William Christie 03 - The Blood We Shed Read online

  We very gingerly got around to talking about the grenade accident. O'Brien said, "If I ever see that fucking weasel Gudtfreund again, he's a dead man." A lot of people might use those words, but I wouldn't want to bump into Jack after hurting some of his Marines.

  Having their husbands in the field from Monday to Friday didn't leave the women wanting to hear about the Marine Corps all weekend. They told us we'd have to obey the no-shoptalk rule before they let us back into the house for dinner.

  "But we've got the chicken," Lee Harvey mentioned in protest.

  "It's only too obvious," Federico told him, "that you, my friend, are not married."

  After dinner we were all helping move the dishes into the kitchen, and I just happened to look out the back window onto the yard. It was getting on dusk. Unlike many of the units in the warren of company-grade housing, O'Brien's backed up onto a wooded treeline. There was movement all over the grass, and I stuck my nose to the window to get a better look.

  "Lynn," I said, "there's something like twenty rabbits on your lawn."

  "I know," she said. "They're out there every night."

  "And unless I miss my guess," I said, "they're all having sex." I could hardly believe my eyes. The rabbits were paired off and humping away like there was no tomorrow. Every single one of them. "I'm not lying. Look for yourself."

  It had to be a regular occurrence, because Lynn wasn't surprised. "This place is fertility central—just ask me."

  I turned away from the window to look at her, and she was smiling at me. "That's right, I'm pregnant again," she said.

  I gave her another big hug. "When's the date?"

  "Just when you're thinking, Mike. When you guys are on deployment."

  "Oh, Jeez," I moaned.

  "I know, Mike, I know. No planning at all. We're just going to have to suck it up."

  Hearing the Marine-ism come out of her mouth made me smile. But man, what a hard thing for each of them to deal with on their own.

  I liked all the wives, but Lynn was my favorite. Officers' wives could be even more careerist than their husbands, and lieutenants' wives had to walk as softly as lieutenants did. But Lynn broke the mold by being cheerfully blunt and unpretentious. She took crap from no one, especially her husband.

  Back in the living room I sat down next to O'Brien and said quietly, "Congratulations on being a second-award Dad."

  "Lynn told you?"

  "No, Jim did. Who the hell do you think told me?"

  "Jesus, it's totally out of hand. Seems like all I have to do is look at her and she gets pregnant."

  "Actually, it's a bit more complicated than that. But we'll have that little talk later."

  "Thanks."

  Lynn brought out the Trivial Pursuit board along with ice cream and cake, which of course we drank beer with.

  "I'll sit this one out," I told her.

  "Trivial Pursuit against your religion?" she demanded.

  "No, I've just got this weird total recall for odd facts. Makes me a nightmare to play Trivial Pursuit with. I guarantee you'll want to lynch me."

  "There's only one solution for that," Lynn replied. "You'll be my partner."

  I was right—everyone wanted to lynch us before the game was over. We beat them like a drum, then Lynn left to give Bonnie her bath.

  "Mike, is it true you went to Princeton?" Mary Federico asked.

  She obviously didn't realize that a lot of Ivy Leaguers sucked at Trivial Pursuit. But the word had gotten around. In the movies military men are always saying, "Hey, buddy, where you from?" The truth is that no one really gives a shit, unless you happened to have grown up at the Playboy Mansion. But they do want to know where you went to college.

  The first time I mentioned it there was auspicious silence, which was understandable. At OCS Frank from Harvard and I were occasionally pointed out as if we were exotic animals.

  When I was introduced to the battalion at a social function known as a 'hail and farewell,' Colonel Sweatman our battalion commander had called me up in front of everyone and began, Colonel-like, "Mike Galway has been with Echo Company these past three weeks. He's a graduate of Princeton, a history major, so he'll probably be taking notes on us for his master's thesis."

  Everyone had laughed a little too hard at the boss's rapier wit. I stood there like a dick, battling to keep my smile from turning into a grimace.

