The Last of the Dogteam

by William W. Johnstone

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  flexing their muscles, running their mouths, and all the time wondering if their acne medicine was working, hoping they could cop a quick feel from one of the girls without being seen or getting their face slapped. Terry smiled and concentrated on his 'shake.

  The door opened and closed behind him. A vaguely familiar voice said, "Hello, Kovak."

  Terry turned and looked at the bulk of J. A. Cater. He nodded to him and turned around, his back to Cater.

  "Bastard turned his back on me," Cater mouthed to his buddy, standing beside him, grinning like an idiot.

  One of the boys with the girls said, "Man, that's J. A. Cater, All American tackle. He's a hero. There's gonna be trouble, I betya."

  One of the boys with the girls, with more sense than the others of his peer group, took a closer look at Terry, taking in the carefully trimmed, close-cut hair, the low-quarter shoes, the burned-in tan, and his thick wrists. The young man smiled, put his back to a wall, and pulled a chair close to him.

  No trouble here, Terry cautioned himself. I can't bring attention to myself.

  "Where's your pretty little soldier-suit, Happy Warrior?" Cater laughed maliciously.

  Terry ignored him, hoping the two neanderthals would go away and sit in a tree somewhere, eating leaves and picking fleas from each other.

  J. A.'s friend, about the same size, and,

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  Terry was sure, the same mentality, wandered off to the jukebox, carefully studying the selections, his lips moving silently. J. A. sat down beside Terry. Terry pushed his milkshake away and laid both hands, palms down, on the counter top.

  "I've been going to college for the past five years, Kovak, improving my mind," J. A. boomed the words at him. "What have you been doing besides strutting around in your soldier suit?"

  Terry's smile was sad for a few seconds. Homecoming, he thought. He looked at Cater, then slipped the insult to him. "Seen Bess lately, Needle-Dick?"

  Cater's face paled, then reddened with anger. "Wanna step outside, Kovak?" he had lowered his voice.

  "No." Terry said, "not now. Tonight, J. A., out by the lake, north side; Just you and me, Cater. Leave your ape-man friend at home, I've got nothing against him. Tonight, Cater, eight o'clock, if you've got the balls."

  "Just you and me, Kovak?"

  "Just you and me, hero." Terry slurred the "hero."

  "I'll be there."

  Terry waited by the lake. He was dressed in old fatigues, jump boots on his feet. He sat patiently on a stump. Terry did not want to really hurt Cater, just humiliate him, although

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  why he wanted to humiliate Cater was not clear in his mind.

  This is high school crap, he thought. Wouldn't I be a much bigger person if I just went home and forgot it?

  But Terry had no more time for mental ruminations. Headlights flashed on the dirt road, cut off, and a door slammed shut.

  "Kovak?"

  "Right here, hero," Terry stood up.

  Cater walked to him, bulky in the night. "You're a damned fool, Kovak! Don't you ever read the papers? I'm an All American, man."

  And Terry knew then why he wanted to humiliate Cater. "Cod, I hope American means more than that." Then he hit him.

  No man who plays on the Front Four can be a coward—that just isn't possible. But football is controlled violence. America probably has the world's finest athletes—our sports writers tell us that often enough—but there is a great difference between being a fine athlete and a warrior.

  Cater was in superb physical condition; Terry knew how to cripple with his hands. Cater could stop anything—short of a freight train—from coming through the line; Terry, had he been a civilian, would have had to register his hands as lethal weapons. Cater had spent years learning a sport; Terry had spent years learning how to loll.

  As any gunfighter knows: make the first shot count, for you might not get another one.

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  Terry made his first shot count.

  He hit him in the throat with stiffened fingers. Not hard enough to loll or do permanent damage; just hard enough to take some of the steam out of Cater.

  The fight was downhill from that point.

  Cater was no fool; he knew after thirty seconds he was outclassed. But man has so much macho bullshit fed to him that pride makes him go forward when common sense tells him to quit.

