CHAPTER NINE
A little bit of luck is that I have nearly three hours to get ready, so I scramble around my room and the barracks to do so. In going to see the Provost Marshal, I’ll need to look sharp, since she’s a tough old broad who used to be a New Hampshire Superior Court justice before the war. I’m lucky my dress shoes still have a pretty good shine, and it’s been a long time since I had to wear my formal Army Service Uniform, but luck is with me again. I can actually put my hands on the necktie, and the white shirt is in pretty good shape, except for a sweat stain around the collar.
I trade a Hershey bar for a ten-minute shower chit from a trooper down the hallway, and after a breakfast of stale toast, powdered eggs and venison sausage, I use the chit, and am ticked off when the water comes out rusty and lukewarm. Waste of a good chocolate bar and a shower chit.
But I pull myself together and get dressed in my Army Service Uniform, I walk over to the Provost Marshal’s office, crossing near the playing fields. At a paved parking lot that is cracked and which is mowed every Sunday, a new group of recruits are standing still, their front feet smack dab up against a faded yellow line on the old asphalt. First Sergeant Wendy Messier is standing before the dozen or so boys and girls—mostly twelve or thirteen—bawling them out, standing with the help of two metal crutches. Her right leg is off below the knee, and she’s been having a hell of a time getting a prosthetic that fits. The kids looked scared, as they should be, staring out at the First Sergeant, and I resist the temptation to give ’em a cheery wave as I walk by.
At the Provost Marshal’s office, I get the second big surprise of my early day: in her office is not Master Sergeant Muller, but two civilians, one who is dressed in a ratty gray suit and necktie, and the other who is bearded and has a bandaged leg and is holding wooden crutches in his dirty hands.
It’s the civilian I shot the other night.
Captain Gail Allard has short brown hair, a beak of a nose, and is as skinny as a coat rack. She’s behind her desk, piled high on each side with papers and file folders. Her office is windowless, with filled bookcases and filing cabinets, and a manual typewriter on a stand in the corner. There’s a United States flag, a U.S. Army flag, and the State of New Hampshire flag on small sticks set in a black foam bulb on her desk. The only decoration is framed certificates of her law degree and other achievements, and a formal portrait of the President.
She folds her hands together and leans over the desk. “Have a seat, Sergeant.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I sit down across from her. She looks to the two civilians. “This is Attorney Michael Farrell. He’s representing Fred Mackey, of Purmort. I take it that you and Mister Mackey are acquainted?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Fred is glowering at me, and I understand why. In this cool and slightly dusty office, it probably seems obscene seem to him and his lawyer that I shot him in the leg the other night.
But I didn’t shoot him in this office. I shot him at night, in the woods, within range of a Creeper.
Doesn’t sound obscene to me.
Captain Allard goes on, her voice strong and slow. “Mister Mackey is intending to file a complaint against you for what occurred two nights ago.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, remembering what old Corporal Manning had once told me: never be first, never volunteer, and especially, never volunteer information. So I was going to let Captain Allard take point on wherever the hell this was going. In most people’s eyes, I’m not officially an adult, but I like to think I’m also not officially stupid.
“He’s represented here by Attorney Farrell,” she continues. “You, of course, have every right to have counsel represent you. But in the interest of time and of getting to the bottom of this matter, I was hoping we could proceed with this rather, er, informal gathering. If that’s agreeable to you, Sergeant Knox.”
There are fellow troopers back in my former dormitory who are barracks lawyers, always nit-picking and debating the finer points of law and regulations, especially when they get into hack, which seems pretty common for them. And even though her face is impassive, I see Captain Allard is showing me a path out of this mess.
“Absolutely, ma’am,” I say. “I have no problem with that.”
She turns her head to the lawyer, the better-dressed of the two. “Mister Farrell, is it all right with you and your client if I proceed?”
Fred Mackey starts to say something but his lawyer puts his hand on his arm. “Captain, I think we’ll go along with that. All we’re seeking here is justice for my client, who was brutally and suddenly shot without provocation by this young man here and—”
She raises a hand. “This isn’t a courtroom, counselor, so if you could restrain from making speeches, we’ll get along that much faster. Fair enough?”
