Hell, so was he. His wound would take cutting and sewing. Shooter wondered vaguely what had happened to his amputated toe. He doubted he would miss it. If a Marine had to lose an appendage, a small toe couldn’t be beaten.
A small toe? Shooter expected he would be embarrassed to be awarded a purple heart for such a wound.
Corporal Galloway did not see Doc Dyer for nearly a year. When his chest surgery healed, Dyer was discharged from the Navy. By the time he touched base with Shooter, he was enrolled in graduate school and was back on his educational track.
Dyer had fond memories of Maggie’s Drawers, Stone Bay’s enlisted club named after the red flag flown denoting a complete miss of the target, so Shooter took Mister Dyer out to the club to enjoy real Marine Corps atmosphere.
Dyer asked, “How’s your toe?”
Shooter pretended to scratch his head. “I was going to ask you, Doc. The last time I saw my toe you were holding it up and coughing on it.”
Dyer snickered. “I mean your foot, Galloway.”
“Perfect, Doc. I can hardly tell the difference.” Shooter grinned. “When I get to heaven I’m going to suggest building humans without that toe. We don’t climb trees anymore, and it isn’t needed.”
Dyer spoke seriously. “You didn’t get any kind of decoration for that battle we had, did you, Shooter?”
“The Corps doesn’t give out many medals for just doing your job, Doc. They have to give Purple Hearts, but that is about it.”
Galloway smiled, “I have been promoted to Corporal, Doc. Getting my toe shot off probably helped.”
Dyer shook his head. “I got decorated, and I barely had my kit open.”
“Be glad, Doc. It’ll look good on your résumé.”
Galloway smiled again, “And, hey, Doc, I kept the sword. What more could a Marine want?”
Dyer stayed serious. “Look, Shooter. I know I’ll get tied down with my schooling, and I’ll likely lose track of you off and on, but you remember I am out there. I haven’t forgotten our talks, and I haven’t forgotten about The Notch. We’ll walk there yet, Buddy.”
Shooter said, “Well, it won’t be the same, Doc. I’m going to start logging off the place. Too many trees in there.”
Doc Dyer said, “Yeah, that’ll be the day. Galloway.
“Anyway, I’m planning on looking closer at that county and your old school. You weave a comforting picture, Shooter. I’d like to live in a place where I could hunt and fish and have guns hung on the walls.
“You’d have to commute to Harrisburg to earn a living, Doc. For most people, there’s no money up in them-thar-hills. Pretty, but no union wages.
“But Doc, you come anytime, and I’ll have a place for you to hunt and fish as long as you can stand it.
“I haven‘t forgotten you in that trench with a picked-up AK47 ready to fight the hell out of Iraqis.
“You’re a man to ride the river with, Doc.”
Shooter smiled, “I got that line out of a paperback western I found in Uncle Mop’s cabin. How did you like it, Doc?”
Chapter 15
Jacksonville, North Carolina
1993
Sergeant Galloway was again leaning close over Tiny’s shoulder watching the gunsmith work. His attention was focused on bedding a rifle using Devcon titanium, and that material truly demanded special skills and complete concentration.
Lieutenant Colonel N.A. Rock, USMC (retired) sighed in pretended exasperation. He said, “Galloway, follow me,” and led the way from the shop into his office.
The Colonel liked Gabriel Galloway. During the Gulf War, Galloway had served in Rock’s old outfit, Bravo Company, 1st BN, 2nd Marines, and Shooter Galloway had done a hell of a job, which was why he had made Buck Sergeant in his first hitch.
Now Galloway was a sniper instructor at the Stone Bay School, and Rock liked that just about as much—which allowed Sergeant Galloway to impose on Rock’s good nature and to breathe on Tiny’s neck while the talented former 2112 built the finest sniper rifles in the world.
Rock waved Galloway to a chair and asked, “Anything interesting happening out at the school?”
“Yes, Sir. Staff Sergeant Morris is starting a Scouting course. No sniping involved. The idea will be to teach Marines how to be scouts and observers. They will get a lot of land navigation and even some man-tracking.”
“Well, Morris is The Man. He knows those subjects. You going to take the course, Galloway?”
“No, Sir. I’ve been working with Sergeant Morris, and I’ll be teaching some of the land navigation.”
The Colonel raised an eyebrow, “Where’ll you take ‘em, Galloway? Probably to Maggie’s Drawers.”
Most Camp Lejeune Marines knew Stone Bay’s enlisted club. Shooter said, “That’ll be a required stop coming back, Colonel.”
Rock asked, “What’ll it take to keep you from laying all over Cocur or Tiny while they are working, Galloway? Cocur already does most of his work at home—probably because of you.” The Colonel’s smile belied his serious tones.
“You’re costing me money, Sergeant. They spend more time explaining to you than they do making guns. Those rifles probably won’t group inside a five-gallon bucket at 200 yards.”
Galloway grinned. “Just two days ago, I saw you and Sergeant Allen shooting three inch spotters at six hundred yards one after another, Colonel.”
