| |
    
|
By Alan Davis
"Oh god, not another one," thought Gunnery Sergeant Green as he saw the corporal rush screaming from the dense, high grass.
"A hand! A giant hand just picked him up and. . . ." Corporal Plastik stopped his ranting when the Gunnery Sergeant (they called him Gunny Green) came into view.
Gunny Green's presence was enough to instill bravery in the biggest cowards. He had seen more combat than all of the other men in the unit combined, had been wounded countless times, and had saved all of their lives dozens of times.
"Shut the hell up!" his gravelly voice barked as he strode over to the now shaking corporal. "You'll give up our position! What happened to your weapon? Where's Molded?" At the mention of the name the barely composed corporal relapsed into hysterics.
"Oh, God! Oh, God! Molded, he's gone! Just gone! " Slap! Gunny Green's meaty hand collided with Corporal Plastick's soft pink face, and the corporal was spun to the ground. The corporal came around after a minute in the dirt.
"I asked where Molded was." Gunny Green said it calmly, as he pulled a cigarette out of the pack he had fished from Plastik's rucksack. He lit the Camel with his silvered "Semper Fi" lighter, and handed the pack back to the corporal. "Now, what happened? Go slow." Gunny Green blew a jet of smoke out his nostrils.
"I know this sounds crazy, Gunny. Molded and I were out on the north perimeter. It was real quiet, and we were thinking about opening our Crations. I look behind us, 'cause I seen something out of the comer of my eye, and I seen it. I know ' sounds crazy. Maybe all this shooting's got to me." Corporal Plastik's hands started to shake again.
"What did you see, Plastik?" Gunny Green's voice had grown soft, far softer than one would think possible from such a hard man.
"A hand! A giant hand came out of the sky and grabbed Private Molded! I must be crazy. Am I nuts, Gunny?" Corporal Plastik was little more than a boy, just out of high school. All of the ones Gunny Green got lately were.
"Yeah," he growled as he grabbed the boy-soldier and pulled him upright. "Yeah, I guess you are."
Gunny Green would see to it that Corporal Plastik got admitted to the base infirmary. He would be going home soon, unless the base psychiatric vultures talked him into coming back out to the field. Right now he had bigger problems. Intel said that the Germans were planning a push through this sector any day now. Green's men were not ready to take on a major offensive like that.
"Jesus, now Germans." Gunny Green didn't understand the politics of this war. One week they were knee-deep in Russians, and the next week they were liberating a Korean POW camp. One time they had taken on a platoon of nutso Redcoat Brits, who seemed to walk straight out of the Revolutionary War. When Gunny Green asked Lieutenant Toye about that one, he was dismissed with a "need-to-know" answer and sent back to the field. Now he had Germans to worry about.
Gunny Green sat hunched on a rock, and began composing a bunch of too-often written lies to Private Molded's parents. He told them how brave and how well liked he was. He wrote that their son had been killed by artillery, and that his body would not be shipped home. All lies. Gunny Green couldn't stand Private Molded, and neither could anyone else. His real cause of death would probably never be discovered. Too many men were disappearing now, and soon another enemy would engage them. This war had gone on too long, gotten too big. There were too many dead men to waste resources tracking down some stupid private who probably just walked into a minefield. Gunny Green knew this attitude wasn't proper. He should care about the boys whose lives he had been charged with. He had just seen too many come and go to be emotionally involved.
The letter finished, Gunny Green lit one of his Lucky Strikes and opened a cold can of baked beans. He thought about Corporal Plastik being fitted for his straitjacket. Although Plastik was obviously off his rocker, what he said disturbed the Gunnery Sergeant. This was not the first time Gunny Green had heard such stories from his men. Before they locked up Private Kelly, he screamed about a giant booted foot wiping out the rest of his unit last winter. PFC Forest just trembled and mumbled the word "vacuum" over and over after the push against the Italians in that weird pink-colored scrub land a couple of months back. He also remembered that corporal over a year ago. What was his name? Oh, yeah, Corporal Grun. Gunny Green remembered the name because it sounded so much like his own. Corporal Grun had come in, staggering and bloody, screaming about a giant dachshund that had devoured his platoon. Gunny Green had laughed at the time, but he wasn't laughing anymore. When he approached Lt. Toye about these strange reports, he was given a short, clipped answer about "mass hallucinations" and "weak-minded men," and was assigned to picket duty on the north perimeter. Gunny Green decided to stop asking so many questions.
Gunny Green could see fairly well. The moon was full and bright, casting deep shadows on to the forest below. He was looking northward, scanning the treeline for advancing German scouts, when he saw something from behind casting a shadow onto him. He spun around in time to see the gigantic hand coming toward him. He stood stone still, and, oddly, made no sound when it hefted him into the sky.
"Timmy, put your toys away. It's time for bed," Timmy's mother called from the kitchen. "You've got plenty of time to play with your army men tomorrow."
"Okay, mama," he said as he scooped Gunny Green and the rest of his men into a big green bucket.
