trailed off to get a taxi. Then Mary Elizabeth stepped off the bus. At first I couldn't believe it, but then there were no other passengers, and I knew she had to be the one.
Mary Elizabeth was eighteen, but she looked more like fifteen or sixteen. Her face was white with freshly applied powder, but the powder didn't hide the sprinkling of freckles that covered her cheeks and little turned up nose. She had pale skin anyway, like most red-haired girls, and she had given herself, or a girlfriend had given her, a home permanent. The permanent hadn't taken right, and it had frizzed up all over her head, standing up straight and kinky in the middle, as though her little ass had been wired for electricity. She was tiny, too, not much more than five feet tall, if that. Maybe she looked shorter because she was wearing low-heeled patent leather Mary Jane shoes, with white socks folded over a couple of times. She wore a maroon faille suit that was wrinkled and rump-sprung from riding in a bus for two and a half days, and she carried a black patent leather purse about the size of a briefcase.
Even so, she was as pretty as a little white poodle as she smiled nervously and licked at her lipstick, which was already smeared a bit—probably from trying to touch it up on the moving bus.
What happened next was terrible. It was like one of those comic twists in a P. G. Wodehouse novel, when a Drone finds out he's wearing the wrong school tie at an old boys' dinner or something. Mary Elizabeth ignored everybody else in the line and came straight up to me. She
put her left hand on my shoulder and kissed me right on the mouth.
"Mr. Halkins," she said, "I'm Mary Elizabeth."
There's no telling, of course, what Halkins' brother had told her about what old Wild Horse looked like; they hadn't seen each other for ten years or more, and just kept up with letters two or three times a year. But it was awkward and embarrassing all the same for both of us. Before I could say anything, or even think of anything to say, Mrs. Bellows was right there, hugging the girl and dragging her over to Sergeant Bellows, who had pushed Halkins forward. Her face fell, and she blushed a bright red when the stable sergeant introduced her to Halkins, but on the whole I think she carried it off fairly well. Halkins rallied pretty quick from the shock of meeting his bride-to-be and introduced the rest of us to Mary Elizabeth.
When we got back to the stables we told old Goyette what Mary Elizabeth looked like, but he didn't want to hear about it. He thought that anyone who got married was insane. They also kidded me about Mary Elizabeth mistaking me for Halkins, but Baldy Allen was furious about the whole thing. Ordinarily, perhaps because he was alone so much in his tack room, Baldy was quiet and withdrawn. I had never seen him get angry before.
"That girl's too damned young for an old fart like Halkins," he said. "It's the goddamned Depression! A' young girl like that should be marrying some guy Will's age, not a randy old man like Halkins!"
"That's right, Baldy," Socky said. "Long's he's damned fool enough to get married, I'm glad he got himself a pretty young girl. Come Tuesday, I just hope he's got enough strength left to shoe horses again."
And so the conversation went. At least we had something to talk about for a change. The suspense was over, and now we could go back to work.
***
ON MONDAY HALKINS AND MARY ELIZABETH GOT MARRIED at the courthouse. The stable sergeant and his wife stood up with them as witnesses. Sergeant Bellows drove the couple out to the Dunes Trailer Park and came back to the stables to tell us about it. On the way out to the Dunes he had stopped, at Halkins' request, so that Wild Horse could get some takeout chop suey and a gallon of zinfandel to take to the trailer park.
"The way he looked," Sergeant Bellows said, "with his pants bulging out, I don't suppose he wanted his wife to waste any time cooking for him."
"How happy did the bride look?" Baldy Allen said. "Very nice. Mrs. Bellows sponged and ironed her suit and made her a nice bouquet of California poppies and ferns, all tied with a white ribbon."
"What I mean," Allen said, "was how'd she look? Was she happy about it, or did she look like she didn't want to go through with it, or what?"
The stable sergeant seemed to be surprised by the question. "Why wouldn't she want to go through with it? Hell, she came out here all the way from Missouri to get married—"
"I know that," Allen said, "but Wild Horse is old enough to be that girl's father. And she obviously didn't know that. I thought she might've had some second thoughts, after getting a good look at him, and al1."
