Posleen FanFic

by Leigh Kimmel

  "No problem, Sir. They'll have it sorted in no time."

  The confidence of youth ... thought Tom, as he stepped over to the desk and joined the cue. In front of him were a pair of women, both approximately the same age as himself, but they were in an animated discussion about how they'd spent the past decade. Tom's previous decade had been spent filling up the pages in his passport with entrance, exit and residency permits and visas, and moving house every couple of years. He doubted they would find that interesting, so he ignored them, wrapped in his own sense of foreboding.

  * * *

  "Finally! The last one. Good afternoon, Sir. Last four digits of your social?" happily asked the young gentleman behind the desk.

  "Three-eight-two-six."

  The lad turned away to his row of file cabinets and quickly found the correct drawer. The file, however, appeared to be missing. "Can I see your orders, please?" the man asked, calmly. He didn't appear to be bothered by the missing file, as if this was expected to occur occasionally throughout the day. Taking the orders that Tom handed him, he perused them, then said. "Ah, there's the problem. This code group indicates that you are a Sergeant. Why are you in an officer's line?" The man looked back up, gestured at the placard hanging over his head, and then set about waiting for whatever excuse the accused was prepared to give.

  "No idea. The last grade I held was 02e. First Lieutenant."

  This took the man by surprise. "You sure?" he asked.

  Tom just looked at the man, who, after a moment, blushed lightly and reached for a bell on his desk. "We'll soon have this sorted ... Sir." Tom just grunted in reply. Eventually, an elderly woman, obviously the man's supervisor, arrived, scooped up Tom's orders without speaking and shuffled off again. The man started clearing up his area, locking down his file cabinets and generally getting ready to go home. He tapped a couple keys on the computer keyboard, inspected the screen for a moment, sighed, pulled his hand back and slapped the monitor.

  "Did you try waiving a dead chicken?" asked Tom, to pass the time until the supervisor returned.

  The civilian froze, then laughed. "It'd take more than that, Sir. I think they went with the lowest bidder."

  Tom grinned back, but was saved from having to continue the conversation by the return of the supervisor. "Social security number?" she asked. Tom gave it and she carefully noted it down, then compared it to the travel orders. With a 'hmmmm', she wandered off again, but returned immediately with a 201 personnel records jacket. "That SSN ain't yours."

  Tom nodded. "Yip. Paulson. Thomas J-for-John. Currently known as Tom Weaver, or if you prefer what is on the marriage certificate, Paulson-Weaver," he clicked his heels together while sketching a slight bow. "How may I be of service."

  She regarded him for a moment, her lips pursed. "Tom Paulson? 'Zat's you, then?"

  Tom nodded. "Yeah, that was the name I had when last in uniform ... before I got married."

  The woman looked down, then back up from the file. "Trying to complicate things, huh. Say's here your end of term of service was June 27, 1986. Right? Served in Grenada, Right?"

  Tom frowned, then half-nodded, half-shrugged again. "First go around, yeah. The 'service' in Granada was a fluke. My armor company was in theatre for all of a hundred twenty minutes before the boat we were loaded on paused, turned and returned to Savannah. The theatre commander wanted heavy armor support, so we were on our way when they found out some Marine armor was passing right by the island on its way to Beirut. They got detoured, we got turned around. Then Germany, then I was honorably discharged, so as to go to ROTC and get a commission. My date of commission was December 9, 1988."

  "Don't say nothing here on this DD-214 'bout no commission."

  "No doubt. After I left Knox in '92, I got a 214 that just had my time as an officer on it. I tried for three years to get them combined, then just gave up when I couldn't get any movement out of the VA. Is there anything in that file, at all, dated after my ETS?"

  "Ummm. Buncha stuff in the reserves ... 91st Div Training out in Cali."

  "Yeah, that was the five, six months between my discharge and starting ROTC. Then once I was in ROTC, I worked with the 91st as a cadet, then when I got my commission and before leaving for AOBC I was a company XO. Anything there about that?"

  "Ahhh. Nope. Nix. Apparently, you left the reserves in January, 1987."

  "That's when I started university, and ROTC."

