There Should Have Been Castles

by Herman Raucher

  “Yes, sir. Well, sir, maybe ‘angry’ isn’t the right word.”

  “Then, please, tell me the right word.”

  “I think ‘frustrated.’”

  He was holding my MOS file. “Yes. You had a good job. Okay, you’ll have it again. It’ll be there when you get back because that’s the law.”

  “Yes, sir. If you say so, sir.”

  “Webber, I’ll tell you something. I don’t like being attached to this outfit any more than you do, okay? They offend me. They concern me and they bug me. But there’s nothing I can do about it except to keep applying for transfer, through proper channels. Meantime, I do not sit around and bitch, and stir up trouble. I do my job.”

  “I’m not stirring—”

  “Bullshit. You’ve got this whole company divided like Mutiny on the Bounty. It’s tough enough keeping four such dissident groups together. I’ve got two colonels in an ivory tower and a lieutenant in a perpetual fog, and I have to run this bastard of an outfit on a day-to-day basis. I could use some help.” He took a long draw on his cigarette. “I’d like you to stop baiting Holdoffer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Because if you don’t, you’re going to get the pointy end of a very long stick. Why do you do it?”

  “Well, sir—”

  “Straight answers.”

  “He’s a sadist, sir.”

  “Think so?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s a sadist and a bigot and, very likely, a moron.”

  “He’s a master sergeant.”

  “Same thing.”

  He tried not to smile, then he leaned forward. “He’s also Colonel Cranston’s nephew.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “The whole unit, Webber, they’re all from the same towns. Every one of them is related in one way or another.”

  “Colonel Cranston’s nephew?”

  “Yes. What I’m trying to tell you, Webber, is that if you work on that moron long enough—he is a moron—he’ll go to Uncle and you’ll go down the latrine.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So I want you to back off. If he maltreats you or any of the men, the Army will take care of him.”

  “How, sir? If he’s the Colonel’s nephew, how?”

  “I don’t know how, but it will. Also, in case you’re unaware of it, you can apply for transfer, too. With your background, maybe Special Services’ll be interested in you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Only I have to tell you, other men have requested transfers but Colonel Cranston always turns them down.”

  “Why?”

  “Evidently he thinks it reflects on him.”

  “Then I can’t get out of the 42nd, can I?”

  “You can. You can apply for Officer Candidate School. If you’re accepted it’s not considered a transfer. It’s considered self-improvement and is encouraged by the Army. Consequently, no group commander, or anyone, can stop it.

  “I’m Limited Service.”

  “The Chinese have shot up a lot of our second looies. The physical requirements are no longer so stringent.”

  “You mean they’ll take anyone who shows up.”

  “Anyone who can walk in, stand up and spell his name, yes. But it will add three years to your tour of duty.”

  “What second looie in Korea is going to live three years?”

  He smiled. “It’s a dilemma.”

  “Yeah. Sir.”

  “Think it over. Meanwhile, let me reiterate. Stay out of Holdoffer’s way or you’re aiming yourself at more trouble than your quick mind is going to be able to handle. And, starting tomorrow I’m on Holdoffer’s side. You do understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” I saluted. He saluted. And I left.

  I explained the situation to Johnny and Tony—that we had to lay off Holdoffer. They had a strange reaction. They felt that without Holdoffer to vent their dissatisfaction on, something marvelous would be going out of their lives. They were concerned, however, with my possibly signing up for OCS. I immediately put their fears to rest. “Gentlemen, I’d rather do two years with Turd-Head Holdoffer than three with Charlie Chan.” They applauded my comment and we then went off to become semidrunk.

  From time to time I received letters from Don. They were newsy and fun, my one link with the outside world. And when they came I’d find a private place in which to read them, a place where I would not suffer any interruption, where Manhattan would miraculously show up and embrace me—if only for a few minutes.

  Dear Glorious War Hero and Demi-God,

  I report to you on a variety of items, all of which I trust you will find interesting or else why the fuck am I wasting my time? 20th Century-Fox still thrives, still turning out garbage but still paying salaries. I see very little of Arnie and less of Big Al who hurries home to screw his wife each night because they’ll soon be drafting married men who are not fathers. Poor Laura, went from virgin to harem girl in record time.

