Last Man Out Read Free

there was an escape clause. Possibly there was a legitimate breach of contract here. He sought a more casual routine.
    Coming into the latrine about the same time was a large black man named Tate [an alias], whom McGee had jumped on that morning for being too slow in reciting his serial number. Another black man going out the door bumped into him and Tate shoved him away, growling. Tate went in the shower room mumbling to himself. Several others came out of the shower quickly, some still lathered with soap, rather than stay in there with that very large, very black, very intimidating man.
    The third day we were issued field web gear that we had to display over our lockers—packs, canteens, ammo pouches, canteen belts, and suspenders. We also received helmets, along with their protective steel outer shells called “steel pots.” I noticed that one man was having difficulty putting his gear together properly and watched him for several minutes. Even with his GI haircut it was apparent that he was balding. He had a large head, a skinny neck, no shoulders, a pudgy middle, big butt, and short legs. He kept pushing his thick glasses up his nose as he tried to adjust his gear. I resisted an impulse to help him. The chore was so simple, and the fellow seemed so helpless. I decided he was exactly the reason why Cottonpicker had told me to mind my own business during basic training. Van Pelt went over later and arranged the man’s web gear for him. He also helped adjust the webbing inside the helmet liner, and with the steel pot encasement in place, Van Pelt put the helmet on the man’s head to check the fit. It fit too low and the man looked silly. His big glasses barely showed underneath, plus his neck was so skinny he had trouble holding his head up under the weight of his steel pot. His head wobbling from side to side, he looked like a turkey. Van Pelt continued to make adjustments until he got the helmet to fit properly. The man sat silently as Van Pelt worked. Van Pelt finally left and, after going to his bunk for a moment, came over to my bunk. Lookingthe other way, he said that he thought the “Professor,” a draftee, was out of his element. He said the man smelt a trifle rank, too.
    Later we were told to put on our web gear and fall out into formation outside—falling into and out of formation being a large part of our first few days. I noticed that the Professor had his web suspenders twisted in the back. They were the least of his worries, however, because he was having considerable problems as he tried to hold up his head under the steel pot.
    Sergeant McGee came up to the formation from the rear and spotted the Professor’s twisted suspenders. He walked up to the man and said, “How do ya feel, Molly-Wolly? Don’t shake ya head at me, recruit. Do ya hear me, quit shaking ya frigging head!” McGee’s face was contorted in anger. “I said goddammit quit shaking ya frigging head.” I could see McGee’s face soften after a while. “Is ya hat too heavy for ya, Molly-Wolly? Are ya so fucking weak dat ya can’t wear a steel pot? Okay, I can understand dat. I can understand.” McGee stood there for a moment and looked the Professor in the eye. “But ya know ya look like a smart young fellow to me. I gotta question for ya. How come ya fucking suspenders are twisted? Dat don’t take no goddamned strength. Ya got to think, Molly-Wolly, think.”
    The Professor turned his head to one side, still wobbling from the weight of the steel pot, and I could see tears welling up in his eyes. McGee continued to look into the Professor’s face, and he too saw the tears. I quickly turned my gaze to the front as McGee looked around to see who else was watching the man cry.
    “Go inside now, double time, and get ya suspenders fixed, soldier, and come back out shere. Now, move out. Now. Go.”
    My first thought was that McGee was maybe a nice guy. A nasty individual, of the kind he had pretended to be, would have embarrassed