"Lct me tell you something right now," Sergeant Bellows said, "all of you. Back there, or up there, in those Missouri mountains, they look at life a lot different than the rest of us do out here in California. You might think Mary Elizabeth's a little too young for Wild Horse, but back in Missouri she's pretty damned old herself not to be already married. Girls up in those mountains get married at twelve and thirteen, and Mary Elizabeth's almost nineteen years old. I seen her birthdate on the marriage license. And she'll have a damned better life for herself out here married to Halkins than she'd ever have back in them hills. Halkins is a hard-working member of this stable gang, and I don't want none of you railing him none about his child bride or nothing else."
He glared at us for a minute. "How many of you ever been married before?"
None of us had, and he knew it, but Baldy shrugged.
"I was shacked up once, for about six months."
"Then you got a rough idea of what it's like, although being married's a lot different than shacking up. To get here in time in the morning to muck out, Wild Horse, if he wants to eat breakfast, will have to get up at four-thirty. And at noon, when you all are sitting down to a big hot dinner, he'll be squatting up here at the horseshoeing shack eating a cold sandwich for lunch, probably a string bean sandwich on com bread. He won't have your companionship at night, either. He'll be out there in the Dunes in that rusty trailer of his, which still smells of baby pee from the last ten owners, trying to find something to talk about with a not-so-bright young girl who's been standing on her feet all day behind the china counter in Woolworth's. Except for money worries, God knows what they'll find to talk about.
"No." He shook his head. "You people leave old Halkins alone. He won't be the first man to sacrifice a good life on the cross of young pussy, and he won't be the last, neither. But if Halkins ever comes to me and tells me you're railing him about his child bride, I'm telling you
right now, your ass'll be buttermilk. Now get back to work!"
It was the longest speech any of us had ever heard Sergeant Bellows make. He had not only thought a lot about Halkins and his marriage, it seemed to me he had thought a good deal about his own marriage and three children.
But the picture of a marriage he left us with was a heathscape of a dismal swamp. As Hampe and I turned away, Hampe said, "Jesus, Will, I don't think I'll ever get married!"
I didn't think Hampe would ever get married either, so I didn't reply to his comment. But despite what Sergeant Bellows had said, I still felt sorrier for the girl than I did for Halkins. That girl had never had a chance, but now that she was married to Halkins, she wasn't ever going to get a chance.
On Tuesday morning I got into a fight with Wild Horse Halkins and tried to kill him.
TWENTY-EIGHT
TUESDAY MORNING HALKINS DIDN'T SHOW UP IN TIME to untie his horses and to muck out. Socky and I divided his stalls and mucked them out in addition to our own. After breakfast, when Socky and I got to the horse-shoeing shack, Halkins still hadn't shown up. Socky didn't say anything, but I could see the little round muscles bunching up in his jaw. I pulled the shoes on the first horse, old Bourbon, and when I tossed them into the empty barrel. I spotted Halkins across the gully, lurching up the alley behind Headquarters Troop kitchen. He was wearing his brown suit and carrying his fatigue clothes in a bundle under his left arm. When he reached the horseshoeing shack he was grinning like a moron, and the lingers of his right hand were wrapped with a white handkerchief.
"Sergeant Morrow forgot a
ll about picking me up. That's why I'm so late. I stopped by F Troop stables just now, to see why Sergeant Morrow didn't pick me up, and he said he forgot. I was all ready and waiting, and everything. But when he didn't come by my trailer I finally went over to his place and Mrs. Morrow told me he'd already left.
So I had to hitchhike into town from the Dunes and then walk the rest of the way from the San Carlos Hotel. It won't happen again, Socky, honest. Tomorrow morning I'll be waiting outside Sergeant Morrow's door."
"What's‘ the matter with your hand?" Socky said.
Halkins smirked (and that's the exact word). He put his bundle of fatigues on the workbench and very slowly unwrapped the white handkerchief from his fingers. He put them to his nose and inhaled.
"Ah!" he said. "It's still there. You guys are my buddies, and I want you to smell my new bride!"
