“A double troublemaker, huh?” the sergeant asked.
Jake shook his head.
The sergeant must not have liked that or not liked something about Jake. The man let go of the collar, slid the carbine from his shoulder, grabbed it two-handed and slammed the butt hard against Jake’s gut.
The surprise blow caught Jake hard. His air whooshed out and pain blossomed. His knees unhinged on their own accord and he dropped, slamming down onto his shins. He doubled over as he clutched his stomach in agony. What a bastard.
The sergeant gripped Jake’s hair and forced his head back. The man shoved his own face near and blew bad breath on Jake on he spoke:
“You look at me wrong, you piss wrong, I’ll stomp you flat. You’re a filthy traitor, and I hate traitors, and that means I hate you.”
Jake hurt too much to reply, but this was his first meeting with MDG Sergeant Dan Franks. They were destined to spend much time together.
“Get up,” the sergeant said.
While clutching his gut, Jake struggled to his feet, shuffling over gravel to join the others. The rest of the MDGs marshaled the detainees into a physical training formation. Apparently, the sergeants didn’t care if they formed up in the middle of the famous Chicago rail yards. One of the detention people began taking roll call.
When the man finished, the muscled sergeant who had struck Jake marched in front of the group.
“Look at you sorry traitors,” the sergeant said, in his sneering voice. He had re-slung the carbine tight over his right shoulder. He faced them with his legs spread in an arrogant stance.
“I’m Sergeant Dan Franks!” he roared. “I’m the Militia Detention Guard who is going to make sure each one of you fights and dies for the greatest country in the world. For you worthless dregs that don’t know: that’s the United States of America. It seems you dissidents can’t ever get it right. Well, guess what. We’re not in college now with your communist professors to hold your faggot hand. No, sir, you’re down here with us regular Americans who actually love our country.”
“I love it, too,” one of the detainees said.
Sergeant Franks stopped speaking, with shock on his face. He scowled, and he zeroed in on the speaker. “Bring that lying piece of filth to me,” Franks said.
Jake kept himself from looking directly at the sergeant. There was something wrong with the man’s eyes. They were too close set, and they were too shiny. Was the man high or drunk? Or did Franks get off on pushing others around? Maybe the answer was yes to both.
I can’t believe this is happening to me. When am I going to learn to keep my mouth shut?
Two MDGs hustled a skinny man to Franks. The detainee wore a threadbare coat and nearly useless tennis shoes. The man looked to be thirty-five, but could have been younger. He had a three days growth of beard and sad, tired eyes.
“Did you say something to me, maggot?” the sergeant asked the man.
The skinny detainee looked around.
With a powerful grip, Franks grabbed the man’s face, with his thick fingers tightening against the cheeks. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, Detainee. That’s what an American does: he meets another man’s eyes.”
The detainee swallowed hard. Maybe he was finally getting it in his mind that he was in trouble. He stared at Franks, and those shiny eyes must have frightened him. The detainee quickly lowered his gaze.
“I asked you a question, maggot,” Franks said. “Did you say something before?”
“Yes, sir—”
Crack! Franks let go of the detainee’s face and slapped him, leaving an angry red welt. “Pay attention, you traitorous scum. I’m not an officer. I’m a sergeant. Besides, I don’t want a dickhead piece of filth like you calling me sir. I feel soiled by it.”
“Yes…okay,” the detainee said.
“Are you afraid?” Franks asked.
Jake knew he shouldn’t say anything. He told himself to keep quiet. He could see the skinny man was a youth, someone younger than he was. The youth didn’t seem as if he’d ever been in the military or the militia before. The kid was pure terrified. The slap in the face must have capped it for him. Most people were shocked the first time real world brutality struck them.
“I asked you if you’re afraid,” Franks shouted.
“Yeah,” Jake said. “He’s afraid. Are you satisfied?”
For a moment, Sergeant Franks froze, perhaps out of amazement. Ever so slowly, he turned from the detainee and to Jake.
While looking at Jake, Franks asked, “Who spoke to me just now.”
Jake knew he should shut up. He realized he’d made a bad mistake. He was weary, hungry and fear kept tugging for his attention. He was also pissed off, royally angry for the rifle butt in the gut a minute ago. He knew he shouldn’t, but Jake raised his right hand.
Franks glanced at another MDG. “It looks like we have a funny man among us, Leary.” Facing Jake, Franks said, “Step out here with me, funnyman.”
Jake marched to the head of the formation and then two steps farther. He held himself at attention and kept his eyes forward. He felt Sergeant Franks move toward him. He heard the crunch of gravel, and his stomach throbbed. He didn’t want to get struck in the gut again, but it didn’t matter what he wanted. The rifle butt smashed him in the same place as before. Jake groaned, and he crumpled to his knees.
“Do you feel funny now?” Franks asked, the sergeant looming over him.
Jake shook his head.
“Speak up. I can’t hear you, funnyman.”
It came to Jake that maybe the MDGs could beat a few of the detainees to death. According to the tribunal, he didn’t have any American rights left. He was a penal detainee, a supposed traitor to his country. Jake saw himself as one of the last real patriots, a man who tried to speak truth to power. The Detention people would hate someone like him. The sergeant had already told Jake he hated him. Maybe this was it. Maybe he was about to die. Jake wanted to act tough, but his stomach hurt and the fear of death…
“I do not feel funny, Sergeant Franks,” Jake said.
Franks stared down at him, finally saying, “I guess you been in before, huh?”
“I have, Sergeant Franks.” Jake could smell the alcohol on the man’s breath, not a lot, but it was there.
“Well you know what. I don’t care two cents about that. You’re in my penal platoon and you’re going to do things my way. There’s an emergency going on, and our country needs warm bodies to charge the damn Germans. I’m guessing someone upstairs will actually give punks like you an M16. It doesn’t really matter, one way or another. You’ll probably piss yourself the first time a Kraut shows his face. Isn’t that right, you piece of filth?”
“No, Sergeant Franks,” Jake said. “I want to fight for my country.”
The sergeant didn’t say anything, and finally, Jake dared to look up. He saw Franks staring down at him, sneering.
Franks hawked phlegm in this throat, gathered it and spit in Jake’s face.
Jake should have known better. Lately, he’d received hard life-lessons on the advantage of keeping one’s cool. He should have kept his cool now. Instead, something snapped in him. Militia Detention people had screwed him over just one too many times. Now this bully of a sergeant spit in his face. Jake didn’t roar with rage. He simply moved faster than Sergeant Franks must have expected. His nearly ruptured stomach didn’t slow Jake any, either. Jake moved like a leopard, from his knees, scrambling to his feet and tackling the MDG by the knees.
Jake didn’t realize what he was doing until he had Sergeant Dan Franks on his back, slammed the man’s helmeted head against a railroad tie twice and then he whaled three solid shots to the sergeant’s face. Madness and rage reigned during those few seconds. None of the other MDGs had moved by then, either. On his own, Jake stopped the whaling, and he jumped off Franks, took two steps back and stood at attention.