“Fall out. Run around it. Run, I said. Fast! Bronski! Pace him.”
“Right, Sarge.” One of the five or six other baton carriers took out after Jenkins, caught up with him easily, cracked him across the tight of his pants with the baton. Zim turned back to the rest of us, still shivering at attention. He walked up and down, looked us over, and seemed awfully unhappy. At last he stepped out in front of us, shook his head, and said, apparently to himself but he had a voice that carried: “To think that this had to happen to me!”
He looked at us. “You apes — No, not ‘apes’; you don’t rate that much. You pitiful mob of sickly monkeys … you sunken-chested, slack-bellied, drooling refugees from apron strings. In my whole life I never saw such a disgraceful huddle of momma’s spoiled little darlings in — you, there! Suck up the gut! Eyes front! I’m talking to you !”
I pulled in my belly, even though I was not sure he had addressed me. He went on and on and I began to forget my goose flesh in hearing him storm. He never once repeated himself and he never used either profanity or obscenity. (I learned later that he saved those for very special occasions, which this wasn’t.) But he described our shortcomings, physical, mental, moral, and genetic, in great and insulting detail.
But somehow I was not insulted; I became greatly interested in studying his command of language. I wished that we had had him on our debate team.
At last he stopped and seemed about to cry. “I can’t stand it,” he said bitterly. “I’ve just got to work some of it off — I had a better set of wooden soldiers when I was six. ALL RIGHT! Is there any one of you jungle lice who thinks he can whip me? Is there a man in the crowd? Speak up!”
There was a short silence to which I contributed. I didn’t have any doubt at all that he could whip me; I was convinced.
I heard a voice far down the line, the tall end. “Ah reckon ah can … suh.”
Zim looked happy. “Good! Step out here where I can see you.” The recruit did so and he was impressive, at least three inches taller than Sergeant Zim and broader across the shoulders. “What’s your name, soldier?”
“Breckinridge, suh — and ah weigh two hundred and ten pounds an’ theah ain’t any of it ‘slack-bellied.’”
“Any particular way you’d like to fight?”
“Suh, you jus’ pick youah own method of dyin’. Ah’m not fussy.”
“Okay, no rules. Start whenever you like.” Zim tossed his baton aside.
It started — and it was over. The big recruit was sitting on the ground, holding his left wrist in his right hand. He didn’t say anything.
Zim bent over him. “Broken?”
“Reckon it might be … suh.”
“I’m sorry. You hurried me a little. Do you know where the dispensary is? Never mind — Jones! Take Breckinridge over to the dispensary.” As they left Zim slapped him on the right shoulder and said quietly, “Let’s try it again in a month or so. I’ll show you what happened.” I think it was meant to be a private remark but they were standing about six feet in front of where I was slowly freezing solid.
Zim stepped back and called out, “Okay, we’ve got one man in this company, at least. I feel better. Do we have another one? Do we have two more? Any two of you scrofulous toads think you can stand up to me?” He looked back and forth along our ranks. “Chickenlivered, spineless — oh, oh! Yes? Step out.”
Two men who had been side by side in ranks stepped out together; I suppose they had arranged it in whispers right there, but they also were far down the tall end, so I didn’t hear. Zim smiled at them. “Names, for your next of kin, please.”
“Heinrich.”
“Heinrich what?”
“Heinrich, sir. Bitte.” He spoke rapidly to the other recruit and added politely, “He doesn’t speak much Standard English yet, sir.”
“Meyer, mein Herr,” the second man supplied.
“That’s okay, lots of ’em don’t speak much of it when they get here — I didn’t myself. Tell Meyer not to worry, he’ll pick it up. But he understands what we are going to do?”
“Jawohl,” agreed Meyer.
“Certainly, sir. He understands Standard, he just can’t speak it fluently.”
“All right. Where did you two pick up those face scars? Heidelberg?”
“Nein — no, sir. Königsberg.”
“Same thing.” Zim had picked up his baton after fighting Breckinridge; he twirled it and asked, “Perhaps you would each like to borrow one of these?”
“It would not be fair to you, sir,” Heinrich answered carefully. “Bare hands, if you please.”
“Suit yourself. Though I might fool you. Königsberg, eh? Rules?”
“How can there be rules, sir, with three?”
“An interesting point. Well, let’s agree that if eyes are gouged out they must be handed back when it’s over. And tell your Korpsbruder that I’m ready now. Start when you like.” Zim tossed his baton away; someone caught it.
“You joke, sir. We will not gouge eyes.”
“No eye gouging, agreed. ‘Fire when ready, Gridley.’”
“Please?”
“Come on and fight! Or get back into ranks!”
Now I am not sure that I saw it happen this way; I may have learned part of it later, in training. But here is what I think happened: The two moved out on each side of our company commander until they had him completely flanked but well out of contact. From this position there is a choice of four basic moves for the man working alone, moves that take advantage of his own mobility and of the superior co-ordination of one man as compared with two — Sergeant Zim says (correctly) that any group is weaker than a man alone unless they are perfectly trained to work together. For example, Zim could have feinted at one of them, bounced fast to the other with a disabler, such as a broken kneecap — then finished off the first at his leisure.
Instead he let them attack. Meyer came at him fast, intending to body check and knock him to the ground, I think, while Heinrich would follow through from above, maybe with his boots. That’s the way it appeared to start.
And here’s what I think I saw. Meyer never reached him with that body check. Sergeant Zim whirled to face him, while kicking out and getting Heinrich in the belly — and then Meyer was sailing through the air, his lunge helped along with a hearty assist from Zim.
But all I am sure of is that the fight started and then there were two German boys sleeping peacefully, almost end to end, one face down and one face up, and Zim was standing over them, not even breathing hard. “Jones,” he said. “No, Jones left, didn’t he? Mahmud! Let’s have the water bucket, then stick them back into their sockets. Who’s got my toothpick?”
A few moments later the two were conscious, wet, and back in ranks. Zim looked at us and inquired gently, “Anybody else? Or shall we get on with setting-up exercises?”
I didn’t expect anybody else and I doubt if he did. But from down on the left flank, where the shorties hung out, a boy stepped out of ranks, came front and center. Zim looked down at him. “Just you? Or do you want to pick a partner?”
“Just myself, sir.”
“As you say. Name?”
“Shujumi, sir.”
Zim’s eyes widened. “Any relation to Colonel Shujumi?”
“I have the honor to be his son, sir.”
“Ah so! Well! Black Belt?”
“No, sir. Not yet.”
“I’m glad you qualified that. Well, Shujumi, are we going to use contest rules, or shall I send for the ambulance?”
“As you wish, sir. But I think, if I may be permitted an opinion, that contest rules would be more prudent.”