Dark Victory - eARC Page 7

  I say, “I’m sure the Concord Fire Department and the Red Cross will be along soon, sir. You just take care, okay?”

  I rub Thor’s head and make to walk back to my duty station, and one really angry staff sergeant, when the man says, “Oh, do you mind?”

  I hesitate, wondering what in hell he’s going to say to me, especially since he’s just seen his neighbors get scorched down, his home and their homes flattened and destroyed. So I’m not really ready for what happens next.

  He breaks free from his sons, comes over and offers a hand.

  “Thanks for your service.”

  I make it back to the battlement and Staff Sergeant Muller meets me at the bottom of the stone steps. His face is taut and he says, “That was disobeying direct orders, Knox. Clear as can be.”

  I tug my helmet off, tap my left ear. “Sorry, staff sergeant. My bum ear. I was certain that you said move. So I did.”

  He crosses his arms. “Dunlap will back me up when I meet with Lieutenant May. You’re going to be in hack so long that when you get out, that damn dog won’t even recognize you. What do you think about that?”

  I tie my helmet off at my utility belt. “I think Dunlap might think differently.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  I brush past him, to go back up to the top of he battlement. “Because I don’t think she—or you—will want me telling the lieutenant how you both ended up in our duty station wearing each other’s shorts. Hard to tell the right size and color in the dark, am I right?”

  That shuts up Staff Sergeant Muller pretty well as I get back to where I had started out, Dunlap on the other side of the battlement. Thor lays down and stretches out, and across the moat and field of fire, I see additional movement, and bring up my binoculars. A truck from our Quick Response Force is there, and I hear the tingling of bells. Two horse-drawn steam-powered fire pumpers roll in from the Concord Fire Department, red lanterns hanging from the side. Soldiers and dogs start moving up the road, and firefighters get to work, watering down the smoldering homes.

  I take my Colt, work the bolt and expel the 50 mm round, twisting the bottom back to safe.

  Muller finally comes up and stands in one corner, and it’s one quiet post until the field phone rings and sends us home, just as a series of horns blow across the fort, signaling an all clear.

  After turning in my Colt and ammunition at the Armory, I trudge back to my barracks, other soldiers from my squad and platoon eddying about me, but I’m too tired to join in the gossip and chatting that goes on, except a quick slap on my butt gives me a jerk.

  Corporal Abby Monroe joins me and I toss my left arm around her, give her a quick squeeze. “How was your alert, corporal?”

  “Pretty damn routine, glad to say,” she says, leaning into me as we walk a few yards, my arm still around her, feeling damn fine. “Went to the CP, trusty Trek at my side, and waited to bike out with dispatches in case the phone lines were cut. They weren’t, so I sat on my butt. How about you?”

  “Ticked off Staff Sergeant Muller,” I say.

  “Want to say any more?”

  “Not right now,” I say. “Try me later.”

  “’Kay,” she says. She moves to break away and I say, “Not so fast, Abby.”

  We’re in a shadowy part of the walkway, which works for me, and I give her another inappropriate kiss—this time to her sweet lips—and she squeezes my hand and heads off to her own barracks.

  I unlock the door and go in, Thor right behind me, and I’m not sure what time it is. I light off a candle and there’s a rap at the side of the door. It’s Corporal Manning, and he smiles at me. His small teeth are yellow and brown.

  “Glad to see you made it back, Sergeant.”

  “Glad to be here,” I say, stripping off my gear, putting it carefully back where it belongs. Thor jumps on my unmade bunk, moves in two circles, and then thumps himself down.

  “Hear you got in a pissing match with the staff sergeant.”

  I shake my head. “Jungle drums move quick.”

  He grins, taps a wrinkled finger at the side of his nose. “Us old-timers, we stick together, we pass little bits of news along. So good for you. Muller’s not a bad sergeant but sometimes gets too big for his pants, but you be careful.”

  “I will,” I say.

