by Tony Roberts
“Colonel.”
As Holland glared at Casey, Roosevelt stepped forward, eyeing the somnolent Keeble with interest, then he regarded Casey. Roosevelt had a large moustache and wore round-rimmed glasses. He was slightly fleshier than Wood. “Colonel Wood, if I may be so presumptive as to speak with this private?”
Wood looked at Roosevelt, then with a slight nod of the head concurred. “Be brief, please, Lieutenant-Colonel, we have plenty of men to see today.” With that he walked off, accompanied by an entourage of other officers. Sergeant Holland remained, glaring furiously at Casey while waving to the others to get Keeble up and functional.
“Private Long, is it?” Roosevelt said, surveying Casey closely, taking in his build, looks, demeanor and appearance.
“Sir.” Casey knew how to play this, ramrod straight, staring over the officer’s right shoulder into infinity.
“You’ve one helluva punch on you, laying out that soldier. I saw it as I came over.”
Casey said nothing; there wasn’t much to say, after all. He did wonder what Roosevelt was going to say, though.
“Like to tell me what led to it?”
“Sir. Private Keeble was mocking myself and Private Root. I decided to show him the error of his ways.”
“And do you always settle any such, ah, differences in this manner?”
“Only when the asshole deserves it, sir.” Casey decided he was sunk no matter what so he said what he thought.
Roosevelt’s lips twitched. “I see. You done some fighting before, I see, if your looks are anything to go by.”
“Sir. Done some work in the south-west. Also hunting and trapping.”
“The outdoor type. Know how to shoot, ride?”
“Both sir. And drink, fight, whore, play cards and kill.”
Roosevelt’s composure cracked and he grinned. “Excellent. You’re the type we need in the US Army, although I’d prefer it if you saved your, ah, pugilistic skills for the Spanish.”
“Consider it so, sir.”
Roosevelt chuckled and he turned to Holland. “Sergeant. Light punishment drill for Private Long. I want him to demonstrate how to ride, shoot and kill the enemy this afternoon.”
He put his hands behind his back and nodded at Casey. “That’ll do for now, Private.”
Casey threw up his best parade-ground salute, American-style, then turned and marched off. Roosevelt threw a careless salute in reply and eyed Holland. “Transfer Private Keeble to another troop and have him cleaning latrines. I don’t like trouble-makers here causing unrest with the other ranks. We’ve got a tough job coming up and we’ve gotta stick together as one, and not be fighting amongst ourselves.”
Holland saluted.
“So you got off, then?” Corrigan asked in surprise. “Thought you’d be draggin’ logs across the parade ground for that. The Lieutenant-Colonel must like you, Casey, that’s all I can say.”
“He liked my no-nonsense speak, Al.” He looked at The Kid. “You keep your nose out of trouble from now on or else I might bust it, got it?”
“Yeah, sure,” Billy nodded, intimidated by the strength Casey had demonstrated.
They were put through their paces that day with all the officers eager to see how the men shaped up. Whole groups of men rode around the parade ground, throwing up clods of earth and dust flew up, coating their uniforms. Those on punishment drill were equipped with shovels and got rid of the horse shit that was dropped with regular monotony. That included Billy and Keeble and both exchanged unfriendly looks. Keeble threw some shit over Billy when the chance came and Billy yelped in surprise and outrage. Keeble snickered. “Jus’ about your level, innit, Kid? Not got your mummy to protect you here. I’m gonna bury you in this stuff,” he promised, leering evilly at the young man.
Billy turned his back and carried his shovel-load over to the growing pile by the fence. As he threw it, he got a boot in the back and was sent head-first into the smelly pile. Keeble roared with laughter.
“Alright, Keeble,” the corporal in charge of the detail came up hurriedly, “get back! You’re on extra punishment for that.”
Keeble snickered some more. He didn’t care; as long as he got even with this little group, that was all he cared about. He’d make all three of their lives hell even if it cost him a place in the army.
Billy was helped up and told to clean up.
