.”

“Well, technically, your dad makes more than us Army guys and gives some of it to you, which, of course, is the kind of character-wrecking parental malpractice that led you to be standing here quitting.”

“I want out. Where do I sign?”

“I have your DA Form 444 right here, awaiting your signature. But I really hate to see someone who probably could succeed choose not to. I’m just kind of curious. Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you quitting?”

Marshall laughed sourly. “I’m quitting because I don’t need this shit or want this shit. I wish my father had never left Chicago when this redneck country broke away. I’m going back where they appreciate education, and I don’t have to pretend I don’t think you Jesus freaks are clowns, and I won’t have to crawl around in the mud with idiots just to vote.”

“Those sound like awfully good reasons. Sign here,” Turnbull said, sliding over the pen and paper. Marshall wrote out his name and tossed the pen down, smiling. Turnbull took it and signed that he had advised the recruit of the consequences of his decision on the “Commander” line.

“Am I done?” Marshall asked.

“Oh yeah, you’re done. And thank you,” Turnbull said pleasantly.

“For what?”

“For not pissing in America’s gene pool. First Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Please get Mr. Marshall the fuck out of my company area.”

Top smiled and placed a huge hand on the new civilian’s right shoulder.

“Time to go, Mr. Marshall,” he said, none-too-gently pulling the young man outside.

Paperwork. Readiness reports. Assessments. Turnbull threw down his pen and looked around his office. Were the walls closing in on him? He could swear the room looked smaller than it did when he sat down a couple hours ago.

Then again, he could always go back to his spartan bachelor officer quarters and be smothered by its walls.

Turnbull rubbed his face and looked out his window into the company parade ground. Across the way the lights were on in the troop barracks.

“Someone got caught with a Milky Way bar and now they’re paying the price,” said Top from the inside doorway. “The whole company is having a GI party. By the time the recruits get to sleep, my barracks will be gleaming .”

“And a Milky Way is the worst kind of candy bar,” Turnbull said. “Like a Butterfinger, maybe that would be worth it. I never got caught with any pogey bait when I was in Basic, but you know I had it.”

“Yeah, sir, you strike me as that guy in the platoon who always had something going on the side. You know, I knew when I met you that you had been a NCO, that you went Officer Candidate School.”

“My worst career decision ever. Landed me behind this desk.”

“Well, sir,” said the NCO, coming in and sitting down. “I don’t think that’s exactly what got you here. You’re not a cannon cocker, but you have a company command in a Field Artillery unit. Tells me they needed to find a shelf to keep you on until they needed you again.”

“Just trying to get my command time, Top.”

“Uh huh, sir. Yeah, I figure you can’t talk about what got you so beat up you had to recuperate here, but you can’t fool this old NCO. I ran your record as soon as you signed in. You know what comes up?”

“I’m guessing not a lot.”

“Nothing. Everything is sealed. You’re something… unusual. I don’t quite know what you are, and I know you can’t tell me, but you’re something unusual.”

“Well, I’ll try to do my best while I’m here.”

“You seem better, so I’m guessing that won’t be too long. They always have something for guys like you to do. Of course, my problem is your replacement. What if I end up with a slug?”

“Hell Top, if anyone can square away a dicked up O3, it’s you.”

“I’ve had to square away a lot of young captains in my time.”

“I bet. That’s what a first sergeant does. Captain-squaring away is core NCO business.”

Top laughed. “Well sir, I gotta go walk through the billets and sow some righteous terror in the hearts of our young recruits. You have a good night.”

“You want me to come along?”

“Nah, sir. Sowing righteous terror is core NCO business too. Plus, you probably don’t want to see what happens if they’re as dicked-up as I bet they are.”

“Roger, First Sergeant. Then I’ll see you at PT tomorrow at…?”

“Oh-five thirty.” Top smiled. “Unless they piss me off. Then it’ll be oh-four thirty.”

The bachelor officer quarters on main post were still as depressing as he remembered from when he left them 18 hours ago, also in the dark. The building was five stories high, full of a lot of lieutenants in training and some permanent party officers like Turnbull, mostly company grades but with a smattering of a few divorced majors and the occasional light colonel. A pair of first lieutenants slipped into the elevator with him, a male and a female. They chatted about some bar in Lawton they would be hitting with their pals later. Turnbull ignored them. He had long ago left their world for a darker, more brutal one; he was an alien who outwardly looked like his peers, but in reality they were not his peers at all.

The pair got off on the fourth floor and Turnbull was glad to be alone again. It occurred to him that the female had been pretty, that at one time he might even have talked to her, chatted her up. But now, what was he going to say to her? How would he break the ice?

“Kill anyone interesting lately? I have.”

The door opened on the fifth floor and he walked into the corridor. A low-bidder fluorescent bulb flashed and flickered, casting its unnatural light on the ancient, industrial carpet that had seen a million pairs of combat boots trudging over it.

BOQ Room 555 was at the end of the hall, and without a conscious thought he scanned the frame and the seal and… saw a space.

Had he forgotten to shut the door at 0440 this morning?

No. He always checked to make sure it was snug. Always.

Housekeeping? The local ladies who vacuumed and dusted and who also did his laundry for $100 a month had been doing their thing for generations of officers. They would never forget to close a door.

Turnbull drew his SIG and stepped off center of the doorframe. He listened.

Nothing.

He slammed his tan boot hard into the door, sending it flying hard into the doorstopper on the wall. But by the time it hit he was inside, weapon up and seeking targets.

He could see most of the living room from the entry hall – clear. The kitchen was through a doorway to the right. He sliced it and advanced as a shape filled the doorway.

It was wearing camo – he was wearing camo, a big, middle aged soldier with a shocked look.

Turnbull, still charging, dropped his left hand from the pistol and grabbed the front collar of the intruder, pushing him back hard against the fridge and thrusting the pistol into his stunned face.

“Do not fucking move,” Turnbull hissed. Judging from his expression, this guy was not going to move.

Turnbull looked him over, and noted the eagle.

“Okay Colonel, why are you in my quarters?”