He nods. His hair is carefully combed and his suit is mended here and there, and I wonder how he scrapes along, being a lawyer during war time, and then I realize I don’t particularly care.
Captain Allard turns to me, face sharp. “Sergeant Knox.”
“Ma’am.”
“Please inform me, Attorney Farrell and Mister Mackey your current rank, assignment and duty station.”
I do so and then she asks, “Were you drafted or did you volunteer?”
“Volunteered, ma’am.”
“At what age did you volunteer?”
“I was twelve, ma’am. At the time, under the President’s National State of Emergency Declaration, the enlistment age had been lowered to twelve, with a surviving parent or guardian’s approval. My father gave his approval.”
The attorney raises his hand. “Captain, I appreciate this background of Sergeant Knox, but I really don’t see the relevance of where this is going.”
Fred Mackey mutters, “What a waste of friggin’ time. Goddamn punk shot me in the leg, he did.”
Captain Allard doesn’t even blink. “I appreciate the patience of you and your client. This shouldn’t take long. Sergeant Knox, for the benefit of our civilian . . . guests, here, please point to the badge on the upper left side of your uniform blouse. The one that looks like a musket with a half wreath about it. What’s the name of that badge?”
“That’s the Combat Infantryman Badge, ma’am.”
“How does one receive the Combat Infantryman Badge?”
“For actual combat in the field against the enemy, ma’am.”
“You didn’t get that for being a support unit, or doing laundry, or counting boxes in a warehouse.”
“No, ma’am.”
Captain Allard continues. “The two Purple Hearts? How and where did you receive those?”
I shift in my seat. “I received the first one two years ago, at the Battle of Merrimack Valley.”
There’s a sudden intake of breath from the attorney. Everybody in New England knows about that battle. Captain Allard says, “Is that where you received that burn injury that damaged your left ear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The second Purple Heart?”
“An engagement last year, in Nashua. During an early morning attack on an elementary school. Part of the roof collapsed and I got a piece of broken wood shoved into my leg.”
“And what’s that star hanging from that ribbon, just below the other line of emblems?”
“Bronze Star, ma’am.”
“And the ‘V’. What does that indicate?”
“For valor. Ma’am.”
“For what were you awarded the Bronze Star, with the ‘V’ for Valor?”
It’s starting to get warm in the room, and I see by the clock that I’m in the middle of missing an important engagement. But I have no interest in speeding the Provost Marshal along. “That was also awarded after the Battle of Merrimack Valley.”
Attorney Farrell tries to salvage the morning. “Captain, if we could—”
“Absolutely,” she says. “Sergeant Knox, two evenings ago, you were in Montcalm, were you not, assigned to respond to a Creeper attack on a dairy farm?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“In the course of your reconnaissance mission that evening, did you encounter Mister Mackey at any time?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did,” I say.
“What were the circumstances of that encounter?”
I took a breath, trying to avoid the death-by-eyeball gaze from Mackey. “Captain, in the course of my mission, I heard a clicking noise, similar to what I’ve heard before when Creepers are on the move. Further investigation revealed Mister Mackey and a companion, by a campfire, attempting to attract the attention of the Creeper by imitating its distinctive noise.”
The captain turns to the two civilians, looking stunned. “Is that true, Mister Mackey?”
He’s still defiant. “Why not? Me and my cousin, we heard the Gates Foundation, they wanna pay out ten thousand New Dollars to anybody who can capture a Creeper live. So that’s what we was tryin’ to do.”
“Sergeant,” Captain Allard continues, still looking at the bandaged civilian with disbelief. “Do tell us what happened next?”
“I advised Mister Mackey and his companion that they had to leave, that they were in an area that had been declared a Military Reservation due to the Creeper sighting, and that their lives were in danger if they stayed there.”
“Did they leave?”
“No, ma’am.”
“What then?”
“Captain, I warned them that they had to leave. I told them that their lives were in danger. They became belligerent. They refused to leave. I decided I had no other option. So I shot Mister Mackey.”
“In the leg?” she asks.
Mackey shouts, “Of course in the leg, you dumb broad! Can’t you see the damn bandage?”
“Sir,” she says crossly, “you are on this post as a guest. Counselor, please advise your client to stay quiet unless he’s asked a question.”
