* * * * *
The telephone in the outer office rang several times before Titus
remembered he was without his secretary. He pressed a stud and took the
call on his line. He identified himself and after listening a long while
without comment, he spoke. "That's very good, general, two weeks will be
fine. You understand he must be commissioned as soon as possible,
perhaps at the end of basic training.... Of course I know it's unheard
of but it's got to be done. I realize you are not too happy about being
brought into this but someone on the General Staff is needed to pull the
necessary strings and the President assured me that we could depend on
your complete co-operation." Titus listened and when he spoke again a
trace of anger edged his voice. "I don't know why you are so hostile to
this project, general. If it succeeds, the benefit to the free world
will be immense. If not, all we stand to lose is one man, no equipment
to speak of; not even 'face' since it need not ever be made known. A far
cry, I must say, from the military, whose expensive Roman candles, when
they do manage to get off the ground, keep falling out of the sky and
denting Florida and New Mexico with depressing regularity. Good-by!"
Titus hung up and turned to Berry. "Now, my dear Berry, if you'll
withdraw your resignation we can go and have dinner and plot how we can
milk more funds from the university to refurbish the lab and keep
ourselves from getting fired in the process."
"My mind is made up, Titus, and all your cajoling will not get me to
change it."
"But Wims is going," Titus said, nodding toward the phone. "In two weeks
he will be in the Army."
Berry's face went white. "Heaven preserve us," he gasped.
"Really, my dear Berry, for a jolly, fat man you can be positively bleak
at times."
"Let's get the finest dinner we can buy," Berry said. "It may be one of
our last."
* * * * *
Private Dolliver Wims liked the Army but was unhappy because the Army
did not like him. After only two weeks of basic training his company
shunned him, his noncoms hated him and his officers, in order to reduce
the wear and tear on their sanity often pretended he did not exist. From
time to time they faced reality long enough to attempt to have him
transferred but regimental headquarters, suspicious of anything that
emanated from the "Jonah" company, ignored their pleas. Now in his third
week of basic, Wims sat on the front bench in the barrack classroom, an
island unto himself. His company, now twenty-two per cent below
strength, and the survivors of his platoon, some newly returned from the
hospital, were seating themselves so distant from him that the sergeants
were threatening to report the company AWOL if they didn't move closer
to the lieutenant-instructor.
The lieutenant watched the sullen company reluctantly coagulating before
him and inquired facetiously of the platoon sergeant, "Prisoners of
war?"
"No such luck," the sergeant replied grimly.
"Be seated, men," the lieutenant addressed the company. Misinterpreting
the resentment of the recruits, he decided a bit of a pep talk was in
order. "I know a lot of you are wondering why you're in the Army in the
first place, and secondly, why you should be afflicted with the
infantry. As civilians you've probably heard so much about the modern
pentomic army with its electronic and atomic weapons and all the yak
about pushbutton warfare, you figure the infantry is something that
should be in the history books with the cavalry. O.K., so let's look at
the facts. In the forty-five years since World War II, there've been
almost as many localized, 'brush fire' wars as the one now going on in
Burma. Sure, there's still a limited use of tactical atomic weapons, but
it's still the infantry that has to go in and do the winning. So far
nobody wants to try for a knockout and go _whoosh_ with the ICBM. So no
matter how many wheels or rotors they hang on it, it is still the
infantry, still the Queen of Battles and you should be proud to be a
part of it."
With the exception of one recruit sitting alone on the front bench and
leaning forward with eager interest, the lieutenant observed that his
captive audience was utterly unimpressed with his stirring little
"thought for today." He knew he could find more _esprit de corps_ in a
chain gang. He shrugged and launched his scheduled lecture.
"Because of the pentomic army's small, mobile and self-sufficient battle
groups and the very fluid nature of modern warfare the frequency of
units being surrounded, cut off and subsequently captured is very high.
As early as thirty years ago, in the Laotian War, the number of
prisoners taken by all sides was becoming increasingly unmanageable and
so the present system of prisoner exchange was evolved. At the end of
every month an exchange is made; enlisted men, man for man; officers,
rank for rank. This is an advantage for our side since, generally,
except for the topmost ranks, no man is in enemy hands over thirty days.
This makes any attempts to brainwash the enlisted men impracticable and
a great deal of pressure is thereby removed.
"So, if you're taken prisoner, you have really nothing to worry about.
Just keep your mouth shut and sit it out till the end of the month. The
only information you're required to give is your name, rank and serial
number. There are no exceptions. Don't try to outsmart your interrogator
by giving false information. They'll peg you right away and easily trick
you into saying more than you intend. Now you'll see a film which will
show you the right and wrong way to handle yourself during an
interrogation and a lot of the gimmicks they're liable to throw at you
in order to trick you into shooting off your mouth." The isolated and
unnaturally attentive Wims again caught the lieutenant's eye. "You
there!" he said, pointing to Wims, "come help me set up this screen."
Wims rose to his feet and one of the platoon sergeants leaped forward.
"I'll help you, sir. Wims, sit down."
"I asked this man to help me, sergeant."
"But sir--"
Another platoon sergeant and a corporal were already on the platform.
They had seized the stand and were unfolding it. The lieutenant spun
around. "What are you _doing_?"
"We're helping, sir," the sergeant said.
"Well, cut it out. You noncoms are too officious and it's unnatural. It
makes me nervous."
Wims was now on the platform and had taken hold of the screen cylinder.
One of the corporals was tugging at the other end, trying to get it away
from him.
"Let go of that screen," the lieutenant roared at the corporal. Wims,
misunderstanding, released the cylinder a fraction of a second before
the corporal did and the corporal went tumbling backwards, knocking the
lieutenant off the platform and demolishing the loud-speaker.
