Doughboys - 1. Chapter 1

First call sounded in the early gloaming, but a kerosene lamp was already burning in the non-commissioned officers tent. Sergeant Darcy Adams sat on his cot wrapping his puttees, covering his calves from his pristine breeches to his mirror-like brown boots. Like most of the other half dozen men under the canvas, he was dressed in all but his summer service jacket, which lay on his foot locker. The Georgia air flowing through the tent was mercifully cool and dry, a hint that the summer heat would lift its oppressive thumb in a few weeks. That’s what a construction foreman had told him, anyway. Hardly anyone from the US Army had set foot in this part of the state from the end of the Civil War until the work gangs had arrived to build Camp Benning -- just in time for the Armistice to halt the Great War in November. As far as the 29th Regiment’s living memory was concerned, summer was an unending hell.

The rain had abated these past three weeks. The ruddy clay that Sgt. Darcy and his men had been daily scrubbing from their woolen uniforms was by this point a dusty silt to be brushed away after a day of stumbling through the rutted adobe between plank walkways.

Securing the bands to his breeches, He stood and glanced at the lean men around him. He’d lived with these men for weeks, but he somehow never got tired of drinking in their beautiful bodies. Adams had never been caught, but his eye had a reputation for catching detail, which had earned him respect over the years. Do what you love, he mused, and you’ll never work a day in your life.

“Hey, Frenchy,” he called. Sgt. French was a recent addition to the 29th’s NCO corps with a dandy set of pins, which looked fabulous in well-wrapped puttees, but that was not the case today. “Tighten up your left side before you head out. You look like a mummy.” While Frenchie fumbled, Adams pulled on his service jacket, regretfully anticipating the inferno coming in five hours. When he looked back to see his comrade struggling with the final tuck.

“Let me,” said Adams. Frenchy presented a delicious shapely calf to Adams as he knelt behind him. He took a surreptitious whiff of the man’s musk, and stole a glance at the tight stomach beneath the undershirt, but his work was done in half a moment. Adams was a professional. He never touched more than he had to, not unless he was asked. No one ever did.

French appreciated himself for a few seconds. “Thanks, Adams. Hey, do you need a drop of the good stuff?”

God, did he ever. He’d greedily guzzled the last trickles of whiskey in his foot locker at taps last night, and saved nary a hair of the dog for reveille. He took the bottle from French with practiced nonchalance and sucked the liquor just to the edge of politeness, an instant before people might start eyeing him strangely. “Much obliged, Frenchy,” he said, but in truth he was barely half-slaked. The sutler would be coming around today, as he did every Friday, to afford Adams the opportunity to trade his hard-earned money for well-earned relief. He would be lucky to keep his feet today.

Fourteen eyes looked up as a private with downcast gaze barged into the tent, clipped a dusty memo to the bulletin board and beat his retreat before anyone had a chance to stop him. Sergeant Armour donned his jacket as he squinted at the notice.

“Training schedule. Listen up!” Six notebooks and six pencils flashed into existence. It was very, very late today. Armour rattled off the distasteful duties their men would be discharging. Breaking ground on the camp was dog work, and with civilian crews coming and going with the vagaries of contracts and the whims of senators, soldiers were picking up the slack.

Sergeant Blaise perked up when the flap was again shoved aside. “Atten-tion!” he bellowed. The others snapped up for Lieutenant Parker, the headquarters adjutant. He too bore a stack of carbon memos for the tent, but he was in no hurry to dash away. “At ease, at ease,” Parker repeated, waving away the formality. The NCOs returned to their quiet preparations.

Frenchy smirked at the officer. “Playing errand boy today, sir?”

“Fuck you, French,” the lietenant groused. “Here, regimental HQ just typed these last night, and the battalions only got them half an hour ago.”

“More last minute shit, sir?” Armour asked.

“Yes, but you’re going to like this one..” Parker grinned. “A surprise gift for the men from our fair host city.” He stripped three copies from the stack and handed one each to French, Armour and Adams. “See you boys soon.”

Sergeant Carlisle peered over Adams’ shoulder to examine the document. “Damn!” he said. “I’ve got duty. Adams, you want to make two dollars?”

Tempting, but … “Nah, this one’s mine Carlisle. Maybe next time.” He checked the clock hanging by the bulletin board and topped himself with a campaign hat. “Come on, gents, let's go give the good news to the men.”

On the ragged parade ground, Soldiers straggled up in the gloom as Adams called the roll of his platoon. He was certain they hadn’t all turned out, but he let it go. Sending out a man to reply “Present” for five sleeping comrades was an old trick, and just demonstrated good teamwork. He was in no mood to fight it; the meager draft from Frenchy’s bottle was just taking its attenuated effect.

“Listen up, men!” Adams strained to read his notes. “You’re to fall in under arms at seven for range training. After chow, we’re turning out for fatigue duty. Construction detail.” Groans arose from the dark mass before him. “Shut up! If you want to shit on a commode, the camp needs sewers. Payday activities will be postponed.” More disgruntlement, but Adams had the ace in his sleeve. “At six tonight, you’re turning out in service uniform for inspection -- and --” he paused for effect, “ -- ten soldiers from this platoon with zero defects who aren’t scheduled for duty will board trucks for a picnic in town tonight.”

