The Hunting Trip

by William E. Butterworth, III

  “And what are your plans for this Saturday, after the pastor and his wife fly off to Frankfurt, dumpling?”

  “Actually, I have none, Magda, so if you would like me to drive you anywhere at all you’d like in the pastor’s Cadillac, I would be happy to oblige.”

  “Well, maybe that, too, but what I was thinking was that since you don’t speak Hungarian, I would like to teach you a little Hungarian. And some other things, which your innocent face, my little dumpling, tells me you have yet to learn. Would you like that?”

  “That would be very kind of you, Magda.”

  “I’ll get the coat.”

  When she handed him the coat, she said, “I wouldn’t mention our conversation to the pastor. I’m afraid he would understand.”

  “Yes, ma’am . . . I mean, Magda.”

  —

  After dropping Pastor-in-Chief and Mrs. Caldwell at Tempelhof, Phil drove to his office. He realized that he needed time to think things through and that was the place to do it, as no one else in the German-American Gospel Tract Foundation worked on Saturday but him.

  Logic told him, of course, that it would be illogical to think that a startlingly beautiful redheaded, magnificently bosomed older woman of at least twenty-eight could possibly be interested in an administrator who was the world’s last known living seventeen-year-old virgin.

  On the other hand, she had pinched his cheek, and called him her little dumpling. And, having already acquired the cynicism that is the hallmark of those who labor in the intelligence fields, he wasn’t absolutely sure that her bosom exposure had been entirely accidental and thus innocent on her part.

  And he was having trouble thinking clearly, as the visual of Magda’s bosom kept interrupting his chain of thought. And then his thought chain was again interrupted when there came a knock at his office door.

  He ran to open it, throwing caution to the wind, and just knowing it was Magda come to teach him Hungarian and whatever else she had in mind.

  [ TWO ]

  It wasn’t.

  It was a delegation of members of the Berlin Garrison Chapter of the West Point Protective Association.

  “How may I help you, sirs?” Phil politely inquired.

  “We’re hoping you might find time in your schedule, Administrator Williams, to discuss with you a problem we’re facing.”

  “Sirs, my time is your time. Please come in, sirs, and have seats.”

  The delegation—consisting of Captain J. K. Brewster, cavalry, pay grade O-3, and two of his underlings—entered the office and sat down.

  “We are hoping, Administrator Williams, that you will keep this conversation to yourself,” Captain Brewster began.

  “Sir, you have my word that what’s said in this room will stay in this room.”

  “We are aware, Administrator Williams, that in order to better serve him, the pastor-in-charge has moved you out of the barracks housing the Thirty-third CIC detachment’s enlisted men and into the field grade bachelor officers’ hotel.”

  “Yes, sir. The pastor-in-charge did so in order that his Cadillac, in which I often drive the pastor-in-charge’s wife to the PX, the Senior Officers’ Club, and similar destinations, and in which I have just now driven the both of them to Tempelhof Field to catch the Frankfurt flight, can be parked out of the sun and rain, and also to separate me from certain members of the Thirty-third CIC he felt were trying to corrupt me.”

  “Despite this, we are hoping that you still remember Lieutenant Colonel O’Reilly from your days in the Thirty-third’s barracks.”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “And we hope you also remember that despite your civilian clothing status and residence in the field grade bachelor officers’ hotel, you are still, de jure, so to speak, a corporal, pay grade E-3, and carried on the Morning Report of the Thirty-third as such.”

  “Sir, I am also fully aware of that.”

  “Entre nous, Administrator Williams, Lieutenant Colonel William ‘Don’t Call Me Bill’ O’Reilly is what we call a ‘ticket puncher.’ Behind his back, of course.”

  “Sir, I have heard that allegation, but I’m afraid I don’t know precisely what that means.”