The top sergeant raced outside and found one of the company lieutenants.
"Sir, you'd better move the company out of the building right away!"
"Why?"
"It's Wims. He's being helpful again."
The lieutenant paled and dashed inside. He took no time to determine the
specific nature of the commotion which was shaking the building. He
managed to evacuate the company in time to prevent serious casualties
when the structure collapsed.
[Illustration]
* * * * *
Captain Aronsen, the company commander, faced two of his lieutenants.
"You're not telling me anything new," he said wearily. "I know all about
Wims. I've tried everything to get him discharged, honorably and
otherwise. I've spent a lot of time setting things up so he could hardly
help but foul up and we could bounce him, but what happens? Everybody
else fouls up and he stays clean. And as if that isn't enough to worry
about, headquarters has notified me that General Harmon B. Fyfe of the
General Staff will come down from Washington tomorrow for a tour of
this post. He'll visit the bivouac area and observe the tactical
exercises. As you know, gentlemen, tomorrow is the final day of the
two-week bivouac for this company which completes their sixteen-week
basic training program. We'll have the usual company combat exercise
which will involve the attack, capture and defense against counterattack
of Hill Ninety-three."
"The same as always," said one of the lieutenants.
"It won't be the same as always!" the captain said, banging his fist on
his desk. "The area of action, the battle plan may be the same but this
time we've got General Fyfe as an observer and Dolliver Wims as a
participant and, if I can manage to squeeze the day successfully past
that Scylla and Charybdis, I'll promise not to devour any more second
lieutenants between meals."
"Sir," offered one of the lieutenants, "why don't we put Wims in the
hospital just for tomorrow. It would be simple to arrange--say, an upset
stomach."
The captain looked sadly at his junior officer. "It's the only hospital
we have," he said. "Besides, I have a better idea. I'm detaching Wims
from his platoon and will keep him with me at the company command post
as a messenger and I'll shoot the first man who attempts to use him as a
messenger or anything else."
"Hah! No need to worry about that, sir. Wims may have us a little shook
up but he hasn't flipped us yet."
"I hope we can all say that when tomorrow ends," the captain said
fervently.
* * * * *
The company command post had been set up under a cluster of dispirited
pines obviously suffering from tired sap but in spite of the ragged
shade they provided against the mild, mid-morning sun, Captain Aronsen
was perspiring excessively and becoming increasingly unsettled. He
glanced uneasily over at the somewhat planetary bulk of General Fyfe
surrounded by his satellite colonels and other aides, and muttered to
his lieutenant, "If Old Brassbottom came down here to observe the
exercise, then why the devil doesn't he go over to the hill and observe
instead of hanging around here like a sword of Demosthenes?"
"I think you mean Damocles, captain," the lieutenant corrected.
"Demosthenes was the orator."
Aronsen looked sourly at the lieutenant. "I know what I'm talking about.
Fyfe has only to say the word and off come our heads."
The lieutenant lowered his voice. "I don't like the way he keeps looking
at Wims. Do you think he's heard about him?"
"In Washington?"
"You know how rumors travel in the Army."
"Rumors, yes," the captain said, "but the truth can't even limp out of
the orderly room." He wiped his brow and shot a venomous glance at Wims.
He said to the lieutenant, "I don't like Wims sitting there in full
view of the general. Go tell him to take his comic book and sit on the
other side of the tree."
At that moment one of the young trainees stumbled into the headquarters
area bleeding profusely from a deep gash on his cheek. Between
lung-tearing gasps he told how the machine gun, intended to serve as the
base of fire for the attacking platoons, had been captured by a Red
patrol before it could be set up. They were being led off under the
supervision of a referee when he tumbled into a ravine and in the
confusion made good his escape.
"Get the jeep and rush this man to the hospital," the captain instructed
the lieutenant.
"What about the attack?" the lieutenant inquired. "Someone will have to
get word to the forward platoons to hold up until we can move up a new
gun."
"I'll send a messenger."
"But they're all out."
"One of them is bound to return soon. If not, I'll--"
"What is the matter with that man sulking behind that tree?" boomed
General Fyfe who had been listening since the trainee had blurted his
story.
The lieutenant snatched the bleeding recruit's arm and bolted for the
jeep.
"Hey, lieutenant, take it easy," the trainee complained, "you're pulling
my arm off!"
Ignoring him, the lieutenant was absorbed in desperate calculation. "The
base hospital is about twelve miles from here," he muttered as they ran.
"We should be safe enough there."
"But, general," the captain was protesting, "that man is the company
snafu. He means well but he was designed by nature to foul things up."
"I won't buy that, captain," the general said forcefully. "If a man has
the right attitude and still doesn't measure up then it's the fault of
the people who are training him." There was a mark of menace in the
general's voice as he said, "Do you read me?"
"Like the handwriting on the wall," the captain said resignedly. He
glanced at the tree behind which, he knew, doom sat reading a comic
book.
"Give the man a chance to redeem himself and I'm certain he'll come
through with flying colors. I'll give you the opportunity to prove it to
yourself." The general turned and bellowed at the tree, "Soldier! You!
Private Wims! Come over here!"
* * * * *
Wims scurried over to the general and snapped a salute. The general
flicked his hand in return. "Wims, your commanding officer has an
important mission for you."
Wims turned to his captain, his face alight. He braced and saluted
smartly.
"Wims," the captain said, "I want you to take a message to the
lieutenant in command of the first, third and fourth platoons now in the
jump-off area. Do you understand so far?" Wims nodded. "Tell the
lieutenant there's been a delay in the attack plan. He's not to move out
until he sees a white signal flare fired from the spur of woods on his
left. Have you got that?"