McSweeney shook his head. He was big and tall and fair, with muscles like rocks, a chin and cheekbones that might have been hewn from granite, and pale eyes that looked through a man, not at him. He said, “A soldier’s purpose is fighting. If I am not fighting, I am not fulfilling my appointed purpose in life.” If he did not do that, his infinitely stern, infinitely just God would surely punish him for it in the days to come.
Carlton would not be silenced. “To hell with my appointed purpose, if the damn fool who appointed me to it gets his brains out o’ the latrine bucket. Sendin’ us down there with no support or nothin’, that was murder, and that’s all it was.” He stuck out his own chin, which was nowhere near so granitic as McSweeney’s. “Go ahead and tell me I’m wrong. I dare you.”
From most men, to most men, that would have been an invitation to fight. Gordon McSweeney reserved his wrath for the men on the other side, a fact for which his mates had had a good many occasions to be thankful. “God predestined our failure, for reasons of His own,” he said now.
Ben Carlton looked as if he had bitten into something that tasted bad-
McSweeney’s gaze fixed on him as if over the sights of a Springfield. “God will surely damn you to hell if you take His name in vain.” His expression softened, ever so slightly. “Paul Mantarakis, as I saw, was a brave man, for all that he was a papist.”
“He weren’t no Cath-
“He carried with him a rosary of beads, which condemns him of itself. A pity, I admit, for he was a man of spirit.” McSweeney spoke with the assurance of one who knew himself to be a member of the elect and thus assured salvation.
Carlton gave it up. “There’s worse men than Paul as are still breathing in and out,” he said.
“Such is God’s will,” McSweeney answered. “Only a fool, and a blasphemous fool at that, would question it. Be assured: the unjust shall have their requital.”
He got left alone after that, which suited him well enough. Even in the crowded trenches of western Kentucky, he had been left alone a good deal. He knew why: a man of fixed purpose naturally confounded the greater number who had none, but drifted through life like floating leaves, going wherever the current chanced to take them. God anchored him, and anchored him firm.
That he used the time to make sure his flamethrower was in good working order also helped ensure his privacy. Few in the company seemed eager to associate, either in the field or away from the fighting, with anyone who carried such horror on his back. In the field, the enemy made flamethrower operators special targets, so McSweeney could see the sense in staying away from him, even if it filled him with scorn. Back here? He shrugged. If the men gave in to superstition, how could he stop them?
After evening mess call, the soldiers gossiped and smoked and gambled till lights out. McSweeney read the Book of Kings, an island of rectitude in the sea of sin all around. Then one of the men in his squad shouted “Goddammit!” after losing a poker hand he thought he should have won.
“Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord in vain, Hansen,” McSweeney said, glancing up from the small type of the Bible.
“Yes, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant,” Private Ulysses Hansen said hastily. He was not the smallest nor the weakest nor the least spirited man in the regiment, but his sergeant not only outranked him but also intimidated him. He kept his language circumspect thereafter.
In the morning, McSweeney inspected the persons and kits of his squad with his usual meticulous care. When he’d reported to Captain Schneider the infractions he’d found, the company commander raised an eyebrow and said, “Sergeant, can’t you learn to let some of that go? You gig men for things that aren’t worth noticing.”
“Sir, they are against regulations,” McSweeney answered stiffly.
“I understand that, Sergeant, but-” Schneider looked exasperated. For the life of him, Gordon McSweeney could not understand why. He stood at stolid attention, not showing his perplexity. Schneider was a brave soldier, and not altogether ungodly; he might perhaps have been numbered among the elect. After a pause to marshal his thoughts, he went on, “A smudged button or a speck of dust on a collar won’t cost us the war. These are real soldiers, remember, not West Point cadets.”
“Sir, I did not invent the infractions,” McSweeney said. “All I did was note them and report them to you.”
“You’d need a magnifying glass to note some of them,” Schneider said.
McSweeney shook his head. “No, sir, only my eyes.”
Schneider looked unhappier still. “Could you stand the kind of inspection you’re giving your men?”
“Sir, I hope so,” McSweeney answered. “If I fail, I deserve whatever punishment you care to inflict on me.”
Now the captain shook his head. “You don’t get it, Sergeant. I don’t want to punish you for small things. I don’t want you making your men hate you so much they won’t follow you, either.”
“Sir, they will follow me.” McSweeney spoke with a calm, absolute confidence. “Whatever else they may feel about me, they’re afraid of me.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Captain Schneider muttered, perhaps more to himself than to McSweeney. But he shook his head again. “That won’t do, I’m afraid. A U.S. noncom or officer whose men hate him or fear him ends up with a wound from a Springfield, not a Tredegar.”
Gordon McSweeney considered that. “Whoever would do such a thing would surely spend eternity in hell.”
“As may be,” Schneider said. “That’s not the point. The point is to keep your men from wanting to shoot you in the first place.”
“If they would only do that which is required of them, we would not have this problem,” McSweeney said.
Captain Schneider sighed. “Sergeant, have you ever, even once in your life, considered the wisdom of tempering justice with mercy?”
“No, sir,” McSweeney answered, honestly shocked.
“I believe you,” Schneider said. “The one thing-the only thing-I’ll give you is that you hold yourself to the same standards as everyone else. That time a couple of days ago when you reported yourself for not polishing the inside of your canteen cup-that was a first for me, I tell you. But what did I do about it?”
“Nothing, sir.” McSweeney’s voice reeked disapproval.
Captain Schneider either didn’t notice or pretended not to. “That’s right. That’s what I’m going to keep on doing when you bother me with tiny things, too. Sergeant, I order you not to report trivial infractions to me until and unless they constitute a clear and obvious danger to the discipline or safety of your squad. Do you understand me?”
“No, sir,” McSweeney said crisply.
“All right, then, Sergeant. I am going to leave you with two quotations from the Good Book, then. I want you to concentrate on the lessons in John 8:7 and Matthew 7:1.” With an abrupt about-face, Schneider stalked off.
Gordon McSweeney knew the Scriptures well. But those were not verses he was in the habit of studying, so he had to go and look them up.
He stared out the door through which Captain Schneider had departed. The captain, as far as he was concerned, had the letter without the spirit. If God chose to urge mercy, that was His affair. Could a man not so urged by the Lord afford such a luxury? McSweeney didn’t think so.
He was, in any case, by temperament more drawn to the Old Testament than to the New. The children of Israel, now, had been proper warriors. God had not urged them to mercy, but to glorify His name by smiting their foes. And their prophets and kings had obeyed, and had grown great by obeying. Against such a background, what did a couple of verses matter?
Jesus Christ hadn’t always been meek and mild, either. Hadn’t He driven the money-changers from the Temple? They hadn’t been doing anything so very wrong.