  Pleased with himself, the Colonel had continued with, "He's...." Then he halted abruptly and examined the paper in his hand closely, brow wrinkling in confusion. He let off a nervous little chuckle. "Lieutenant Galway is actually of Russian, not Irish extraction. He is a chess grandmaster and a highly ranked polo player. He enjoys fine wines, hunting big game in Africa, and collecting abstract art."

  It wasn't hard to find the suspects. O'Brien and Milburn were doubled over laughing. Everyone else had been understandably puzzled.

  The Colonel had smiled tolerantly and refolded the paper. "I wouldn't necessarily take that as gospel. I suspect Lieutenants O'Brien and Milburn got their hands on this biographical information before it reached my desk. But I'm sure you'll join me in welcoming Lieutenant Galway to the battalion."

  They gave me a round of applause, the lieutenants barking out Marine Corps oo-rah's. I went along with my new image by giving my public a series of graciously dignified Queen of England waves. These are done with the elbow pressed tight to the body and a hand motion akin to unscrewing an upside-down mayonnaise jar. One day I would have my revenge.

  "So what brought you here?" Mary Federico asked me.

  "Didn't like 9-5. Couldn't stand working in an office." I wasn't about to tell anyone I'd made a choice between taking the test for my broker's license and going to OCS, determined not to reach 50 and realize that I'd never really gone anywhere or done anything except take the kids to Disney World every year, because I didn't have the balls.

  "What does your Dad do?" Milburn asked. They were still trying to get a handle on that Ivy League thing.

  "Construction," I said.

  "You mean like he owns a construction company?" said Nichols.

  "No, I mean like he works construction."

  O'Brien was grinning at me.

  "No shit?" said Milburn.

  "No shit," I replied.

  After Federico had a few drinks it didn't take much for O'Brien to get him going. Everyone needs a hobby, and Paul's was the compilation of a list that he called The 100 Metaphors For Masturbation, which unlike most things in this world was exactly what it sounded like. He'd explained his project to me when we first met, inviting my participation.

  Which was the great thing about the military. You never knew what was coming next, and you'd never, ever, be able to say, "Now I've heard everything." At the time I'd asked, "How far along are you?"

  "The count is forty-eight," he'd replied.

  "Spanking the monkey?" I said off the top of my head.

  "Please." I'd obviously given him the masturbatory equivalent of See Spot Run.

  I took another shot, for pride. "Squeezing the cheese?"

  "I like it," he'd said, beaming. "Forty-nine."

  While his wife rubbed her temples as if a migraine was coming on, Paul closed his eyes and began reciting. It was like watching the high priest of some onanistic cult chanting his liturgy: "Beating the weasel; spanking the monkey; choking the chicken; flogging the dummy; ramming the musket; buffing the flagpole; waxing the surfboard; polishing the silver...."

  It might not be to everyone's taste, but who knows? Maybe one day The 100 Metaphors for Masturbation will take its place alongside such classics as Njal's Saga, The Epic of Gilgamesh, The Song of Roland, or Poem of the Cid.

  Before he was finished, Bonnie charged out of the hallway in her jammies. "Great," O'Brien groaned. "You'd think we washed her in liquid amphetamine." And then the usual, "Lynn, please do something about your daughter."

  Bonnie bounded around the room and ended up in front of me. I put down my beer and lifted her up in
to my lap. Momentarily at a loss, the only thing that popped into my head was to play the toe game. You know, "this little piggy went to market; this little piggy stayed home...."

  After the last little piggy went wee-wee-weeing all the way home I was fresh out of material, so I jumped back into the grownup conversation. And while I was talking I think I was absentmindedly rubbing Bonnie's feet, because Lynn brought the talk to a halt by saying, "Oh my God."

  Lynn was looking at me, I looked down, and Bonnie was sound asleep with her mouth open. Lynn directed me with hand-and-arm signals, opened doors and led the way. Carrying Bonnie like an unexploded bomb, I set her down in her crib.

  We gingerly shut the bedroom door and tip-toed out into the living room. Lynn said, "Mike, I'll be expecting you this time every night."

  "And you can drive over to my house after you're done here," said Mary Federico.

  I guess you never knew when some hidden talent was going to emerge. Evidently I was the Baby Whisperer. "You'll find my rates on my web site."