  Terry chopped at Cater with short, brutal, painful Judo blows; he kicked him with hard-learned savate techniques; he punished Cater's nervous system with jabbing fingers. When Cater would swing a fist, Terry would flip him over a shoulder, slamming him to the ground, bouncing him off the earth, bringing grunts of pain. When Terry wanted to play, he would use variations of the Jamaica come-along: applying pressure against bone and nerve, causing excruciating but temporary pain.

  Finally, Cater had no more fight left, in him. He squatted oh the ground, unable to believe a smaller man had handled him so easily. He listened to Terry speak.

  "You see, J. A., the one great difference between us is this: there is no one writing glowing newspaper accounts about what I do for a living, so I have no press releases to live up to. Nobody gives a lousy damn what I do; I'm just a soldier.

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  "But you listen to me, Cater, 'cause what I'm about to tell you just might save your life. If you ever decide to fuck with me again. I've killed men with knives, guns, piano wire, and with my bare hands and fingers. I did it all for very little money and absolutely no gratitude from the public I serve. I, and a lot of other men do it so assholes like you can run up and down football and baseball and basketball fields—and be heroes in the eyes of the public. And, more importantly, Cater: be free to do so. We do it so you can work at a job of your choice, vote freely and openly, move around without papers and border guards to hassle you, and, in most cases, be able to speak your mind without fear of punishment.

  "Now then,,you thick-headed jockstrap, you have anything you want to add to that?"

  "You didn't fight fair," Cater mumbled.

  "You're an idiotl" Terry said. He walked to his car and drove away.

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  ELEVEN

  "I'm still going to be a doctor someday, Terry," Shirley told him. "The counselor at school says I'd be a good one."

  They sat on the front porch, just the two of them, enjoying the night air of summer in North Georgia. Terry drained his beer and opened another bottle. He said, "I remember when you were in the fifth grade, Shirley; that's what you wanted to be then. I told you I'd help you, and I will. Now then, what can I do to help?"

  "Write me a letter every now and then. Tell me how you are and what you're doing."

  He nodded, the darkness hiding his sad smile. Tell you I've just killed a man for my country, or plotting to kill one. "I'll do that, little sister, and also send you some money from time to time. Okay?"

  "Oh, poo! I don't want your money, Terry. I . . ."

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  He waved her quiet with a quick slash of his hand. "Everyone needs a little money, Shirley. Buy yourself something pretty. Wear it just for me."

  She kissed her brother's tanned face and hugged him. "Just for you, Terry."

  They were silent for a time, enjoying the closeness of kin. Terry's thoughts drifted away from Bishop and settled on Sally Malone. They had seen each other a half dozen times in two years: in Munich and Bad Tolz; in Hong Kong and the Philippines; and several months back, in Denver. Both on assignment for the Dog Teams.

  Terry suspected he might be a little bit in love with Sally, and she with him, but when they were together, that word never came up. They took whatever few moments were allowed them to make love, talk of small things and of people they knew: who had been killed serving their country, and whose body was never found and would never be spoken of. And then they parted. Sally was not yet ready to settle down, and Terry knew damn well he wasn't ready.

  His. sister dozed off, her head on Terry's shoulder, his arm around her, when he suddenly thought of
Paula and the baby. His baby. He had found out, quite discreetly, and with the help of Ferret, that his child was a girl. Correction, he smiled in the night. Their child. Patsy.

  He lit a cigarette and sipped at his beer.

  Patsy would be ... two years old. Paula had married a farmer in the Delta of Mississippi and was quite happy, so the dossier had read. Terry would have liked to have seen his child, though. He would like that very much.

  The invitation was there, shining in her eyes, his for the taking if he would but ask. Instead, he said, "You're certainly looking well, Clarissa, marriage must agree with you."

  Womanhood did look good on her, having matured and deepened her beauty. She studied his face and said, "I think about you from time to time, Terry. You were the first person I was ever in love with. Really, you were."

  It was awkward for him, not knowing what to say, wishing he were back in Germany or Burma or some damned place, anyplace other than on the main street of Bishop, Georgia, standing in front of Cindy Lou's cafe, with the jukebox blaring: / Can't Stop Loving You.

  The situation grew worse when Bess walked by, glanced at them, paled, her hand going to her throat. She managed to say, "Hi, Clarissa. Terry? Is it really Terry Kovak?"