Lieutenant Colonel Rock was a Double Distinguished Shooter, and he liked to flop down beside one of the sniper instructors and show the young guys how it should be done.
The fact that Rock was now retired seemed little noted—at Camp Lejeune.
Quantico Marine Base was another matter.
Colonel N.A. Rock was producing sniper rifles that were a massive step better than the Corps’ vaunted M40A1 rifles, and a small clique of civilians and non-deployable Marines seemed to feel themselves in competition with Rock’s rifles. They ate their livers over every accolade the Colonel’s rifles received.
Rock was more amused than irritated by the intensity of the clique’s third-party insults and sneers. Rock sought the best for the Corps and tried to introduce his successful improvements to the 2112 Marine gunsmiths, but Quantico turned a deaf ear. It rankled that the Corps would not step up and adopt some of the more obvious modifications that would improve the M40A1.
The Colonel switched subjects. “When do you reenlist, Galloway?”
The Sergeant shifted a bit self-consciously in his chair. “I get out in two months, Colonel, but I’m not reenlisting.”
Startled, Rock held hot words. Then stated, “I thought you were aiming for Gunnery Sergeant? Hell, I had you figured for a lifer, Galloway.”
Shooter sighed. “I was, Colonel. That had been my plan since grammar school.”
Gabriel shrugged. “What I want to be is a Gunnery Sergeant that is involved in sniping full time, but I’ve noted that there are only a few who manage that. Even Gunny Hathcock got shipped off to Spain. Others get booted out into recruiting, or end up as Company First Sergeants. There isn’t a sniping career field, and most officers don’t know about or give a damn about sniping. I doubt there ever will be permanent billets within sniping. If I can’t serve as a sniper or sniper instructor, I don’t care to stick around. So, I’ve got another plan.”
Colonel Rock swallowed the bad taste. Galloway had it right, and the Corps lost a steady string of good Marines because sniping is what they wanted, and there was no way to stay in that field as rank increased.
Rock studied the young Sergeant and thought Galloway had something he wanted to say.
Rock asked, “So, what are you going to do?”
Shooter had his answer ready. It was pithy, nearly all-inclusive, and entirely practical.
“You knew Doc Dyer, didn’t you, Colonel?”
“I met him when you dragged him in to see how good guns were made. He’s out, too, isn’t he?”
“Yes sir, Doc is back in medical school, but it was his talking that got me to thi
nking about something other than making Gunny.”
“A curse upon him, then.”
Shooter grinned. “Doc talked a lot about looking to the future, making sure you were set for life financially, having insurance, and planning long. Dyer’s family has a lot of money, and they drummed that kind of stuff into him.
“Doc pointed out that it’s hard to find an occupation that a man will enjoy his whole life. Ideas change and abilities grow or collapse. Past twenty years of service, not many enlisted Marines can run the miles or do the pushups, and it appears to me that even fewer still want to do the physical stuff that they loved in earlier years.
“So, I’ve been working on a plan that I think will get me positioned for later years when I don’t want to lie behind a rifle as much, or even worse, when I can’t see clearly, or run hard or sleep comfortably in the field.”
Rock nodded, “You‘re old enough to be thinking about those things, and believe me, Galloway, those slower times will come faster than you will believe.”
Rock sighed, “My grandfather told me that the worse time in life was when an athletic man got too slow for the young guys but was too fast for the old guys. I’ve made that stage in life, and Grandpap was exactly right.
“So, what is your master plan?”
Galloway pulled at a lip in thought before answering.
“My family has owned about one thousand acres of untouched forest since the 1700’s. The trees have never been cut. You would not believe the trees that are in there. People come from all over just to look.
“Foresters tell me that it would be good for the woods to thin out most of the great old trees and let new growth get in. They also claim that I would make a fortune by having it timbered properly, and the forest would still be there—a lot of it, that is.”
Shooter cleared his throat, as if what he had to say was difficult.
“My Dad left the land to me with permission to do exactly as I wished, and I thought I, too, might just leave it untouched as one of the last completely natural stands in our country.
“For a couple of reasons, I’ve decided that would no longer be wise. My trees have recently suffered two plagues that changed a lot of things.
“First there was an incredible infestation of Gypsy Moths that hurt the forest like nothing before in history.
“Next, is acid rain and it looks like it is here to stay. My county is one of the most acidy areas in the east, and the big trees suffer from it.”
Galloway shook his head. “It makes no sense to just sit there and let the trees die and be wasted, but there is another reason for me to harvest the timber.
“There is word out of Harrisburg—a lot of county people work down there, and they repeat what they hear. There is an environmental group lobbying for the state to purchase The Notch under Eminent Domain, or some such law, and preserve it for the general populace.
“The Notch has been Galloway land since Europeans got here, Colonel, and I figure what happens to it should be my decision. The state will not approach what I would be offered in a private sale so my plan is to get everything set up real quietly and have the big trees down and out before some environmental lawyer can lay a restraining order on me.
