by John Davis Collins @1997 All Rights Reserved By John F. Clennan, Esq.
"That would be to cheat the owner," Jenny the waitress declared as she
put her hands on her hips to accentuate her round belly. She was pregnant
like most of the buffarillos, the GI's unflattering epithet for the
Wondertown belles. Who was the father? Fort Madison no doubt!
Saturday night, Wondertown, New York, a last stop on a trip to nowhere,
or as Sergeant Marks would call it my special home, saw me at my customary
table. Maybe it was a special home. Here or at least at this table in
Patrick's Place I enjoyed the courtesy title 'Judge" short for Judge
Advocate, Army lawyer. Next to me sat Sergeant Dan Marks.
The small crowd of regular locals kept their distance from the table near
the end of the bar, but Dan, sitting stalwartly upright resplendent in a
crisp green uniform with a golden recruiter's badge smiled as soon as young
outsiders strode into the bar.
I turned amused eye toward the dispute at the bar. Two blond hair boys,
could they be 18?, complained, "Hey, it says right up on there
'Canadian
and American' on par." One boy pointed to the sign on the mirrored wall
right above the clock.
"On par?," Jenny turned to the sign perplexed, "what does golf have to do
with money? The owner ain't here. Out drunk somewhere or getting drunk
"
Jenny snickered as she glanced at our table with a glint in here eye and a
half smile, sealing the secret.
Accepting the cue, Sergeant Marks, thumping on the table imperiously, called
the red faced blond boys over. "Need quarters for the jukebox, want a few
drinks," he reached into the pockets of his green uniform jacket for two fist
fulls of quarters and put it out on the table. "Here go ahead, Take some of
the King's shillings. Enjoy!"
The boys looked at the treasure trove of silver clinking on the table and
touched it hesitantly, like a scavenging animal coming upon an unexpected
meal, before they grabbed some coins and stole away for the jukebox.
Sergeant Marked chuckled as they boys toyed with the jukebox. They were in
his clutches. I whispered a warning, "Sarge, they're from the other side of
the line
"
"And who can tell the difference? They're young and up for adventure. By 10
they'll swear they was born in Brooklyn, by 11 standing for the Star Spangled
Banner. By 12, unable to stand at all."
The Sarge's twisted sense of life's adventure gave me a chuckle, since the
first time I heard the speech right after my arrival at nearby Fort Madison.
Sarge had no time to digress into reminiscences; his sharp black eyes were
fixed on his prey. He darted for the jukebox to talk to the two blond haired
boys.
Corporal Smith slinked in and joined me. "Sarge, is low on his body count
this month and last month too. Recruiting Command thinks he's slipping."
Smith leaned forward to whisper. "They may cut on order transferring him
back to regular duty."
I glanced toward the bar where Sarge had Jenny pouring generous schooners for
the plowboys. "Sarge hasn't been in the Real Army for years."
"Him
never a day." The corporal looked toward the bar furtively. "The
Army is his special home, but he's never been there. On a hometown
recruiting tour, he signed up some people and next you knew Recruiting
Command put him here." Smith furtively looked at official papers he had
secreted in a plain envelope, before he continued, "19 years later,"
Corporal Smith raised his eyebrows, "but he's slipping."
I looked at the mirror where I caught the distorted disconnected image of the
Sergeant leaning against the jukebox. Had my eyesight failed? I looked at
the half-filled drink in front of me and pushed it away.
I turned to Smith. "Sarge still peddles the Army well." Smith glanced
furtively toward Sarge returning with the two boys to the table. "Oh the
Army, my special home," Smith parroted Sarge's line.
Sarge recounted his heroic defense of Khe Sahn. "
And the Viet Cong crept
in at night
yet right in the midst of a barrage, we held
the St.
Patrick's Day parade
just to show we couldn't be beat
, ah the Army,"
Sarge looked away, "my special home."
"A toast, gentlemen," Sarge bid us all rise, "to the army our special home."
My lips touched the half-empty glass and I could not drink. I noted the
reflection in the mirror. Did Smith dare to laugh at Sarge when business was
at hand?
Lately, Smith had grumbled reservations about Sarge.
"Sarge's 'special home' has problems. The locals know to steer clear of him.
We're just making our quotas inviting attention to Sarge's expense account
Sarge needs a vacation."
No the mirror was incorrect. Smith restrained himself
just barely,
throughout Sarge's rendition of his manly feats, which spread an enchantment
that bound the two blond men.
As the saga reached Sarge's heroic evacuation of doomed Saigon, the corporal
expressionlessly studied the vacant right shoulder of Sarge's crisp uniform
where a war time patch would have been.
"And we weren't part of any army" Sarge summed up his experiences, "we were
'us' U-period-S-period. 'US' which means it's our own. Another round," Sarge
stomped on the table and called to Jenny. "We men need another
" The
corporal cringed his eyes in disbelief.
While the young men wandered over to the jukebox to talk to some girls, they
never left Sarge's gaze. "Watching my meal ticket
," Sarge slurred.
"Better watch how much you're drinking
" I warned. Sarge was a little
ungainly tonight.
The corporal shot me a warning glance, which perplexed me.
"Jenny waters my drinks
it's all fixed
I have everything planned
always
make my quota
," Sarge stumbled over his words.
"
And I'd leave those kids alone
they're boys
and they don't belong to
us
go to the lock-up down in Syracuse if you're short
," I stated.
"Nobody's untouchable," the Sarge knocked his schooner against the table,
"Nobody
or at least very few."
