When I told him about Wild Horse's marraige, he couldn't get over it.
"Shit," he said, shaking his head, "I missed everything while I was gone, didn't I?"
"What you missed," I said, "was shoeing about a hundred and fifty horses."
"Yeah," he laughed, "there's that. But you won't believe how terrible things are back in Bufalo. I thought I'd get some kind of a job, but except for two weeks of night work pumping gas, I had to live off my old man. And he was only getting two or three days' work a week at the railroad yards. When I first enlisted, my old man didn't want me to join. But he told me it was the smartest thing I ever did to re-enlist. I visited my cousin one weekend in Albany, and things were worse there than they are in Buffalo."
"Why didn't you go out in the country and shoe a few horses?"
"Jesus, I don't know. The thought never even crossed my mind. All I ever thought about was sticking it out, knowing I'd have three months' pay coming to me when I got back."
The next morning, back in Kayo's squad, Sergeant Bellows came up to me on the picket line.
"You did a good job for us here, Will, and I won't forget it. You satisfied with Chesty? If not, pick out another horse you like, one that ain't assigned already, and I'll give him to you."
"Chesty's all right. I just clipped him last Saturday afternoon, and now that he's had a long rest he suits me fine. But thanks anyway."
I felt pretty good about that. After all, I had made some friends in the stable gang—except for Halkins. Baldy Allen, because we had been paired on the rifle range, coaching each other when we fired, had become fairly close, too. Allen gave me a wallet with an old English initial W carved into it, telling me that the guy in headquarters who had ordered it couldn't afford to paye for it.
"I'll pay you for it on payday."
"Forget it. Keep it as a present. I should've collected for the wallet before I made it."
I didn't insist on paying for it because I knew he wanted me to have it as a gift. I don't think any guy in headquarters ordered it, either. After all, I wasn't the only guy in the 11th Cavalry with a W initial. Baldy could have sold it to someone else, but he wanted me to have it.
After not riding for almost three months, my ass was tender for a few days. I hadn't forgotten how to ride though, and being back on straight duty, after all that time in the stable gang, was like being on vacation. The mornings were downright leisurely. I didn't have to get up until six A.M., and it seemed like I had all the time in the world to shave, make my bunk, and help clean up the squad-room. I didn't have to rush through breakfast, and there was always time for a second cup of coffee. We didn't fall in to go to the stables until seven-thirty.
But the horse exercise period was short, and we cleaned equipment and groomed the horses hurriedly so we could get back to the barracks and practice with the .45 pistol. The first week with the pistol was the hardest because we didn't use pistols. We had to stand there with a red brick in our right hand, not a pistol, holding the brick at arm's length as long as we could before we dropped our arm. This exercise was to get us used to the weight, and it worked, because when we did start to use the pistol instead of the heavy brick, the pistol seemed light by comparison. For rapid fire practice we tied a string on the hammer, and we would cock the pistol with the string, aim, and fire dry run shots at small targets stapled to the barracks. In the aftemoons we went out to the pistol range and fired live ammunition.
I pulled my first guard duty and got Post Number Four, the mounted post. During the night, with two hours on and four hours off, I made two two-hour tours of the post riding old Dempsey. Dempsey knew the route, and he was usually the horse you picked when the mounted post was a new one to you. He knew the route so well you couldn't make a mistake, and each round took one hour exactly. The man who had a mounted tour didn't have to chase prisoners the next day, so it was an easy guard tour for me.
Payday came, and on payday Sergeant Brasely posted a Troop Order on the bulletin board that made Eddie Furler a P.F.C. Micaloni had five years' service to Furler's four, but Furler deserved the promotion. I couldn't help feeling that if I had had the advantage of three months' straight duty, instead of being out of sight and mind in the horseshoeing shack, I might have been considered. Furler had also made expert on the rifle, and was drawing the extra live bucks a month for a year, too. I was happy for Furler, and we went down to Cannery Row that night to celebrate.
Just for the hell of it, and because I had had three glasses of dago red at Flora's bar, I took Mrs. Kayo upstairs. She knew I was in Kayo's squad, and she shook her head when I asked her for a blow job. "I don't do that, Willeford," she said.
