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.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments. And last but not least, Nifty would like your donations.

Farewell, Uncle Ho

by Dennis Milholland

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

Chapter 75 (Fri., May 5)

Legal Clerk School was part of the Adjutant General School and located in Gates-Lord Hall, as were the schools for court reporters and stenographers, the Defense Information School for AFN announcers, journalists, and spooks, and the Finance School. Needless to say, Gates-Lord Hall was an enormous cinder-block building, as the insignificant double-barreled name implied, sort of like Royal-Crown Cola.

Fort Benjamin Harrison was the Army's answer to a college campus for enlisted guys. The only thing missing was a token ivy-covered wall. And according to Gerry, the reason it was located in Indiana rather than anywhere near West Point, New York, was to guarantee class segregation. Fraternization was to be avoided at all costs. However, the almost-campus-like atmosphere did make it possible for us to live off post with no problem, but at our own expense, since adequate housing was available on post. At this, both Gerry and I learned a new acronym, BFD, which stood for 'big fucking deal' and used in the sense of 'so what?'.

The week with our mini-family went by in an instant. Cam, of course, had been everybody's darling, and again, June had trouble saying goodbye. The Bandit had been assigned the duty of helping Earl at the gas station. And apparently he'd wanted to stay behind in Indiana; he'd looked forlorn and refused to get into the car, when time came to leave. He was in the back of the Jeep Wagoneer with his nose pressed against the glass as they drove out of sight, very early on Friday morning.

It was just as well that they'd left, since Gerry and I had been scheduled to pull guard duty from Friday evening to Saturday morning. Living off post kept us off the fire-guard roster, but didn't have any influence on other soldiering, to use the vernacular for pointless busywork. However, we had been assigned together, which meant that I was to follow him. And they assured us that we'd only have to do this once.

We had a bit of time between dinner in the mess hall and guard formation at 1845 hours. Of course, we had to change from our duty uniform, which was Class A, into our guard uniform, which was fatigues.

To judge by the reaction from the Officer of the Guard, who must have been a reservist, since he didn't have any duty patches sewn onto his sleeves and you could see the clear fingernail polish on his butter bars. The Sergeant of the Guard had a slight alcohol breath, but he at least knew what he was doing.

Gerry and I claimed our bunks in the guardhouse, then proceeded to break starch and put the finishing touches on our jump boots. We checked each other's gig lines and didn't sit down as not to crease our uniforms. Along with the Sergeant of the Guard, Gerry and I were standing around the butt can, when the sergeant, E-5, who was supposed to pull the first shift, was late for formation. He looked as if he'd slept in his fatigues; his boots were normal issue and weren't polished to an appreciable shine. But he was apparently in the same reserve unit as the Officer of the Guard.

"How's Carol?" The Officer patted Sad Sack on the shoulder, instead of threatening him with court martial, as would have been appropriate for being this late.

"Fine, thanks, Bob, uh, Sir." He tried to find the formation, ignoring us.

"Okay, uh, fall in." Our proud Second Louie said with casual swagger and returned to the desk.

"Aren't you going to inspect the guard, Sir?" Our Sergeant, who sported a Big Red One on his sleeve as his last battle unit, asked between gritted teeth.

"Naw, you go ahead and do it." He picked up the Indianapolis Star.

Softly and between Gerry's and my heads: "They're fucking going down." When he stood up straight, it became official. "Squad, AT-TEN-HUT!" The Sergeant yelled. "What are your general orders?" he asked Sad Sack.

"Could you give me a hint?"

"Go ahead and use that laminated card that you got at the armory." the Lieutenant said from behind his newspaper.

Disgusted, our Sergeant yelled at the Lieutenant. "Where's the supernumerary?"

"The what?" The Officer of the Guard inquired from behind the paper.

"The fourth guard?" He hissed.

"Sent him home." The Officer slowly glanced over his paper for the first time. "We only need three."

At that, our Sergeant picked up the receiver and dialed four digits. "This is Sergeant Anderson at the guardhouse. I need two MPs capable of arrest of one O-1 and one E-5, and I also need someone capable of standing guard for four."

Apparently not having believed their ears, the Second Lieutenant and the failed Sad-Sack Sergeant, looked slightly slack jawed but said nothing. Then looking as if he was on the prowl, he approached me slowly. "You better know this."

I stared right through him, and without waiting for his question, I recited at battle-field volume, since yelling and screaming seem to impress high-ranking NCOs: "My first general order, Sergeant, is: I will guard everything within the limits of my post and quit my post only when properly relieved. My second general order is: I will obey my special orders and perform all my duties in a military manner. My third general order is: I will report violations of my special orders, emergencies, and anything not covered in my instructions to the Commander of the Relief."

