William Christie 03 - The Blood We Shed Page 9

  "I think it's fair to say, sir," Staff Sergeant Cruz replied, "that Lieutenant Ske dances to the beat of his own drummer."

  The day was uneventful, which gave me a lot of time to think about Sergeant Harlin. I'd reviewed his record on Friday, hoping it would give some clue to his difficulties.

  It did. Sergeant Harlin had made it to corporal on his first enlistment and then his career stalled. He'd gotten out of the Corps and joined a Marine Reserve unit. He picked up sergeant in the Reserves and then came right back on active duty as a sergeant.

  It explained how someone who looked so good in the abstract and so poor in the execution came to make sergeant. But I still didn't know what to do about him.

  During my rounds I stopped off to visit Sergeant Turner, who had our company duty. That's right, sergeant. When Captain Zimmerman didn't want him promoted, that was when I stopped being a completely good boy. The popular perception of Marines is that we attack everything head-on, but we're actually pretty sneaky.

  My first move was taking the battalion adjutant to lunch. And Dave Peters said, "Your Corporal must be able to make the cutting score."

  Every month Marine Headquarters published a cutting score for every occupational specialty, PFC to sergeant. Every enlisted Marine had a composite score, which was a weird mathematical formula of the rifle qualification, physical fitness test, correspondence test scores, time in service, etc. If the composite score equaled or exceeded the cutting score, the Marine got promoted automatically unless he or she was specifically not recommended. Totally nonsensical, but that was the system.

  "By about a thousand points," I replied.

  "Okay, then they're using his disciplinary record to justify holding it up." He gave the matter some thought. "You need to go see the Career Planner."

  "The Career Planner?" I said. Meaning is that the best you can do?

  He nodded. "Go see Staff Sergeant Clark."

  And it turned out that Staff Sergeant Clark knew all about my predicament. "I was coming to see you, sir. If Corporal Turner isn't promoted to sergeant I have to send a message to Headquarters Marine Corps explaining why."

  For once the automatic promotion system worked in a lieutenant's favor. Once Staff Sergeant Clark and I made sure battalion heard about it, and the possibility they might get in trouble with Headquarters, everything happened so fast we had a promotion formation after morning PT, with everyone still in T-shirts, shorts, and running shoes.

  When we all gathered around to congratulate Sergeant Turner, Jimmy Nichols shook his hand and exclaimed, "Looks like all my hard work paid off."

  Where he found his chutzpah I have no idea.

  For me shaking Sergeant Turner's hand, seeing the look on his face, and hearing him say, "I'm back, sir," was one of the high points of my life, not just my career.

  At about 2100 hours the phone rang. Staff Sergeant Cruz was looking at me—he'd heard about my last duty. I breathed an, "Oh, shit," and picked it up. "Officer of the Day, Lieutenant Galway speaking, may I help you sir?"

  It was Frank Milburn. "Mike, I'm in trouble. I got picked up for DWI. You gotta help me."

  Not good news. "Well, I'm standing duty, Frank." Meaning that just because I had a pistol didn't mean I'd be busting him out of jail. "What can I do?"

  "Call Jack. He'll figure something out."

  "Okay Frank, take it easy." I hung up the phone with an inkling that a hosing was in progress. Otherwise Milburn would have called O'Brien directly.

  I called O'Brien, who sounded like he had a few beers in him. As I described the situation at least two other phones clicked on. Milburn, Herkimer, Nichols, and O'Brien all began making the whirring sounds of a hooked fish taking out line. There was a lot of cackling, I told them all to go fuck themselves, they wished me good luck, and we hung up.

  I counted my blessings. At least they weren't running around trying to stage some kind of phony incident.

  So when the phone rang again at 2200 I thought it was another prank call. It seemed too early for a real emergency.

  But the real voice of the Golf Company Duty NCO said, "Sir, three Marines just beat up a pizza delivery man."

  Jeez. "Three Golf Marines just beat up a pizza delivery guy," I told Staff Sergeant Cruz. "Call the MP's and have them get someone over to the barracks fast."

  "Shit hot, this is great," he said happily. Admin Marines were usually somewhat bookish types; they tended not to run amok the way grunts did.