I had heard the Sergeant say that to Corporal Smith on my very first visit to
Sarge's bar, right after my arrival at Fort Madison.
"He is
He's the new legal officer at Fort Madison, just arrived," Miller
smirked, "And you're supposed to know that you can 'enlist,'" corporal Smith
snickered, "an officer." Smith turned to me and snarled, "Ain't that right
Judge?
Back in the present, Sarge's eyes were transfixed on his quarry.
"Time for my move," Sarge guzzled his drink and bolted from the table to join
the boys at the jukebox.
"I got a long drive tonight. I better do my pick up at the local hoosegow
they must have a pair of kicking stiffs for me."
"I thought," nodding toward the boys at the juke box with Sarge, "your quota
was met."
The corporal whispered. "When body counts are low, Recruiting Command
questions why its flash money is all spent here. We don't need any
questions. Do we judge?" The corporal emphasized the courtesy title. I
didn't need to be reminded that as Judge Advocate, what I had made possible.
The corporal snorted in disgust, before he dove into the darkness of the back
of the bar for the rear door. Only a cold border country breeze marked his
departure.
Sarge returned to the table bubbling in enthusiasm. I glanced at the clock
behind the bar. 11 p.m., I winced, time for Sarge's National Anthem. Worse
I have to stand. How the heck did Sarge ever get some one to put it on the
jukebox?
When juke box started strumming the old English drink song, Sarge snapped to
a square salute and tapped my right shoulder to remind me which hand to
salute with.
I looked toward the mirror, which contorted Sarge's face into a grim
expression of pain. I turned my head toward Sarge and noticed he was
clutching the table for balance.
After Jenny hushed a drunk who was yelling "Play Ball," she delivered fresh
schooners to our table. I passed.
"Not like you to turn down Sarge's hospitality," Jenny fought to restrain a
grin, which blossomed devilishly in the mirror.
Soon Sarge would be reaching for that briefcase he kept hidden along the wall.
I remember the time he pulled those forms out on me and started his talk on
life's adventure. As I sat with the pen in my hand, I was tempted to sign
the papers, even though I
"Surely," I told the Sarge, after corporal Smith
snatched the pen away from me, "Army recruiters deserve the ninth and lowest
rank in Plato's vision of hell
next to lawyers and used chariot salesmen."
"A lawyer, huh?" Sarge asked. Queried with avid interest.
Smith had chuckled, "Sarge never spent a dime of Uncle Sam's expense account
that he didn't intend to get back."
With a quick sweep of his hand, Sarge drew papers from the briefcase hid
against the wall. "Just a little joke. Pretend you're real Americans
"
I drifted away to talk to Jenny. She was scrubbing down tables. The bar had
emptied out. There was only giggling from Sarge's table.
Shaking her head at Sarge, Jenny remarked, "19 years of working two nights a
week. You might call it a vacation to send him to a real job." With a
girlish giggle, she looked toward Sarge reflectively.
Jenny seemed unusually distant. She played a critical role in Sarge's act.
Foiled in his attempt to recruit me, Sarge put me in a different role "I'd
like to buy this bar
I can't put it in my name
what if I put it in
Jenny's."
"Risky Sarge, back where I came from half the corpses in the morgue would
tell that story
if they could."
"This," Sarge told me "is a small border town. We're more civilized than New
York City."
Jenny muttered to herself as she washed down the tables, "12 o'clock and
everybody scooted
lose the money from the Army and
" she patted her belly
and whispered to the unborn child, "mother's watching out for us all." Then
looking at the clock, she exclaimed, "Oops almost time for the coup de
grace." She went over to the bar to fix the new recruits their last drink.
They'd wake up, no doubt, in a basic training camp some place, screaming that
they didn't belong.
Sarge raised his glasses with the boys and offered a toast "to the US Army,
Our Home." I turned away as his prey slid from the wooden chairs onto the
floor.
"Quick," Jenny looked toward the front door, "help us drag them to the back
so Corporal Smith can upload them on the van."
Yet Jenny didn't move,,, She was standing there impassively with arms
folded,,, waiting,,, For what?
"Let's see," the sergeant swaggered as he fumbled the briefcase: "birth
certificates
18
19
20
let's make them 20
Albany
Binghampton
New
York City
make it New York City ... no Brooklyn,,, just for you Judge
High School Diploma
Medical report
" Sarge's collection of questionable
documents slipped from his hand onto the floor.
"How much did you have to drink?" I asked.
"Bah! Nothing
just some flat ginger ale
from my special bottle
I'll be
alright." Sarge rose stretched then crashed to the floor.
A breath of cold from the back announced the Corporal.
"Sarge fainted," I declared in astonishment.
Apathetically, the corporal tapped the two blond boys on the shoulder.
"Show's over, boys, good job." The two young men bounced up like souls
redeemed from perdition and left through the front door.
Smith waited for the door to close. Clutching his waist authoritatively,
Smith strutted over to the fallen sergeant. As Smith paused for a moment
over the sprawled body of Sergeant Marks, Smith laughed uproariously. Jenny
slid next to Smith. In the mirror, their eyes burnished bright.
Plucking the sergeant's golden recruiting badge from the chest pocket, Smith
snickered. I'm sure the evil smiles refracted in the mirror would have shown
fangs. "You're Ordered," Smith pronounced sentence over the sergeant, "back
to the real Army on a great adventure, a pilgrimage to your special home."
Jenny bid me good night, "see you next Saturday, Judge?"