Then it was Gerry's turn. Our Sergeant cleared his throat. We could tell by his sadistic grin that it was going to be a tough one. "What is a parole word?"

My Gerry, in his perfect zombie mode, repeated the long answer, since we'd covered this in class, yesterday. "A parole is a code word or sign." Our Sergeant was about to continue when Gerry kept going. "And any person subject to the UCMJ, who in time of war, discloses the parole or countersign to any person not entitled to receive it or who gives to another who is entitled to receive and use the parole or countersign a different parole or countersign from that, which, to his knowledge, he was authorized and required to give, shall be punished by death or such other punishment as a court-martial may direct, pursuant to Article 101, Uniform Code of Military Justice."

"God damn!" Our good Sergeant couldn't get his mouth shut. "The one dud doesn't know jack-shit, and the other comes across like the god-damned Judge Advocate General, himself."

And here entered the Military Police, leaving Gerry and me still standing at the position of attention. The Captain surveyed the situation and his men approached Sad Sack with handcuffs jangling. The Captain looked questioningly. "Who's being charged?" He pointed at the Lieutenant and the E-5. "Charges?"

"Dereliction of duty." He then sneered. "Besides they're both out of uniform."

"Witnesses?" Our Sergeant pointed at us. "Did you see everything?"

Now, this is where I saw my chance to get them at their own game. "Request permission to speak, Sir."

The Captain of the MPs and our Sergeant looked at each other. "Why?"

"We are not allowed to speak at the position of attention, pursuant to the rules for Drill and Ceremony, Basic Training Manual, M--"

"At fucking ease." Our Sergeant screamed, giving Gerry and me a daggered stare.

"Yes, Sir, we saw that Sad--" I cleared my throat. "the Sergeant in question did not know the general orders, nor does the uniform of said Sergeant, nor that of the Lieutenant, display their present unit and branch of service."

"And where did you learn to be this regimented, Soldier." The Military-Police Captain sneered in my face.

"The French Foreign Legion, mon capitaine." I smiled cordially.

"Bullshit." called the good Captain.

I fished the plastic bag with our passports out. I handed him mine. He opened and looked at the picture, comparing my name with the one on my field jacket. He apparently didn't know that I couldn't have served in the Foreign Legion, since I am French, and I'd have to have been a foreigner to join, hence the name. But what the Hell, he seemed to be impressed.

Our Sergeant of the Guard was eying Gerry's green booklet. "And what's the other one?"

"I have it in safe keeping for my Buddy, here." I handed it to our Sergeant who also compared the name with that on Gerry's field jacket.

"You're a German?" He asked, handing me back Gerry's passport.

As an answer, Gerry must have been feeling slightly giddy from lack of sleep, he clicked the heels of his Corcoran, hob-nailed jump boots and nodded in affirmation, as could have been seen on virtually any episode of Hogan's Heroes.

***

Sharply at 0700 hours, the Commander of the Relief came walking across the fogged-in parking lot of the children's playground, which I had been guarding since 0300 hours, while wearing a poncho and armed with a nightstick. The Commander of the Relief escorted me back to the guardhouse to sign out and collect Gerry. The reservists were nowhere to be seen.

"All quiet on the playground front?" Gerry chuckled as we approached the Mustang. Not for the first time did I appreciate the car. We locked up our dress uniforms and walked to the nearby mess hall for breakfast.

"Yeah, similar to that of a soggy country graveyard. On your shift, too?" I opened the door to the relatively new, one-storey mess.

"Other than having to chase some teenagers away around midnight." He laughed, taking a tray. "All I did was to yell at them in German and that scared them off."

Picking up my plate of fried egg, bacon and toast, I grinned. "You do know that this place used to be the POW camp for Rommel's Africa Corps, don't you? In your poncho, they probably thought you were a green ghost."

"Good to know." He got his coffee and went for a table in the corner next to the emergency exit. "Maybe it would work on some of the other rednecks around here."

"Could do." I proceeded to mop up some egg yolk with my toast. "The natives are superstitious enough." When I tried for a copy of his 'bad-boy' look, he almost spurted out his coffee. "Okay, so it doesn't work. What do you want to do for the rest of this dreary Saturday?"

"Go back to the cottage, have a couple of drinks that we didn't get on Friday night, and fuck you seven ways to Sunday." His 'bad-boy' look was perfect.

"You got it, mein Schatz."