We worked well together then, the Trick and I, but it wasn't like later when we would march down the streets of Town ten men strong, and they would sing "We are Krummers Raiders / We're rapists of the night / We're dirty son of a bitches / And rather fuck than fight!" That was fine.
Oddly enough it was through Franklin, rather than my first friends, Novotny, Cagle, and Morning, that the Trick and I became united. The seventh night of my first set of mids Franklin came to work drunk. Nothing unusual. In fact at least half of the men came to every mid-trick a little bit drunk. And Franklin had been having problems with his family since he had written a letter home telling about his being busted for indecent exposure – peeing in the street; everyone did it, but not on AP jeeps – and that he was in love with a Filipino barmaid, a nice girl who didn't work in the rooms out back, a lovely girl, and he couldn't believe she loved him. He had acne, a dead-white skin and long, greasy blond hair. The Devil as a juvenile delinquent. His parents had replied to his honest confession and plea for understanding with a Dear John asking him not to return home, ever. Franklin was nineteen and believed it. The first thing he did was seduce the girl, first with a cigarette, then a drink, then a trip out back. He stayed drunk for a week afterward, but had caused me no trouble, until this night.
He passed out. I saw him resting his head on his mill, and I shook him to remind him of his next sked. The swivel chair rolled toward the wall, dumping him at my feet with a thump I felt through my boots. Cagle turned around and said, "God-damnit, Franklin! If I told you one time, I've told you a thousand, to leave those fucking kites alone." He helped me lay him between the wall and console, then copied Franklin's sked.
Morning, who acted as if he had invented mitigating circumstances, checked with me. "You going to turn him in, Krummel? If anyone's had a tough deal out of life, that poor bastard has."
"Morning, I don't care if all you sons of bitches sleep. Forever." I left Franklin to sleep it off. Several bad jokes were made to ease the tension, then everyone went about their business.
Around 0400 Cagle dropped through the trap door which led to the roof and shouted that a jeep was turning down our road. Lt. Dottlinger was the Officer of the Day. If he didn't kill Franklin right then, he was sure to stick him in the stockade and prefer charges. Being the able leader of men that I was, I didn't know what to do. But the Trick looked at me. It would be my decision. I tried not to think, but grabbed Franklin's shirt front and dragged him over to the ladder. Morning helped me lift him to the roof. Cagle let Dottlinger in the gate, then followed us down the ladder and took his position.
Dottlinger entered to an "OH, no!" sigh of the compressor. He had been passed over for captain twice, and when the lists came out once more without his name on it, he would revert to his former enlisted rank of sergeant which he hadn't really made but was a gratuitous benefit of OCS. He loved being an officer, and looked for chances to seem efficient.
"Sgt. Krummel," he said, returning my greeting, "What are those men doing out of uniform?" Several of the men had removed their fatigue shirts.
"Operations policy, I understand, sir. The men on the mid-trick may remove their shirts while inside the building."
"Not when I'm Officer of the Day, Sgt. Krummel."
"I'm sorry sir, I didn't know. You men get your shirts on. And button up those flapping pockets." Dottlinger didn't like the pockets bit. He wanted to do it. He suspected me for finishing college. He hadn't made it.
Morning was copying very intently, and had not stopped to put on his shirt, though he heard me.
"That man is still out of uniform, Sgt. Krummel."
"He's copying, sir. He has a sked."
"I want his shirt on now, sergeant, right now."
"Yes, sir." I waved at Novotny to relieve him. He plugged his cans into Morning's console, and picked up the man at the end of a line as Morning slipped out of his chair.
"Ahhhh," he moaned, shaking out the muscles of his back as if he had been copying for hours instead of seconds. "Oh, hello, Lt. Dottlinger. How are you tonight? Or this morning, I should say. Haven't seen you in quite some time, sir." No trace of insolence in his voice. Nothing Dottlinger could hang a feather on.
"Get in uniform, Morning."
"Sir?"
"Your shirt. Get it on."
"Sir, we're allowed to remove our shirts on mids."
"I don't want excuses, soldier. Get in uniform." Dottlinger was red.
"Am I under arrest, sir? I don't understand. A phone call from home, sir? Tell me."
"What? Don't be silly. Get your shirt on – now!"
"You had me scared there for a minute, sir. I was sure it must be trouble." Morning started to walk away.
"Morning! Get your shirt on!"
"Yes, sir, right away. But I've been copying for over an hour and I ah… need to go to the latrine, sir."
"Now!"
"Yes, sir!" Morning fumbled with his sleeves, put the wrong arm in once, then buttoned one button too high, then one too low, and all the time jumping from one foot to the other. As he undid his pants, he shouted, "Jesus!" and ran for the latrine, his shirt tails flapping and his pants tumbling around his ankles. He ran like a man trying to hold a balloon between his knees. He didn't have any shorts on and the men laughed at his bobbing, bare white ass. He came back shortly, relieved, stretching and sighing, "Sorry about that, sir. But I just couldn't wait another second."
Dottlinger was twice as red in the face now, and he slapped his ball-point pen in his hand as if it were the swagger stick he couldn't carry any more. "Why aren't you wearing shorts, soldier?" he burst out. Levenson, our red-headed, freckled faced Jew, popped from behind the antenna patch panel, grinning like a weasel, giggling in his high-pitched voice, then ducked back as Dottlinger turned.
"Sir?" Morning asked.
"The Army went to great trouble to issue you underwear, and gives you a clothing allowance, so why aren't you wearing shorts?" He shook his pen at Morning. "Don't you have any, soldier?"
"Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I do."
"Why aren't you wearing them?"
"I always wear them for inspections, sir. Always."
"I don't care about inspections. Why aren't you wearing them now?"
"It's quite personal, sir, and I'd rather not discuss it in front of the other men, if you don't mind, sir." Ordinarily Dottlinger would have understood personal modesty, but not now.
"I don't care what you'd rather not do – I want to know why, soldier!"
Morning ducked his head and mumbled something.
"Speak up!"
"They crawl… they get in the…" He even managed a blush. "In the crack of…" He seemed overcome by shame. "The crack…" Not a sound.
Dottlinger sighed, and for a moment I had visions of him ordering all pants dropped to check the shorts situation, but he caught hold of himself. "Morning, don't let me catch you without shorts again." Levenson giggled. You could see the resolve in Dottlinger's face to get Morning. "You think that's funny, Levenson."
"Yes, sir," he answered.
Dottlinger started to say something, then paused as if to say, "What can you do with a crazy bastard who sits around naked all the time in the barracks." He knew he had been taken for a ride, and a weary, familiar one at that. He looked like four o'clock in the morning. His face told of years of being the kid chosen last for the ball games, a fox first caught, a never successful hound, the kid who could never keep up, and he was behind again. He stayed a while longer, checking the building, listlessly searching for dust or dirt in a place cleaned and inspected three times a day. When he came up from the offices below, he said to me, "I believe the area under the major's desk could use some wax and a buffing, Sgt. Krummel, especially where he puts his feet. If you'd take care of that, please…" he said walking toward the door.