  O'Brien, Milburn, and Federico began chanting, "The pipes, the pipes." And Ian Campbell opened his case and began assembling his bagpipes somewhat unsteadily. I told you he was a Scot.

  "Did we or did we not just put the baby to bed?" I asked Lynn. She gave me a resigned shrug.

  If you're looking for an instrument to play while intoxicated, the bagpipes are the way to go. Mainly because it takes an aficionado to tell the difference between good bagpipe playing and mediocre bagpipe playing. Ian puffed up the bag and tore into Scotland the Brave. He sounded good to me, which was always good when you were hearing bagpipes at a range of less than ten feet. The next tune, of course, was The Campbells are Coming.

  Ian finished to a wild round of applause. Out of air and with a face the color of a ripe raspberry, he slumped back onto the couch. And we all called out, in bad Scottish accents, "A piper is down, a piper is down."

  "He's just pissed," Federico said, completing the dialogue from the movie So I Married an Axe Murderer.

  Lynn went in to check on Bonnie. She came back out and reported, "She slept like a rock through the whole thing."

  "Unbelievable," I said.

  Lynn shook her head again. "If a door squeaks she'll probably be up and running again."

  A few minutes later Milburn nudged me and gestured to O'Brien. Jack was sitting upright, his chin on his chest, fast asleep.

  "I didn't touch him," I said. "I swear to God."

  "This is SOP," said Jimmy Nichols.

  "It's not that he isn't a stud," said Milburn. "It's a straight body-mass issue. When Jack checks off the net, that's my signal to stop drinking."

  Which sounded like good advice. Lynn grabbed Jack by the arm, and he actually got up and moved. He wasn't out but he wasn't conscious. It was like some kind of zombie state.

  Jimmy Nichols had given up alcohol as an enlisted man, after a couple of problems. He and Tracy left. Mary Federico poured her husband, Ian, and Lee Harvey into their minivan.

  Milburn and I decided we weren't quite ready to drive. A DUI or DWI was an automatic career-ender for a Marine Officer, so we usually ended up on the O'Brien couch. Even though we always tried to be gone early, Lynn occasionally came out in the morning to find her living room carpeted with bodies. She was the world's best sport about it.

  Frank and I policed the living room for her—Marines were the perfect house guests—and then bucked up for the couch. I got it, the first time that had ever happened.

  And I woke up in the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes it happened with two snoring dachshunds lying on me. But this time it was Bonnie staring at me eye-to-eye—which was more than a little disconcerting. Milburn was gone.

  "So, you broke out of the crib, huh, babyface?" I whispered to her. "Did you tie the bedding together, or did you free-climb?" She just grinned happily at me.

  I picked her up and walked her around the living room for a while before taking her back to her crib. And then I beat feet out of there, checking my six in the rearview mirror to make sure she wasn't following me down the driveway.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After every accident, especially fatal ones, there is an investigation. These were the findings. The fuse of the M67 fragmentation hand grenade has a delay of 4 to 5 seconds. Even after pulling the pin, the grenade is safe as long as the thrower keeps a firm grip on the spoon, a thin spring-loaded metal lever running from the fuse down the length of the grenade. The spoon flies off when released or the grenade is thrown. This starts the fuse burning and 4-5 seconds later the grenade blows.

  Four to five seconds is a long time when clearing a room. Long enough for someone to pick up the grenade and throw it back at you. So ordinarily the drill was for the thrower to flip off the spoon, let the fuse cook for 2 seconds, and then throw it.

  But Captain Dudley refused to let us do that. Too dangerous. Ironic, isn't it? So the thrower was supposed to chuck it without releasing the spoon.

  That's what happened on the range. But the grenade didn't go off. On a short throw the spoon might not have released. Or it could have been a dud for any number of reasons.

  But it was a dud, and there were specific rules for dealing with them. The range had to go cold; that is, cease all firing. The range safety officer had to call Blackburn and request an explosive ordnance disposal team. Only when they cleared the dud could firing resume.

  Sometimes EOD was busy, or it was the lunch hour, and they took a hell of a long time to show up.