Socky threw back his head and laughed as Halkins held out his fingers for Socky to take a sniff.
I had the shoe-pulling tongs in my hand. Without thinking, I swung them in an arc against Halkins' head. The closed ends of the tongs, which are fairly heavy anyway, caught Halkins on the left temple, but because he had instinctively jerked his head slightly at the same time I swung, it was only a glancing blow. But he was off balance, and when I dropped the tongs and leaped on him, trying to get my thumbs into his throat, he went over backwards.
I went down with him. Halkins was bigger than me, but I had the advantage of surprise, so I did get my hands around his neck, and I was trying to dig my thumbs in when Socky grabbed me and pulled me off. I was crying with rage by this time, and the flow of hot tears made me see everything in a blurry way. Socky slapped me across the face before pushing me up against the wall and holding me there.
"What the fuck's the matter with you?" he said.
"Let me go, Socky," I said, although I was crying so hard I could hardly get it out. "I'm gonna kill that rotten sonofabitch!"
"You ain't gonna do nothing but cool off!" Socky held me by both shoulders now, and I was so high up against the wall that only my toes were touching the hard-packed dirt floor.
Halkins took off his suit coat and put it on the workbench.
"Let him go, Socky! If he wants a fight, I'll give him a goddamned fight!"
"You cool off too, Halkins. And get into your fatigues. There'll be no fighting here long's I'm the chief horseshoer. We got work to do."
"It's all right," I said.
"What's all right?" Socky said.
"I'm all right. I'm ready to go back to work. Halkins isn't worth fighting. He's too fucking dumb to live, but I guess it isn't his fault that he doesn't know any better."
"Who you calling dumb?" Halkins said.
"You shut up, too," Socky said. "Both of you."
"All I'm saying," I said, "is keep that dumb sonofabitch away from me——"
"How'm I supposed to do that?"
Socky was still holding me against the wall, and the rough unpainted boards were scratching my bare back. I didn't struggle because it would have been useless to do so against a man as strong as Socky. Socky let me go. I went over to the other wall, where I kept my fatigue jacket and towel on pegs, and wiped my streaming face. My tears had stopped, but my hands were still shaking. I took the curved paring knife out of my leather apron pocket, stared at it for a moment, and went to work on Bourbon's right front hoof. My hands were damp under my gloves, and I oould hardly hold on to the knife. I took off my gloves, wiped my palms on my pants, and just stood there for a minute, my mind a big black cloud of hate. I wanted a cigarette, but knew that my hands were still too trembly to roll one.
Halkins undressed and put on his fatigue pants and his beat-up work shoes, which were encrusted with horseshit and ammonia, just like mine. He tied on his leather apron.
Socky was standing beside his anvil, looking first at Halkins and then at me. Halkins had brought his 'shack-rat lunch in a paper bag, which had been wrapped up in his fatigues, and now he put his lunch up on the shelf where Socky had kept his little radio during the time the two of them had fallen out.
"All right!" Socky said, banging his tongs down on the anvil. "You guys listen to me, both of you. Next Monday range season begins, and Wheeler won't be back for another month——"
"If he comes back," I said.
"That ain't your worry, Will. But range season means a tough three months ahead. One of us, each afternoon, has to go out to the rifle range for firing practice. Me on Monday, Halkins Tuesday, you Wednesday, and so on. But if you two assholes are fighting, it's gonna cause problems when I'm out on the range. What I want both of you to do now is shake hands and promise me that you'll get along. I don't want no accidental bumping, or nothing like that, to start it all up again."
"I'll never shake his fucking hand," I said. "But I'm sorry I hit him, if that makes you feel any better, Socky. And I won't start anything again. Anything starts again, it'll be Wild Horse, not me."
"I can accept that. Halkins?"
There was a blue mark on Halkins' temple the size of a half—dollar, and it was starting to swell a little. A piece of straw was already lodged in his curly hair. "D'you accept Will's apology, then?"
"I didn't apologize to the sonofabitch," I said.
"That'll do, damnit!" Socky said, exasperated. "You said you were sorry to me, Will, and I want Halkins to accept that." .
