"See?" Squidface said. "This is how it's supposed to work. We keep these bastards on their toes, they can't do unto us."
"I guess," Armstrong said.
The next day, a land mine ten miles away blew a truck full of U.S. soldiers to kingdom come. U.S. authorities methodically took hostages, and shot them when the fellow who'd planted the mine didn't come forward. Rumor said that one of the soldiers who'd done firing-squad duty shot himself right afterwards.
"Some guys just can't stand the gaff," was Squidface's verdict.
"I guess," Armstrong said. "But I don't like firing-squad duty myself. I feel like a goose just walked over my grave."
That was the wrong thing to say around Squidface, who goosed him. The wrestling match they got into was more serious-more ferocious, anyhow-than most soldierly horseplay. Squidface eyed a shiner in a steel mirror. "You really do have this shit on your mind," he said.
Armstrong rubbed bruised ribs. "I fuckin' told you so. How come you don't listen when I tell you something?"
"'Cause I'd have to waste too much time sifting through the horseshit," Squidface answered, which almost started another round.
But Armstrong decided his ribs were sore enough already. "They let soldiers vote, who'd you vote for?" he asked.
"Dewey," Squidface answered at once. "He's got a chickenshit mustache, but the Dems wouldn't've been asleep at the switch the way the Socialists were when Featherston jumped on our ass. How about you?"
"Yeah, I guess," Armstrong agreed. "I bet the Socialists'd pull us out of here faster, though."
"Just on account of you think like a short-timer doesn't make you one," Squidface said. Armstrong sighed and nodded. Wasn't that the truth?
XVII
"Hey, Chester!" Captain Hubert Rhodes called. "C'mere a minute."
"What's up, sir?" Chester Martin asked.
"Got something from the War Department that might apply to you," the company commander answered. "You're over fifty, right?"
"Yes, sir," Martin answered. "And some of the shit I've been through, I feel like I'm over ninety."
"Well, I can understand that." Rhodes took a piece of paper out of his tunic pocket. He was in his early thirties, at the most-he didn't need to put on glasses before he read something. "Says here the Army is accepting discharge applications from noncoms over fifty who aren't career military. That's you, right?"
"Yes, sir," Chester said again. "Jesus! Have I got that straight? They'll turn me loose if I ask 'em to?"
"That's what it says. See for yourself." Rhodes held out the paper.
Chester's current reading specs had cost him half a buck at a local drugstore. He'd lost track of how many pairs of reading glasses he'd broken since reupping. These weren't great, but they were better than nothing. He read the order, wading through the Army bureaucratese. It said what Captain Rhodes said it said, all right. "Where do I get this Form 565 it talks about?" he asked. "Or is the catch that they haven't printed any copies of it, so I'm screwed regardless?"
Rhodes laughed, for all the world as if the Army would never pull a stunt like that. But then, like a magician with a top hat, he pulled out a rabbit-or rather, a Form 565. "Came with the bulletin. I wish I could talk you into sticking around, but I know I'd be wasting my breath."
"'Fraid so, sir. I got shot once in each war. Nobody can say I didn't do my bit. I have a wife and a life back in L.A. I want to get back while I've still got some time left." Chester looked at the form. "I've got to get my immediate superior's signature, huh? Well, Lieutenant Lavochkin won't be sorry to see me go-I've cramped his style ever since he got here."
"Good thing somebody did, at least a bit," Rhodes said. Both men laughed, more than a little uneasily. Chester didn't want to think about the massacre he'd been part of. Officially, Rhodes didn't know about that. But what he knew officially and what he knew were different beasts. He went on, "If Boris gives you any trouble, send him to me. I'll take care of it."
"Thank you, sir. I appreciate it, believe me," Chester said. "I'm gonna hunt him up right now. Sooner I get everything squared away, happier I'll be."
"All right." Rhodes stuck out his hand. "It's been a pleasure serving with you, and that's the God's truth."
"Thanks," Chester repeated as they shook. "And back at you. The lieutenant…" He shrugged. No, he wouldn't be sorry to say good-bye to the lieutenant.
He found Boris Lavochkin right where he thought he would: on the battered main street of Cheraw, South Carolina. Lavochkin carried a captured automatic Tredegar and looked extremely ready to use it. By the way he eyed Chester as the veteran noncom approached, he might not have minded using it on him. Lavochkin didn't like getting his style cramped.
Chester pretended not to notice. "Talk to you a second, sir?"
"You're doing it," Lavochkin answered, and lit a cigarette. He didn't offer Chester one, and Chester wasn't sure he would have taken it if Lavochkin had.
"Right," Chester said tightly. He explained about the War Department ukase, and about Form 565. "So all I need is your signature, sir, and pretty soon I'll be out of your hair for good."
"You're bugging out?" Boris Lavochkin didn't bother hiding his scorn.
"Sir, I've put in more combat time than you have," Martin answered. "Like I told Captain Rhodes, I've got a life outside the Army, and I aim to live it. I've seen as much of this shit as I ever want to, by God."
"Suppose I don't sign your stupid form?"
"Well, sir, I've got three things to say about that. First one is, you better go talk to Captain Rhodes. Second one is, you damn well owe me one, on account of I kept you from killing all of us when we superbombed Charleston. And the third one is, you can bend over and kiss my ass."
Lavochkin turned a dull red. Chester stood there waiting. He had a.45 on his belt; few U.S. soldiers ever went unarmed in the former CSA, peace or no peace. But the lieutenant could have shot him easily enough. Lavochkin didn't, even if the Tredegar's muzzle twitched. He was a bastard, but a calculating bastard. "Give me the damn thing. It'll be a pleasure to get rid of you," he snarled.
"Believe me, sir, it's mutual."
Leaning the automatic rifle against his leg, Lavochkin pulled a pen from his left breast pocket and scribbled something that might have been his name. He thrust Form 565 back at Chester. "There!"
"Thank you, sir." Chester's voice was sweet-saccharine-sweet. Boris Lavochkin gave him a dirty look as he took the signed Form 565 back to Captain Rhodes.
Rhodes signed, too, and without kicking up any fuss. "I'll send this back to regimental HQ, and they'll move it on to Division," he said. "And then, if all the stars align just right, they'll ship you home."
"Thanks a million, Captain." When Chester spoke to Hubert Rhodes, he sounded as if he meant it, and he did.
"You don't owe the country anything else, Chester," Rhodes said. "I'd like you to stick around, 'cause you're damn good at what you do, but I'm not gonna try and hold you where you don't want to be."
"That's white of you." Martin listened to what came out of his mouth without thought. He shook his head. "There's an expression we have to lose."
"Boy, you said it." Rhodes nodded. "Especially down here, where the whites aren't on our side and the Negroes are-what's left of 'em."
"Yeah," Chester said grimly. Some Negroes had come out of hiding now that U.S. troops were on the ground here. Some more, skinny as pipe cleaners, had come back from the camps in Texas and Louisiana and Mississippi. Back before the Freedom Party got its massacre going, South Carolina had had more blacks than whites. It sure didn't any more-not even close.