Shooter Galloway

by Roy F. Chandler

  A lot of what he observed could not be applied to military police but some could, and ideas were filed in Galloway’s memory banks.

  When he received his platoon leader’s assignment, Lieutenant Galloway discovered a mixed bag. His Platoon Sergeant was a serving Carlisle Police Sergeant, and he had a number of sworn officers of lesser rank from other jurisdictions.

  On the other hand, most of his enlisted men had no police service and only a few had attended the Provost Marshal’s School to complete military police courses. Most of his men, in fact, knew little about anything military beyond their basic training and the often opaque or inapplicable subjects demanded by the battalion’s training schedule.

  What to do? Former Marine, current soldier, schoolteacher, and Commissioned Officer, Gabriel Galloway got the bit in his teeth and went to work.

  Now, he would try to explain his actions to Lieutenant Colonel Bowen—whom he hardly knew and who had probably barely heard of him. Shooter began.

  “When I took over my platoon, I found that most of my men knew little about anything. I could find no time within our training schedules to teach subjects that I know to be essential to soldiering.

  “A best example is shooting. Our basic weapon is our pistol. Annual qualification records showed that my men were incapable of hitting much of anything. Familiarization firing with the M-16 rifle proved them to be even worse with that most common infantry weapon.” Colonel Bowen inwardly winced. Galloway had it right.

  “Each training day I send men to rifle or pistol practice. Those who become competent shots do not go as often as those who fail to measure up.”

  “Measure up to what, Lieutenant?” Major Saltz’s voice came from Shooter’s rear where the Executive Officer believed his known but out of view presence would intimidate.

  Shooter did not bother to turn his head, but he spoke clearly. “United States Army standards, Major.” Galloway removed papers from a folder held on his lap and handed them across the desk to Colonel Bowen.

  Lieutenant Galloway turned his head to include Major Saltz. “Last year, there were only two Experts, and more than one half of the platoon failed to qualify with their pistols.”

  Galloway returned his attention to Colonel Bowen. “Following this year’s training, more than eighty percent of my enlisted men qualified as Expert. There were no bolos. Everyone qualified as Marksman or above.

  “I also initiated rifle marksmanship with similar results. Training, range firing that is, continues because the men can do better and they wish to improve.”

  Bowen was impressed. Military Policemen were notoriously pathetic shooters. Schedules rarely allowed progressive instruction, but Galloway had found a way.”

  Bowen kept his voice cold. “And what of the training these men have missed, Lieutenant?”

  Galloway’s explanation seemed hardly believable, but . . . ?

  “Homework, Colonel. I require everyone to submit written papers on the subjects missed.”

  Saltz was utterly disdainful. “That’s crap, Galloway. Reservists do not do homework, period.”

  Shooter was courteous as he addressed Saltz.

  “I understand the Major’s disbelief, but I have brought all of the written work along in case the question arose.”

  Galloway pointed to a large carton he had placed near the office door. “I think you will find the work to be at least equal to any performed by other platoons in this battalion. In fact, as I corrected each paper, I came to the belief that my men are better informed and trained than most other men or women in this command.”

  Colonel Bowen could not restrain himself. “You corrected their work?”

  “Of course, Sir. Any work turned in should be evaluated and if possible graded. Comments should be made and compliments extended, if appropriate.” He grinned as if sharing. “I am a schoolteacher, Sir.”

  “Good God.” Bowen had never heard of such a thing—at least not voluntarily by reservists answering to a junior officer. He chose to move on.

  “What is all this about you transferring men around within the battalion, Galloway?”

  “I have encouraged seven men to find new homes, Colonel. All have moved on, and . . .”

  “You drove them the hell out, Galloway. That’s what you did.” So far frustrated, Saltz spoke harshly.

  Lieutenant Galloway nodded. “It could be put that way, Major. I am trying to set high standards, and not everyone can operate at that level. Seven of my men resented my leadership or simply could not comply. I counseled them and assisted them in finding new homes within the battalion where they could prosper.” Galloway’s smile soured Saltz’s soul.

  Before Saltz could speak, Galloway said, “In all but one case, I managed to initiate a trade so that my platoon did not lose manpower. I am pleased to report that the enlisted men I received are doing well in their new assignments.”

  Saltz was ready. “Then explain why, if everyone is so happy, we have complaints about these transfers?”

  The Lieutenant appeared puzzled. “I was not informed of any complaints, Major, and I have made it a point to contact the men who were moved to make sure that they were satisfied with their new positions.”

  Galloway frowned as if considering the mystery. Then his features cleared. “Might complaints have originated from Personnel where they had to record the transfers? Our clerks may not have been as pleased as the men to make the necessary paper changes.”