  As to Bob Steinman, he still seems more interested in screwing than in climbing the ladder of success. He just kind of loafs through the day and fucks through the night and doesn’t care about the next day any more than he cared about last week.

  Oh, new messenger in Publicity. Some kind of monster. 5′6″, he must weigh half a ton, and his arms come down to his ankles. His name is Sam Gaynor and his father was evidently some kind of 1920’s crooner who the world loved until he got so fat that his voice couldn’t squeeze out. Sam never lets us forget who his father is which is fine because it lets us forget who Sam is. He never stops talking, talks only of himself and how much talent he has and how everybody at 20th is a fool. He intends to be a director but, at the moment, has his eye on your job in the ad department. But Mickey and Dora and Roland told Meyerberg that they’d quit if “Mighty Mouth” was brought in as your temporary replacement, so the status is quo. The guy is 4-F—“diarrhea of the mouth.” Speaking of Roland—you know how I’ve been having trouble paying the rent on this barn and how I’ve been looking for a roommate to help share the tariff. Well, old Roland comes in one day with a great-looking girl and says that she needs an apartment because she just got burnt out of hers and needs one uptown because that’s where she’ll be working. Her name is Ginnie Maitland and she’s a dancer with legs that won’t quit. Blue eyes, blonde, but insists that she’s a Negro. I find her to be slightly strange but, what the hell, she came right up with the rent money.

  Patricia Jarvas asked to be remembered to you and would like you to drop her a line. Also—would you call her the first time you’re on furlough as she—and I quote—“has a warm spot in her bed for you.”

  Love from the Home Front,

  Don

  Captain Grace got his transfer. I was pleased for him, we all were. He deserved better than the 42nd and had somehow convinced Colonel Cranston that his transfer be approved. It never occurred to us that Colonel Cranston might be downright pleased to get rid of an officer whose very presence subverted his own image. Also, it moved Lieutenant Rankin up a notch, displacing Captain Grace with a man who in civilian life worked at Colonel Cranston’s dry-cleaning company. Talk about blind loyalty, in Rankin Colonel Cranston had practically his own sheepdog; and in too soon a time we all got to appreciate how good and fair and intelligent a company commander we had had in Captain Grace.

  Lieutenant Rankin was about twenty-eight. He was kind of odd physically in that he was a beanpole with a paunch—skinny except around the middle. He had a receding crew cut, a weak chin like Andy Gump’s, and he wore G.I. eyeglasses (round, metal frames). His hands were most definitely female, and when he walked it was as though he were walking a tightrope, his eyes aimed at the ground as if he believed that, with one false step, he might just fall off the earth. He smoked a pipe filled with chocolate cake that was forever going out, giving us the feeling that he was not an experienced pipesmoker, that his pipe was just some kind of prop he was using to project an image of tweedy masculinity, mostly, I suspect, to reassure himself.

 
; And so it came to pass that, on an incredibly cold day, Lieutenant Rankin decided to establish, once and for all, both his authority and his masculinity, for he seemed to sense that we doubted both. He ordered a twelve-mile hike to an overnight bivouac, for everyone except a dozen NG’s who would remain behind and run the command post and water the colonel’s plants. By the way, neither of our colonels accompanied us.

  It was hard to believe. We hadn’t been in the Army three months and were off on a maneuver that seasoned veterans were seldom asked to undergo. The NG’s, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and dense, took to the whole idea as if it were a hike to a hoedown. They were in good shape, and, even though they hadn’t done it in the depths of winter, they had hiked full-pack any number of times before their unit was eventually activated.

  But the draftees—the majority of us—were Limited Service and technically not required to endure such nonsense. And the Reservists, all of whom had combat experience, felt it an affront to be included in such a whimsical exercise. As for our RA’s, all of whom were in some state of drunkenness twenty-four hours of every day, they were in such God-awful physical condition that it was highly doubtful any of them could go half the distance without dropping out as if it were the Bataan Death March.

  And, it was snowing. Christ, was it ever snowing, as if the gods had decided to assist Rankin in the testing of our mettle. Clearly I could see that we would either make it or freeze, or drown, or rust.