"Bullshit. "
"Well," she said, "Kayo doesn't want me to do it for the men in his squad. He says it's too intimate. And not for the dollar discount he makes me give you guys."
"I'll give you the other dollar, Mrs. Kayo, and I won't tell him about it, either."
"Are you sure? You aren't just trying to get back at him some way, are you?"
"Get back at him? I don't know what you're talking about! We all consider it a privilege to be in Corporal Kayo's squad."
"All right, then. But don't tell him you gave me the second dollar, either."
"I won't. If I did, he'd think I was a fool."
"Yes, he would. Just remember that."
I gave her the second dollar, and Marie Kayo gave me the blow job. At least she couldn't talk and chew gum while she was sucking me off, but I felt guilty about it afterwards. I guess I was taking my frustration out on Kayo, although I didn't have anything against the man. He treated me decently, and he had even told me that he was glad to have me back in his squad. But a man, when he is pissed off, quite often does things that he is sorry for later. In that respect, I was as weak as the next man. But then, almost overnight, everything changed.
Mary Elizabeth Halkins shot Wild Horse between the eyes with his .45 pistol, and the poor bastard was dead before he hit the floor of his pissy-smelling trailer.
TWENTY-NINE
THE INVESTIGATING OFFICER WAS AN ARMY RESERVE first lieutenant named Geoffrey Shifrin. Lieutenant Shifrin was a civilian lawyer from San Francisco who just happened to be on a three-week tour of reserve duty with F Troop. According to the rumor, he was also supposed to be a polo player with a four-goal handicap, and he had managed to get a reserve commission in the cavalry so he could play polo when he did his two- or three-week tour at the Presidio every year. But it didn't work out that way for Lieutenant Shifrin because Major "Chukker Charlie" Gerhardt, who was the captain of the 11th Cavalry Polo Team, made it a rule that only Regular Army officers could play on the team. But inasmuch as Lieutenant Shifrin was a lawyer, and on three weeks of active duty, and a more or less disinterested outsider, the colonel had made him the investigating officer for the case. What actually happened no one will ever know for sure, because the only witness present was Mary Elizabeth Halkins
Lieutenant Shifrin questioned Socky and me closely before writing down our statements. He had already talked to the other members of the stable gang, including Sergeant Bellows, but he questioned Socky and me a lot closer than the others because we had been working with Halkins in the horseshoeing shack both before and after Halkins got married.
The big question was, What in the hell was Halkins doing with his .45 pistol at home? Socky and I both told the lieutenant that Halkins and Mary Elizabeth had, so far as we knew, a loving and happy marriage. In fact, Halkins had once told Socky they had sex two or three times a night, every single night. The lieutenant raised his eye-brows when Socky mentioned that, but told Socky he couldn't put it down on his statement because it was not only hearsay, it was irrelevant.
What he was anxious to find out was why Halkins had taken his pistol home with him instead of turning it in to the supply room when he came down from the range to hay out at the stable before going home.
"I can't answer that," Socky said. "He never did anything like that before, not that I kno
w of, anyway. And he knew better than to take his weapon off the post."
"I don't know for sure," I said, "but I can make a pretty good guess. He had to get down to F Troop stables to get his ride home to the Dunes with Sergeant Morrow. If he had taken the time to clean and turn in his pistol, waiting along with everyone else at the supply room, he would probably have missed his ride home."
"I think Willeford's right on that, sir," Socky said. "Used to be, before he got married, Halkins didn't care whether we worked late or not. Isn't that right, Will?"
"That's right," I said. "He didn't have anything else to do before he got married. Sometimes he even helped the stable orderly do things he didn't have to do."
"He was always doing something or other around the stables," Socky added. "But once he got married, I never saw a man so anxious to get home at night. Of course, he was just married, and if he'd missed his ride with Sergeant Morrow, he'd either have to walk or hitchhike out to the Dunes. There's a bus runs out there, but it only goes every two hours."
"All right." Lieutenant Shifrin nodded. "I'd better get a statement from Sergeant Morrow, too."
"He'd never tell Sergeant Morrow he had his pistol with him, wrapped up in his fatigues," Socky said, shaking his shaved head. "Sergeant Morrow would've turned right around and brought him back to our first sergeant and turned him in. I've known Sergeant Morrow for a long time, and he goes strictly by the book."
