(Note: Originally written on the 4th of July 2020, and posted to the old RN3 site)
Specialist Four Charles Gorman examined himself in the small mirror. Uniform pressed - check. Gig line straight - check. Brass and shoes polished - check. To his right, the window offered a view of a regimented society within a regimented society -- a United States Army barracks in West Germany. On the grass beside a sidewalk, a small sign offered terse warning:
Without warning, the door to the junior NCOs' room burst open. Rico, a corporal, leapt to his feet and shouted, "ON YOUR FEET!" Standing in the doorway was First Sergeant Walter Robinson. At six feet-two with a scarred face and a chestful of ribbons, he commanded absolute respect. "RICO. Get me a driver, I gotta go to Lamb-stool today."
Without thinking, Gorman sang out a correction: "Landstuhl, First Sergeant!". He pronounced it lawned-shtool, as a German would.
Oh Shit, thought Rico. Robinson turned on Gorman in a swift motion, roaring, "HEY PERFESSER, YOU KNOW SOMETHING? I was shooting Germans in Tunisia when you were crapping your diapers! If I say its Lamb-Stool, then its Lamb-Stool ... now get your ass to the motorpool and sign out Headquarters Seven. You and I are taking a little trip."
After Robinson left, Rico told Gorman, "Dumbshit. You're lucky he didn't kick your ass."
. . . .
The trip itself was routine enough. Traffic was moderate. Headquarters Seven was an M37 Dodge truck, and Top Robinson didn't mind Gorman keeping the vehicle in the right lane of the Autobahn. The left lane, he reflected, could get chancy when some German hotrod closed from behind at high speed. Gorman didn't dare let his attention wander lest Top chew his ass for falling into white line fever.
They crossed the Rhine at Ludwigshafen, heading west. In the distance loomed the steep and dark slopes of the Pfalz. Where they were in the Rhine valley, large fields with occasional stands of hardwood bordered the highway. Top hadn't said anything for a while and Gorman wondered if he had somehow angered him.
Suddenly, Top barked out, "Pull over in that rest area!". Downshifting and braking, Gorman smoothly brought the Dodge into the Rasthof and parked the truck. He was wary. Top was gazing over a field with a fixed, intense stare. After a couple of minutes of uncomfortable silence, Robinson spoke.
"At the end of the war, we took a village. Everybody was tense because some young prick in the Hitler Youth had a sniper rifle and was taking potshots at us. Someone finally nailed him with a rifle grenade."
Robinson paused, and the set of his jaw became rigid.
"I walked by a house and heard a kid screaming. I went into the house.
Two GIs were laughing and trying to pull a rabbit away from a child. One of those long haired rabbits, you know the kind? It had long hair all over its body, fluffy bunny feet and all . . .
It wasn't just the kid screaming. The parents were having a fit and the animal was screaming as well. Have you ever heard a bunny scream . . . it sounds like a human baby . . . terrible sound.
I don't know, I just lost control at that point. I told the men to leave the kid and her pet alone. They weren't listening . . . so I pointed my rifle up and fired. A single shot . . . it sounded like a thunderbolt in that room. Everyone went silent, and the GIs got out of the house.
I was looking at the little girl holding her bunny when an awful screaming came from upstairs.
That shot I fired . . . went through the ceiling and struck the family grandfather. It . . . killed him instantly."
Staring at Robinson, Gorman noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. At the edge of the field was a rabbit. It was gazing at the vehicle, as if listening to the story.
Robinson pointed a meaty finger at a steeple on the horizon. "It was that village, over there."
Gorman saw Robinson reach up with a very stiff hand that he ran rigidly over his crew cut. The motion gave the impression that Robinson was more arranging and carefully placing memories than mussing his hair. Robinson closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The rabbit moved back into the field.
"Awright, Gorman. They're waiting for us at Landstuhl. Let's roll." Gorman's eyebrows arched a very small bit. Top had pronounced Landstuhl the way the Germans did.
. . . Veterans Day, 2011 . . .
Retired professor of German Studies Charles Gorman zipped up his jacket. A cold Norther was blowing over the Texas plains, and this cemetery was on top of a small hill. Over the cemetery, Old Glory snapped in the steady wind.
He regarded the stone to his front for a minute.
Standing straighter, Gorman rendered a hand salute, far more exact than any he had given while in uniform.
"Thanks, Top"
Dropping his hand, a small movement at the corner of his eye pulled his focus back to the present. He glanced over and saw a small rabbit a few stones away. It was eating clover and watching him.