  We started out immediately following a stomach-turning breakfast. Full packs: rifles, entrenching tools, blankets, K rations, canteens. Why we were taking canteens was beyond us; the water inside them would freeze within a mile. Plus, we didn’t need water. If we wanted it all we had to do was scoop up a helmetful of snow. Before leaving the barracks, Tony, Johnny, and I emptied the water from our canteens, refilling them with something purported to be bourbon. Barely palatable, it was so highly alcoholic that it was guaranteed not to freeze. As to the other men, they were on their own. Some had bourbon and some didn’t. Some had rye, rum, whiskey, beer, and cider. All had something, it was just a question of degree (or proof).

  We stepped out, our arctic boots mushing oafishly through the Mixmaster snow, and I never saw Holdoffer so fulfilled. The cold, the snow, the ice beneath the snow—nothing slowed him. He seemed to skim over the surface like a low-flying bird. He was the point man and set a pace so doggedly hurried that, almost at regular intervals, he could be seen a hundred yards ahead, screaming at us like a galley foreman, waving at us to catch up as surely as John Wayne had waved in any number of better-written movies.

  Lieutenant Rankin, hardy soul, walked the first two miles with us. After that he never appeared except during breaks, seeming to materialize out of nowhere, looking fresh and smelling like cake. He didn’t fool us, the sonofabitch, because we could hear it—the jeep—always about a quarter of a mile behind us. What he’d do was drop back off the pace, wait for his jeep, and then ride to a point just short of where we’d be taking our break. Then he’d walk through our ranks as though coming up to accept his Academy Award for special effects, pretending that he had walked all the way just as we had. And yet he had to know that we were onto him. Strange man, Rankin. As long as no one told the emperor that he had no clothes on, then he was not naked.

  Ultimately we stumbled into the bivouac area, a few metal markers starkly indicating that we had reached our destination. Holdoffer moved among us, shouting at us to set up our pup tents. It had to be ten below zero. Six inches of new snow had fallen since we had started, and, once we pushed that aside, it was close to impossible to sink a tent stake into the rigid earth below. Some of us managed to do it, after which we helped those who couldn’t. Even then we couldn’t get the stakes in firmly enough to keep the tents from wobbling like wash on a line. It was getting dark and a wind was building, the snow ripping in circular patterns as though spun off a cotton-candy machine.

  Holdoffer kept moving in and out, so strong, so transported by the role he was playing that he was almost admirable. He had a flashlight that he swung like an incense burner, and he shouted at us that we were on our own until morning. We could eat our K rations whenever we wished, and we could crap wherever we chose, as long as we made our drops at least 100 yards beyond the perimeter of the bivouac area. All of us decided against exercising our bowels for fear of freezing our jewelry off. Better to die full of shit, like a soldier, than to live on as a eunuch.

  Johnny, Tony, and I set up our tents so that they butted up against one another. Another thing that Johnny had us do was to break some twigs off the many firs and pines that grew all about the area. These we spread directly upon the ground to give us an extra layer of insulation. It wasn’t in the manual but we did it anyway, and, once it got dark, we told the others to do likewise, which most of them did.

  When it got real dark, when the night and the snow and the wind triumvirated to completely mask our struggles, we uncapped our canteens, got comfortably high, and fell asleep. During the night I heard Holdoffer. Either he was very close or upwind because his voice had an alarming presence. I could almost touch it. Johnny and Tony heard it, too, for none of us was so stupid as to have allowed himself to get blotto drunk in so unfriendly a setting. We had consumed just enough bourbon to keep our pilot lights lit. The rest of the fuel we were saving because we knew not what the morrow would bring.

  Anyway, I heard Holdoffer and he was chewing out Sergeant Deyo (RA), who was protesting in his distinctive, high-pitched, hermaphroditic voice. He was doing more than protesting. He was begging. “Don’t. Listen, I need it. I got poor circulation. Listen, Sarge—Luther—” Only Luther wasn’t buying. It didn’t take long for me to get the picture. Before setting out on the march, Deyo had apparently filled his canteen with liquor, as had we. His mistake was in drinking too much and getting properly pissed in his pup tent, singing and laughing and drawing attention to himself. Holdoffer, alerted, had come by and was appropriating Deyo’s canteen.