  Bowen saw Saltz’s face redden and knew that Galloway had nailed it. Enlisted personnel had not complained; paper pushers had bitched at the extra work, and Saltz had used their bellyaching as grounds for reporting.

  Then, Lieutenant Colonel Bowen experienced another epiphany, and he knew as sure as he sat there that Galloway had known all about the clerks’ complaining, and he had set Saltz up for the fall. Bowen restrained an appreciative snicker and quickly moved ahead.

  “Explain your men wearing side arms and directing traffic in downtown Carlisle, Galloway. It seems to me that we could be liable for litigation if any of that went wrong, and who in the town authorized it, anyway?”

  “Colonel, my Platoon Sergeant is also a Sergeant in the Carlisle Police Department. He spoke to a member of the town council, an older man who recalled military police trainees from Carlisle Barracks learning to direct traffic on the street corners back in the 1940s. The Provost Marshal’s School was at the Barracks in those years, and he thought it a good concept and encouraged my Sergeant to re-involve us with the community.

  “Our men wear pistols because it is realistic and makes them feel legitimate and professional. They do not have ammunition.

  “The fact is, Colonel, that nothing is more basic to a military policeman than directing motor traffic—whether civilian or military convoy. My men had limited practical, on the street experience. Now, they are good at it, and I intend to continue their practice to sustain and further improve those skills.

  “In that vein, I have my men patrolling with Carlisle’s street cops to gain firsthand experience. Of course, they are not allowed to participate. Their function is to watch and to learn. The local police officers are pleased to have company in their cars, and they willingly share and extend hard to come by information.

  “My men profit from the experiences,” Galloway’s smile again broke through, “and two of them have applied for admission to the police academy with intentions of becoming Carlisle police officers.”

  Bowen had already made up his mind what to do with major Saltz’s report, but peripheral questions had risen in his mind.

  “It says here that you have men pulling traffic in Mechanicsburg, is that right?”

  “Not exactly, Colonel. I have men directing traffic on the base, which is our station, of course, and with the base’s permission, I sometimes assign men to traffic control at the base’s entrances and exits. Traffic during rush hours can be intense, and the base is appreciative. Our men gain experience, but I do not have men beyond the confines of
the base itself.”

  Bowen asked, “Where do you get .22 caliber rifles and pistols, and ammunition for that matter, to allow your men to shoot almost all of the time?”

  Galloway shifted a bit uneasily before answering.

  “Colonel, I wish that you would not pursue that inquiry too closely because getting the range and all of the equipment, including targets by the way, has required a lot of, ah . . . “ Galloway sought words, “coordinating and cooperating, with more than a little swapping and trading, and some, ah, out-of-the-ordinary wheeling and dealing through what might be called back-channels that could be hard to describe.”

  Bowen’s chuckle broke through. He understood, all right. Hearing how the deals were made would be interesting to discover, but not as part of an official inquiry.

  Galloway had been an enlisted man, a Marine in fact, and Bowen suspected that The Corps knew at least as much about under the table deal making as soldiers did.

  If Saltz looked anymore sour he would pickle himself, and Bowen wondered how he would manage to appease the by-the-book Major.

  It was butt-covering time, and Bowen turned his attention back to Lieutenant Galloway.

  “Lieutenant, all of this is highly unusual. For the moment, you may continue your activities, but a number of reciprocal actions will be necessary.

  “First, you will keep exacting records that clearly explain the advantages of your programs and even more clearly list any negatives known or suspected. I will personally review those records at times of my own choosing.

  “Second, I will conduct periodic inspections of your platoon with on-the-spot review of any variations from schedules initiated by this headquarters, and Lieutenant, your explanations had better be profound and your conclusions unarguable.

  “Third, you will not arrange the transfer of any more men without prior approval of this headquarters. We have a personnel section, Galloway, and you are not part of it.

  “Fourth, do not construe any of this as approval of your actions. You are assuming a great deal of authority, Lieutenant, and it may all come back to bite you.

  “Is that clear and have you any questions or comments?”

  It was and Galloway did not.

  When the Platoon Leader of the 1st platoon of his battalion was gone, Bowen said, “Damn, I like that boy. I wish we had a dozen like him.”

  Hugely affronted, Major Saltz asked, “Will that be all, Colonel?”

  Bowen’s sigh was loud as he ordered his Executive Officer to a seat and did his best to explain to a man who had never held command and was never likely to how things in the military really were.

  Chapter 22

  Late Winter 2002

  Calvin Elder said, “Roy will be gone for at least another week.”

  “Where in hell is he, anyway?” Since his wreck in the ditch that Galloway had dug across their road, John Elder had difficulty remembering less-important details.

  “Roy’s making a long haul out to Oregon. Town called, Seaside, wherever that is.”

  “He ought to stay local like we do; all that long driving and sleeping in truck cabs will get to him.”

  “He makes more money.”