Farrell whispers something into Mackey’s ear, and his face is red and he glares at me, but he keeps quiet.
“Sergeant, do go on,” she says.
I say, “They refused to leave. There was a Creeper in the area. They were interfering with my mission. I didn’t want to shoot him, but I didn’t have time to debate or discuss.”
“What happened after you shot him?”
He said “ouch,” I thought. Aloud I say, “I gave his companion first aid supplies. I departed the scene. Approximately fifteen minutes later I encountered the Creeper. I engaged the Creeper, it was terminated, and then I launched a flare, to inform the nearby combat dispatcher that the scene was secure.”
Captain Allard folds her hands again, glances over at the lawyer, lets out a sigh. “Counselor, let’s look at the facts, all right? According to the Status of Forces agreement with the state of New Hampshire, any complaint filed against a member of the armed forces on this post will be adjudicated with a panel consisting of two civilians, two members of the military, and the district’s state senator.”
Farrell leans forward but the captain raises her hand. “Based on Sergeant Knox’s extensive service record, decorations, and his participation in the Battle of Merrimack Valley, plus your client’s trespassing in a military reservation and his attempt to interfere with the sergeant’s mission, do you really think you have a case? Especially when he would have been within his rights to kill your client at the time?”
Mackey says, “Damn right we have a case! He shot me!”
Farrell looks like he’d rather be anyplace but here. He coughs and says, “Well, now that you mention that, it seems that—”
Captain Allard opens the top drawer of her desk, removes a pad of paper. “Tell you what, counselor. I appreciate you coming here and getting this resolved. I’m sure you know from your fellow attorneys what has happened to some people who have made claims against the armed forces that their, um, neighbors have thought were baseless. Very unfortunate, of course.”
She takes a pencil, scrawls something on a piece of paper, passes it over. “Here. Before you and your client leave the base, you can have lunch at our dining facility.”
Farrell looks ashamed and now I’ve changed my mind about the poor guy; feeling a touch of sympathy for a grown man trying to make a living in a strange world that has little in common from the place where he went to law school and started his practice. When all most people care about is getting enough to eat and not getting sick, it must be rugged out there for a lawyer to survive. He takes the paper and says, “Very well, Captain.”
Mackey turns and says, “You’re fired, you shyster. You’re fired. I’m outta here.”
He gets up and grabs his crutches, thrusts them under his arms, and he and his dismissed attorney get to the office door. Mackey says, “A kid. He’s just a goddamn kid!”
Captain Allard softly closes the drawer of her desk. “Whatever his age, he’s a non-commissioned officer in the service of his nation. Do remember that the next time you decide to trespass on a military reservation.”
When the officer door shuts, the captain rubs at the back of her neck. “Sweet Jesus, Randy, that was a waste of a good chunk of my morning time.”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“Sorry doesn’t particularly cut it, especially when it comes to civilians.” She rubs hard at the back of her neck again. “Especially since the war is over, civilians, can’t blame ’em, are going to start feeling itchy. They’re going to start wondering why the armed forces are still being treated relatively royally and practically everything they do is either rationed or censored. It’s been a long ten years.”
“Ma’am, hard to believe the war is over with Creepers still running around out there.”
She lets out a deep breath. “Above your pay grade, and definitely above mine. Now, Randy, did you really have to shoot him? Honestly? Or were you just pissed at him and his cousin?”
I’m not sure what she’s getting at, so I guess the truth will have to do. “Ma’am, I was angry, there’s no doubt, but they were also impeding my mission. I didn’t have much time. The Creeper was out there, and I had to find him.”
“You could have killed him.”
“No, ma’am,” I say. “I knew where I shot him.”
She eyes me for a moment, and says, “For someone your age, you do have an impressive service record, Randy. But that and an ear that goes deaf at convenient times won’t help you forever. Or your family background.”
I say crossly, “I’ve not once used my family, not once, and you know it, ma’am.”
She picks up her pencil. “Perhaps, but that’s enough for this morning. Is there anything else?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And what’s that?”
I say, “Could you write me a note for Mister Tierney. I’m afraid I’ve missed today’s geometry class.”
Captain Allard takes a piece of paper. “Very well, Randy.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”