by Pliss, Todd
“That makes what, three suicides out of fifteen control subjects?” Major Smith weighed the numbers in his head.
“That’s right,” First Lieutenant Collins conceded, his short gray hair immaculately combed. “Three suicides. One out of five.”
“It is a good thing that only orphans were handpicked for this experiment,” the Major said. “Or else my job might be a whole hell of a lot more difficult.”
“Sir, wasn’t this a bizarre experiment, even for the Army?” Collins inquired, not sure if he was overstepping his bounds by asking a superior such a question, but curious just the same. “I mean, sir, to take fifteen young privates and put them through the rigorous training regiment that the Germans used during World War Two to train their superior fighters, their Death’s Head units. To make each private train, eat, and learn to think and act like a Death’s Head soldier. To even make these men watch documentaries on them at every free moment.”
“That is correct, Lieutenant. To take fifteen fresh slates, so to speak, and fill in those blank slates with three months of strict discipline. I guess it becomes hypnotic after a time. Some of the men can’t take it. They crack. Some don’t.”
“It sounds like a form of brainwashing to me,” Lieutenant Collins said. “But why, sir?”
Major Smith glanced at the body laying mere yards away. He said, “The word from my sources at Army high command is that the Army brass thinks its enlisted men have become too soft, too lazy. That the Army has turned into a country club for young men seeking a vacation. I agree. American soldiers must be toughened up – imparted with a sense of loyalty that is sorely missing these days. I would hate to think what would happen if we went to war today. We just might be in trouble. Since I have been in this man’s army I have seen the quality of fighting man decrease a whole hell of a lot.”
“And what better place to turn to for training methods than the most efficient, disciplined fighting units in all of history, the German Death’s Head units?”
“Correct.”
“Sir, do you think that the experiment will be carried on?” Lieutenant Collins asked. He had the sudden urge to smoke, but had forgotten to grab his cigarettes from his dresser as he hurriedly left his townhouse.
“Oh, I am sure that it will,” Major Smith said. “The Army is pretty good at keeping things under wraps.” He started Collins directly in the eye, “You understand your orders, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good,” the Major affirmed. “Now what do you say we go to the Officer’s Club for a nightcap?”
“I would like that, Major.”
“Shall we?”
As the officers strolled away from the Kanter Special Units Building, the lifeless body with the broken neck was loaded into a special Army vehicle, for “proper” treatment at an anonymous burial ground, which the Army had for such purposes.
On the right forearm of the corpse, seven centimeters above the wrist, was not something that had been previously observed by any of the personnel connected with the classified experiment nor was it something that had been listed on the subject’s perfectly detailed medical record. For on the body’s right forearm, tattooed in blue ink, were the numbers: 31740.