"I'll talk to him anyway," the lieutenant said. "What about the pistol itself? Did either one of you men ever hear him say that the weapon was defective in any way?"
"No, sir," Socky said.
"No, sir," I said. "But even if he did say something like that it would only be hearsay."
Lieutenant Shifrin looked at me for a long moment, and then he shrugged. "Well, here's what we've more or less decided. As you both know, there's a half-cock safety, a handle-grip safety, and a regular thumb safety on the forty-five semiautomatic pistol. Besides that, the slide has to be pulled back and released before a round goes into the chamber. So unless the weapon was defective in some way, it's a little difficult to understand exactly how it happened."
"She just accidentally pulled the trigger, didn't she, sir?" I said.
"Well, no, not exactly. What happened, she said, was that she unwrapped his fatigues. She was planning to wash them, and the gun fell on the iloor. When the pistol hit the floor, it went off. Halkins was standing by the little dining room table, at the end of the trailer, pouring a glass of wine. We confirmed that, because there was a broken glass and spilled wine on the floor. But the pistol, landing on the floor at an angle, must've fired freakily, and the round caught him right between the eyes. Mrs. Halkins couldn't understand what had happened at first, the report was so loud, she said. But when Halkins fell, she picked up the pistol and went down to the manager's trailer to have him telephone for a doctor. When I asked her why she picked up the pistol, she said she was afraid it might fire again. Of course, when the doctor got there, Private First Class Halkins was already deceased. Probably instantaneously."
"Come to think of it," Socky said, "I believe that Halkins did tell me once that the grip safety on his pistol was a little loose. Did he ever mention that to you, Will?"
"No. As you remember, Halkins and I didn't talk too much to each other. And when I went to the range, I always went with Allen."
"I'm going to add what you said to your statement, Sokoloski," the lieutenant said. "It was my opinion, and your first sergeant's opinion, too, that this tragic accident would never have happened if Halkins had turned in his pistol before going home."
"That's right, sir," I said. "Especially when Wild Horse didn't tell Mrs. Halkins that it was wrapped up in his fatigues."
"Wild Horse‘?"
"That was just a nickname for Halkins, sir," Socky said.
"Did he have a reputation for wildness, recklessness? This could be very important to the investigation."
"No, sir," Socky said. "He had that nickname for a long time, for several years, before I ever knew him. It was on account of his hair, you see. He had very curly, unruly hair, and it kind of stuck up like an unroached mane on a wild horse. Halkins was already called Wild Horse before I re-enlisted here. I used to be in the Third Cavalry before I came to California."
"In Washington?"
"In Arlington, yes, sir. Before I got into horseshoeing I used to walk honor guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier."
"That was quite an honor," Lieutenant Shifrin said.
"Yes, sir. We had to march back and forth at Attention on a rubber mat. If someone stopped on the mat, you halted, came down to port arms, and said, ‘Please get off the mat, sir, or madam.' Once, when I snapped my rifle down to port arms at an old lady, she fainted on me."
"What did you do?" I asked. I had never heard this story.
"I just stepped over her and kept marching back and forth. Those were our orders."
"I see," the lieutenant said. "Well, do either one of you have anything else pertinent to add to your statements?"
"I'd just like to say, sir," Socky said, "that Halkins was a good horseshoer. And before he got married, he was always a hard worker."
"Thank you very much. You've both been very helpful. One of you, if you will, please, tell Sergeant Brasely that I would like to see him down here."
"I'll tell him, sir," Socky said.
We both saluted and left the day-room.
***
THERE WAS A MILITARY FUNERAL FOR HALKINS, BUT THE casket was closed. We wore a "formal" uniform, which meant black neckties and white shirts with our regular serge O.D. uniforms.
The first sergeant marched us down to the post theater, and the troop was seated from the second row back, leaving the front row for Captain Bradshaw, Sergeant Brasely, Sergeant and Mrs. Bellows, and Mr. Halkins, Wild Horse's brother, who had come from Missouri to get the body. Mary Elizabeth Halkins wasn't there, although I looked for her in the theater.
