This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

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Farewell, Uncle Ho

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Chapter 53 (Fri., March 17)

We'd spent most of Week Seven trying to prove to the powers that were that we were not only soldiers, but specific to Fort Dix, we had to prove that we were 'Ultimate Weapons'. Of course, the only ultimate weapon, in which I found even the slightest interest was Gerry's.

We visited what they called the confidence course, which basically consisted of climbing over and under things made of logs in a team effort. Needless to say, 3rd Platoon knocked the socks off the others. But Gerry's squad came in first, beating mine, Mancini's and Morton's, in that order. I had to laugh as I wondered how bad they felt, getting beaten by pansies.

And then there was Proficiency Park, which was like a final exam. We finished up today on Saint Patrick's Day. Since we were all in green, nobody got caught out for nonconformity, so nobody even mentioned it.

Drill Sergeant was strutting his stuff, as happy as a proud father, when he came up to me. "Loughery, you have been nominated for Trainee of the Cycle." He patted me on the back in such a manner that told me that he'd rather have hugged me. "Just remember, when they ask you what types of flags the Army runs up flag poles, the answer is: Post, Garrison, and Storm. Got that?"

"Got it, thanks Drill Sergeant." He looked odd. "Is there something else?"

"Your movement orders have arrived." My heart sank at the thought that Gerry and I could be split up. "You and Gerry are both going to Clerk-Typist School at Fort Knox, Kentucky." He looked sad. "Gonna miss you guys."

"But we're still on for the week's leave, aren't we?" I was thinking that something might have come up, and we would have to call it off.

"Of course it is." His face seemed to petrify, like Gerry's does, when he's avoiding emotion. "But I'm still gonna miss you silly Fucks." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "When we get back, go get cleaned up and put on clean fatigues, cause you'll be going in front of the board for Trainee of the Cycle."

I felt my heart jump, when I wondered if the tests would ever stop. Of course, the test in Albanian and Finnish made me sputter with laughter. Drill Sergeant looked at me quizzically. "Is there something the matter, Trainee?"

"Nothing, Drill Sergeant." I told him loudly, then I switched to sotto voce. "Wonder what they'd do, if they knew."

"They'd have all our asses in front of a firing squad." He walked away blowing his whistle to have us fall in.

***

I was in our room drying off and just about to get dressed, when Gerry came barging in. "Have you heard?" I shook my head, and told him that I hadn't heard anything worth repeating. "They nabbed Pierson." He ran his hand over my ass. "Just like Drill Sergeant said. He was trying to cross the Canadian border. They brought him back to the stockade here at Dix, this morning."

"Looks like his old man was right." I ventured, trying carefully to break starch so I could put on my uniform.

"And you know what his old man thinks, because?" He was laughing ironically.

"Because Pierson told me." I laughed and tried to get my arms through the legs in my fatigues' pants without wrinkling them. I looked up as Drill Sergeant came into the room, and I continued. "He said that his father didn't think that he was mature enough to make a good soldier."

"Pierson told you that?" Drill Sergeant asked and took the fatigues' pants away from me, used some karate moves on them and handed them back.

"Thanks." Don't know what he did, but they were limber enough that I could put them on. "Yeah, he told me that, over at the Reception Center."

"Well, he's at a different reception center, now." We laughed, as I got my trousers tucked and boots laced. "About ready?" He looked at me, protectively. "What are the flag types?"

And before I could get my mouth open, Gerry told him: "Garrison, Post, Field, and Storm."

Drill Sergeant whirled around, thought for a second and snapped his fingers. "Damn, that's right, you were ROTC." Then he whirled back to me. "You don't have to know Field. But you got the others, right?"

***

Drill Sergeant had to wait outside the tent, pacing back and forth. Actually, he was one Hell of a lot more nervous than I was. The reviewing board, for some unknown reason, had convened in a medium-sized tent with a space heater in the parking lot behind the barracks. Maybe it was to save the shine on the floor of one of the day rooms, since inspections were like being visited by god, and everything had to sparkle.

I had to report to the Battalion Commander, and then sat at the position of attention. That was sort of how Mrs. Morrison, my high-school drama teacher, had to sit because of her corset. And, as instructed by Mrs. Morrison, I projected the answers in a confident, sonorous voice. And if they wanted pageantry, I was determined to give them pageantry.

Other than the Battalion Commander, a Lieutenant Colonel, the Board was made up of First Sergeants from around post. And there were two, whom I knew personally: my present First Sergeant and Top from Reception Center. The questions were relatively rapid fire, as were my answers. They ranged from reciting the General Orders and my personal Chain of Command to telling them how many rounds fit into a standard M14 clip.

Then came the question of all questions: "What is the only flag that may be flown from a flagpole over a CONUS Army installation?"

"The flag of the United States, and there may be only one." I added the second part for good measure, since I knew this from a member of the US Embassy in Paris, whom I and the two Moroccans had picked up, one dark and stormy night in a sleazy jazz club in Le Marais. There were sideway glances amongst the Board Members.

"The various sizes have names. What are they?"