  The corporal leans out, like he’s looking up and down the hallway, to make sure he’s not being overheard, and then he says, “I know you don’t use it, but make sure you never think your family connection will save you if things hit the fan, Sergeant. Number of people out there would like to take you and your family and shove it up your butt at the right time.”

  I rub at the back of my head. “The only family I think about is my dad . . . if he ever gets my mail.”

  “True enough. Feel like a cold treat to cool you down?”

  I cock my head. “A what?”

  From his baggy fatigue pants, he reaches into a side pocket, pulls out an aluminum can, red and white. I stare at it. Coca-Cola. He pops the top open and passes it over. I take a long, satisfying cold and biting swig.

  “Holy God,” I say, as I lower the can. “Where did you get this?”

  “From the colonel’s private stock, and don’t say any more. But I figured what you did last night, and what you did right now, you deserved it.”

  I pass the can over to him and he doesn’t stand on ceremony. He takes a healthy swig himself and passes it back. I take another cold swallow, feeling the tickling in my mouth and nose from the carbon dioxide. Last time I had a Coke was at the fort’s Christmas celebration, about five months ago.

  “Ask you question, Corporal?”

  “Sure,” he says, leaning against the doorjamb.

  “Last floor bull session, when you were passing out the clean laundry . . . were you telling the truth about that television show?”

  “The one about the housewives?”

  “That’s the one,” I say. “Tell me again.”

  The old corporal says, “For a few years, just before the war started, one of the television channels, they’d run these hour-long programs about these rich housewives.”

  “From New York?”

  He nods. “That’s one of the places. And New Jersey. California. Atlanta. A couple of others.”

  “An hour long? Really? What was so interesting about these housewives that they could do an hour show about them?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean, were they artists. Or doctors. Scientists. In the military. Were they something like that?”

  Manning laughs, though it’s more of a cackle. “Hell, no. Most of ’em didn’t do a damn thing. They were rich, and they were bored, and they spent a lot of time at parties or restaurants, gossiping about the other wives. Truth be told, a few were kinda pretty to look at, but most of ’em were as dumb as a sack full of hammers.”

  “So what was the program about?”

  Manning says, “Didn’t you hear me? The program was about the housewives. Camera crews followed ’em around and later showed their eating, their dressing, their fights and their parties. That was it. That was the program.”

  I turn the cold Coke can around in my hand. “And people watched that? Honestly?”

  “That they did. They were pretty damn popular.”

  I take one last swig of the cold Coke, pass the rest of it back to the good corporal. “Good try,” I say. “I don’t believe it. Can’t believe anyone would be that dumb to make a program like that, and dumb enough to watch it.”

  Manning gratefully takes the can from my hand. “Funny thing is they did.”

  When the corporal leaves I close and lock the door, and push Thor aside to climb into my bunk. A quick check of my watch shows it’s three a.m. Later in the day, that evening, to be specific, is the Ranger Ball. A dance where I was promised the first one by Corporal Abby Monroe. At least three hours sleep if I’m lucky, before I have to get up and face the day and hit the books.

  S
ome luck.

  Banging on the door wakes me up just before reveille. I don’t know how much sleep I got but I know it’s not enough. It’s never enough in the Army.

  I get out of bed and Thor yawns and snuggles himself back in my bedding. I look to him and say, “Some guard dog you are.” He yawns again and flops over. So I’m not a happy sergeant when I open the door, and I become even unhappier when I see who’s standing there: an MP from the post’s Provost Marshal office, about my age. His nametag says SALTIER, and his rank is PFC but he’s all attitude, standing there sharply in a clean uniform with the MP patch on his left upper arm. His face is puffy and pimply, but he still carries himself like he’s a cop, which he is.

  “Sergeant Knox?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Sir, you’re to report to the Provost Marshal’s office at oh nine-hundred.”

  Oh crap, I think. Staff Sergeant Muller must have decided to go all out against me and not worry too much about the Mystery of the Swapped Shorts.