Casey was unaware of this as he was being put through his own kind of punishment duty, showing the entire camp how to ride, which he wasn’t brilliant at but managed to do his bit, and then shooting a target which he was much better at. Then running, lying down, shooting, getting up, running hard at a piece of sacking filled with hay to simulate a Spaniard and bayonetting it.
He was tired, dirty and hungry at the end of the day, and had to clean up before he was allowed to eat. It was then he discovered Keeble’s actions and decided it was time to sort this out once and for all. He’d faced these kind of people before and there was only one way of dealing with them. People who bullied others and just would not listen or learn had to be dealt with.
Permanently.
CHAPTER FOUR
Casey glanced out of the window for the twentieth time. He nodded to himself. It was time. It was night, the time to do the wicked deed. The curtain was allowed to drop back and the light of a single candle lit those ready to carry out what was necessary.
In his long life he’d met many like Keeble, people who had some kind of sociopathic problem, ones who just couldn’t help themselves but to pick on those they could and make their lives a misery, even to the point of death. People like Keeble could never learn, for they never listened, and lived to inflict pain and hurt on others for their own self-gratification.
Casey didn’t belong in the camp of those who wanted to ‘help’ those like Keeble; to him there was only one course of action to take, and that was to kill them, like a rabid dog. His belief was that if you allowed these kind of people to live and flourish, eventually they would grow so many and so powerful, protected by those who wanted to ‘help’, that they would one day overwhelm all others. The irony was, that those who wanted to ‘help’ could not stop these people by themselves and relied on people like Casey to hold them in check. Fuck that – he’d rather kill the bastards. Why waste time and effort on those who were so damned evil?
Keeble was in another troop now but he still went out of his way to persecute Root, and others he had identified as being easy victims, including some in his new troop. The stupid man had alienated so many now that it had been easy to get co-conspirators from the other barracks hut as well as his former comrades.
He turned to face his grinning comrades. In the middle was a clearly embarrassed Kid, made up to look like a cheap street trollop. Casey had got the idea from his time in the Caribbean when he’d been marooned by Blackbeard, and one of those with him had enticed a passing ship’s crew ashore by dressing up as a large-tittied wench. So the men had gathered together all the odds-and-sods to make Billy Root look like a woman of the night from a distance, or in the dark. Of course, lit up close in the illusion vanished, but they weren’t interested in any close-up inspection.
The Kid had been very reluctant to do it, until Keeble had beaten him up yet again and vowed the next time he’d cut his penis off as he wouldn’t need it anymore. Terror had overcome embarrassment. Casey had arranged the night and place with two of the men from H troop who were eager to get rid of the vile piece of work as soon as, and so they had spoken about this whore who visited the camp every night, seemingly oblivious of Keeble close by who ‘accidentally’ overheard them speak of her physical attributes.
Keeble vowed to sample the bitch himself and had threatened the two with physical harm unless he had first go that coming night, and they had bribed two guards on duty that evening to look the other way on things happening down by the store hut.
US property, true, but it was worth the sacrifice.
The plan was simple. Billy, armed with two bayone
ts under his cloak, was to pose as the prostitute and lure Keeble into the hut where he was to do the deed. Casey agreed with Keeble on one point; the Kid had to grow up and fight his own fights, not rely on others to do it for him, but that didn’t mean the lad was on his own. No, Casey would be close by, ready to slaughter Keeble if anything went wrong.
Billy was extremely nervous, but Casey spoke to him sternly, telling him that this was his fight, and if he wanted to come through it a stronger person, then he had to do this without anyone doing it in his place.
Keeble emerged from his barracks, peering around in the semi-darkness of the camp. The fences and gates were lit, as were the entrances of the barracks, but he slipped away from the doorway and into the darkness of the alleys in between the rows of barracks. The store hut was down by the far side of camp, away from the gates and barrack huts, and it was fortunate that the nearest oil lamp was running low on oil. The idiots hadn’t refilled it.
He saw a figure stood by the entrance to the hut as he sidled around the end of the last barracks and rubbed his hands together with anticipation. One guard was patrolling the fence in sight, so he waited until the man passed by, his back to him now, so he ran at a crouch towards the waiting figure.