  “Fucking old fag, what makes you think you got privileges nobody else is got?”

  “Luther, please—”

  “And don’t go fuckin’ callin’ me Luther, either. It’s Sergeant, got it?”

  “Luther, Sergeant—I’m a sergeant, too. Oh, Jesus. I’ve been in the army over twenty years. I’m old enough to be your father.”

  “You ain’t anybody’s father, you drunken jockstrap, shit-eating homo. Don’t think I don’t know you and that queen, Kuyper, aren’t sucking cocks and swapping assholes.”

  “Sarge, please! Don’t take it! I swear, I may have taken a little too much, but—”

  “You get back in your fuckin’ hole, Deyo! Go on! Back into your hole! Back, you mother! Take Kuyper with you, but don’t let me catch you, you—”

  That’s all we heard of it. Holdoffer, crazy mad and probably foaming at the chops, then stomped emphatically about the area, up and down and between the ranks of tents. We could hear the crunching of his boots and the tone of his voice. He was like a revenuer looking for moonshine in the Tennessee hills, reaching at random into unsuspecting pup tents, sniffing men’s breath, pulling out any canteen that smelled the slightest bit alcoholic, and all the while screaming over the wind, “You mothers! You fuckin’ pencil pricks! Any of you with booze, I’m gonna bust your sausage! If you got it, get rid of it! Throw it out! Don’t let me catch you with it or I’ll have your noses up your own asses!”

  Tony, Johnny, and I knew that he was looking for us. As stupid as he was, he knew that if some of the troops had liquor, it was guaranteed that Munez, Wesso and Webber had liquor. He was on an all-out seek-out-and-destroy mission. All that saved us from discovery was that our tent, unlike the others, did not protrude conically out of the snow. Ours was flat and, with an hour or two of snow on it, could look only like a harmless mound. Holdoffer never found us, and, when we began to realize that he wouldn’t, we giggled anew and toasted each other and drank to all the enemies of the United States of America, from bad King George
to Mao Tsetung, our allies all.

  In the morning, Sergeant Walker J. Deyo was dead, frozen to death during the night. The snow had stopped. The sun was coming up, a wan peach blur. And the wind had blown itself out, scooting over the snow like an unseen spectre. At no time could anywhere on earth have been as still as it was where we were. Soldiers were standing around, leaning on trees or swinging their arms and marking time against the cold, their breath spiraling up like tepee smoke. And Sergeant Deyo was lying on a blanket, on his back, his beer belly a foot higher than his nose.

  I don’t know who started it, possibly Johnny, but soon all of us, draftees, Guardsmen, RA’s and Reservists, were slowly banging our mess kits with our forks. Like imprisoned convicts hitting their tin cups against the iron bars that held them, we rhythmically voiced our protest. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t angry—it was constant, slow as in the beat of an Indian’s tom-tom, once every three seconds, so dirgelike that it was far more chilling than the arctic air that Massachusetts was laying on us.

  Holdoffer was not the slightest bit remorseful as he explained the situation to Lieutenant Rankin. “The old homo had booze. He was drunk. He kicked off his fuckin’ blanket and froze to death. It’s a fuckin’ good lesson for everyone else, sir.”

  But Rankin wasn’t worried about giving lessons. He was worried about his ass. He knew from the soft din we were raising that we condemned the action and would not lightly allow the ghost of Sergeant Deyo to go out as a vapor on the morning. He looked into our faces and then looked away, totally in command of himself yet absolutely terror-stricken. He was the officer in charge. As such he was responsible even if he could pin the responsibility on Holdoffer. It would still be his ass. He looked at us again, or tried to, again feeling our wordless judgment, again unable to face us for more than a gnat’s flicker.

  Tony, Johnny and I hadn’t moved. We stood over Deyo, looking down at his bulk. He had hardly been an ideal soldier. Like many RA’s, he had chosen the Army rather than face civilian life. Now he was dead. Yet all that separated him from us was a canteen of booze that he had been denied.