  Gudtfreund decided he didn't want to wait. Seeing the dud on the sand floor of the room, he decided to throw in another grenade so that its explosion would blow up the dud.

  I have no idea where that bonehead idea came from. Explosives were funny things. Sometimes one charge would set off another a considerable distance away. Other times a blast an inch away did nothing. The only sure way to detonate one charge with another was to make sure they were in physical contact. I learned this in demolition training when we spent an hour meticulously policing up scattered chunks of plastic explosive after another lieutenant decided he didn't need to bother taping the bars together.

  Corporal Anderson knew what was right. But, as he told us on the scene, Gudtfreund wouldn't listen to him. Anderson refused to throw in the second grenade, or allow any of his Marines to do it. So Gudtfreund threw it himself.

  The second grenade didn't detonate the dud. The blast just kicked it up and over the wall of the grenade house. And probably jarred the jammed spoon loose, so when the grenade landed in the midst of Staff Sergeant Meadows debriefing Sergeant Palermo's squad, it blew up.

  Unlike the Mark II pineapple of World War II, the M67 is shaped like a baseball, with a smooth steel body. The explosive charge is wrapped in steel wire, like piano wire, notched every fraction of an inch. This creates a uniform pattern of lethal fragments in a perfect circle. The wire and explosive are carefully designed so that everyone within 5 meters of the grenade becomes a casualty. But the fragments lose velocity quickly, so everyone progressively farther away is progressively safer.

  Which was why Sergeant Palermo's squad suffered 100% casualties, while 20 yards away from the blast all I felt was the rush of hot air going by.

  There would have been more dead except that the Marines had all been wearing helmets and flak jackets

  Since it was a spectacular it made the news, even a few seconds on CNN.

  We stood down from training during the investigation. If anyone needed a reminder on the nature of the profession we'd chosen and the price of mistakes, they got it.

  Once everything quieted down the Chaplain timidly crept down to our office to see if anyone needed any grief counseling. O'Brien politely brushed him off.

  I had no time for our Chaplain, a Baptist who'd joined the Navy because he couldn't hold a congregation. Other than battalion functions, we never saw him. He never once dropped by the company offices or the barracks to meet his flock, let alone go out to the field to get a feeling for the M
arines and what they did. And the combination of a kind of shifty, squinty expression and a permanently pasted-on salesman's smile didn't do much for him.

  So when he came to me I said, "Why should I be sad? None of my Marines got killed."

  He looked like he'd just received an invitation to a black mass. His smile faded but didn't disappear, and the eye with the squint started twitching. For some reason he didn't ask anyone else if they needed grief counseling. He just left, kind of fast.

  O'Brien's face slowly appeared from around his wall locker. "Oh, you fucker," he breathed. But he was smiling, so he knew I was just screwing with the padre, not disrespecting his dead.

  "Fine work, Mike," Milburn said. "Who's going to look after our spiritual needs now?"

  Eventually the Commanding General received the investigation report and made his determinations. Captain Dudley was relieved from command of Echo Company. Even if not physically present, officers are responsible for whatever happens or fails to happen in their commands. They can delegate their authority but never their responsibility. Dudley's Marine Corps career was over.

  So was Gudtfreund's, and there might still be a court-martial in his future. We all felt it was negligent homicide. And in today's military it was much more likely for a measly first lieutenant to get hung for something like that than, say, the captain of a sub who killed a bunch of Japanese sailors.

  We never saw Captain Dudley again. We heard that he tried to render fitness reports on all of us before he left, but Colonel Sweatman ripped them up right in front of him.

  So we got a new company commander, Captain Charles Zimmerman. It was kind of surprising to find that name attached to a North Carolina redneck, but life was full of surprises.

  The quarters were so close in his office that my armpits were sweating even though the air conditioning was roaring. I was breathing through my mouth to keep from gagging at the sickly sweet smell of all the chewing tobacco spit into empty soda cans. The sound was almost as bad; like cows being milked into metal pails. I think I was the only Marine infantry officer who didn't either drink coffee or dip snuff.