Chapter 6

Captain Whittaker didn’t show up at our shop all that often. He was the commander of the headquarters company of the aviation battalion we were in and the immediate boss I mentioned earlier. He “supervised” a hundred or so soldiers who handled all the paperwork and red tape that keeps a unit chugging along. He had a cadre of officers and NCOs under him who handled the day to day goings-on of things. I was the NCOIC or NCO in charge of the aviation helicopter parts procurement and distribution section. Rather than make all his people come to him for meetings and briefings, he liked to go around and look in on each section in the company. Normally, an NCOIC doesn’t want any officers muddling about in his kingdom, but Captain Whittaker didn’t make us do worthless BS (such as all those meetings) and that made him welcome. He never fucked around with standard operating procedures unless somebody higher in the chain of command told him to.

I mention this because there are brigade or battalion commanders who feel like unit cohesion is so important that once a month the entire brigade or battalion should go for a run together, winding across the installation, showing all those other pukes what a real unit looks like. The planning and logistics involved in that run costs the NCOICs a week of time to make happen. You have to have every unit in formation in the right order, at the right time.

Sounds simple, right? That’s because the organization you work for is probably made up of no more than a hundred people. An Army brigade is made up of three or so battalions, each of which has from four to six companies in it, and may total five thousand soldiers. Try to imagine getting five thousand people in line to run three or four miles while keeping twenty-four inches apart side to side and thirty six inches apart front to back.

Oh, and each platoon (there will be roughly 72 of those) will be yelling/singing cadence for their soldiers to keep time with, and nobody will be using the same cadence calls, or at least not at the same time.

It’s madness and the only reason it impresses anybody is because it would be impossible for a civilian enterprise to pull off. I do have to admit that it shows nicely why the U.S. Army can generally kick ass and take names in a conflict. We can work very well, together, and that is very bad for the enemy, as long as civilians stay out of it. By “civilians” I don’t mean the non-combatants on the enemy side. I mean the American politicians who, ever since Korea, refuse to let America actually win a war. They all call it off before complete success is achieved because some group of constituents pressures them to meddle in things they have no fucking clue about.

Sorry. If the rules of engagement do not include “Go find the enemy and kill him and try not to kill anybody else” then you’re not fighting a war. You’re sacrificing the lives of young men and women by protracting something that could be finished very quickly. Operation Desert Storm proved that. Sadam had the fourth largest army on the planet and it took us a hundred hours to break its back. Then the civilians stepped in and called a halt. We could have gone all the way to Baghdad and won that war. Our soldier allies were willing to do it. But the civilians of our own land stopped us. And how many lives down the line has that cost us? Thousands. Some counts show seven thousand troops and even more civilian contractors.

Every soldier knows that those who send us to war will slaughter us, but never let us win another war. And all that effort it takes to do a brigade run is like that. The only people it impresses are the brigade commander and other soldiers. None of the wives think it’s cool. And none of the civilians off post would be impressed, either.

But to do what we did in those hundred hours in Iraq, you have to train, train, train. You have to do your job as perfectly as possible. It’s a little like those brigade runs. Nobody is singing the same song at the same time, but everybody is in step and will finish the run.

So if you have that kind of brigade or battalion commander, you lose a hell of a lot of quality work time and we’re all overworked as it is. Hence, we NCOICs are generally very happy to have officers in the chain who don’t make us do bullshit like that, and Captain Whittaker thought it was more important for things to work smoothly than it was to look pretty.

I go through all this to explain that, when Captain Whittaker showed up the next Monday and asked me how my new private was doing, my answer of “Outstanding, Sir,” was received in a way I did not expect. Usually he’d say something like “Great. Carry on” and walk around looking at things he had no idea they were, and then go on to some other section.

Today Captain Whittaker said, “She’s a looker. Don’t get your balls wrapped up in barbed wire.”

For any commanding officer to even notice the average (behaved) private is odd. I had tasked her with delivering paperwork to several places, including him, so I knew he’d seen her a few times. For him to notice her in such a specific way, though, meant he was keeping an eye on her. Then again, what man wouldn’t?

“How’s her morale?” he asked. “Personnel said something about a husband who was supposed to be co-located with her but isn’t?”

“He’s apparently trying to become a Ranger,” I said. “I think she said he’s in airborne school right now.”

“So he’s not going to be around for the foreseeable future,” said the captain.

“Probably not, sir.”

“There will be a lot of horndogs trying to pick that low-hanging fruit,” he said.

“Sir?” I had no idea where he was going with this and I sincerely hoped no little bird had whispered in his ear that the new private’s NCOIC was taking extra special care of her.