Specialist Four Charles Gorman examined himself in the small mirror. Uniform pressed - check. Gig line straight - check. Brass and shoes polished - check. To his right, the window offered a view of a regimented society within a regimented society -- a United States Army barracks in West Germany. On the grass beside a sidewalk, a small sign offered terse warning:
SHORTCUT TO EXTRA DUTY
Without warning, the door to the junior NCOs' room burst open. Rico, a corporal, leapt to his feet and shouted, "ON YOUR FEET!" Standing in the doorway was First Sergeant Walter Robinson. At six feet-two with a scarred face and a chestful of ribbons, he commanded absolute respect. "RICO. Get me a driver, I gotta go to Lamb-stool today."
Without thinking, Gorman sang out a correction: "Landstuhl, First Sergeant!". He pronounced it lawned-shtool, as a German would.
Oh Shit, thought Rico. Robinson turned on Gorman in a swift motion, roaring, "HEY PERFESSER, YOU KNOW SOMETHING? I was shooting Germans in Tunisia when you were crapping your diapers! If I say its Lamb-Stool, then its Lamb-Stool ... now get your ass to the motorpool and sign out Headquarters Seven. You and I are taking a little trip."
After Robinson left, Rico told Gorman, "Dumbshit. You're lucky he didn't kick your ass."
. . . .
The trip itself was routine enough. Traffic was moderate. Headquarters Seven was an M37 Dodge truck, and Top Robinson didn't mind Gorman keeping the vehicle in the right lane of the Autobahn. The left lane, he reflected, could get chancy when some German hotrod closed from behind at high speed. Gorman didn't dare let his attention wander lest Top chew his ass for falling into white line fever.
They crossed the Rhine at Ludwigshafen, heading west. In the distance loomed the steep and dark slopes of the Pfalz. Where they were in the Rhine valley, large fields with occasional stands of hardwood bordered the highway. Top hadn't said anything for a while and Gorman wondered if he had somehow angered him.
Suddenly, Top barked out, "Pull over in that rest area!". Downshifting and braking, Gorman smoothly brought the Dodge into the Rasthof and parked the truck. He was wary. Top was gazing over a field with a fixed, intense stare. After a couple of minutes of uncomfortable silence, Robinson spoke.
"At the end of the war, we took a village. Everybody was tense because some young prick in the Hitler Youth had a sniper rifle and was taking potshots at us. Someone finally nailed him with a rifle grenade."
Robinson paused, and the set of his jaw became rigid.
"I walked by a house and heard a kid screaming. I went into the house.
Two GIs were laughing and trying to pull a rabbit away from a child. One of those long haired rabbits, you know the kind? It had long hair all over its body, fluffy bunny feet and all . . .
It wasn't just the kid screaming. The parents were having a fit and the animal was screaming as well. Have you ever heard a bunny scream . . . it sounds like a human baby . . . terrible sound.
I don't know, I just lost control at that point. I told the men to leave the kid and her pet alone. They weren't listening . . . so I pointed my rifle up and fired. A single shot . . . it sounded like a thunderbolt in that room. Everyone went silent, and the GIs got out of the house.
I was looking at the little girl holding her bunny when an awful screaming came from upstairs.
That shot I fired . . . went through the ceiling and struck the family grandfather. It . . . killed him instantly."
Staring at Robinson, Gorman noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. At the edge of the field was a rabbit. It was gazing at the vehicle, as if listening to the story.
Robinson pointed a meaty finger at a steeple on the horizon. "It was that village, over there."
Gorman saw Robinson reach up with a very stiff hand that he ran rigidly over his crew cut. The motion gave the impression that Robinson was more arranging and carefully placing memories than mussing his hair. Robinson closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The rabbit moved back into the field.
"Awright, Gorman. They're waiting for us at Landstuhl. Let's roll." Gorman's eyebrows arched a very small bit. Top had pronounced Landstuhl the way the Germans did.
. . . Veterans Day, 2011 . . .
Retired professor of German Studies Charles Gorman zipped up his jacket. A cold Norther was blowing over the Texas plains, and this cemetery was on top of a small hill. Over the cemetery, Old Glory snapped in the steady wind.
He regarded the stone to his front for a minute.
WALTER J.
ROBINSON
SGM US ARMY
WORLD WAR II
KOREA VIETNAM
MAY 3 1923
FEB 5 1966
SILVER STAR
PURPLE HEART
Standing straighter, Gorman rendered a hand salute, far more exact than any he had given while in uniform.
"Thanks, Top"
Dropping his hand, a small movement at the corner of his eye pulled his focus back to the present. He glanced over and saw a small rabbit a few stones away. It was eating clover and watching him.
Fire In The Hole