  “Let me put it to you this way, Administrator Williams. A ticket puncher is an officer who believes the way to higher command lies in getting his ticket punched as many times as possible, whatever the cost. Understand?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, let’s try this. Word comes from Berlin Brigade that the commanding general hopes that the brigade will support the Red Cross Drive. The response of normal officers, such as myself and these gentlemen, to the general’s hopes would range from the verbal—‘Yeah, us too’—to a decision to actually drop a dollar in the Red Cross’s bucket if one is presented to us. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “On the other hand, a ticket puncher such as Lieutenant Colonel William ‘Don’t Call Me Bill’ O’Reilly, on learning of the general’s hopes vis-à-vis the Red Cross, will regard it as a clarion call from on high to see that every last member of his organization contributes a dollar to the Red Cross Drive. Understand?”

  Phil said, “Yes, sir,” and handed Captain Brewster a dollar.

  “I’m always willing, sir, to do my part.”

  “Jesus H. EXPLETIVE DELETED!! Christ!” Captain Brewster exclaimed.

  He then got control of himself and continued, “We seem to have gotten a few paces off my intended path, Administrator Williams. Pray let me attempt to get us back on course.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, presuming that Lieutenant Colonel William ‘Don’t Call Me Bill’ O’Reilly succeeds, by fair means or foul, to have every member of the Thirty-third contribute a dollar to the Red Cross, he will then make every effort to make sure the general learns of this. When the general does, and then says, ‘Good job, Bill, vis-à-vis the Red Cross,’ or words to that effect, Colonel O’Reilly will consider that to mean his ticket has been punched. Get it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, as a practical matter, rather than see us having to harass every last mother’s son in the Thirty-third for a buck for the Red Cross, what the Berlin Garrison Chapter of the West Point Protective Association does is call in Special Agent Dumbrowski, who is also actually First Sergeant Dumbrowski, and demand from him the total number of personnel, enlisted and commissioned, on that morning’s Morning Report. When he furnishes that number, we then take up a collection amongst ourselves to match that number at one dollar per name. We then hand Dumbrowski the money, and wink at him, and say, ‘Happy Red Cross Donation Day.’

  “He takes the money and passes it upward in the chain of command. He and we are happy because we don’t have to harass people to give a buck to the EXPLETIVE DELETED!! Red Cross. Lieutenant Colonel William ‘Don’t Call Me Bill’ O’Reilly is happy to be able to report to the general that one hundred percent of the Thirty-third, under his inspired leadership, has contributed to the EXPLETIVE DELETED!! Red Cross, and when the general says, ‘Good job, Bill, vis-à-vis the Red Cross,’ the colonel assumes he’s had his EXPLETIVE DELETED!! ticket punched. Clear now?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The problem we are facing now, Administrator Williams, is akin to, but not identical to, the problem we face each year vis-à-vis the EXPLETIVE DELETED!! Red Cross. This time the Berlin Brigade’s commanding general has expressed the hope that all U.S. Army organizations in Berlin, which includes organizations like the Thirty-third that are physically in Berlin but not subordinate to the Berlin Brigade, will participate in the First Annual Berlin Brigade Brandenburg Gate Skeet Shoot. You do know what a skeet shoot is, don’t you, Administrator Williams?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “Well, let me give you the skinny on this one. It is sponsored by the Browning Arms Company of Arnold, Missouri, and Liège, Bel
gium. What they are hoping to do is incite the interest of members of the U.S. Army in the sport of skeet shooting. The reason they want to do this is because such new skeet shooters will be in the market for a shotgun, and that’s what Browning makes a lot of.

  “In golf, as you may or may not know, there is a devout belief that the more expensive the golf clubs in the hands of the golfer, the lower his score, which is good. In skeet shooting, low is not good, insofar as scoring is concerned. High is good, so what the Browning people are trying to do is adopt the golf philosophy to skeet, in other words to convince people that the more they pay for their shotgun the higher their skeet scores will be. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “To get this idea across, what the Browning people are going to do is dangle a carrot before the noses of skeet shooters. Specifically, they are going to award to a skeet shooter who does well—very well—a top-grade Browning—specifically a Diamond Grade 12-bore Over and Under with full factory engraving, a gold trigger, and selective ejectors—whatever the hell that means—”

  “It means, sir,” Phil interrupted, and furnished helpfully, “that the weapon will eject, when the action is opened, only the shot shell which has been fired, leaving the unfired shot shell in the chamber. If neither barrel has been fired, no shot shells will be ejected, and if both barrels have been fired, both shot shell casings will be kicked out.”

