Read Online One to Count Cadence by James Crumley - Free Book Online
Authors: James Crumley
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No one likes to be a sneak and a tattletail to boot,” Morning said. “But I am sorry.”
“Forget it. And don’t tell me about the Chinese spy you keep in business because his mother’s sick. Don’t tell me.”
“If I don’t tell you, how will you know?”
“I don’t want to know. Anything.”
There was never any more trouble. I kept Morning on the higher echelon nets where the ops were more careful and on the training nets where the ops were sloppy and mistakes and violations came every sked. In spite of the smoothness of that problem, Morning always had the ability to get me mixed up in his crap. Never again, I said, walking back to my desk, Never again. But I was already holding my breath, waiting for the waves. (Morning would have said that my involvement with him was as much my fault as his, which is true. He was my fault. But I took care of that in Vietnam.)
The operating section of our building was contained on a single ground floor room, with most of the space taken up by electronic equipment and desks, but with a small area left open for the trick chief’s desk, coffee pot and weapons’ rack. The Detachment officers, as opposed to the company officers, a major, two captains and four lieutenants, had offices, for some never explained reason, underground, reached by an outside stairwell. They occupied these holes only in the daylight and seldom bothered with the actual operation of the Det unless an unusual problem arose. I quickly learned that work on the ground floor could proceed untroubled by the “Head Moles” as they were called. This peace was increased by a warning system installed in the air-conditioning unit by the Trick radio-repairman, Quinn. When a badge was inserted into the key slot which opened the front doors, the compressor coughed shyly. With this early warning system the men relaxed in a way unusual for enlisted men so near officers. My only real duty was to be sure that the Sked Chart was met and copied in all the bullshit sessions, the word games and general gold-bricking which made up the bulk of the hours. I settled that quickly: “Any op I catch missing skeds loses his pass for seven days, no questions asked.” I got everyone’s pass except Quinn’s the first two days, then signed the three-day passes for the Break as if I had forgotten. The Trick understood, but they weren’t my Trick yet.
The Trick and I seemed to work well in the beginning — more credit to them than to me. They were a good group. Only Quinn and Peterson had not been to college, which might have been unusual for the Army as a whole, but was about the average for the 721st. None of the men were draftees dislodged from their life plans, but all had enlisted, probably because their lives were already out of joint. Only Collins had finished college; the others had flunked out or quit. Any one of them might, and did, cause God knows what trouble in Town, but only Franklin would at Operations. He was an unhappy kid who had gone to MIT on a math scholarship, then been ejected for peeing in a main lounge on Mother’s Day. He never caused any real trouble because he, alone, thought my return to the Army a gallant gesture: a big, fat finger to the world. He liked that.
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
“Forget it. And don’t tell me about the Chinese spy you keep in business because his mother’s sick. Don’t tell me.”
“If I don’t tell you, how will you know?”
“I don’t want to know. Anything.”
There was never any more trouble. I kept Morning on the higher echelon nets where the ops were more careful and on the training nets where the ops were sloppy and mistakes and violations came every sked. In spite of the smoothness of that problem, Morning always had the ability to get me mixed up in his crap. Never again, I said, walking back to my desk, Never again. But I was already holding my breath, waiting for the waves. (Morning would have said that my involvement with him was as much my fault as his, which is true. He was my fault. But I took care of that in Vietnam.)
The operating section of our building was contained on a single ground floor room, with most of the space taken up by electronic equipment and desks, but with a small area left open for the trick chief’s desk, coffee pot and weapons’ rack. The Detachment officers, as opposed to the company officers, a major, two captains and four lieutenants, had offices, for some never explained reason, underground, reached by an outside stairwell. They occupied these holes only in the daylight and seldom bothered with the actual operation of the Det unless an unusual problem arose. I quickly learned that work on the ground floor could proceed untroubled by the “Head Moles” as they were called. This peace was increased by a warning system installed in the air-conditioning unit by the Trick radio-repairman, Quinn. When a badge was inserted into the key slot which opened the front doors, the compressor coughed shyly. With this early warning system the men relaxed in a way unusual for enlisted men so near officers. My only real duty was to be sure that the Sked Chart was met and copied in all the bullshit sessions, the word games and general gold-bricking which made up the bulk of the hours. I settled that quickly: “Any op I catch missing skeds loses his pass for seven days, no questions asked.” I got everyone’s pass except Quinn’s the first two days, then signed the three-day passes for the Break as if I had forgotten. The Trick understood, but they weren’t my Trick yet.
The Trick and I seemed to work well in the beginning — more credit to them than to me. They were a good group. Only Quinn and Peterson had not been to college, which might have been unusual for the Army as a whole, but was about the average for the 721st. None of the men were draftees dislodged from their life plans, but all had enlisted, probably because their lives were already out of joint. Only Collins had finished college; the others had flunked out or quit. Any one of them might, and did, cause God knows what trouble in Town, but only Franklin would at Operations. He was an unhappy kid who had gone to MIT on a math scholarship, then been ejected for peeing in a main lounge on Mother’s Day. He never caused any real trouble because he, alone, thought my return to the Army a gallant gesture: a big, fat finger to the world. He liked that.
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
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