“Look, Mister G . . . , Dan. You have always handled my money and my Dad’s before me. I am stunned that I have three million dollars on paper or anywhere else. That is just incredible.
“What do I know about the stock market, and for that matter, why would I want to risk any of my money? Whew, three million dollars—that kind of dough is beyond my understanding. That is winning a lottery kind of money. If you think it is time to get out, let’s do it.”
Grouse nodded, “There is something else, Shooter, and it is keeping some folks in the market longer than they should be.
“The problem is the capital gains tax. When we sell, the Federal Government is going to take a huge chunk out of our profits. Of course, that will happen whenever we sell, assuming that there is a profit. I say, pay all the taxes, and move on. The Municipals will make us worthwhile money; it will just seem small as compared to a bullish stock market.”
Galloway said, “If you are right, and the market does sort of collapse we will be better off having gotten out, won’t we?” Grouse nodded, and Shooter said, “Then let’s do it.”
He grinned at his friend. “Hey, us millionaires don’t worry about a few hundred thousand, do we . . . Dan?”
Chapter 21
The Carson Long cadets had two favorite Faculty Officers. The old favorite was Lt. Colonel Butler, but crowding him hard was 1st. Lieutenant Galloway. The officers were admired because they were military men who had seen war and, at least as important, because they stayed military and did not try to become buddies with cadets.
Other Faculty Officers had served in the military, but some of them seemed almost embarrassed by their service and minimized the disciplines and courtesies required between military subordinates and superiors. Butler and Galloway stood like soldiers and returned salutes as crisp as those they received.
When an officer entered a classroom, the first cadet seeing him called attention, and the class rose and assumed that formal heels together, thumbs on seams of trousers, position. Most Faculty Officers waved a desultory At-Ease or muttered something unintelligible under their breath that the cadets assumed meant that they could sit down.
Only Butler and Galloway insisted on obedience to the command exactly by the book. They invariably examined the erect, eyes-to-the- front class, made any corrections needed, and commanded “At-Ease,” as if they were First Sergeants addressing their companies.
Certainly, there was an element of the Cadet Corps that resented both officers and resisted their influence. Some meant every word of their ritual disparagement, but more than a few of the bellyachers merely played that game while inwardly enjoying the exactitudes and clearly defined parameters of military life.
Colonel Butler was older. He dated all the way back to the Vietnam War, for gosh sake, but Lieutenant Galloway was young and had war experience new enough to seem current.
Galloway could demonstrate a Manual of Arms with the Springfield 1903 drill rifles that would have won him first place in the annual Blue Ribbon drill contest. His command voice (an ability much emulated by cadet leaders) echoed from Dynamite—the hill behind the campus which provided woods for privacy and hiking, and winter sledding and skiing.
Galloway was also an enjoyable teacher. It could not be claimed that most cadets took great pleasure in their classes. Boys were boys, in uniform or without, and holding their attentions through serious educating required skills of motivation and example setting.
In Lieutenant Galloway’s classes there was a lot of both. Galloway spoke clearly and to the point. When he taught required material, cadets hung on each word. They had to because before the period ended they would be questioned on the information presented. When called upon in Lieutenant Galloway’s class a cadet snapped erect and answered strongly in his best military voice. Slackness was not tolerated, and boys who had slouched their ways through other schools found themselves listening and participating intently—and, to their parents’ pleased astonishment, receiving better grades.
Best of all was when Lieutenant Galloway leaned against his desk and spoke of worldly things. Shooter—the cadets knew his nickname of course, but to have addressed him informally would have resulted in severe disciplining—spoke of adventures that could range from lasering the rocks at Little Round Top to Devil’s Den to determine exact distances snipers had fired, through battle actions in the Kuwait desert. Everything talked about was not war, but most cadets liked that subject best.
The school believed that any teacher who thought he should teach solidly from bell to bell was unrealistic. The administration understood the limitations of youthful attention spans, and instructors were encouraged to spot their presentations with moments of “other” information. Shooter Galloway watched his students carefully, and if overload, boredom, or unexplained disinterest developed, he shifted gears no matter what his lesson plan said.
Someone in the Marine Corps had taught Sergeant Galloway that there were two ways to teach. One was a sort of shotgun approach where the teacher threw massive amounts (like a load of buckshot) at the student hoping some would stick. The other method presented not more than five teaching points during a learning period, but those few points were driven home through repetition, application, and on-the-spot oral testing. Shooter believed the five-point (or less) system superior, and he applied it.
Galloway was also appreciated because he did not overburden students with homework. He seemed to recognize that his was not the only classes cadets were struggling with, and he limited out-of-class work accordingly. The same could not be said for most of the teachers, and the students noted the difference.
All cadets fired for record once a year. Following thorough drilling in sight alignment, trigger squeeze, and sight picture each cadet fired a bolt action twenty-two caliber rifle on the school’s small bore range. The ROTC instructors stood aside for that training, and Lieutenant Galloway took charge.