  "Yeah," he found the word, wishing he had stayed in bed that morning. "It's really me, Bess. How have you been?"

  "Fine, Terry. Just fine. I didn't recognize you at first—you've changed so. You're bigger and more muscular and . . . where did you

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  get that terrific tan?"

  "Well, I work outside a lot/' he said, thinking: Shooting people. He noticed the golden ring on her finger. Jesusl Is every female in this town married?

  The trio looked at each other and suddenly the moment was shattered for them. Terry was both saddened and grateful when it died. Both women studied the other's wedding ring, realizing their time for anything other than inward, silent remembrance of old lovers was gone. They parted to go the way fate had chosen for them, saying they must all get together some evening while Terry was in town, 'cause he would like Carl and Ken, and they would talk of things past and those old bitter-sweet days of their youth. But they each knew they would not do that, could not do that, must not.

  Old memories are so much more precious when they are kept in the mind, fuzzy and deliberately vague, carefully treasured against the half-light of dimming years. Precious memories tend to tarnish and diminish in value when cast under the full brilliance of reality, like a valuable gem, with a flaw marring its beauty.

  They had said hello, now they must say goodbye.

  Terry watched them walk away, these two young married ladies, strolling out of his life for the second time. They chatted of this and than: the Jaycees and the Jaynes; Little

  League Baseball; and what detergent gets diapers the cleanest and wasn't it just awful about Mrs. What's-her-name getting caught in the back seat of a Buick with Mr. What's-his-name and now there's going to be another divorce in Bishop.

  x Terry stood alone on the sidewalk of Bishop, in front of Cindy Lou's cafe, and knew the words of the man were right: You can't ever go back home. Not really. It's so much better if a person stays away, just remembering the good times, or what you thought were good times.

  I'm marked, he thought, just as surely as if I wore a caste mark on my forehead. I can never live here. I just don't fit—not any more.

  Suddenly, Terry looked into the eyes of Clarissa, standing in front of him.

  "I've just got to see you one more time, Terry," she said, urgency in her voice. "I've got to. Please?"

  All Terry's great philosophical meanderings turned to dust. "When? Where?"

  "It has to be tonight. My husband's out of town. There's a new motel outside of town—you passed it coming in. Out by the interchange. The Tuck-em-Inn. Bent a room there and 111 call you and come to you."

  "All right, Clarissa. Til be waiting."

  "I have such a shitty sex. life," she told him, as she removed her blouse and reached behind

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  her to unhook her bra. Her breasts, larger than Terry remembered them, swung free.

  Terry lay on the bed, in his shorts, waiting for her.

  "Three and a half years of marriage and two kids," Clarissa complained, "and now my husband thinks it's wonderful if we have sex once a week—at best." Impatiently, she pulled his shorts from him, grasping his half-erect penis. "God, I wish I'd married you, Terry." She moaned as she took him without foreplay, mounted on him, straddling him, she took him to her depths, groaning her pleasure. She rode his erection, running her mouth constantly.

  "Aren't you afraid you'll get pregnant?" Terry asked, finally able to get a word in.

  "I don't give a damn if I do. I hope I do! I hope it's a son I hope he's like you, you goddamned stud!" She almost screamed her pleasure. "Oh, God, that's good, Terry!"

  He said his goodbyes to the family, shook his father's hand and kissed his mother while she unsuccessfully fought back tears. With all of that behind him, Terry tossed his luggage in the trunk of his Thunderbird and drove away from Bishop, Georgia, leaving behind him sad-eyed family, memories of a not-too-pleasant youth, and discontented, sex-starved (to hear them tell it) housewives.

  He was depressed until he drove past the city limits sign. A mile further and he began

  whistling a tune from the mid-fifties, his spirits lifting.

  "Okay," he spoke aloud, "so you have no real home. Big deal. You don't know where the Army will send you—but what damn difference does it make? You can't go back, can't stand still, so that leaves only one direction: straight ahead."

  So, Terry thought, let's do it!

  Four o'clock in the morning, snowing in the Kentucky hills of Fort Knox. Terry shook his head at the decision of a higher-up to send him to Fort Knox. Jesus, it was cold.