Yeah, she was slim. Good, he hated fat cows. The only thing he insisted were huge tits. And this one had two really huge bumps. She bared them as she caught sight of him approaching. Jeez, the biggest he’d seen ever! This cow would be a right good screw. And fuck paying the bitch; he’d put a knife to her face and threaten to cut it up if she squealed. Heh, he’d done that to one stupid hooker in Denver some time back and now nobody would ever want to be with the scarred piece of meat. Heh.
She put her cloak back over her bare breasts as he began to close up and she pushed open the door and vanished inside. He ran to the door, wrenching it back open and slamming it shut. She was at the far end with her back to him.
“Hey, slut, get those tits out. Big daddy’s here, an’ I’m gonna show you just what it’s like to have a man.”
Billy turned, his hooded face still in shadow. He was almost wetting himself in fear, but his hands, beneath his cloak, were gripping the handles of the bayonets tightly. He was wearing a complex harness arrangement underneath, made up of a number of leather straps that might have looked great on a true hooker, but on him it just looked odd. But they held the bayonets and now he was ready to pull them free to take care of matters.
Keeble chuckled. “What’s the matter? Too scared of a real man? Look here, darling, at what you’re gonna get. And I’m gonna pay nothing.” He unfastened his trousers and dropped them.
The Kid momentarily forgot about what he was going to do, for his eyes bulged at the sight of Keeble’s manhood. God above… He gulped in fear. This man was big everywhere.
Keeble frowned. “C’mon, bitch, take it off and lie down, else I’m gonna put you on the ground and hump you till you can’t take any more. And no noise, or I’ll cut you up.”
Billy threw aside the cloak, both bayonets suddenly raised in the light of the single oil lamp. “Bastard,” he breathed.
Outside, Casey had just arrived and leaned an ear against the door. It would take him mere moments to rush in and help the youngster if needed. He rested one hand on the handle and listened.
Keeble gaped at the sight of the youngster standing before him, two blades gleaming, his torso adorned with a crazy set of leather harnesses and two bowls, painted white, strapped to his chest. Billy swung through the air but Keeble dodged backwards. Even so, the blade scored a cut down the big man’s chest and he yelped in pain and outrage. With his trousers down by his ankles he couldn’t move fast and the second blade came around to strike him through the head or throat. Survival kicked in.
One blurred right arm knocked the blade away from his vulnerable head and although the blade ran through his palm, Keeble now had the Kid close to him where his superior strength could be to his advantage.
His left fist rammed into the Kid’s gut and Billy gasped in pain and folded over, winded. Keeble slapped Billy over contemptuously and he wrenched the bayonet stuck through his palm out with one savage movement. “You bastard son of a whore,” he breathed. “Now I’m gonna use you like a whore. I ain’t fussy. I’m gonna smash your butt so goddamned hard you ain’t gonna be able to sit down for a fucking year.”
A hand closed around his left hand from behind and Keeble was spun around to see a grim-faced Casey. “Really, Keeble?” the scarred man said. “And how you gonna do that with your dick cut off?” Casey was all for using modern terminology and this was a relatively new word for the male organ, used particularly by the military.
Keeble snarled and went to wrench his hand free but it was caught in a vise-like grip, so he went to slam his palm against the big man’s face, but again he was caught. The wound in his palm was stinging like crazy and Casey holding his wrist wasn’t doing him any good.
Even as the thought of head-butting him came to his mind, Casey had beaten him to it. Keeble staggered back and before he could clear his vision, a fist smashed into his jaw, sending him bonelessly to the ground with an ungainly crash.
Casey leaned over and helped The Kid to his feet. “C’mon, kid,” he said softly, “go back to the barracks and get yourself cleaned up. You’ve done your bit. Leave the rest to me.”
Billy nodded, feeling sick. Keeble had hit him damned hard. He made his way unsteadily out, closing the door behind him.
Keeble groaned. His hand and chest were afire. He shook his head and glared up at Casey standing there, bayonet in one hand. “I’m gonna kill you,” he vowed.
Casey actually laughed. “Oh, you think so? Better people have tried for so, so long and all have failed. So a little dumb shithead like you isn’t going to succeed.”