  The woman looked over the file for a moment, deep in thought. "Hm. You enlisted in June of 1982 ... on your 18th birthday?"

  "Give or take a few hours, yeah."

  "Initial contracts dating from that era were for a total of eight years. You spent four active, you would then be in the computers as a reservist, either active or inactive, until June of 1990, then. But your file was closed out in January '87. That's odd. The only way that I've seen that happen would be through the death or medical discharge of the individual concerned. If you were dead, you wouldn't be standing here, so that cuts that one out. And if it were a medical, there'd be a specific notation on your 214 which there isn't."

  By this time, Tom had had time to think about it. He still thought this was some sort of training exercise, so rather than cause trouble, he said "How about I just amble over to the Sergeant's tables, and go through this rigmarole that way. That way I get out of here, to someplace where I can use a latrine, hopefully, and you all can go home. I'm not bothered. Just make a note someplace to get all this sorted out and in the meantime I can play E5 again." Tom was perfectly aware that as soon as they found out about the less than stellar termination proceedings of his time as an officer, he'd be back on a plane, and on his way home. In the meantime, maybe he could find a toilet, preferably before he exploded.

  Strangely, the ghosts that he had feared ever since reading the telegram were absent.

  The memory ghosts that followed quitters around.

  The woman snorted. "You must be a sergeant at heart, Sir. That's way too logical to be something dreamed up by no ossifer."

  * * *

  "I'm sorry, Hon. Are you sitting down? It's for the duration--"

  "WHAT?!"

  Tom didn't bother stopping, the explanations would be too time consuming, and the phone call was costing a lot. And besides, there was a line forming behind him, or rather the row of phone booths that he was currently a part of. "--I recommend that you finish out the current posting, then quit, abandon everything but some clothing and all the cash, and fly out to California--"

  "WHAT!?! You're not an officer anymore!"

  "Caithness. Shut up and listen. Everybody who has ever worn a uniform and been in combat is in the process of being called up--"

  "You weren't in combat, you said you never left that damned boat!"

  "Which is true. I never did. But the records show I was in theatre, and consequently I'm apparently a combat veteran. So now I'm back on active duty as a nationalized reservist. I'm going to be assigned to the 1st battalion of the 149th Armor, California Army National Guard, but I won't be joining that unit for six months at least while I get retrained. Which is why I want you to finish your current posting. By that time, I should know where I'll be stationed, and you can move out that way."

  "And your commission?"

  "The records file, my '201', doesn't show any service as an officer. It has me down as, and I'm currently standing in the uniform of, a Sergeant. With a twice damned 40th Inf Div patch on one shoulder and a thrice damned 24th Inf Div Mech patch on the other." There was a tone across the earpiece, warning Tom that his money was about to be used up. A recorded voice told him that to continue with the call, he would have to insert an additional $6.30 for another two minutes.

  Calling Eastern Europe from a pay phone seriously ran through the quarters.

  "Look, Hun, I'm about to run out of money. I'll go get some more and call back, OK?"

  "I won't allow--" was what Tom heard, as the phone cut off his wife. He knew he would have to let her calm down first,
so he would take some time finding more coins. Eventually, he found a pay-phone that was owned by a phone company that would allow him to make a collect call to Ukraine, but by that time, when he finally did call back, she wouldn't answer.

  * * *

  "Yo, Sergeant Weaver!" The voice came up the company street, intersecting with other sounds and finally making it to the intended target. Staff Sergeant Tom Weaver, Company Training NCO, Delta Company, 1st-149th Armor, 40th Infantry Division (Mechanized), California Army National Guard, turned at the call and recognized the sergeant as one of the NCOs from the battalion S1 section. He held up at the door to the company headquarters until the woman made it to his position. He could see she was carrying several personnel jackets, the brown colored files were unmistakable.

  As the sergeant jogged up, she fished out several of the files. "New meat today, Tom. Can you give these to your First Sergeant?" She held out four of the files.

  Tom grabbed the stack, and nodding as he did so. "Anything of interest, or just 'cruits?"

  The woman shrugged. "Three privates and a Spec4, but other than that nada. We did get the new smaj though. You might let your First Sergeant know."

