Christopher Buckley - Boomsday

“Corporal”-it was the colonel talking-“why was the congressman driving your vehicle?”

“He asked.”

This brought a wave of frowns around Cass’s bed.

“You understand that was in violation of regulations.”

“I’m aware of the fact.” Painfully aware.

“And you nonetheless let him commandeer the vehicle?”

“Sir, he’s a U.S. congressman.”

The uniforms exchanged glances. “What were you doing in the village?”

“Fact-finding, sir.” Lovely, morphine. Takes the edge off anything, even the prospect of a court-martial.

“Corporal, you’re in a deep hole. Don’t keep digging.”

“The congressman was hungry. He insisted. I attempted to persuade him to eat an MRE instead. It was apparently not up to his gastronomic standards.”

“‘Insisted’? He was your responsibility, Corporal.”

“Yes, sir. I seem to have screwed up big-time, sir. Might I inquire how the congressman is?”

Deeper frowns.

“They’re still working on him. Trying to save his leg.”

The uniforms left. Cass had a cry. The obliging nurse gave her a shot, and she tumbled gratefully back into the outstretched arms of Mother Morphine.

When she awoke-was it the next day?-there was a uniform sitting by her bed. It was Captain Drimpilski. He had flowers. When she realized it was he, she began to blubber.

“All right, Corporal. It’s all right. Come on now, soldier, enough of that. Eagles spin. They don’t cry. Suck it up.”

“Yes, sir.” She blew her nose. “What is the captain doing here?”

“They flew me in. I talked to the doctors. You’re going to be all right, Cohane. You’re damn lucky.”

Cass stared. “Lucky? In what way, exactly, sir?”

“Could have been a lot worse.”

“How’s Randy?”

“Randy?”

“The congressman. Whatever. Is he…all right?”

“They’re flying him stateside for further surgery. They”-Drimpilski sighed-“removed a portion of his left leg.”

“Portion?”

“Below the knee.”

Cass groaned.

“He’s got a dozen broken bones, a collapsed lung, internal bleeding, his left arm got pretty shredded, but they think that’ll be all right eventually. He’ll be setting off metal detectors for the rest of his life. But he’ll live. So it could have been worse.”

Captain Drimpilski handed her another tissue and helped her blow her nose.

“Cass,” he said. It was the only time he’d ever used her first name. It made her start blubbering again. Realizing what he’d done, he self-corrected and spoke gruffly.

“You represent the 4087, Cohane.”

“Yes, sir,” Cass said miserably. “Eagles spin the way. Hooah.”

“All the way. That’s more like it. All right, then, let’s review the apparent facts. You went beyond the perimeter of operations, broke regs by permitting a civilian to drive a military vehicle, did something to provoke the locals-hold on, let me finish-and in the process nearly lost a United States congressman. A congressman known for being outspokenly critical of our presence here. And who is known to have a certain reputation with the…female of the species.” Captain Drimpilski pondered a moment. “As you can see, there are a few layers to this onion.”

“Is the captain implying,” Cass said, suddenly dry-eyed, “that the corporal was having sex with the congressman? In a minefield?”

“No, I personally do not believe that.”

“Do they ?” she said incredulously.

Captain Drimpilski cleared his throat noncommittally. “What I know is that discussions are being held even as we speak. In Washington, D.C., at the Pentagon. And at the White House. I am given to understand that the secretary of defense himself is taking part in these discussions. While I am not privy to these discussions, it is my general understanding that they are not arguing over whether to award you the Distinguished Service Medal or the Medal of Honor. By the way, there are approximately fifty members of the media outside this facility, all of them extremely eager to interview you.”

Cass was not one for self-pity, but she couldn’t help reflecting that eighteen months ago she was at home in Connecticut opening a letter saying she’d been admitted to Yale and she was now lying wounded in an army hospital in Germany, responsible for the mutilation of a member of the United States Congress and listening to what sounded like a preamble to her court-martial. She began to laugh. She couldn’t help it.

“You all right?” Captain Drimpilski said.

“Fine. Fine. So when’s the firing squad?”

Captain Drimpilski stood. “I’ll stick around, see what can be done.” He patted her on the knee. “You get some rest now, Corporal.”

“Captain,” she said as he was leaving.

“Yes?”

“The corporal was not having sex with the congressman in a minefield.”

“Noted.”

The next day, off morphine and wishing she weren’t, Cass watched CNN and saw Congressman Randy being wheeled off a military air transport at Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington. A large crowd awaited him. His mother was there, along with the entire Massachusetts congressional delegation. Randy gave a thumbs-up gesture-which would be replayed a thousand times-as he was bathed in the flashlight from dozens of cameras. People waved American flags. A welcome banner read, WELCOME HOME, HERO! Cass noted the presence of the secretary of defense and various Joint Chiefs, including the chairman. The secretary’s demeanor, not normally jocund, resembled that of a man chewing aluminum foil. She became aware of the reporter saying, “Congressman Jepperson was wounded when the vehicle he was being driven in went off the road and onto a mine. From here he will be transferred to…”

Was being driven in? Had she heard correctly?

Cass was not left to speculate for long. That afternoon, the colonel returned, this time alone. He closed the door and sat beside Cass’s bed. He handed her a clipboard. There was a sheet of paper on it, with a line at the bottom.

“It’s your request for discharge.”

“From the hospital?”

“No, Corporal. From the army.”

Cass tried to sit up. “Sir, though my mind is kind of clouded up with morphine, I do not specifically recall requesting a discharge.”

The colonel gave her a meaningful look. “Does the corporal recall being offered a choice between court-martial for negligent endangerment of a civilian, punishable by up to twenty-five years in military prison-and an honorable discharge for personal reasons?”

So there it was. “Now that the colonel mentions it, I do recall something of that nature. Perhaps the morphine caused amnesia.”

“It does that. Sign here, here, and here.”

“Shouldn’t I first consult with an army lawyer?”

“Cohane,” the colonel said with just a fleck of sympathy, “there were those who wanted your flayed hide nailed to the front door of a certain five-sided building in Washington, D.C. Were it not for Captain Drimpilski and Congressman Jepperson, the crows would by now be feasting on your remains. I’m putting it explicitly, but I want to make everything clear for you. Do I?”

“As designer water, sir.” Cass sighed.

As the colonel walked away, she said, “Do I get a Purple Heart?”

There were no crowds or WELCOME HOME, HERO! banners for ex-corporal Cassandra Cohane.

People seemed unsure how to respond to her, whether to wink ( Banging a congressman in a mine field? Party down, girl! ) or disapprove ( you slut ) or evince sympathy ( Well, thank heavens you’re alive, but no more minefields for you! ). By the end of the first week home, Cass had dyed her lovely blond hair a shade called “Mississippi Mud,” bought clear prescription-type glasses, and spent hours in front of the mirror attempting to make herself unrecognizable even to her mother. She went to the library and looked up articles on cosmetic surgery.