  Cal returned to the subject he wanted to talk about.

  “John, we’ve waited too long to get that damned Galloway. Not killin’ Galloway eats at us like a gut worm and has for years. How long has it been since Pap was murdered? Nearly seven years, I think. God, that was a long time ago, and we haven’t done a damned thing about it.

  “What we ought to do is shoot Galloway, let a year go by so’s we don’t look like we’re running, and then move the hell out of here. Go out west. Maybe out to that Seaside place where Roy’s delivering.”

  John was unsure. “Roy wants to wait some more, Cal. Brunner is retiring from sheriff, and Roy thinks he’s the last one that might suspect us of bein’ in on a Galloway shooting.”

  “That’s bull, John. Everybody will suspect us. Hell, it’s our people who already got shot ain’t it? Who else would want that damned Galloway dead?

  “Half the county’s got to suspect that it was Galloway who killed Box and Pap, and knowin’ what we know, who else would have done it?” Cal spat noisily, “The question isn’t who will suspect us; what we have to do is kill clean and get away like ghosts.”

  John liked the sound of it. “We could do that, Cal. Nobody’d see us up in there, and both times we’ve been up checkin’ we parked the truck so far away it’d never get tied in.”

  Cal figured it the same, and he was tired of waiting. “We don’t need Roy for this, John. He’d just claim we ought to wait some more. Hell, on his schedule we’ll be too old to climb the hills.”

  John was excited. “You mean we go and do it right now while Roy’s out west?” He snickered, “Old Roy wouldn’t like it much Cal.”

  Cal sounded irritable. “How old are we, John? Do we need to get our brother’s permission or something? Hell, we both shoot better than Roy, anyway. What do we need him for?

  “My God, John, if two of us Elders ain’t equal to that Galloway we ought to give up shooting.”

  Cal Elder thought about his words for a long moment.

  “What we should do is get Galloway in The Notch. He walks in there real regular, just like he and old Bob used to, and he’d likely lay there unreported until we were well away with our tracks covered.

  “I figure if he ain’t teaching at that school, he comes home and walks nearly every weekend that’s decent. Way we ought to do it is for one of us to take him from the rim, up where our house was. The other one should be down in the Notch, hid out further in.

  “Once Galloway is down, whichever one of us is waiting down low will charge up close and empty a shotgun into him. We want to make sure of this, John.”

  John Elder was enthusiastic. “When will we do it, Cal? The sooner the better, I say.”

  Cal said, “Hold up now. There’s things to work out.”

  John’s impatience broke through. “Well, figure ‘em, Cal, and let’s get to it.”

  Cal said, “You want to do the rifle work or use the shotgun, John?”

  “I’ll take the shotgun. What I’ll do is stay hid till you shoot. Then I’ll move in close and pump four or five double-ought buck into him.”

  “That ought to do it. I‘ll use my .22-250 from up on the rim. I can dot an eye with that rifle.”

  John liked that, too. “You sure can shoot with that rifle, Cal, but wouldn’t you like a bigger ball? I’d like finding him with about a two-inch hole drilled clear through him.”

  “Won’t need it. I’ve never lost a deer using that rifle, and Galloway ain’t no deer.” Cal thought about it for another moment. “I’ll have to junk that rifle once I shoot. They might be able to trace the bullet if it don’t go all the way through.”

  John was not interested in details. “When will we do it, Cal? Tomorrow would be good.”

  “Saturday would be the day, John. Galloway won’t be teaching on a weekend, and he ought to be home. We’ll go in while it’s dark so we won’t accidentally meet anybody. Once we’re in place, we’ll just wait until Galloway shows up.”

  John asked, “What if he don’t come? If the weather’s bad, he ain’t likely to be walking.” He had another thought. “What if he ain’t alone, Cal?”

  Calvin Elder was unmoved. “If he don’t come, we’ll try again on Sunday, weather permitting. If he’s got company we don’t shoot. Nothing hard to decide there.”

  The brothers enjoyed working out the little things they would do. Radios to talk back and forth? They wouldn’t need them. If Galloway didn’t show, they would quit at 6:00 p.m. and meet at the truck. John would have to get some brand of shotgun shells that they didn’t ordinarily use. No problem, he had some old stuff. He would take out five shells and dump the rest.

  John Elder had a few thoughts he did not share with his brother. It could be that Galloway would walk into The Notch along the straight road he had cut in. The path looke
d as though he usually came up along the stream, but if he used the road, Cal—stuck up on the rim—would not even know Galloway was in The Notch.

  There was a spot along the new road that John had noticed during their two closer looks. If he got settled in there, he would be a few seconds slower getting to wherever Galloway fell after Cal shot him, but if Galloway came up the road, John could nail him with the shotgun from pretty close range. Under twenty yards, Elder judged it.