  "Right, I'm on that. Hope this one lasts longer than the last two." A second lieutenant wandered by at that point, and the two broke off their conversation long enough to salute the passing officer.

  Once the lieutenant was out of range, she answered. "He's a retread, so I'm figuring he's here for the duration." With that, the sergeant shrugged, nodded at the other in salutation, kicked off and headed up the street to the next company on the line. With a pro-forma wave at the back of the departing NCO, Tom turned and entered the company headquarters' building.

  As he came to the First Sergeant's office, the door was open so he ducked his head in and looked around. The First Sergeant was present, but had his back to the door as he studied a terrain map of Camp Roberts, and its depicted plan for the upcoming battalion-level field training exercise. At the side of the map, and half covered by it, was a sign that Tom knew read "Chance favors the prepared." It was placed so that anyone coming through the door would see it first. As they then made the turn to face the desk, they would see a second sign that read "The prepared take no chances."

  And as the visitor turned to leave, there was a third sign that read "Pure dumb luck favors the effing enemy."

  "Heya, Top. Word from Battalion: The new smaj just checked in."

  1st SG Samuel 'Sock' Audobon nodded, either at the map or at the comment, without turning around. Then he waved a hand in further acknowledgement. "I heard he'd be here this week. Thanks, Weaver. Anything else?"

  "Four new crew members. Three Privates," Tom said, looking down at the folders he carried. "Curran, Park and Manaev, and a Spec4, Birch." Tom quickly glanced through the files. "The privates are fresh from Knox ... The spec-four is ... joining us from the 2-70th Armor, compassionate reassignment."

  "Joy. He'll be AWOL quicker than you can say 'So, your family's from here, heh?' Ok, throw the files onto my desk. Take the second one from the bottom. That one's for Wilcox. Top one's for Hammersmith. Bottom one's for Johnson. Mr Last-but-not-Least--"

  "Miz Last," corrected Tom, grinning, as he continued to shuffle through the files.

  "Your shit, Weaver, interests me ... not," said the First Sergeant, still studying his map. Eventually, he continued. "Who gets the girl?"

  Tom thought about the vacancies in the TOE for a moment. "Back to Hammersmith."

  "Right. And damn straight if he doesn't need one. What's that leave us with, vacancy wise."

  Weaver grinned at the double-entendre. Still looking through the record's jackets, he froze. "Uh oh."

  "What, 'uh oh'."

  "Looks like Birch is more than just a compassionate. Article 15s for insubordination, among other things. Could just be related to the reassignment, though."

  "We'll assume so. If it turns out she really is a hard case, we'll just turf her and be done with it. Remind me to send the battalion command sergeant major for 2-70 Armor a bad Christmas card this year. Back to vacancies."

  "Right ... um ... ok. Wilcox needs a lieutenant and four more crew members. The Hammer now needs only four more crew. Johnson needs three, and frankly, She needs a new LT also, 'cause 1st LT Beckman is gonna get Charley Company. So that leaves us short two platoon leaders and an XO."

  At that announcement, the other finally turned around, and regarded the junior NCO for a moment. "Really? Where'd you hear that?"

  "Here and there," Tom said, cryptically, not giving up his sources. "So with a company's nominal strength of 56 in the tanks, we are looking at 43, plus a couple odds and ends, and some pulling double duty like the CO and XOs drivers."

  "Hot damn. We might almost be able to field a four tank platoon for the BFX," the first sergeant said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the map. He looked down at the files on the desk, then sighed and grinned wryly. Picking up his coffee cup, he gestured at the staff sergeant with it and asked "You wouldn't happen to know any officers lying around, looking for work, would you? And do you think Alpha company'd notice if we were to kidnap some of their people?"

  Tom carefully didn't answer either of the rhetorical questions. "Do you want me to find out about the new sergeant major? I'm heading up to battalion to collect these four, I could ask around."

  The First Sergeant took a mouthful of cold coffee and thought about it for a moment, swirling the mouthful of tarry liquid in the hopes of warming it up. Finally, he swallowed and said, "Nah. I'll come up there with you." He set his coffee cup down and gestured over his shoulder at the map again. "Need to talk to someone in the -3 shop about the trip to Camp Bob. Toss me my hat. And, oh. Your coffee sucks."