  Yeah, great, I said to myself as I sprinted over to the barracks.

  I stuck my head in the Duty NCO office. The pizza guy was sitting down, bent over and holding his head.

  "What room?" I said. There was no answer. "What room!" I shouted.

  "Three seventeen, three seventeen," he moaned.

  I charged up the stairs, the Beretta in my hand. I turned the corner onto the third floor walkway just as three Marines were leaving a room in a really big hurry.

  "FREEZE!" I shouted. I advanced on them fast, pistol out in front, barking out orders. "Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Face down! Hands behind your head!"

  When they did the last it was all over. The trick was to move fast, achieve control, and make them think they were going to get shot if they didn't do exactly what the crazy son of bitch with the pistol was yelling at them. By the time they realized that wasn't such a good idea it was too late.

  Keeping them covered with the pistol, I shouted, "Firewatch!" If they were stupid enough to assault a pizza delivery man, they were stupid enough to try to get up and run, leaving me with the choice of shooting them or losing them. Once again the Colonel would be really pissed if either happened. "Firewatch!"

  One of them moved his head to whisper something to the other, and I was all over him. "Shut up. Shut the fuck up. You so much as twitch and I'll put one in your spine and you can roll around in a wheelchair for the rest of your life." That quieted them down. The firewatch finally ran up. "Yes, sir."

  "Go below and keep an eye out for the MP's," I ordered. "Bring them up here. Make sure they know the guy with the pistol is the OD."

  "Yes, sir." He pounded down the stairs.

  That would be all I'd need, getting shot by a couple of trigger-happy MP's.

  I didn't have long to wait. The firewatch returned with first one MP, then another, who put the bracelets on my prisoners and hauled them away.

  Then, as always, it was a matter of reconstructing the incident and getting it down on paper.

  The three Marines in question had been hanging out watching TV, dead broke and hungry. Then the brains of the group got the idea to order a pizza and give the number of the empty room next door. Funny thing about teenagers and groups. With two a dopey idea only had a fair chance of being adopted. Three or more and stupidity was a done deal.

  When the pizza delivery man showed up with their pie, the three sprang out of the darkness and tried to relieve him of it. He fought back, and they thumped him pretty good. For the piece de resistance someone grabbed his wallet.

  Then they proceeded to set the stupid bar a couple of pegs higher. Yes, this was possible. Leaving the delivery guy stunned on the walkway, they actually took the pizza into their room and started to chow down on it. Then someone finally grasped the fact that they'd committed enough crime to get themselves into Leavenworth and maybe they ought to blow town. Which was when I showed up.

  When I got back to the headquarters building Staff Sergeant Cruz was beside himself. "This is so fucking great," he kept repeating. "This is really great."

  I called Major Thom and, as usual, had to talk to the XO's wife first. Why couldn't these bastards put the phone on their side of the bed? No one was going to be calling their wives at zero dark thirty in the morning.

  His first words to me were, "What happened this time?" Which struck me as more than a little unfair, as if I was the mastermind behind these incidents.

  I told him; all he wanted to know was that it had been handled. I told him it was handled; h
e hung up. I managed to get some sleep, and dreamed of my Friday the 13th luck.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I've got a pretty good idea how they must feel on Super Bowl Sunday, because everyone's nerves were pretty tight on MCCRES Monday. We were stepping off at 1500, so we had the whole morning and most of the afternoon to deal with the tension.

  Every element of the battalion from platoon on up would have an evaluator tagging along, all the counterpart officers from the 1st battalion of our regiment armed with identifying white tape around their covers, the MCCRES standards, and very sharp pencils to note every one we didn't meet. So my evaluator would be the 2nd platoon commander of Alpha Company. The same battalion would be the aggressor force against us, led by their executive officers and Staff NCO's.

  No one was puking in their wastebasket, but punting a MCCRES didn't exactly enhance an officer's career prospects.

  The day didn't start off well. At morning formation I noticed a couple of missing faces. "Where's Peterson?" I asked Staff Sergeant Frederick.

  "UA, sir."

