Published: 2 Sep 2019

Part VI Reunion

The barracks are empty. The soldiers of the “Baby Battalion” are on leave. Although they have a high priority for train transportation, second only to troop movements, most elect not to travel to their homes. Video phone calls, sponsored by the USO, put them in touch with family, and then the Liberty Train takes them to Kansas City.

Arthur speaks briefly with his father, and then punches in Kevin’s number. There is no answer. Odd, he thinks, but they did say the networks are getting more and more overloaded.

“Captain? You have a visitor.” A corporal Arthur doesn’t recognize sticks his head in the door. Arthur closes the phone and the corporal pushes the door open to admit a young second lieutenant. Arthur looks up, and returns a salute. Then his eyes widened. “Kevin?”

“Yes, sir,” Kevin says. And then, “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, Corporal Harris.”

With the door shut, and privacy assured, Kevin and Arthur’s reunion is as passionate as it could be for two guys fully clothed in desert cammies.

“You’ve grown,” Arthur says.

“You still are,” Kevin says, pressing his hand into the crotch of Arthur’s trousers.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Arthur says. “You’ve put on … what … 20 pounds? And you don’t have to stand on tiptoe to kiss me, anymore.”

“I’m going to be your adjutant,” Kevin says.

“Adjutant? Since when does a combat outfit have…” Arthur pauses. “Not a combat command, then. A training assignment, huh?”

Kevin nods. “You can’t let on that you know, but your casualty rate was the lowest in three years, and General Bergmann wants to know why. There’s another baby battalion – over 2,000 twelve through fifteen-year-olds – reporting in two weeks. Actually, it’s going to be a baby regiment. And you, Major Andrus, are going to be the regimental commander.”

Arthur waits in General Eck’s anteroom when the man arrives from the gym. The general’s forehead still is beaded with water from his shower, although his cammies are starched and crisp. “Sergeant Cavanaugh, two coffees this morning. The major takes his with sugar, only. Come on in.” The last statement is directed to Arthur, who follows the general into his office.

Arthur stands rigidly in front of the general’s desk.

“Kevin cried when he heard you were coming home,” the general says. “He hugged me, and he cried like he hasn’t since he was a little boy. Mrs. Eck and I were happy, too. Welcome home, Arthur. Please, sit.

“Come!” This is said in response to a knock on the door. When Cavanaugh leaves, the general says, “You’ve heard that you’re to have a regiment, and he’s to be your adjutant?”

“Sir, that’s what I want to talk about. I don’t want him to be my adjutant. I want him to be a company commander, sir.”

“Uh huh.” The general’s laconic reply gives Arthur no clue to what the man is thinking.

“Sir, he’s a leader. He showed that on the recruiting trips. He has a solid grounding in human relations. I’ve seen him interact with juniors, peers, and seniors. He wants command. He thought he was hiding his feelings when we talked, but, well, I’m not sure either of us can hide anything important from the other. He’s disappointed at being adjutant.

“It’s likely that those of us who train this new baby regiment will be taking them into combat. That’s doctrine, now. I want … I need … a company commander more than I need an adjutant.”

Arthur pauses. “One more thing, sir. I want Sgt. Santos commissioned, and made a company commander in the same battalion as Kevin. Santos is qualified; and, frankly, sir, I want to keep an eye on him. He’s still a little rocky over Jon’s death. Kevin and I, well, we can give him the support he needs.”

“Is that all you want, Major?” The general’s voice is sharp.

Oh crap, Arthur thinks. I was afraid of that. I’ve crossed the line… But, “Yes, sir,” he says. His voice is firm.

“I once told you that you thought well, deeply, and correctly. Tell Sergeant Cavanaugh to which companies you want second Lieutenants Eck and Santos assigned. I’ll send the orders to General Martin for his signature, and they’ll be back to you before 1000 hours.

“Arthur? Bravo Zulu.”

“Parade, rest!” The first sergeant’s voice rings across the courtyard and echoes from the brick buildings that surround it. Major Arthur Andrus, with his battalion and company commanders, including Lieutenants Ricky Santos and Kevin Eck, stand on an elevated platform facing the soldiers. In the center of the platform, his arms shackled to posts set five feet apart, wearing only boots and trousers, stands a fifteen-year-old boy. He is the focus of everyone’s attention, and the reason for the assembly. Arthur nods to Lieutenant Santos – the boy’s company commander – who reads the charges and specifications.