Keeble tried to sweep Casey off his feet with both legs sweeping in a scything movement but the eternal mercenary stepped over it and then stamped down hard on one leg, breaking the tibia. The injured man gasped and bit through his lip in agony.
“You’re going to be the one who’s going to die, Keeble. You’re a sick, sick man who deserved to be put down and destroyed.”
“Fuck you, Long. I’m gonna cut you up so hard your ma ain’t gonna recognize you.” He struggled to get up, despite his broken leg. Casey kicked him hard in the throat, making the man crash out full-length on the floor.
Casey stood over him again, looking down at the broken body of the soldier. Keeble twisted his face into a mask of hatred. Casey nodded to himself; all that was there was a bestial depravity. Creatures like Keeble deserved no pity, no second chance. Those who tried to save things like this were fools, and they only prolonged the suffering animals like this would inflict on others.
“Say goodbye to life, you disgusting example of humanity.”
“Fuck you,” Keeble gasped.
Casey had the material for Keeble’s funeral pyre, and it would conceal the crime that was being committed. There would be those who would work hard to prosecute the scarred man for killing Keeble, ignoring the fact that Casey had done humanity, decency, and civilization a huge favor by ridding the world of such a filthy specimen.
One thrust of the bayonet was enough, through the heart, and then the blankets were piled up against the corpse and the oil lamp opened and the contents thrown over the pile of material. Then a lit match thrown on it and Casey was gone, shutting the door and hurrying to his barracks.
By the time he entered, relieved he was back, the fire was blazing away in the hut. With the flammable materials there, it was soon well alight and the fire brought guards running from all over the camp. Within moments the shell of the hut was burning, too. Root was there, now divested of the harnesses and bowls, and was dressed accordingly. He was still shaky, and sat on the edge of his bunk.
The others peered through the windows and commented on the fire that was spreading fast. Men piled out of all the barracks so they decided to join in the rubber-necking. Casey quickly wiped himsel
f down with a towel and joined the group, staring at Keeble’s final resting place. “Good riddance to a bad ‘un,” he said just loud enough for those around him to hear.
Officers arrived to get the men to try to extinguish the blaze, water being brought in relays of buckets to pour over the burning hut. A futile gesture, all knew, but the effort was made to save the equipment going up in the conflagration.
It was only the following day that Keeble was found to be missing. The rumor went around that he had deserted during the night when everyone had been distracted by the fire, and someone – Casey – even began the suggestion maybe Keeble began the fire himself to cause the distraction.
As the hut was totally destroyed and everything within turned to ash, the man’s remains were never found. Casey felt satisfied. A good deed done.
CHAPTER FIVE
There was an inquiry, inevitably, but the soldiers all played dumb and the burning down of the hut was blamed on the missing Keeble. Those involved from H Troop as well as E Troop knew, but they weren’t saying, either because they had hated Keeble and were glad the sonofabitch was dead, or they were wise to the fact if they did speak out then they’d get a world of shit from their colleagues.
Training went on but rumors now abounded that they were to shortly be sent by sea to Cuba. People had seen transport ships in the harbor and the officers were getting more and more animated on a daily basis. They were given intensive target practice and hard marching in the growing heat and humidity. Summer was upon them now and their uniforms were clearly unsuitable to tropical conditions.
The men grumbled about this and Casey knew they had a point. He had some idea of the conditions they’d be facing in Cuba, although he’d not been there for nearly four centuries, and wearing uniforms made for the harsh weather of the north and Great Plains wasn’t going to make their lives comfortable. No wonder their unit was made up of tough frontiersmen and those used to the warmer climates. The big test would be when the yellow fever struck. That wasn’t too long off and Casey guessed if the Spanish didn’t get them, then diseases would. It would have to be a quick campaign or else they’d end up like the British army in the Crimean War where for every 1,000 soldiers, they’d had something like 1,020 casualties. Casey wasn’t enthusiastic about dumb-ass wars fought by dumb-ass officers and the PBI, the Poor Bloody Infantry, as the British often coined themselves, got the worst of all worlds.