Lieutenant Shifrin and the District Attorney of Monterey County had finished their investigation, and after she was cleared she left the Dunes Trailer park, her job at Woolworth's, and Monterey. No one knew where she went, but I doubt if she returned to Missouri; after all, she had married Wild Horse Halkins to get out of that state.
The chaplain gave a short service in the theater, and the casket was loaded on a caisson. Old Goyette, as the oldest man in Machine Gun Troop, led Halkins' horse, Runner, following along behind the caisson, which was pulled by six horses, with three riders from the 76th Field Artillery. Goyette had polished Halkins' boots, and the boots were tied to the pommel by the boot strings, with the toes pointing backward.
We, the entire troop, with the exception of the charge of quarters and one cook, who had been excused, marched at half-step, following the beat of a single drummer from the 11th Cavalry Band. Then when we got down to the railroad station in Monterey, about two hundred yards away from the Old Customs House, Corporal Royale's squad fired three blank rounds from their riiles, and the regimental bugler played "Taps." The casket was put on a wheeled cart to wait for the train to come in the next morning. The captain had to take Mr. Halkins to the San Carlos Hotel for the night, so he turned the troop over to Sergeant Brasely, and the first sergeant marched us at quick-step back to the Presidio. Instead of marching us all the way back to the troop area, Sergeant Brasely dismissed us in front of the Main Post Exchange, knowing that by this time everyone would need a beer.
We discussed the shooting and the funeral in the spiff bar, and Parker and I both agreed that Mr. Halkins, with his white hair, looked more like Wild Horse's father than he did an older brother. We also speculated on what would happen to the widow, and decided that a girl as pretty as she was, and still young, would do all right whether she moved to L.A. or San Francisco. Everyone agreed that it was Hallcins' fault that he had been shot, because if he hadn't taken his pistol home with him, his wife wouldn't have been able to shoot him—either accidentally or on purpose.
All in all, it was a damned impressive funeral.
***
THB NEXT AFTERNOON, WHEN WE GOT BACK FROM THE range at four-thirty, I was feeling good. In rapid tire, at fifteen yards, I had shot a pattem the size of an orange. The pattem, unhappily, was about three inches to the left of the bull's eye, but it was a definite pattern. Sergeant Olsen looked at my target, borrowed my pistol, and fired three slow rounds at my target. His three shots were grouped at almost the same place as my five shots.
"It isn't you, Willeford," he said, "it's the pistol. Tomorrow, when we come to the range, use a little Kentucky windage. Put the bull's-eye on top of your sight, and then move the muzzle to the right one inch. If that doesn't do it for you, I'll see that you get a diiferent pistol when we fire for record."
I was getting the hang of shooting the .45 all right, and I felt good about it. Three months of shoeing horses had built up my wrists, and it was no trick to hold the pistol steady. I field-stripped my pistol, getting ready to clean it, when Sergeant Nevell, who was charge of quarters that day, came into the squad-room. (Sergeant Nevell was back where he belonged as a section leader in the second platoon, and we were certainly eating a lot better now that Hambone Jones was back as mess sergeant.)
"The first sergeant wants to see you, Willeford."
"I just field-stripped my pistol."
"Leave it on your bunk. Quinn'll watch it for you."
When I got to the orderly room and knocked on the door, I could see Sergeant Brasely and Sergeant Bellows through the screen door. I knew, or thought I knew, exactly what they wanted from me, but I was wrong.
After Sergeant Brasely told me to come in, Sergeant Nevell left us and went outside. Both of these old sergeants looked at me for a long time without saying anything.
"How do you feel, Willeford," Sergeant Brasely said finally, "about going back to the stable gang?"
I shook my head. I had been fucked over long enough, I decided. I wasn't the same overweight kid I had been in the fire department at Clark Field. They had worked my ass off for three months as the third horseshoer, and I hadn't got an extra dime out of it. Now, I thought, they want to make Wheeler second horseshoer, and offer me his place as third horseshoer. I would make P.F.C. all right, but it would be a dead end. Hell, Wheeler had just re-enlisted, and had almost all of his enlistment to go yet. I wouldn't be eligible for second horseshoer until he left—if he ever left.
Something About a Soldier - Charles Willeford Page 27