  “I see,” I say. “Any idea of what’s going on?”

  He shakes his head. “Some sort of complaint, sir, that’s all I know. And that you’re to report at oh nine-hundred. Any questions?”

  Lots of questions, but none of which this chubby young MP can answer for me. “No, no questions.”

  Saltier leans to the left and peers over my shoulder. “Sir, is that a K-9 unit in your bunk?”

  I don’t bother turning around. “It is.”

  “Sir, I’m sure you know the regulations about unauthorized K-9 units staying overnight in the barracks.”

  “An oversight, I’m sure.”

  Something that looks like it might be a small smile splits the MP’s face. “If you’d like, sir, I could help you correct that oversight by returning him to the K-9 barracks.”

  I feel a bit better towards the cop. “That would be great, private. I’d appreciate that.”

  I grab a leash, secure Thor, and he gives me a look of sad betrayal, as he and the MP leave the room, leaving me alone and in one hell of a mess.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A little bit of luck is that I have nearly three hours to get ready, so I scramble around my room and the barracks to do so. In going to see the Provost Marshal, I’ll need to look sharp, since she’s a tough old broad who used to be a New Hampshire Superior Court justice before the war. I’m lucky my dress shoes still have a pretty good shine, and it’s been a long time since I had to wear my formal Army Service Uniform, but luck is with me again. I can actually put my hands on the necktie, and the white shirt is in pretty good shape, except for a sweat stain around the collar.

  I trade a Hershey bar for a ten-minute shower chit from a trooper down the hallway, and after a breakfast of stale toast, powdered eggs and venison sausage, I use the chit, and am ticked off when the water comes out rusty and lukewarm. Waste of a good chocolate bar and a shower chit.

  But I pull myself together and get dressed in my Army Service Uniform, I walk over to the Provost Marshal’s office, crossing near the playing fields. At a paved parking lot that is cracked and which is mowed every Sunday, a new group of recruits are standing still, their front feet smack dab up against a faded yellow line on the old asphalt. First Sergeant Wendy Messier is standing before the dozen or so boys and girls—mostly twelve or thirteen—bawling them out, standing with the help of two metal crutches. Her right leg is off below the knee, and she’s been having a hell of a time getting a prosthetic that fits. The kids looked scared, as they should be, staring out at the First Sergeant, and I resist the temptation to give ’em a cheery wave as I walk by.

  At the Provost Marshal’s office, I get the second big surprise of my early day: in her office is not Master Sergeant Muller, but two civilians, one who is dressed in a ratty gray suit and necktie, and the other who is bearded and has a bandaged leg and is holding wooden crutches in his dirty hands.

  It’s the civilian I shot the other night.

  Captain Gail Allard has short brown hair, a beak of a nose, and is as skinny as a coat rack. She’s behind her desk, piled high on each side with papers and file folders. Her office is windowless, with filled bookcases and filing cabinets, and a manual typewriter on a stand in the corner. There’s a United States flag, a U.S. Army flag, and the State of New Hampshire flag on small sticks set in a black foam bulb on her desk. The only decoration is framed certificates of her law degree and other achievements, and a formal portrait of the President.

  She folds her hands together and leans over the desk. “Have a seat, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I sit down across from her. She looks to the two civilians. “This is Attorney Michael Farrell. He’s representing Fred Mackey, of Purmort. I take it that you and Mister Mackey are acquainted?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Fred is glowering at me, and I understand why. In this cool and slightly dusty office, it probably seems obscene seem to him and his lawyer that I shot him in the leg the other night.

  But I didn’t shoot him in this office. I shot him at night, in the woods, within range of a Creeper.

  Doesn’t sound obscene to me.

  Captain Allard goes on, her voice strong and slow. “Mister Mackey is intending to file a complaint against you for what occurred two nights ago.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I reply, remembering what old Corporal Manning had once told me: never be first, never volunteer, and especially, never volunteer information. So I was going to let Captain Allard take point on wherever the hell this was going. In most people’s eyes, I’m not officially an adult, but I like to think I’m also not officially stupid.