The boy had been caught stealing from his mates. Little things – an e-book, a watch, a pocket knife, a pen. Santos appears shaken when he reports to Arthur. “Sir, I had to order punishment. Two of his mates were there. They’d know if I didn’t, and they’d tell the others … but … fifteen lashes … by the book … noon formation, today … before lunch … some of them will be sick, I mean, physically…”

“Ricky,” Arthur says. His use of the boy’s first name stops Santos.

“Sir?”

“Ricky, you did the right thing. Not the easy thing, and not a good thing, but the right thing. It wasn’t easy, but it was a lot easier than what you will have to do afterwards.”

“Sir?”

“After punishment parade, you’ve got to bring him back. You’ve got to bring him back into the unit, you’ve got to bring him back to being a soldier, you’ve got to ensure his mates welcome him back, and that he welcomes you. At the very least, he must not become a disruption to the morale of the unit; at the worst, he must not want to frag you on some foreign battlefield.”

“Sir? How…”

That was less than an hour earlier. Now, the boy stands half-naked, afraid, and alone, his back to some 2,000 soldiers – boys and girls, aged 12 through 14. Many of them, too, felt afraid and alone. They were separated from their families, their friends, and all that was familiar. They were brought by bus and train to this hot, dry, dusty place on the Kansas prairie. They were herded into groups called companies. They were issued dusty-sand camouflage uniforms and boots. They sat through the lectures on the Uniform Code of Military Justice – the 2020 edition that reinstated flogging for certain offenses and that streamlined Article 15 punishment to a no-appeal Company Commander’s Court. They had heard the words. Now they were seeing what none of them had really believed.

As soon as Lieutenant Santos finishes reading the charges, a man steps from behind the officers on the platform. He does not wear a shirt; his name and grade can not be determined. He wears a black mask that covers his scalp and most of his face. Not even Arthur knows his identity. All Arthur knows is that the man is not from his unit. The man holds a whip. Its wooden handle is wrapped in braided leather that extends three feet from the handle before splitting into four strands.

Lieutenant Santos steps in front of the boy. “Here,” he says. “Open your mouth. Bite down on this. Bite down hard, understand? Don’t let it fall out.” He puts his rolled up handkerchief in the boy’s mouth. The boy nods. Already, tears stream down his face. Santos steps back into formation with the others.

The sound of the whip striking the boy’s naked flesh echoes across the courtyard. The man pauses between each strike to allow the echoes to die. He’s hitting hard, Arthur thinks, but not too hard. He’s clinical; he’s not a sadist. Arthur’s attention is diverted by a movement in the formation of soldiers. One nearly falls, faints, perhaps. Two of his mates catch him and are looking around, nervously. Another crisp smack echoes, bringing Arthur’s attention back to the boy on the platform. I wish I could see his face, he thinks. What must be going through his mind? What does he feel?

After fifteen lashes, the man with the whip walks to the back of the platform and down the steps. He disappears into one of the buildings. Instantly, military policemen unshackle the boy and medics load him, face down, on a stretcher. Moments later, he is in an ambulance. Arthur gestures to the first sergeant.

“Ten, hut!” Two thousand-plus pairs of boots thud together.

Arthur speaks: “Punishment parade, dismissed. Company commanders, march to chow.”

Lieutenant Santos holds his company at attention. He speaks quietly to his first sergeant. “Support me in this, please?”

The first sergeant, although unsure of what he is being asked, answers. “Yes, sir.”

Santos faces the company. “At ease, soldiers. Gather round.” It is a command normally used only in training, but the soldiers obey.

“Your mate, Gregory Paul Childers, needs a friend. He needs a friend very badly, and he needs one, now. Who will be that friend? Raise your hand.”

The soldiers look surprised. Santos thinks he sees a flash of understanding in the face of one boy who instantly raises his hand. “Me, sir.”

Before Santos can speak, another boy raises his hand. “Me, sir.” Another: “Me, sir.” “And me.”

Santos looks across the assembled soldiers. Every one has his or her hand in the air.

“I am so proud of you,” he says. He struggles successfully to keep the quiver in his throat from sounding in his voice.

“Private Ambler,” Santos addresses the first boy who raised his hand. “Look around you. Take what you see to Private Childers. Tell him what just happened. Will you do that?”

“Sir, yes sir!”

The first sergeant takes Ambler to the hospital and cuts through the bureaucracy to get Ambler into the ward where Childers lies, on his stomach with a sheet tented over him so not to touch his back. “I’ll be back at 1700 hours, Private Ambler. They’ll bring you a tray when they bring Childers’ lunch.”