That was when the Cadet Corps learned why Galloway’s nickname was Shooter. That was when Lieutenant Galloway got to blow his own trumpet loud and clear performing marksmanship feats no others could approach.
Shooter put on his act for two reasons. The first, he announced, was to interest everyone in shooting well—more prospects tried out for the rifle team. The second, he claimed, was to demonstrate what a trained individual could do with a rifle—create a sort of benchmark to strive toward.
Both were true, but Shooter Galloway also enjoyed demonstrating his skills before an admiring audience, and he believed showing expertise increased whatever respect the student body had for him.
As he explained marksmanship, Shooter punched bull’s eyes in targets from all positions. He also shot special targets. He cut off matchsticks from standing, and he repeatedly hit a paper target using a semi-automatic rifle and shooting from the hip or underarm positions.
Former sniper, Gabriel Galloway, brought it all home by shooting at human head silhouettes and explaining that a soldier needed to become accustomed to seeing an enemy in his sights as personally as he could lest he freeze at a crucial moment.
The cadets experienced twinges of excitement at such talk and knew that Lieutenant Galloway was including them in something serious and special that only real military men could know about.
There was no doubt in their young minds that Lieutenant Galloway knew stuff.
+++
Battalion Executive Officer, Major Frank Saltz was clearly distressed. When disturbed, Major Saltz stiffened his back, pursed his lips, and adopted a serious-appearing frown.
Lieutenant Colonel Bowen, Commanding Officer of the 620th Military Police Battalion, US Army (Reserve), eased back in his swivel chair and prepared to listen. Major Saltz would not be swift in explaining his concerns. He never was, but part of having an efficient, if plodding, Exec was to endure his somber-toned monologs. Ah, the rigors of command.
Lieutenant Colonel Bowen asked, “What have you got, Frank?”
“We might have a big problem down in “A�
�� Company, Colonel.” Saltz stopped and Bowen waited but Saltz, as he often did, needed prodding.
“What might that problem be, Frank?”
“We have a loose cannon down there. An Officer, Colonel.” Silence reigned, and Bowen groaned inwardly.
“Which Officer, Frank?”
“Lieutenant Galloway, Colonel. I’ve assembled most of the details.” Saltz placed a manila folder on the Colonel’s desktop.
Saltz continued. “I do not consider this material to be an official recommendation, Colonel. The report merely catalogs the questionable activities in which Lieutenant Galloway is engaging himself and his platoon.”
Bowen wondered why Major Saltz could not simply state the problems, but simplicity was not numbered among the major’s attributes. With Saltz, everything was hard work.
The 620th Military Police Battalion (Reserve) was spread over eastern Pennsylvania. Monthly meetings were usually conducted at company level, but almost as often by platoon assemblies where attendance and training were supervised only by the Platoon Leader. Once a year and during the two- week long summer training, the battalion assembled its entire strength, but otherwise, units tended to see to their own training and to settle their own internal difficulties.
Reports to higher headquarters were submitted by Company First Sergeants to the Battalion Sergeant Major, who delivered most administrative details to Major Saltz for appropriate signatures and forwarding. The Battalion Personnel Department fitted in there somewhere taking care of payrolls and administrative functions, but as cogs in the machine, those specialists functioned without their Battalion’s Commanding Officer tinkering or overseeing.
Lieutenant Colonel Bowen commanded his widely disbursed unit, but beyond scheduled inspections and planned appearances, he rarely encountered his troops.
Reserve units could be like that. Training schedules went out and reports came back. Officers and men earned pay and retirement credits. Hopefully, everyone improved their military skills—which were geared mainly toward passing annual regular army inspections.
Lieutenant Galloway? Bowen knew him, of course. He had met the Lieutenant at a number of command assemblies. Galloway taught at a military school, Bowen recalled, and he had Gulf War combat experience. The Lieutenant had looked sharp and had appeared serious and dedicated. Bowen had expected good things from his officer.
Saltz appeared ready to explain further. Colonel Bowen opened the folder and asked, “So, what’s the trouble, Frank. In short form if you don’t mind.”
Saltz’s flushed featured demonstrated his irritation at Lieutenant Galloway’s apparently intolerable transgressions. Must be bad, Bowen expected.
“Lieutenant Galloway ignores our training schedules at will, Colonel. He introduces subjects he considers important and ignores requirements coming all the way from US Army Headquarters. He places us all in jeopardy and if discovered by higher authority, we would all be officially admonished—if not worse.
Bowen sighed, “Let me have details, Frank. What exactly is Galloway doing?”>
Saltz struggled. “I hardly know where to begin.” Then he tried.
“Every scheduled training period, no matter the subject, Lieutenant Galloway has a squad detached and sent to a small-bore range to shoot .22 rifles and pistols. Those men may never receive the scheduled training they are credited with.
“Perhaps the worst violations that have been reported to me are that he has his men in full uniform, under arms, and wearing their MP brassards, manning traffic control points and directing civilian traffic in Mechanicsburg and even Carlisle.
