Last Man Out Read Free Page A

the Professor about the tears. McGee told the squad leaders to check each member of their squads to make sure the equipment was on right, and he went into the barracks. The Professor soon came out and regained his place in the formation.
    That night at retreat, the Professor fell out of the barracks with his shirttail out of his pants. McGee hesitated as he saw the man awkwardly run by to get in formation, but when he saw the Professor fall in without tucking in his shirt, McGee walked up to him. He told him that he was a disgrace to the platoon, the U.S.Army, and the human race and, because of that, he was number one on McGee’s list of people to watch.
    Before lights out that night Van Pelt sat on my bunk and polished his shoes. He said, “Life’s relative, you know. It’s a proven scientific theory—the theory of relativity. You are judged against your peers. Like, for example, two men in the woods, surprised by a bear, were running away, the bear at their heels, and one man said he sure hoped he was faster than that bear and the other man said, ‘I only hope I’m faster’n you.’ That guy understood the theory. Wasn’t necessary to be the fastest man in the universe there, only the faster of the two of them. The bear got the slow one. You see what I mean, things are relative. Life’s relative to the situation. Here at Fort Gordon, it don’t help if you’re smart or rich, look like a movie star, or got the greatest little sports car in the world back home. Not relative. Takes primitive instincts here. Semideveloped playground skills and the muscle tone of a marathon runner don’t hurt either. Don’t think the Professor, relatively speaking, is packing the right gear here. He ain’t playground material.”
    The Professor was sitting on his bed, awkwardly bent over, shining his shoes. He stopped often to push his glasses back up his nose. “You know,” Van Pelt said with a smile, “it makes me feel better about myself here when I see how out of place the ol’ Professor is over there. Relative to him, I’m okay.”
    I told Van Pelt that it was because he was basically a blunt instrument—primal man, comparable to Tate, the Neanderthal-looking black man. Van Pelt said that was a clever observation. “Not correct,” he added, “but a good comment anyway, about a three on a scale of one to five. Above average. Maybe you should be the one dealing with the Professor since you’re so clever.”
    “No,” I said, “you are the one with the mother instinct. I’m here to learn to kill.”
    “You, my friend,” said Van Pelt, “are the blunt instrument, but I like you anyway.”
    The next morning when we fell out for reveille, Sergeant McGee inspected the barracks. He came out and addressed us from the top of the stairs before we marched off to the mess hall.
    “Okay, slimeballs, I walked into da barracks just now and hitsmelt like a urinal. Like a goddamned piss pot. Ya hear me. A fucking piss pot. Someone peed in dere bed last night!”
    McGee was talking so loud that people standing in formation by other barracks could hear.
    “Then goddammit made da bed up on top of da stinking piss!” He walked down the stairs and up to the platoon. “My fucking platoon. We got ourselves a bed wetter. In da fucking Army.” Softer, meaner, he asked, “Guess who it is?” He walked through the first squad line to the Professor. “Who Molly-Wolly? Who?” McGee fixed a hard, steady look at the man.
    “Me, Sergeant,” said the Professor softly.
    “Ya go in dere while da rest of us are in da chow hall and ya get dat stinking mess and ya exchange it for clean stuff and ya have yar bed made before we get back. And ya take a shower. And, Molly-Wolly, I ain’t finished.” McGee grabbed his arm. “I am going to help ya get over dis. I’m going to stop ya from wetting da bed. Tonight. Ya’ll stop. I’ll show ya. I done it before.”
    That evening, Sergeant McGee walked into the barracks and everyone quickly