“If I cut down the big stuff, The Notch will be almost ordinary, and the environmental whackos will go on to something else.
“If I thin out The Notch, the fine wood taken out will be worth a lot of money. I intend to invest all that I get as wisely as I can and hold it for a nest egg—for when I can’t or do not want to do most of the things I think are great right now.”
Rock nodded, “Sounds like a good plan, and there will be a lot of trees left to keep the land beautiful, won’t there?”
“That’s my hope, Colonel. I would like to live right there in The Notch for the rest of my life, so I am going to cut carefully with an eye on what’s good for the woods.”
“So, you’ll be out of the Corps, and you will have a fat portfolio for the future. You could do all of that forestering and still put in your twenty with the Marines. What are you going to do in life, Shooter?”
Shooter Galloway was clear in his intentions.
“I’m going to Penn State University for a Bachelor’s Degree. I’ll take ROTC and get a reserve commission in the Army. Then, I’ll go back to my old military school to teach and instruct Jr. ROTC.”
The Colonel could find little fault with the plan, except that . . . “Why take Army ROTC, Galloway? They’ve got Naval Reserve Officers’ Training at Penn State. You could be a Marine Officer.”
“Because Carson Long, my military school, uses Army drill and instruction, Colonel. I should learn Army ways.” Shooter grinned, “Even if they aren’t as good as ours.”
Logical, Rock conceded. He said, “I never heard of Carson Long.”
“Small school, Colonel, about two hundred boys from sixth grade through high school. It’s up in Pennsylvania some miles west of Harrisburg. It’s all rural, and there is terrific hunting up there.”
“Maybe you should head for Wyoming. Gunnery Sergeant Bell is going out there when he gets out. He will ramrod some sort of ranch, as I understand it. Bell said they’ll have great hunting, and I expect Clicker could use a few good men.”
“I’ve met Gunny Bell, Colonel. You know what he did during the Gulf War? He . . . “
Rock interrupted. “I know what he did. He got two Scud missiles. He and an Army Colonel blew them to hell and gone. Terrific story.”
Galloway got back to his planning.
“Anyway, I’m going to teach young men to be honorable and patriotic. Some will go into the Army and some into the Corps, I hope, but wherever they go, what I teach them will be important and stay with them their whole lives.”
Shooter grinned. “And, I’ll coach the school rifle team and sponsor their Raiders Club that does a lot of Ranger kind of stuff.”
Rock was surprised by the young Sergeant’s intensity. “How old are you, Galloway?”
“Coming up on twenty-two, Colonel.”
Galloway’s service record was superior, and the Corps would lose a good man, but Rock had seen it often. The best moved up or out. If up was blocked, they often went to the Army, which was usually pleased to get experienced warriors.
Rock gave it up. He said, “I think you will make a good officer, Galloway.”
Then he smiled, “When you decide that you need a real rifle give me a call. We try to take care of broken down ex-jarheads.”
The decision to change course had not come easily, but Shooter could see an end to the learning and the excitement of scout/sniping and his involuntary and undesired transfer into routine Marine Corps assignments. His enlistment was up; this was the time to make a serious move.
Doc Dyer’s discussions had found fertile soil, and Shooter planned to build his life around the things he knew and the situations he most liked.
Uncle Mop had been supportive. Shooter had feared Mop would resent his nephew’s thinning of The Notch. The place did seem almost like Holy Ground, but Mop understood. He would come east when Shooter got home and was deciding what to cut and how to invest his money.
In some ways, this was a new Mop Galloway. On Shooter’s last trip to Montana four years earlier, Mop had spoken of settling down and looking to the future, but Shooter had not noticed him doing anything.
What Mop did while Shooter was overseas was court and marry Betsy Madigan, whose father, Big Mike Madigan, owned a large chunk of the state and the best ski lodge just up the road from Mop’s cabin.
Shooter marveled at that. He remembered Betsy, who loved horses and who dunged out stables and gave riding lessons. Mop had dated her a little, Shooter recalled, but apparently his tattooed, bike-riding uncle possessed courting skills his nephew had not been aware of.
When they talked on the phone, Mop had laughed over Betsy’s early-on announcement that when they married, there would be an ironclad legal document that kept Mop from claiming anything that Betsy did not want
to give him.
Mop loved Betsy, and he didn’t give a damn about snatching her money, her land, or her horses. For their honeymoon, Mop took his bride to his most secret hideout in the Montana wild country. Shooter had seen the tiny lake that was tightly ringed by un-rideable mountains. If you did not know the right way through a timbered gulch you could not get in on a horse. Betsy, Mop claimed, wanted to build a cabin there and make the hidden lake their special secret.
Betsy bought Mop a brand new Harley Road King for a wedding present. They moved into an “A” frame cabin on ski lodge ground (close to the horse corrals), and Mop’s old cabin stood empty.
Shooter Galloway Page 18