  "Terrific." Though if I'd been thinking clearly I would have concluded that not having Lance Corporal Peterson around for the MCCRES was a definite plus. He was the platoon problem child, always in trouble. And everything you did to try and reform him only made it worse. It was amazing how many little kids in this world only got attention when they acted up. By the time they were teenagers their behavior was hard-wired.

  "What about Westgate?" Sergeant Harlin's 1st squad was missing its third fire team leader.

  My question brought the Staff Sergeant up short. "I don't know, sir." And he didn't like not knowing.

  Sergeant Harlin wasn't going on the MCCRES because the company had been granted an incredible three slots to Squad Leader School and I'd gotten two because I had fewer school-trained NCO's than the other platoons. Also attending was Sergeant Eberhardt, who'd just reported in. Now-Corporal Asuego was leading 1st squad and Lance Corporal Reilly 3rd squad. I wasn't happy about having two inexperienced squad leaders for a MCCRES, but I couldn't pass up the school billets.

  Sergeant Harlin hadn't left for the day's classes yet, so the Staff Sergeant and I made a beeline for him. "Where's Lance Corporal Westgate?" I asked.

  "I excused him from formation, sir."

  My radar warning system started warbling. "I didn't ask you that. I asked you where he was. Fair warning, Sergeant Harlin—jerking me around is just going to make me angry."

  "Listen to the Lieutenant, Crazy," Staff Sergeant Frederick advised. He called all the Marines "Crazy." Except me. So far.

  Sergeant Harlin quickly weighed his options, took a deep breath, and said, "He's in his room, sir."

  Westgate was lying on his rack, in his civilian clothes, smelling like he'd been rolled home inside a beer keg. I shook him but there was no response. I swear at first I thought he was dead. I grabbed his wrist but there was a pulse. "Get Doc Bob in here, fast," I ordered. Westgate wasn't just unconscious, he was almost comatose.

  Doc Bob ran in with his Unit-1 bag. He flashed his light in West-gate's pupils, which fortunately were equal and reactive. "I'll go for a stretcher, sir. We need to get him to sickbay and have Doctor Patel check him out."

  The Doc rushed off. Staff Sergeant Frederick stayed with Westgate, and I took Sergeant Harlin outside. "How did he get back here?" I said.

  "Someone in a car dumped him out, sir."

  "And you didn't tell anyone about this?"

  "No, sir."

  "You were covering for him because you didn't want him to get in trouble, maybe lose his fire team?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Just taking care of your troops. Let me ask you something, Sergeant Harlin. What if, while Westgate was lying there unconscious, he puked, choked on his vomit, and died?"

  A look of surprise flashed across his face.

  "Didn't think of that, did you?" I said. "Is that what you'd tell his parents? "Sorry, I didn't think about that?" You know what, Sergeant Harlin? I'm going to have that tattooed across your chest. I DIDN'T FUCKING THINK!" I threw up both hands. "Go away, Sergeant Harlin. Go to Squad Leader's School. Try to learn something."

  They took Westgate to sickbay and plugged an IV into him. Doc Patel, the battalion surgeon, told me he had never seen a human being that intoxicated. Neither had I for that matter, and I thought my experience in that field was pretty comprehensive. Westgate was still out of it, but otherwise all right. They'd keep him under observation.

  Every lieutenant absolutely hates having to go in and tell his company commander something negative about his platoon. Captain Z was no Captain Dudley, but I still caught myself trying to read his face to see where I stood. And I felt ashamed when he calmly told me to keep him informed.

  Peterson turned up around mid-morning. He was escorted to the office by Staff Sergeant Frederick and ordered to lock himself up at the position of attention in front of my desk.

  "All right, Peterson," I said. "Let's hear it." I didn't chew ass without hearing the Marine's story first. And I gave points for a good one, even if it was total bullshit.

  But Peterson didn't explain to me why he was absent without authorization. Instead he said, "I'm being picked on, sir. It's not fair. Everyone else gets breaks but me."