  "I keep telling you, Top. Never ask someone who doesn't drink coffee to make coffee. You're just setting yourself up for indigestion." Tom had very carefully cultivated the image of not being a coffee drinker, and for the most part he wasn't. It was a trick he'd learned back in the -3 shop in Baumholder, back in the day, back when he really didn't drink coffee. The rest of the section had immediately decided that he shouldn't be tasked with making the coffee after having tasted his first couple of batches. It was a trick that stood him in good stead ever since, and in any number of ways.

  * * *

  "Curran, Park, Manaev and Birch! Fall in!" Tom found the collection of in-processing soldiers and called for the four Delta Company replacements to step up. The privates stopped what they were doing immediately and grabbed their duffles before jogging over, coming to attention in a line to his front. The specialist finished her conversation with a wave and ambled over to join the line at its head, and assumed something which could, in a pinch, be related to the position of attention. Tom looked at her intently for a moment, then decided it was time to ignore her attitude as he looked the other three over.

  "At ease! Welcome to Delta Company 1-149 Armor, 40th Infantry Division Mechanized. I am Staff Sergeant Weaver, the company Training NCO. The company commander is 1st LT Caldecourt, and has been since he made the Captain's list last Summer. The First Sergeant is 1st SG Audobon." From behind Tom's back, there was the sound of a window being thrown open. "If no one has told you yet, your Battalion Commander's name is LTC Kuzio, and the Sergeant Major's name is unknown to me, but probably known to you all, as he is joining the unit today, also. As soon as 1st SG Audobon comes out of the HQ building, we will head--"

  "Lieutenant Paulson!?"

  Tom froze. There had always been the chance, and he'd rehearsed this in his mind a hundred times, a thousand times. He unfroze. "--up to the company to meet your platoon sergeants. Any questions?"

  Specialist Birch nodded to get Tom's attention, but without saying anything used her chin to point towards the window that the voice had come from, indicating that the voice had been talking to him. Tom hadn't recognized the voice, but that wasn't surprising. If someone had recognized him, their last contact would have dated from almost a decade ago.


  Tom looked over his shoulder, than turned completely, noting in passing the stripes sewn to the sleeves of the man's Class-A uniform. "I'm sorry, Sergeant Major?" My god, it's Timpton! "SSG Weaver, Delta Company Training NCO." ... And he must have had rejuv, because he looks like when I met him, back in Baumholder ... "Can I help you?"

  The Command Sergeant Major blinked, swallowing what he was about to say, and regarded Tom closely. "Training NCO, huh. Not only that, you're a dead ringer for someone else ... just ten years older I'd guess." Timpton paused, but continued before Tom could respond. "I've got your First Sergeant here, I'll be with him for awhile longer. Drop them off, and then come back. We want to talk about the exercise we've got coming up, and I need your comments on the training schedule between now and then."

  "Right, Sergeant Major," Tom said, "It'll take me about fifteen minutes?"

  Timpton nodded. "Make it thirty. I need to get the S3 NCOIC on the horn sometime between now and then." With that, the senior NCO in the battalion nodded his dismissal and disappeared back inside.

  "Right ... Rest! Pick up your duffles ... and now, off to the company headquarters. Group! Atten ... shun! Right ... Face! For'rd ... March!"

  * * *

  Command Sergeant Major Ronald Timpton pulled his head back into his office and shut the window, but didn't turn away from the view. He carefully watched the staff sergeant as the NCO marched the troops off towards the Delta company area. Behind his back, the First Sergeant stepped over.

  "Somat up, Sergeant Major?"

  "'Weaver' he said? I want to see his 201." Timpton turned to look at Delta's first sergeant. "What do you know about him."

  Audobon blinked and turned to look out the window at his training NCO's back, while he ordered his thoughts. "Called up November 2001'ish with all the other combat vets. Rank of Sergeant. Did refresher training at Knox, then came out here. Promoted just after arrival. Married, but his wife and family live in Ukraine. Oh, he took his wife's name when they married."