Ambler walks down the aisle to Childers’ bed. The boy’s face is in the pillow. Ambler sits by the bed. “Greg?”

Childers turns his head quickly. His eyes narrow when he sees Ambler. “How’d you know my name?”

“Lieutenant Santos told us,” he says. “He said your name was Gregory Paul Childers. My name is Mark. Mark Evan Ambler” Ambler then tells Childers what happened after he was taken away. When he finishes, there are tears in both boys’ eyes.

Childers wipes the tears from his eyes; Ambler takes his hand. “Greg, I really meant it when I said I would be your friend,” he says.

“Thank you, Mark. I’d like that very much.”

“The medic said there would be no scars,” Santos said. He is sitting in a chair next to Childers’ hospital bed. “Actually, what he said was that there would be no new scars. Do you want to tell me what he meant?”

“Do I have to, sir?”

“No, but if you do, I will listen. I won’t judge you, and I won’t say anything to your mates.”

“What about First Sergeant … and the CO?” Childers asks.

Santos thinks carefully. “If what you tell me involves duty, discipline, or morale; or, if it would affect the safety of you or your mates, I’d have to tell the CO. Is that fair?”

“Yes sir.” The boy lies silently for so long Santos thinks he might have fallen asleep. When he speaks, his voice is soft, yet clear. “My father is a preacher. He’s also head of the family. We called him Prophet. I never called him ‘father’ or ‘daddy.’ The other children in the family, they called their fathers ‘daddy.’ I never got to.

“Spare the rod and spoil the child was his answer to every sin. Half the time, we didn’t know what we were gettin’ whipped for. Sometimes we could figure it out, like looking sideways instead of paying attention to the Prophet when he was preaching. Sometimes, he’d yell out our sin every time he hit us.”

The boy’s voice drops. Santos leans toward him in order to hear. “Once, I talked back. I told him that spillin’ milk wasn’t a sin, that there wasn’t anything in the Bible about that, and besides, my sister was too little to know better. He whipped her and made me watch. Then he tied knots in the ends of the whip and beat me until I bled. It got infected and I almost died. He made like it was my fault, and he beat me again when I got well.”

The boy turns his head and looks Santos in the eye. “You never asked – nobody ever asked – why I stole those things.”

Santos draws back. “Should I have?”

“You’re asking me? Sir?”

“Yes, I’m asking you. I hadn’t thought about that. I should have. But not now. It’s too late for me to ask, unless you want me to.” He’s not going to tell me unless I do ask, Santos thinks.

“Yes, please,” the boy whispers.

“Why did you steal?” Santos asks.

“Because I never had anything that was mine. I never had a pocket knife. I never had a pen, not even a pencil. I never had a book or a watch. Everything belonged to God … or to the Prophet. Once, one of the men made a yo-yo for me. When the Prophet found out, he took it from me and threw it into the fire. He whipped me, and he punished the man, too.”

The boy falls silent. Santos sits quietly for a moment until it became apparent that Childers had nothing more to say. “Thank you for your trust,” Santos says. “The Army … everything you have here was issued to you. It’s not yours. The CO? He’s pretty much in absolute charge of you. First Sergeant and I, we tell you when to get up, when to eat, what to do, and when to go to sleep. About the only decision you get to make is whether to take a dump after breakfast or after supper.”

The boy looks startled and can’t quite stifle a giggle.

Santos continues. “Does that remind you of before, and do you resent that?”

“No sir. I mean, yes sir. I mean … it reminds me, but I don’t resent it, sir.”

“Do you know why not?” Santos asked.

“Yes sir. It’s what the CO said the first day, and what you said after. You said we’d work hard, and that when the time came, we’d play hard. You said that the Army would take our measure, and that we’d take the measure of the Army … I still don’t understand that last part, sir.”

“What else did I say?” Santos asks.

“You said we’d live together, train together, play together, fight together, and that some of us would die, but if we looked out for each other…” Panic, fear, something lights the boy’s eyes. “…and trusted…and trusted…oh God forgive me! I’ve betrayed my mates!”

“That’s between you and your god,” Santos said gently. “Your mates have already forgiven you.”

Speculative Fiction. While not exactly Sci-Fi, such stories tell the tale of our world from a “What If” viewpoint. Can you spot them all? Let David know: David dot McLeod at CastleRoland dot net. He deserves your feedback.

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