  Peterson was the catalyst behind my theory that your attitude is always inversely proportional to your capabilities. "You're right, Peterson, we pick on you. Why? Because you don't do anything unless we pick on you. You're right, we don't give you breaks. What have you ever done to rate one? Have you ever done your job without being made to, let alone helped anyone else do theirs? Have you ever contributed anything besides a lot of bitching and backtalk? You need breaks because you're always in trouble. Guess what? You don't get breaks because you're always in trouble."

  "I don't get any breaks because I'm African-American, sir."

  I glanced over at Staff Sergeant Frederick. He was about to blow. But the irony was so rich that, rather than be enraged or outraged, I was just curious as to what I might hear next. "So it's racial bias?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Now you've got me confused, Peterson. Your fire team leader is African-American. So is your squad leader. And the platoon sergeant. They're the ones who keep bringing you in here." Then my inner Grinch compelled me to say, "So what are they—Uncle Tom's working for The Man?"

  I think Peterson finally woke up and caught the explosive vibe coming off Staff Sergeant Frederick, because he didn't say anything. But we both could tell what he was thinking, and as they say in the Marine Corps silence is consent.

  "Congratulations, Peterson," I said. "Great work destroying what little goodwill you had left around here. Here's a little tip for you. If one person calls you an asshole, it might be racism. If everyone thinks you're an asshole—you're an asshole. Dismissed."

  He left the office with Staff Sergeant Frederick so hard on his heels they were practically riding piggyback.

  After lunch I sought out Doc Bob. "Is someone going to stay back with Westgate?" I knew the whole medical section would be going out on the MCCRES.

  "No, sir."

  "Is he still unconscious?"

  "Yes, sir."

  That brought me right over to sickbay to see Doc Patel. He was a Navy lieutenant, same rank as a Marine captain. But unlike a Marine captain, a doctor was handed the rank like the charm in a box of Crackerjacks. "Excuse me, sir," I said. "With everyone in the battalion going to the field, doesn't Westgate need to go to the Naval Hospital?"

  He was very abrupt; they were rushing about packing their equipment into the Humvees. "That will not be necessary."

  "But he's unconscious, sir."

  "Lieutenant Galway, I have examined him, and I am telling you that he will be all right. Now, we are very busy."

  "I'm sure he's going to be all right, sir. But I'm worried about what might happen. Suppose he vomited and aspirated it?"

  "That will not happen. Now, if you will excuse me."

  "I'm
sorry, sir. I'm sure you're right. But if something did happen to Westgate while he was all alone here, or in his room, we'd both be responsible. And I think we'd both have a hard time living with that."

  "Now, listen to me please, Lieutenant...."

  "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't leave knowing we made the wrong decision."

  "You mean you're not going to leave."

  "No, sir."

  "All right, all right." He turned to one of the corpsmen who were busy packing but had stayed close enough to hear everything. "Take him to the hospital in the ambulance." One of the Humvee ambulances was parked outside. "I will call to have him admitted." He turned back to me with a gesture of, are we done now?

  "Thank you very much, sir."

  Every MCCRES began with a 40 kilometer or 24 mile hump that had to be made in under eight hours with no more than 3% of the troops falling out. Since Captain Zimmerman took over Echo Company we'd been training hard and realistic. Humping the same way too, a realistic combat equipment load and increased distance each time.

  Which didn't mean squat when Marines were still arriving to fill out the unit. We lost one of my new PFC's, named Thomas, but he was thoughtful enough to go down from the heat just as we rolled into a break. Doc Bob stripped off Thomas's gear and blouse, grabbed a jerrican of water from the company Humvee, and emptied it over the kid's head to bring down his body temperature.

  Thomas was moist with sweat and, though disoriented, still conscious. Doc Bob had the situation well in hand, so I shot some photos with the disposable camera I'd started carrying around.

  "That's fucked up, sir," I heard from behind me.

  The rest of the platoon showed zero sympathy. A heat casualty was regarded as a self-inflicted wound.

  "I told the stupid shit to keep drinking, sir," said Lance Corporal Reilly.

  "You want us to piss on his head, sir?" a couple of Marines asked, cracking everyone else up. It was the last resort if you didn't have water to spare. A heat casualty's temperature was always over 100°, while urine was 98.6°.

  "Yeah, sir, it'll make a great picture."