“She could cause chaos in the ranks. The last thing we need is CID poking their noses around investigating shit. You’re going to have to ride herd on her with a very firm touch.”

“Nobody’s hanging around here causing problems,” I said.

“I’m not worried about here, in the shop. I’m worried about what may happen during her time off.”

“She lives in the barracks, Sir,” I said. “You know I live off post. Even if I come on post in the evening the chances of me seeing her are 60,000 to one. If I tried to find her in the vill it would be even worse.”

“What if you didn’t have to look for her at all?”

“Sir?”

He looked around, to make sure nobody was near enough to us to overhear.

“I shouldn’t even think about asking you to do this, but things have been going very well lately and I’d like it to stay that way.”

“Ask me what, Sir?”

“Well, at that going away party you hosted for Lieutenant Pickerell, I noticed you have two bedrooms. We all put our coats in one of them, remember?”

“Sure,” I said.

“So what if you rented her your extra bedroom?” He looked around again.

“She’s a private, Sir,” I said, covering my shock by going to ‘the book.’ “She’s married, but her spouse isn’t present. Even if he was, housing would never let them live off post. That’s why they built that huge enlisted housing block over on the west side of post.”

“You are perfectly correct,” said my commanding officer. “If she was finding it impossible to sleep, though, and it was affecting her performance in her job, I could authorize her to sleep elsewhere. She’d have to keep her room in the barracks, of course, but she wouldn’t have to sleep there.”

I looked at him.

“Sir, I’ve never heard of this kind of thing before.”

“That’s because I just invented it,” he said.

“And I’m a senior NCO and she’s as low as low can get in this man’s army,” I said.

“Don’t let anybody hear you call it this man’s army,” is said. “It is no longer this man’s army. Now it’s just the army.”

“Of course, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.”

“I know how many regulations this would violate if I did not specifically approve of it. And if the Inspector General should happen to find out about this, and I can’t imagine a scenario in which where she lives would become part of an inspection, and they say I was wrong to authorize it, then she simply moves back into her room in the barracks and it’s no longer an issue.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s say nobody notices and asks any awkward questions. She’s still been in the Army all day and I’ve got more than eighteen years. It would never work out. We don’t have enough in common to make it anything less than completely awkward.”

“You mean you’d want to hit on her, too,” said my commanding officer, looking straight at me and with a completely serious voice. Did he already know something? Had someone noticed me dropping her off at the barracks and mentioned that as seeming odd?

“Of course I can understand how an outsider might see it that way,” said Captain Whittaker. “But if it became known you’re gay, then that would become a non-issue, too.”

“I’m not gay,” I pointed out.

“You’ve been under my command for two years,” he said. “In that time I have never heard or seen any evidence that you have dated a woman. Moreover, you host a poker party now and then, to which no females are invited. You’re an adequate looking, well-paid soldier. There should be women crawling all over you. And yet, there you are, not being what I would call a normal male. And of course I can’t ask you about it, so all I have to go on is the evidence I just presented to you. That evidence would support a person’s instinctive belief that you’re gay.”

“I’m divorced!” I said, somewhat urgently. “I obviously liked women enough to marry one. I just didn’t like her sleeping with other men.”

“You know, I had a couple in my unit in Washington that got divorced because the woman didn’t know the man was gay until after they got married. He couldn’t perform his husbandly duties and so on. Actually, CID got involved in that because it turned out he had an inheritance that he couldn’t get until he had served in the military for three years and was married. So it was a marriage of convenience. The issue was whether she knew this before they got married or not. I guess it was a joint investigation with CID and the FBI working together. There was a lot of money involved and some other family member alleged it was fraud.”

“Wow,” I said. “What happened?”

“I have no idea. I PCSed while it was going on. My point is it would be believable that your wife found out you were gay, or you turned gay while you were married or something, and she left because of that.”

“I’m not gay, Sir,” I groaned.

“Of course not, and it’s none of my business if you are. My only concern here is for the welfare of one of my soldiers and I’d really like to get her somewhere safe, and where she has an NCO looking out for her.”

He paused to look at me with that facial expression that means, “Well?”

I realized he actually believed that shit about me being gay because I hadn’t had a girlfriend since I got there. I should have told him I had already fucked Private Harris every which way but up, but if I did that I’d get court martialed for fraternization and adultery. The civilian world may have decriminalized adultery, but the Army had not. You can get up to a year, and only one of you has to be married. The alternative was to let this man, who I had formerly respected, but who was obviously an idiot, tell the hen to go live in the fox’s den so she’d be... safe!