  Men who had gone in the Army in 1940 and '41 were getting out after twenty or so, and there was a shortage of Drill Sergeants. Basic training camps were being shuffled around, and Terry—after a mini-course at DI school—was pushing troops.

  Colonel Ferret thought it amusing when a dozen of his personnel in Dog Teams were chosen to train troops at various bases around the country.

  "It's only temporary," he reminded them. "One or two cycles at the most. Besides, all you guys are getting soft,"—that was a lie and Ferret knew it, there wasn't an ounce of fat on any of them— "it's time for you men to remember you're soldiers. Get back with the troops." He laughed at their long faces. "Get the hell out of here, I'll see you all in a few

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  months. Providing you can keep up with those kids you'll be pushing." He was still laughing as they filed out of his office at Fort Bragg, a dozen men, bitching and cussing.

  Sergeant Kovak stood by the window of his room in the barracks and thought about the men—boys, really, most of them—in his platoon.

  Ninety-eight percent of them would make it. One or two he might have to recommend for recycling. One, a draftee, was too fat to keep up with the others, dragging them down. Terry felt a little sorry for him. There should be a special program for men like that, he thought. A three or four week course to gradually get them into shape; all we're doing now is humiliating them in front of guys in better shape. That's not right. The other guy was just plain dumb. Stupid. He had no business being in the Army. And the lad named Jones had him worried. He had something on his mind that was nagging at him, tearing his concentration apart. Terry could empathize with him; a seventeen year old with problems. He had a hunch it was a woman: a girl back home in Pennsylvania who just might be screwing Jones around. For a moment, Terry toyed with the idea of sending Jones to talk with the Chaplain. He forced Jones out of his mind; Terry had fifty-nine other recruits to worry about.

  Hours later, Terry wearily pulled off his boots and sat down in a chair in his room. He

  bad driven the men hard that day—both before and after their time on
the rifle range—and driven himself just as hard. Terry would demand of no man something he could not do.

  He showered, put on clean clothes, and ate in the mess hall behind the barracks, returning to his room to work on the day's reports, and then, hopefully, to relax a bit before putting the troops to bed.

  A knock on the closed door. Timid tapping. "I can't hear you!" Terry called. Heavier knocking. "I still can't hear youl" The door rattled under the pounding of knuckles. "Come in," Terry called.

  Private E-l Jones stood in the doorway. Terry could tell he'd been crying. A letter in his hand, crumpled then smoothed out several times. The young man looked completely miserable. Jones was small, his fatigues never seeming to fit him properly. He looked like the original Sad Sack.

  "What's on your mind?" Terry asked, after the young soldier had closed the door. Terry pointed to a chair and Jones sat.

  "I ... I'm all messed up, Sergeant. It's my girl back home. She's . . . pregnantl" he blurted out the words.

  Terry grunted. He had been right. "Want me to try to arrange some emergency le'ave for you? I don't know if I can, but I can try."

  Jones shook his head. "It wouldn't do any good, Sergeant." He held up the letter. "She

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  got married a few days ago. I swear to Cod in Heaven I didn't know she was pregnant when I joined up. We had a fight, that's all."

  "I believe you." Terry leaned forward and patted the young man on the shoulder. "Look, Jones, talk to me. Get it all out of your system. If you want, we'll go out back of the barracks and you can yell at me. Cuss me out if you think that will help. Jump up and down. Kick things. Call me every name in the book—I don't care." He reached into a dresser and got a bottle of whiskey. "You want a drink?"

  "No, Sergeant. I don't drink."

  "What can I say, Jones? I don't know what to say. You want to see the Chaplain?" He reached for the phone on his desk. "Say the word. He'll see you tonight. It's got to help."

  The boy/soldier shook his head and began to cry. Terry felt useless in this situation.

  "I love her, Sarge. I really do love her." He sobbed into his hands.

  Having never been in love, Terry had no comprehension of the word; did not know how the emotion could tear at a person's guts. However, he did not like to see a man cry and almost told Jones to knock it off. He held his tongue at the last second.