Excited murmurs. “The city of Columbus has seen fit to invite you rats to a soiree on the South Commons. Dinner, drinks, and ladies with empty dance cards will be provided.” A chorus of whoops erupted from the ranks, and adjacent platoons exploded in cheers as they received the news in turn. “When I say zero defects, I mean fucking perfect! If you fuck it up like last time, not a goddamn one of you is going. Understand?”

A ragged but hearty “Yes, Sergeant!” issued from the assembled throats as “Adjutant’s Call” sounded from a bugle in the middle distance.

“Platoon! Atten-tion! Parade ... REST!” Adams barked, then spun around to see the dim figure of Lieutenant Parker take center stage on the broken furrows.

“Battalion!” Parker shouted. “Company!” “Platoon!” echoed the hierarchs in their sequence. Parker ordered “Attention!” and 300 sets of heels snapped together. Parker then issued his next command: “Receive the report!”

A pretty second lieutenant, standing in for the company commander, turned to face Adams. He bungled his lines for a moment, allowing Adams to get lost in the boy’s porcelain skin that shone in the dying starlight. The bumbling brass hat finally remembered: “Report!”

Adams saluted. “All present!” he lied. Down the line, NCOs uttered their own brazen falsehoods. Just another day in this man’s army.

***

On the sweltering flats of Camp Benning, rifles cracked, corporals bustled up and down the line of shooters, and buglers relayed commands. Adams swaggered among the din, swinging a massive tin megaphone through the acrid sulfurous fumes, booming encouragement and abuse in equal measure to the barely organized swarm at his feet. Adams raised the cone and directed it to a soldier on a wooden dais. “Cease fire!” he bellowed. The man snapped into action, rhythmically waving a pair of flags toward the high ground behind the line. An instant later, the voice of the bugle wafted in return, quelling the popping shots and prompting the men to ground their arms. Their safety thus assured, a range detail hustled out to tend the targets, while others took their turn replenishing the firers’ ammunition clips. The shooters themselves idled, taking an unaccustomed break in the blistering sun.

Adams’ turn on the range was part of his true purpose at Camp Benning. He wasn’t just here to wrangle the thirty malcontents in his platoon; that was just a temporary situation. From honing the skills of seasoned backwoods crack-shots, to teaching young officers which end the bullets came out of, he did it all as one of an expert cadre of small arms instructors. Back in Minnesota he’d felled countless fowls and fauna, before circumstance had driven him into Uncle Sam’s arms that Christmas in ‘14. In France, he traded his standard issue Enfield for the sharpshooter’s M1903 Springfield, and terrorizing Huns on the small scale became his speciality. Up and down the Western Front, Fritz thought twice about showing his head in the summer of 1918, and many a machine gun nest was cleared of Boche birds under his care. A healthy tally of Kraut heads had bought him his sergeant’s stripes, and a close encounter with an artillery strike in the Argonne paid his fare on a Royal Navy hospital ship. No permanent damage done, of course, at least nothing that a drop of the creature couldn’t handle.

Now, not much more than half a year later, here he was, checking the posture and breathing of two dozen young men, none of whom had seen France. The 29th had been in Panama, and the show in Europe had been over before they could get through the door. At Camp Benning, they found a new purpose: teaching fresh infantry officers the ins and outs of command, in the relative safety of Georgia where a brassy bungle might not cost someone’s life. But, they had to be able to shoot if they were to be of any use.

“Assume the prone position,” his voice reverberated through the megaphone after the detail had scurried behind the line. Most of the soldiers stiffly took up their arms and rotated onto the ground, and the corporals prodded a few laggards to life. The position should be second nature to these men, but a few reminders wouldn’t fall amiss. “Elbow time” with one’s rifle was wasted if not practiced properly. “Spread those legs. Tighten your sling, son. Point that goddamn rifle downrange, soldier! Get that elbow under the rifle. Rotate your whole body, private, not just your legs.” The megaphone swung this way and that, doling out advice to those who needed it. It was frustrating. The used targets from the detail had hauled from downrange did not look promising, and scoring them would be a disappointment. One thing Adams couldn’t do was look down the sights for them.

A young NCO at the end of the line was flailing animatedly by a prone soldier. The fellow was shrugging back, and even from his distance Adams could tell there was trouble. “Take this,” he ordered a nearby corporal, shoving the megaphone into his arms. “No firing until -- until --” Adams patted his pockets and found a sweaty white handkerchief “-- unless I wave this five times. Understand?” The man nodded comprehension, and confirmed it by yelling, “Hold your fire, hold your fire, standby!” up and down the line. Adams sped down the line as fast as a dignified stride would carry him. The corporal towering over the hapless soldier was showering down beration, the shrill yammering growing in Adams’ ears as he neared.

“Sixty degrees to the right! No, not your feet, your chest. No, don't scoot right, rotate right. Godammit private, don’t you fucking know anything?”

Under the corporal’s confused commands, the soldier crawled this way and that on his belly. His scrawny backside quivered like aspic in his wool breeches, but Adams set aside mentally undressing the lad in favor of something more helpful.