“Lieutenant Galloway also assigns men to ride with local police officers during their regular tours of duty. I know that he has had civilian police officers speak on various subjects during our already scheduled training periods.”
Saltz paused to collect his thoughts, and Bowen waited him out.
“Galloway has also been transferring enlisted men around the battalion.”
Bowen’s interest was piqued, “And just how can he do that, Frank? As far as I know, Platoon Leaders do not ever transfer anyone.”
“Well, he does it, Colonel, and there have been complaints.”
“Which you have logged here in this folder, I see.”
“Yes, Sir. The wording is mine as taken from complainants.”
Bowen sighed, “We’ll have to get him in here and find out what is going on. Maybe Galloway thinks he is George Patton wearing crossed pistols instead of infantry rifles. Get hold of him and, . . .”
Saltz appeared smug. “I have him on his way right now, Colonel. He should arrive within the hour.”
Bowen was slightly nettled, but what could he complain about? Galloway needed looking into, and the quicker the better.
“Why isn’t Lieutenant Galloway’s Company Commander handling all of this, Major?”
“Captain Karschner is in the hospital, Colonel, and Lieutenant Davis is the ranking Lieutenant in “A” Company.”
Bowen said, “Oh.”
Lieutenant Colonel Bowen suspected that First Lieutenant Davis was probably the most incompetent officer ever commissioned in any military service. He should have been bounced out of the Army on his ass, but Davis had powerful relatives, and canning an officer with significant political connections was rarely in the cards. They were reserves, after all, and it was recognized that unless called to active duty, a few sad sacks could be tolerated and worked around. Lieutenant Davis unarguably topped any list of incompetents. Major Saltz obviously agreed.
So, that left who to command the company? First Lieutenant Gabriel Galloway, that was who. Damn!
Saltz left, and Bowen studied his Executive Officer’s report. Neat, well organized, and succinct. Bowen wished that Saltz could speak as clearly as he wrote.
Galloway’s alleged transgressions were peculiar. Colonel Bowen looked forward to hearing from his 1st Platoon Leader and, if Battalion chose to pursue Captain Karschner’s extended absence, Lieutenant Gabriel Galloway would remain Acting Company Commander. Bowen’s shoulders shook in silent laughter. Now that would surely boil Saltz’s soul.
Lieutenant Galloway denied nothing. He did have men firing .22 calibers on the Mechanicsville Naval Base Range. His platoon met at that base. He did have squads directing traffic and riding with sworn police officers in two different municipalities. He . . .
Listening to the Lieutenant’s admissions, Major Saltz recognized the accuracy of his charges. He gave himself a well done, but Galloway had done even more, and described each detail as if confession would not permanently blacken his Annual Individual Efficiency Report.
Lieutenant Colonel Bowen heard him out, and Galloway appreciated not being yelled and snarled at—as he had half expected.
When Galloway had finished listing his sins—as Major Saltz judged them—Colonel Bowen leaned back in his comfortable swivel chair and said, “All right, Galloway. I’ve heard all that you’ve said, now explain to me the whys and justifications for all of this Lone Ranger stuff.”
Major Saltz was mightily offended. A bunch of alibis and personal reasoning did not matter. Galloway had ignored schedules and endangered careers. Why if . . . He could only silently fume, but when he commanded, there would be no self-serving rationalizations. The ax of authority would fall, and an officer like Galloway would relearn what military discipline really meant.
Shooter had known he would get it sooner or later. Initiative was a popular word within the military and “Taking the initiative” was a leadership principle. In practice, however, anyone doing anything not ordered or scheduled was taking a risk that would surely be commented upon.
Lieutenant Galloway had labored constantly to upgrade the performance of his platoon. He had taken liberties with the battalion training program, and moving enlisted men around was part of his effort. He had expected that higher authority would one day be heard from. When he got the call, Galloway was ready to report to the Battalion Commander.
Shooter co
uld not completely explain his choice of the military police as a career field. His experience and expertise was in infantry, but he had seen that kind of warfare and knew it to be the hardest, most dangerous, and downright dirtiest soldiering there could be. Galloway sought something different.
Sheriff Sonny Brunner’s almost continual presence and his conversations about law enforcement might have influenced Galloway a little, and Shooter knew that his never ending intention to eliminate the Elders and get away with it jogged interest in the law’s many ramifications.
Just as important was the idea that military police often had legitimate missions. Infantry, on the other hand, trained and retrained for battles that rarely came. Military police occasionally got assignments—even reserve units, the kind in which he would serve.
As a green Second Lieutenant, Galloway’s Basic Officers’ Course had shown him how little he knew about law enforcement and instilled an itch to learn more. At Sonny Brunner’s recommendation, Lieutenant Galloway rode with the Pennsylvania State Police and studied their methods. He made contacts in Harrisburg and rode with those cops during their rounds of domestic disturbances and patrolling of mean streets.
Shooter Galloway Page 23