"Post, Garrison, and Storm." I replied confidently, since Gordon H. Drill Sergeant told me so.

And then the ultimate question, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, so to speak. The Battalion Commander pursed his lips, grinned and then asked me to order the sizes, starting with the largest. All First Sergeants were more stunned than I was.

My mind flipped into overdrive. Hmm, since the flag was sacred and wasn't supposed to get dirty, damaged, or worn, the storm flag was bound to be the smallest. We'd marched past the flag pole on Washington's Birthday on the 22nd of last month, and the flag was huge, about which the guy behind me said that it was the Garrison flag. And that left the Post in the middle.

I smiled just a little, as I said: "Garrison is the largest, then Post and finally Storm." And while I was speaking, I was trying to place the Battalion Commander. I had seen him somewhere, but didn't know where, so I tried to let it go.

His question must have been totally out of line, though, since all the First Sergeants were glaring at him. He turned red and had to admit that the answer had indeed been absolutely correct. And while he was speaking, it dawned on me where I'd seen the Fucker before. He was the one who didn't fit into his sports jacket, and who'd tried to pick up Gerry at the bar in New York. He'd been the one, whom Gerry had told that we were working undercover.

***

I marched directly around to our barracks' entrance without saying a word. Drill Sergeant was keeping up with me, but certainly wondered what was wrong. When we got to our room, Gerry had already had dinner and was relaxing on his bunk. "Okay, out with it." Drill Sergeant demanded.

Looking at Gerry, lying on his bunk, I whispered: "Remember that prick, who tried to buy you a drink in that bar Saturday before last?" Gerry nodded. "Well, here's the surprise of the cycle. He's our Battalion Commander." Gerry laughed and Drill Sergeant called bullshit.

"So what makes you think he recognized you?" Gerry wanted to know, now with his hands behind his head.

"It was dark in there," Drill Sergeant inserted into the discussion. "I didn't even recognize you."

"Were you listening on the outside of the tent?" I asked him.

"Couldn't hear much." He answered. "So what happened?"

"He had the last… Well, it really wasn't a question." I admitted with more butterflies in my stomach than beforehand. I sat down on my bunk. "He told me to order the flags, Garrison, Post, and Storm, according to their sizes. But I deduced the order correctly." Being post-facto quite pleased with myself.

"He's not allowed to do that." Drill Sergeant was infuriated. "The only reason the prick is there in the first place, is for you to have an asshole officer to report to."

Gerry looked up at the red-faced Drill Sergeant. "Please, do not insult my asshole, Drill Sergeant."

He sputtered and shook his head. "I'll be back in a minute."

He no sooner got to the stairwell, when he met First Sergeant charging up the stairs. "At ease." I called and stood, making Gerry bounce off his bunk.

"As you were." He said and Gerry let himself drop to where he'd been, which got a wicked grin from both Sergeants. "There's our star." First Sergeant came over to slap my back. "You know what?"

"Hmm, let's see." I acted like I was pondering something. "Five First Sergeants lynched Lieutenant Colonel Bromorski?"

"Fuckin' close." He laughed sarcastically, as only an E-8 can. "You're it!"

"What, you're playing tag?" This was one of those embarrassing moments, where I was the only one who thought that was funny. When I noticed that no one else was chuckling, I excused myself.

"No, Dumb Fuck, you're Trainee of the Cycle." He said with the amount of engendered enthusiasm, I had hitherto only known from the Oscars on television.

As everyone is congratulating me, the pansy who'd flunked the grenade range by not being able to throw the practice grenade the required distance and who'd had to walk around with the big, red, wax-penciled X of shame on my field jacket but who was now Trainee of the Cycle, Major Horowitz knocked on the door. "At-ten-hut!" I yelled; all snapped to attention.

"Uh, huh, carry on." The good Major, who had heard about my accomplishment in the Orderly Room from Steve, the Company Clerk congratulated me. He cleared his throat. "I'm afraid that my news isn't all that good, neither for you nor for Private Helmstedter."

He looked around. "I think that I'm okay with telling you this in front of the First Sergeant and your Drill Instructor, since they'll be informed, anyway." Again he cleared his throat. "Private Loughery, the Secretary of State has deemed you no longer an American citizen, effective immediately. You have a month to appeal the decision."

"Why bother?" I said through gritted teeth, angry not at Major Horowitz, but at Dean Rusk and at the entire system. I put myself into an instance trance to lower my heart rate and settle me down.

"And Private Helmstedter," Major Horowitz continued. "you were right about your citizenship. Your cousin didn't actually adopt you, but was appointed your guardian until you turned twenty one. Therefore, you did not obtain US citizenship, and, since your twenty first birthday, last month, are to be treated as an adult alien requiring a passport to be present in this country. We've already contacted the German Consul General in New York, and he'll be expecting you next week. You'll be given an emergency issue of a five-year travel document. However, your US Military ID card provides both of you with a waiver of residence and work permits." He patted our shoulders. "I'm sorry, Guys." He looked to be sort of disappointed with himself when he left.