  “So Dumbrowski was right. You do have some elementary knowledge of shotguns.”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “The commanding general of Berlin Brigade has heard of the Browning company’s generous offer and inasmuch as he has always believed the more shooting a soldier does the better the soldier, he has strongly encouraged the participation of as many soldiers as possible in the First Annual Berlin Brigade Brandenburg Gate Skeet Shoot. He himself will participate to show the strength of his support, and possibly also because he was overheard remarking to his aide-de-camp that since he knows he is the best skeet shot in Berlin, and quite possibly in the European Command, the Diamond Grade Browning being offered ‘is in the bag.’

  “I think it safe to presume that what the general meant to say was that the Diamond Grade prize is safely in his bag, and by that he meant to say the alligator-hide gun case which comes with the prize. With me so far, Administrator Williams?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lieutenant Colonel William ‘Don’t Call Me Bill’ O’Reilly is determined that the Thirty-third CIC Detachment will enter a team in the First Annual Berlin Brigade Brandenburg Gate Skeet Shoot. He knows that after the general walks home from the shoot with an alligator-hide gun case containing the Diamond Grade Browning he won, the general will certainly be so happy as to again punch Colonel O’Reilly’s ticket and may indeed punch it two or more times.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Now, there are strict rules under which the First Annual Berlin Brigade Brandenburg Gate Skeet Shoot will be conducted. One of these is that each unit team will consist of both officers and enlisted men, two of each. So far as the officers are concerned, these two”—he pointed to the officers with him—“will constitute the commissioned element of the team and First Sergeant Dumbrowski half of the enlisted element of the team. I will be the coach. Which brings us to you.”

  “Sir?”

  “First Sergeant Dumbrowski reports that a diligent search of the records of the Thirty-third CIC Detachment has revealed that only two enlisted members of the detachment can be trusted with a loaded shotgun. Dumbrowski himself and Guess Who?”

  “Sir, with all possible respect, if you’re suggesting that I participate in the First Annual Berlin Brigade Brandenburg Gate Skeet Shoot, I’m afraid I could not do so without the express permission of Pastor Caldwell.”

  “Why not?”

  “Pastor Caldwell said that I must ever be mindful that as a member of the German-American Gospel Tract Foundation, it is my duty to avoid sin wherever possible and never to call attention to myself or the German-American Gospel Tract Foundation itself. I respectfully suggest, sir, that by appearing in a sports competition at the Brandenburg Gate open to the public, I would be calling attention to myself.”

  “Three things, Administrator Caldwell. First of all, I’m sure you noticed that we didn’t come here until after Pastor Caldwell and his wife were well on their way to Frankfurt, meaning Lieutenant Colonel William ‘Don’t Call Me Bill’ O’Reilly is in charge in his absence, and he wants to field a team. Second, you will be wearing your U.S. Army uniform, not the Brooks Brothers banker’s gray three-button suit in which you are now attired . . .”

  “Actually, sir, it’s from J. Press,” Phil said.

  “. . . and you should have learned by now that no one pays attention to a lowly corporal, and, finally, I would like to know what sin could possibly be connected with a skeet shoot.”

  “I can’t think of one myself, sir, now that you mention it,” Phil said.

  That was a lie.

  The sin of greed or lust, or both, had popped into his mind the moment he heard that a Diamond Grade Browning with full factory engraving, a gold trigger, and selective ejectors was going to be passed out by the Browning people.

  “Well, Corporal Williams,” Captain Brewster said, “now that we understand one another, why don’t you put on your uniform and we’ll saddle up and mosey on over to the Brandenburg Gate?”

  [ THREE ]

  Phil saw that there was only one skeet field. A low row of bleachers had been set up facing away from the Brandenburg Gate and the Soviet Zone of Berlin beyond. The skeet course consisted of seven shooting stations spaced equidistant in a semicircle, with an eighth midway between the High House, which was to the left of, and just over 120 feet distant from, the Low House to the right.

