Leaving the deputy behind, they crossed the street and entered the stately brick courthouse. Cole realized he still wasn’t wearing handcuffs, which he took to be a good sign.
It was late in the day, so most people had gone home. Their footsteps rang in the empty courthouse halls. The judge's chambers were on the first floor. Cole followed the sheriff and found himself in what looked like a small library, filled floor to ceiling with leather-bound law books. The place had a good smell of old leather and cigars, with an underlying hint of bourbon. They had entered using a door on the hallway, but another door in the office itself opened up into the empty courtroom. Behind a large wooden desk sat a small, white-haired man with blazing, coal-black eyes. Those were the eyes of every sawmill foreman and banker that Cole had ever seen. Cole's heart sank.
The sheriff started to explain the situation, but Judge Dorsey waved him off. "I know all about it. Sounds like those two got what they deserved. It’s likely that their demise saved the taxpayers some money and trouble. Anyhow, I know all about you, Mr. Cole. You are a goddamn war hero. But the thing is, we can't have you goin' around shootin’ people. So the sheriff and I have come to a solution."
“Does it involve jail?”
"Not if we can help it, Mr. Cole. With the war in Korea, there's been a recruiting drive," the sheriff explained. "There's a bus leaving in the morning, taking recruits to basic training. It would be best if you're on that bus."
Cole could not believe what he was hearing. "I'm done with the Army."
"But maybe the Army ain't done with you," Judge Dorsey said. His black eyes glittered. “Besides, the Army sure as hell beats prison.”
"A lot of veterans are re-enlisting," the sheriff went on in a reasonable tone. "It's a chance for you to be a hero again rather than get dragged through the mud with some sort of trial. The prosecutor we've got now doesn't see things quite the way that the judge and I do, so there's no telling what he's apt to pull. He’s just not what you’d call sensible. He wants to make a name for himself and run for judge.”
The judge snapped those glittering black eyes at the sheriff, as if he had said too much.
Now, Cole started to understand. The judge and the sheriff didn’t want the prosecutor to have any kind of case that might threaten the judge’s re-election, and maybe the sheriff’s, too. If Cole was on the other side of the world, he’d be safely out of reach.
“If this goes to trial, you might need to hire yourself a real lawyer, not a court-appointed one. No offense, Mr. Cole, but it don't seem like you got the money for that."
"The sheriff and I figured this would be a good way to avoid any trouble for you with this shooting business," Judge Dorsey added. "The last thing we want to see is you arrested. But this needs to cool off. By the time you get back, nobody is going to remember those two fools you shot, or much care. You’ll be a war hero all over again."
Cole felt like he was being railroaded, but the judge and the sheriff had a point. If it went to trial, he didn't have the money for a good lawyer. Finally, he nodded in agreement.
"All right, it's decided,” the sheriff said. “We'll head back across the street to my office. You’ll have to sleep in one of the cells, but the cell won’t be locked. Bus leaves in the mornin'."
Chapter Three
The next day, Cole found himself getting off a bus at boot camp. He would have been happier, if happier was the right word, going directly to the front. But the army had determined that he needed training all over again in how to be a soldier — and how to shoot and kill people, which was ironic, considering that he had ended up in this situation by doing just that.
Cole was feeling sullen as a kicked dog. He vowed that he wasn't going to do anything to stand out, or even to be much of a soldier. With any luck, this whole business in Korea would get settled long before he was shipped out. He might even get home to his cabin and beloved mountains after a few weeks or months, once things had settled down.
He looked around the compound, which was surrounded by a chain-link fence, at the neatly ordered rows of Quonset huts and the worn parade grounds. One good thing, he thought, was that they were going into the cooler weeks. Those Quonset huts would be like bake ovens in the summer heat. In the winter, it would be cold as a church on Monday.
Lost in his own thoughts, he hardly noticed the kid next to him until he spoke up.
"I think I made a mistake," the kid said in a squeaky voice. The kid wore glasses that were starting to slide down his nose, and he used a finger to push them back into place. "What was I thinking, signing up?"
“That would be a normal reaction,” Cole agreed. “It’s kind of like waking up with a hangover and a fat lady next to you.”
That image prompted a half-smile. “My name’s Tommy Wilson, by the way.”
“Cole,” he responded. "Listen, kid, this ain’t my first rodeo. Just keep your head down and do what the sergeant says."
"If you say so," Tommy said. "Hey, why did you sign up if you knew what you were in for?"
"It was this or go to prison," Cole said.
The kid opened his mouth as if to ask another question, but at that moment, the drill sergeant appeared. He was no more than five-foot-six, but muscles bulged in his neck and he had a way of walking that made him resemble an oncoming locomotive, complete with steam coming out of his ears.
"All right, you maggots, shut your traps!" he shouted. "You don't talk again until I tell you to talk. Is that clear?"
Startled, the busload of new recruits fell silent. But the drill instructor wanted an answer. He must have seen Cole talking earlier, because he squared off against him and shouted into his face: "Is that clear?"
Cole stood at attention and shouted back, "Yes, Sergeant!"
The drill instructor nodded, jaw muscles working as he sized Cole up. Cole stared at a point somewhere above the sergeant's head. "What's your name?" the man demanded.
"Cole, Sergeant."
"Cole, have you done this before?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
The sergeant shook his head as if disappointed. "Goddammit, Cole! Who is stupid enough to rejoin the army?"
When Cole didn't answer right away, the kid standing next to him felt compelled to say, "He said it was prison or the army."
The drill instructor didn't even look at the kid, but kept his eyes boring into Cole. "Is that right? Huh. I am going to keep an extra eye on you, Cole. Understood?"
"Yes, Sergeant!"
After another moment of fierce staring that indicated the sergeant would like nothing better than to bore a hole through Cole with his eyes, the sergeant moved on to shout at other recruits that he didn't like the looks of.
And so it begins, Cole thought.
Cole wished that he had kept his mouth shut instead of jawing with the kid. That damn kid had spilled the beans about the army or prison, putting him square in the sergeant's sights. He'd be keeping to himself from now on. He also realized that his own plan to keep his head down had already gone out the window.
The new recruits, including Cole, were subjected to physicals that left no part unprobed. What any of that poking and prodding had to do with being fit to carry a weapon, he still hadn't figured out from the last war, other than that the whole procedure was intended to remind the recruits that they were no better than cattle being inspected at a livestock auction.
They lined up for shots against tropical diseases, and then they all got buzzcuts. Cole's hair had not been long to begin with, but he was left with nothing more than some bristle on his head. He'd done this before, back in boot camp a few years ago, but that didn't mean he liked being herded around like cattle.