  “He’s represented here by Attorney Farrell,” she continues. “You, of course, have every right to have counsel represent you. But in the interest of time and of getting to the bottom of this matter, I was hoping we could proceed with this rather, er, informal gathering. If that’s agreeable to you, Sergeant Knox.”

  There are fellow troopers back in my former dormitory who are barracks lawyers, always nit-picking and debating the finer points of law and regulations, especially when they get into hack, which seems pretty common for them. And even though her face is impassive, I see Captain Allard is showing me a path out of this mess.

  “Absolutely, ma’am,” I say. “I have no problem with that.”

  She turns her head to the lawyer, the better-dressed of the two. “Mister Farrell, is it all right with you and your client if I proceed?”

  Fred Mackey starts to say something but his lawyer puts his hand on his arm. “Captain, I think we’ll go along with that. All we’re seeking here is justice for my client, who was brutally and suddenly shot without provocation by this young man here and—”

  She raises a hand. “This isn’t a courtroom, counselor, so if you could restrain from making speeches, we’ll get along that much faster. Fair enough?”

  He nods. His hair is carefully combed and his suit is mended here and there, and I wonder how he scrapes along, being a lawyer during war time, and then I realize I don’t particularly care.

  Captain Allard turns to me, face sharp. “Sergeant Knox.”

  “Ma’am.”

  “Please inform me, Attorney Farrell and Mister Mackey your current rank, assignment and duty station.”

  I do so and then she asks, “Were you drafted or did you volunteer?”

  “Volunteered, ma’am.”

  “At what age did you volunteer?”

  “I was twelve, ma’am. At the time, under the President’s National State of Emergency Declaration, the enlistment age had been lowered to twelve, with a surviving parent or guardian’s approval. My father gave his approval.”

  The attorney raises his hand. “Captain, I appreciate this background of Sergeant Knox, but I really don’t see the relevance of where this is going.”

  Fred Mackey mutters, “What a waste of friggin’ time. Goddamn punk shot me in the leg, he did.”

  Captain Allard doesn’t even blink. “I appreciat
e the patience of you and your client. This shouldn’t take long. Sergeant Knox, for the benefit of our civilian . . . guests, here, please point to the badge on the upper left side of your uniform blouse. The one that looks like a musket with a half wreath about it. What’s the name of that badge?”

  “That’s the Combat Infantryman Badge, ma’am.”

  “How does one receive the Combat Infantryman Badge?”

  “For actual combat in the field against the enemy, ma’am.”

  “You didn’t get that for being a support unit, or doing laundry, or counting boxes in a warehouse.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Captain Allard continues. “The two Purple Hearts? How and where did you receive those?”

  I shift in my seat. “I received the first one two years ago, at the Battle of Merrimack Valley.”

  There’s a sudden intake of breath from the attorney. Everybody in New England knows about that battle. Captain Allard says, “Is that where you received that burn injury that damaged your left ear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The second Purple Heart?”

  “An engagement last year, in Nashua. During an early morning attack on an elementary school. Part of the roof collapsed and I got a piece of broken wood shoved into my leg.”

  “And what’s that star hanging from that ribbon, just below the other line of emblems?”

  “Bronze Star, ma’am.”

  “And the ‘V’. What does that indicate?”

  “For valor. Ma’am.”

  “For what were you awarded the Bronze Star, with the ‘V’ for Valor?”

  It’s starting to get warm in the room, and I see by the clock that I’m in the middle of missing an important engagement. But I have no interest in speeding the Provost Marshal along. “That was also awarded after the Battle of Merrimack Valley.”

  Attorney Farrell tries to salvage the morning. “Captain, if we could—”

  “Absolutely,” she says. “Sergeant Knox, two evenings ago, you were in Montcalm, were you not, assigned to respond to a Creeper attack on a dairy farm?”