  There was an opening ceremony, most of it dedicated to the exhibition of the Diamond Grade und so weiter that was to be awarded, and the circumstances under which it would be.

  These were fairly simple: The first shooter to “go one hundred straight”—break one hundred clay targets in a row—got the gun.

  A Browning spokesman said that today, and in the years to follow, the Browning Diamond und so weiter would serve as a symbol of fine marksmanship and dedication to the art of skeet shooting. He went on to say that when someone, perhaps within the next five years, shot that magical “hundred straight,” Browning would replace the Diamond Grade that that marvelous marksman would take home with another, and thus preserve what they hoped would be an annual ritual approaching the holy.

  On the way to the Brandenburg Gate, Phil’s mind had been filled with the sins of greed and lust. Should he, or should he not, try to take the Diamond Grade und so weiter back to his room in the field grade bachelor officers’ hotel?

  If he did, Pastor/SSA/Lieutenant Colonel Caldwell would learn how he had come into possession of the gun. Or he would see the story in Stars and Stripes, the Army’s daily newspaper, or Berlin Weekly, the brigade’s weekly newspaper, or the advertisements of the Browning people. Photographers and reporters and copywriters from all of these entities were all over the place.

  He knew that he could not blame his presence here on Captain Brewster. Every time Pastor Caldwell mentioned Captain Brewster, usually referring to him as one incredibly stupid EXPLETIVE DELETED!! EXPLETIVE DELETED!!, he would ask Phil if Phil agreed, and Phil had always answered in the affirmative.

  “Phil,” he could hear the pastor saying, “since we have always agreed that Brewster is an incredibly stupid EXPLETIVE DELETED!! EXPLETIVE DELETED!!, what was in your mind when he asked you to violate my orders vis-à-vis never calling attention to yourself or the EXPLETIVE DELETED!! German-American Gospel Tract Foundation?”

  Phil had just about concluded that the smart thing for him to do when he got into the firing position was step over the white line and disqualify himself, and then get the hell away from the w
hole skeet shooting contest as quickly as possible.

  And then greed and lust were replaced with simple lust.

  He saw Magda the Countess Kocian in the crowd of spectators.

  As he wondered what she was doing there, he could not help but be reminded that he was the last living seventeen-year-old virgin in the world, and when she smiled at him and waved, which action caused more of her bosom to be displayed than was displayed when she was just standing there, his mind was filled with erotic images of him leaping onto her prone body as she encouraged him on.

  Later, he was not able to decide whether it was the mental images of Magda the Countess Kocian au naturel, so to speak, in his mind or Captain Brewster’s last-minute coaching in his ear—“Do your best, Corporal Williams, break as many as ten or twelve; we don’t want anyone to think we’re throwing the game”—that caused him to do what he did on the firing position, although he did have a faint recollection of remembering the phrase “Faint heart never won a splendidly bosomed red-haired Hungarian old woman of twenty-eight or twenty-nine.”

  And then he dropped a Winchester AA shot shell loaded with 1⅛-ounce #9 lead shot into the breech of the Remington 1100 self-loader they had handed him with a warning to be careful, punched off the safety, and called, “Pull!”

  The clay disc flew, and immediately the bird, surprising him not at all, disappeared in a puff of smoke.

  As did the next ninety-nine birds, which, in due course over the next hour, whenever it was his turn to call “Pull!” were thrown for him to shoot at.

  Pandemonium not unlike that which occurs in Las Vegas when some lucky lever puller hits the jackpot ensued.

  “We have a winner!” the shoot manager shouted.

  The senior representative of the Browning company wept with joy, or, more likely, shock, as he handed Phil the Browning Diamond Grade und so weiter.

  The general who had so enthusiastically supported the shoot said a lot of colorful words and then grabbed his personally owned Remington 1100 Skeet Special by the barrel and began to hammer a handy fire hydrant on Pariser Platz into the ground.