“Corporal!” he shouted.”Go to the command tower and tell them to continue the cease fire.” The man swiveled and flapped his silent jaw twice, while he calculated the stripes on Adams’ sleeves. “Yes, Sergeant!” he finally said, and bounded off. The private behind the rifle goggled helplessly at Adams, limbs twisted askew in a mockery of the prone firing position. Fearful green eyes stared up from a gaunt face, and stray blond curls dripped sweat under his helmet. Good-looking kid, couldn't even be twenty yet, Adams decided.

“What outfit are you in?” Adams interrogated

“A Company, Sergeant. Second platoon.”

His high flutey voice triggered Adams’ sixth sense, but it probably wasn’t anything. Piping tenors came in all sorts of persuasions.

“Is French your platoon sergeant?”

“I think so, Sergeant, I’ve been in the field since I arrived putting up telephone and telegraph wires and I haven’t been with the company.” The dusty black disc on his collar, bearing the Signal Corps’ crossed flags, corroborated his story.

“Are you familiar with the prone firing position, Private?”

“Uh, er, yes, Sergeant, but I guess I’m not very good at it.”

“Ha!” laughed Adams, adding a harumph for good measure. “That’s obvious. You look like a goddamn scarecrow got knocked over. Turn your body sixty degrees to the right of the target, soldier.”

Adams tried to focus while the boy’s slender frame writhed ineffectively in the dirt. As much as he was enjoying it, there was business to attend to. Adams knelt down. Remember: touch as little as necessary.

“You ever seen a clock before, son?”

“A clock? Yes, Sergeant.”

Adams had used this speech dozens of times. “Pretend you’re lying on a big clock. The twelve is pointing at the target, and your balls are right in the middle.”

Adams squinted in disbelief as the boy sketched a clock in the dirt. “Okay, Sergeant. Got it.”

“What’s your name, soldier?”

“Private Trice, Sergeant.”

“Alright, Trice, I’m Sergeant Adams, and you’re about to learn something. Think about your balls in the middle of the clock. Point your head where the two would be, and point your feet at the eight.”

Trice rocked and scooted on his belly, but the correct orientation seemed to escape him. With a growling sigh, Adams seized Trice by his right hip and the inseam of his left thigh, dragging the soldier’s legs to the spot, then he stayed braced on the thigh and wrenched the torso right. Trice gasped and squeaked at the shoving, and the meager muscles of his lean body rippled under Adams’ fingers.

Adams was lost for a moment, his mind carrying him back to the woodshed behind the school house, slapping mosquitoes from pale buttocks, and dipping in the frigid blue Mississippi.He returned to find his fingers still formed around the shape of Trice’s body. He suppressed panic and leaned casually on his haunches, arms akimbo, but his palms still tingling with remembered sensation.

“”Well, ah, Trice, there you are. Pick up your rifle and point it directly at the target.” The weapon lolled clumsily as the fellow gripped it with two hands on the stock. “No, like this,” Adams nearly whispered, reaching over the back to wrap Trice’s fingers around the grip of the stock, then maneuvering the left under the barrel, and finally sliding the stock into the pocket of the shoulder. “Get up on your elbows now.” Restraining himself from handling him again, Adams continued, “Get your left elbow up under the rifle, and your right about four inches to the outside of the stock. That means to the right.” Trice grunted and grimaced as his joints dug into the pebbles and dry clay.

Adams leaned close to Trice’s ear, and his felt campaign hat scraped on the steel brim of the helmet. “Does it hurt your elbows?” he murmured gently.

“Yes, Sergeant,” the kid’s breathy voice crackled back.

“Good!” Adams roared, laughing and pounding Trice’s shoulder blades. He leaned back again. “It’s supposed to! You gotta get used to it. Now close your left eye and look down the sights. Do you feel how it lines up on the target without effort?”

“Yeah, I guess, Sergeant. No one’s ever showed me like this before, but it makes more sense now. Um, thanks, Sergeant.”

“Don’t thank me, thank your recruiter.Sometimes a man needs some manhandling to figure it out.” Pounding feet to his rear piqued Adams’ interest, and he leapt up and spun to face a panting corporal.

“Are you stupid, man? Do you fucking run on my range?” Adams snapped at the man.

The corporal froze in a hastily assembled position of parade rest. “No, Sergeant!”

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Corporal Marsh is asking, Sergeant -- he’s waiting to commence fire.”

Shit! How long had he been down here? He whipped the handkerchief from his pocket and swung it in the air. He’d forgotten how many times he’d promised to wave it, but on the tenth the bugle call floated down and the line of rifles came to life.

The corporal glanced between Adams and the prone Trice, abuse on the tip of his tongue, but contained by the flinty stare of his superior. Adams looked down. “Well, private? Lock and load! Daylight’s burning! And spread your goddamn legs out!” Adams kicked Trice’s heels. He felt remorse when the private yelped; that was probably unnecessary, and had no purpose beyond posturing for the corporal, to whom he turned now. “Take your post, soldier!” he screamed over the gunfire, and strode in long steps back to his station at the center of the line.