“I know this is an imposition on you, but when I explain it to her and she finds out she’ll be perfectly safe there, I’ll just tell her to look the other way if you ... um ... entertain a friend. Every lower enlisted member wants to get out of the barracks. They want the freedom to put things on the walls and come and go without having to check in with a Charge of Quarters. She’ll cooperate.”

My heart sank. If he got to her before I did, who knows what she’d say when he presented this cockamamie idea to her.

“Sir, if you really want to do this, then I’ll help you out. But I think I need to be there when you present this idea to the private. I need to be able to gauge her reaction because if this doesn’t work, it could blow up hard enough for lava to land where we don’t want it to land.”

“Good idea,” he said. “She might freak out if she’s told to report to me. But if we talk to her in your office, she might feel less overwhelmed.”

“I agree,” I said. “I’ll tell her to come see me tomorrow, after lunch.”

“Why not now?” he said. “I’m here already.”

“Well,” I said, my mind racing to find a reason to delay things long enough that I could prepare her, “She and Specialist Franklin are doing an inventory of bolts and nuts. That’s one of the items we have the most problems with. I don’t want to interrupt them. If they lose track they’ll have to start over.”

It was lame, but it was all I could think of. He glanced out of the big windows in my office that look out over the shop. My office is elevated and I can see almost every part of the shop. I looked to see what he was seeing and my heart sank. Specialist Franklin was doing something at the copier and Private Harris was eating at the table that served as a break room. I glanced at my watch. It was 1215 hours. It was lunchtime.

“They took a break for lunch,” said the captain. “Get her up here. Tell her to bring her lunch.”

There it was. The shell had been fired. Who knew where it would land, but I firmly expected to take some kind of shrapnel when it blew up. With dread in my heart I picked up the phone and punched the intercom button.

“Private Harris, report to the NCOIC office. Bring your lunch with you.”

I saw Franklin look over her shoulder at Harris with a “what did you do?” look on her face. Angela didn’t notice. She was looking up at my office. I knew she could see both of us because both of us were standing by the window, looking down.

She stuffed what was probably a sandwich in a brown bag that looked like what one of the vendors on post delivered, brushed crumbs off of her fabulous chest, and went to the stairs. Captain Whittaker sat in my chair, behind my desk. He looked very official and I knew he would look intimidating to a private who was still wet behind her ears. An unwanted thought came into my mind, reminding me she was wet between her gorgeous legs, too. I shook my head to clear it just as she opened the door and came in.

I saw instantly that she had no idea how to report under these conditions.

“At ease, Private,” I said. “Captain Whittaker and I just need to talk to you about something.”

“Okay,” she said, nervously. “I mean yes, Sergeant Wilson.” She looked at Captain Whittaker as he spoke.

“For the moment, we are just three adults who are talking about a potential problem. You’re not a private and I’m not a captain and Bob, here is not your boss. Okay?”

“Um. Yes sir?” she responded.

Whittaker got up and gestured at my chair.

“Sit! Finish your lunch. You can listen while we make a suggestion that we hope will make your life easier.”

She sat. The bag went on my desk, unopened. She was very erect and very alert. She kept looking at him instead of giving me a chance to wink at her or give her some sign to play along. My heart sank further.

“Bob, tell her what we’ve been talking about,” said Whittaker, passing me the baton. That baton weighed about a ton. Then I realized I could phrase things any way I wanted. My hopes rose. I had an idea.

“Private Harris,” I started, then stopped. “Angela, is it? Angela, we know your transition from being a civilian to being in the Army can be rocky. And we know you’re separated from your husband at the moment, so that stress is on you as well. I believe you mentioned he is at Fort Benning, in airborne school. Is that right?”

She looked at me for the first time. Her eyes were the size of dinner plates. She nodded, but I knew she was terrified.

“Obviously, you won’t be able to see him for a while,” I said. “We ... uh ... are aware you two signed up to be co-located. Has housing given you quarters in the enlisted married housing area?”

“No, Sergeant,” she whispered. She was a smart girl. She knew I already knew the answer to that question and that it had been asked for the benefit of the commander. “He’s not present so they wouldn’t give me married quarters.”

“That’s just red tape,” said Captain Whittaker. “When he gets here you’ll get your quarters. Until then you’re stuck in the barracks, right?”

She looked at him and nodded. She followed that with a hasty, “Yes, sir.” Smart girl.

“The captain and I were reflecting on how you two will have been missing each other for quite a while when he gets here,” I said. “He can’t stay with you in the barracks, of course, and it could take housing a week or so to get you assigned married quarters. That could severely affect your morale. In fact we’re a little worried about your morale at this point.”

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