The WWII Collection. William Wharton

He couldn’t care less about me. He’s working up to something.

      ‘It’s fine, sir. Next week I have the final work done. They’ll put on the last layers and finish it off.’

      Weiss leans forward and pulls my folder in front of him. He flips open the cover. It’s my records all right; I see my name.

      ‘Sergeant, would you mind going into more detail about this court-martial you had at Fort Cumberland? What actually happened?’

      ‘I don’t see what that has to do with the patient, sir. It all happened a long time ago.’

      ‘Let me decide that, Sergeant.’

      Son-of-a-bitch!

      ‘Well, sir, if you think it might help, I’ll tell you all I can remember.’

      Some way I have to keep this shit away from Birdy. He’s sitting there smiling at me over his folded hands. I smile back, a Sicilian smile, the Southern smile which says, ‘You and I know all this is so much horseshit, let’s get on with it.’

      He leans back in his chair, exhales a deep sigh, closes his eyes behind his glasses while picking up a yellow pencil from the desk. He starts putting the pencil on its point, sliding his fingers down the pencil, then turning the pencil around so the eraser is on the desk, and sliding down again. He’s sort of subtly jacking off on the pencil. I consider sneaking away; I don’t want to talk about Cumberland. Boy, Birdy, the crap I’m putting up with for you.

      ‘Well, sir, I was in the Pennsylvania State Guard and in December they sent me to Fort Cumberland for induction and reassignment into the regular army.’

      I even have to show those assholes at Cumberland how to hook bayonet scabbards to the webbing equipment. There’s a hunky T-5 in charge, but he sits in the squad room all day long topping up his load. Hell, I’m taking over the barracks, going to make general in six months.

      The third morning, we’re called out and lined up in the company street. It’s so cold that when I spit it freezes before I can smear it with my foot. A second lieutenant and a Sergeant come out from a shed on the other side of the street. The Sergeant calls us to attention and there’s mail call. My feet are freezing, my nose is about to drop off, my fingers are stiff in the gloves. None of us is going to get any mail. Then, the Sergeant calls us to attention again and the lieutenant starts.

      ‘All right, men. After this, you’ll be dismissed to quarters. Chow at twelve hundred. First, Corporal Lumbowski will choose men for details.’

      The hunky T-5 starts walking down the line. He stops every once in a while and points. He comes to me, points and says, ‘Coal.’ Would you believe it, I’m proud I’ve been chosen. The rest are dismissed and about fifteen of us stay.

      Weiss is still lying back with a smile on his face, his eyes closed behind his glasses. I almost expect him to snore but he isn’t asleep at all. I’m wondering how much I can bullshit this without making him open his eyes.

      The T-5 calls us together. He’s a chunky bastard, not tall but square, true hunky type, reminds me of a Cheltenham Polack I pinned in the District finals. Pinned him first period; strong but dumb. The stupid shit cries while I’m pinning him. Tears are running down his red face while I’m tightening a half nelson and jacking up a crotch hold. The T-5 tells the coal detail to report to him at the shed next morning at oh-five-hundred. There are four of us.

      Back in the barracks it looks as if the shit hit the fan. Everybody’s thrown all their gear on the floor and crowded around the stove. I start high-kneeing up and down the barracks, jumping and dodging all the crap on the floor. I hate to think of going into combat with fuck-offs like these.

      Next morning, a PFC flunky wakes me and I get down to the kitchen for chow. I’m the first one there and I even made up my bunk before I left. The kitchen is warm and steamy. I eat while the rest of the detail comes straggling in.

      After that, we stand for ten minutes in the dark on the company street, waiting. I’m wearing two pairs of socks, but my feet are already cold. My arms are stiff from the shots. I jog in place and windmill my arms. The other three jerks are hunched inside themselves, smoking.

      Finally, the T-5 comes out. He doesn’t look up or count us. Maybe he can’t count to four. We follow him to the motor pool where a truck is waiting. There are two jigs in the cabin. I smile at them but they ignore me. The T-5 pulls down the tailgate.

      ‘OK, up you go, shitheads.’

      I muscle up and swing into the truck first. Two guys can’t make it so I give them a hand. The back of the truck is sheet metal, wet, slick and black with damp coal dust. Shovels are leaning against the front wall of the truck bed. There are no seats. The damned coal dust is going to get all over the new overcoats. I go and squat beside the shovels. The other farts line up on both sides of me. Nobody’s saying anything. We’re not even looking at each other.

      The truck starts with a lurch and swings hard out of the motor pool. We’re all thrown on our asses and slip across the truck bed. We can hear the sons-of-bitches laughing in the cabin. The T-5 looks back at the fun through the cabin window. We barrel along a dirt road, falling all over each other, till we get on the main road to Harrisburg. Our knees are black from sliding around, and Christ it’s cold! There’s nothing to block the wind. My face and ears have turned numb. After about half an hour, we pull up to some coal piles near the river. The truck stops and the T-5 comes around to open the tailgate.

      I guess I’ve stopped talking and I’m only thinking because Weiss opens his eyes and says, ‘Go on, Sergeant, tell me about the incident that related to the court-martial. Tell me everything you can remember.’

      ‘Well, sir. They transported us by military transport to Harrisburg. There was a corporal in charge, Corporal Lumbowski, the non-commissioned officer I was accused of attacking. There were also two PFCs driving the truck and four of us on the detail.’

      I’m running my mind a mile a minute trying to give Weiss enough to keep him interested but not too much. I’m hoping I can tell this without sounding like a homicidal maniac.

      I jump off the truck first and my legs buckle. I can’t feel a thing. One guy takes a header and cuts his hand on the gravel. The T-5 is standing, pointing into the truck. He’s wearing thick leather mittens.

      ‘Stupid basturds; ya fergot the fuggin’ shovels. Ya wanna shovel tha’ coal whit yer han’s dat’s OK whit me. You!’

      He points at me.

      ‘Yeah, you, musclehead. Jump up deah an’ git dem gahdamn shovels an’ make it fast! We ain’ gaht awh fuggin’ day!’

      I do a quick, one-handed hurdle up onto the truck bed. The moron didn’t expect that. I grab the shovels. I stand with them at the tail of the truck. I motion to one of the guys on the detail.

      ‘Here, you; catch!’

      I throw him a shovel. The asshole not only misses; he ducks!

      ‘Cut dat shit, fuck-off! Jiis’ han’ ’em down. Dem’s guvment isshew. Ya wanna make outta fuggin’ Stamenttachaages, huh?’

      I jump down and pass out the shovels. The jigs back the truck close to a huge pile of coal. The T-5 takes my shovel.

      ‘Naow, disheah’s ah shovel, an’ disheah’s de wokkin’ en’. Disheah’s de hannel. Ya take-a-hold by de hannel an’ push de flaht paht unnder de coal deah and lif’ up an trowh de coal inna truck. See? Unnerstan?’

      So fuckin’ stupid. We all start shoveling. The coal’s frozen so hard we almost can’t get the shovels in for the first few bites; we have to kick them in. We’re all getting in each other’s way. The T-5 goes up to sit in the cab with the jigs. They keep the motor running so the cab’ll stay warm. All we’re getting is carbon monoxide out the back. Nobody’s talking; none of us is much at shoveling; we’re all hurting from the shots and binding tight in the new overcoats. It’s going to be one long morning filling that truck.

      ‘Well,