Halkins shrugged. "If he won't start nothing, I won't either."
***
IT WAS ALL OVER THEN. WE LEFT IT AT THAT AND WENT back to work. At eleven-thirty Socky and—I went down to the mess hall for early chow, and Halkins stayed in the shack to eat his sandwiches. When we got back from chow, we found that Halkins had finished another horse, shaping the shoes himself. So we only had three more horses to shoe that afternoon. All the same, after we finished at four-thirty, Socky made Halkins stay an extra hour and clean up around the horseshoeing shack. So Halkins missed his ride with Sergeant Morrow and had to hitchhike to the Dunes that night.
I had another month to go. I would be on the range for one or two afternoons each week, so I figured I could hold on that long. I had never talked all that much to Halkins anyway, but now I decided not to talk to the sonofabitch at all. We knew what we had to do every day anyway; we didn't have to talk about it.
***
DURING RANGE DEASON THE TROOP WENT OUT FOR HORSE exercise only, and returned to the stables earlier than usual. When they finished grooming, they went back to the troop area around eleven A.M. and practiced with the aiming circle, and with working their bolts for dry runs until chow. They propped small targets up against the barracks. I didn't get in on any of this practice with the aiming circle and dry runs because I was shoeing horses. All of us in the stable gang were armed with rifles, and that was the weapon we had to qualify with as expert if we wanted to get expert pay. The Springfield rifle is a wonderful weapon—a five-shot, bolt-operated rifle with sights that can be set for fine-point accuracy. But it takes a good deal of practice with the rifle to become an expert.
After dinner the troop was marched to the range by Sergeant Brasely, and when the troopers weren't on the firing line shooting practice rounds for single-shot and rapid-fire, they got concurrent behind-the-line training from the N.C.O.'s. But because we were in the stable gang we were cheated out of that much-needed practice, too. Instead of being at the range every afternoon, we each had to settle for one or two afternoons a week. I was paired with Baldy Allen, but even on the afternoons we went to the range we still had to leave early because we had to retum to the stables to hay out and tie in the horses. While we were on the range, however, we had priority. Sergeant Olsen, who had been on the Cavalry Rifle Team at Camp Perry for the N.R.A. national shootouts for five years in a row,coached the members of the stable gang. He also saw that we got in our fair share of range firing when we were on the range, but we still had hardly any practice at all compared to the troopers on straight duty. In other words, our stable duties cheated us out of a fair chance to make e
xpert and get the extra money.
After a month on the rille range, the troop would put in another month on the pistol range (mounted and dismounted) and the third month on the machine gun range. The men in the stable gang, however, only got familiarization firing with the .45 and no training on the machine gun at all. When we finally fired for record on the rifle, I just barely qualified as a marksman. My chance at the extra five bucks a month went up in the air as wasted gunpowder, and now I would have to wait for a year to get another crack at it.
Halkins and Socky were about as friendly during working hours as they had ever been, and Halkins even had Socky over to his trailer for dinner one night. But I didn't talk to Halkins again, not even when there were just the two of us in the horseshoeing shack in the afternoon and Socky was on the range. Halkins was not as fast as Socky, but he could shape shoes on the anvil just as well. It took him longer, that's all. I think that I could have shaped shoes myself, just by watching Socky and Halkins do it, but I was never given the opportunity. The weeks passed quickly, thanks to the range season, and to my surprise and delight Wheeler came back from his ninety-day furlough three days early.
Wheeler was nothing like the man I had pictured in my mind during my early days in the horseshoeing shack. I guess I thought he would be a big man, like Socky and Halkins, but he was almost a head shorter than me. He was strong and wiry, however, and he had fought a few welterweight fights on the post before he was assigned to the stable gang. Wheeler did have that pale New York look, though, with the kind of white Irish skin that will always burn and never tan. I helped Wheeler move his stuff from storage to the stable gang squad-room, and he helped me move back to Corporal Kayo's squad-room. I liked Wheeler immediately (although I was prepared not to like him) just because he came back from furlough.
Something About a Soldier - Charles Willeford Page 26