The other was Brumby’s warrant for sergeant — dated the day
“That suit you?” he asked.
“Huh? Oh, yes indeed!”
“I’ve been waiting for you to spot the weak place in your team, and tell me what had to be done. I’m pleased that you figured it out — but only middlin’ pleased because an experienced officer would have analyzed it at once from the T.O. and the service records. Never mind, that’s how you gain experience. Now here’s what you do. Write me a letter like Silva’s; date it yesterday. Tell your platoon sergeant to tell Brumby that you have put him up for a third stripe — and don’t mention that Silva did so. You didn’t know that when you made the recommendation, so we’ll keep it that way. When I swear Brumby in, I’ll let him know that both his officers recommended him independently — which will make him feel good. Okay, anything more?”
“Uh … not in organization — unless Lieutenant Silva planned to promote Naidi, vice Brumby. In which case we could promote one PFC to lance … and that would allow us to promote four privates to PFC, including three vacancies now existing. I don’t know whether it’s your policy to keep the T.O. filled up tight or not?”
“Might as well,” Blackie said gently, “as you and I know that some of those lads aren’t going to have many days in which to enjoy it. Just remember that we don’t make a man a PFC until after he has been in combat — not in Blackie’s Blackguards we don’t. Figure it out with your platoon sergeant and let me know. No hurry … any time before bedtime tonight. Now … anything else?”
“Well — Captain, I’m worried about the suits.”
“So am I. All platoons.”
“I don’t know all the other platoons, but with five recruits to fit, plus four suits damaged and exchanged, and two more downchecked this past week and replaced from stores — well, I don’t see how Cunha and Navarre can warm up that many and run routine tests on forty-one others and get it all done by our calculated date. Even if no trouble develops—”
“Trouble always develops.”
“Yes, Captain. But that’s two hundred and eighty-six man-hours just for warm & fit, and plus a hundred and twenty-three hours of routine checks. And it always takes longer.”
“Well, what do
“Uh … Captain, I don’t know what you’ll think of this, since you told me to stay out of troopers’ country. But when I was a corporal, I was assistant to the Ordnance & Armor sergeant.”
“Keep talking.”
“Well, right at the last I was the O&A sergeant. But I was just standing in another man’s shoes — I’m not a finished O&A mechanic. But I’m a pretty darn good assistant and if I was allowed to, well, I can either warm new suits, or run routine checks — and give Cunha and Navarre that much more time for trouble.”
Blackie leaned back and grinned. “Mister, I have searched the regs carefully … and I can’t find the one that says an officer mustn’t get his hands dirty.” He added, “I mention that because some ‘young gentlemen’ who have been assigned to me apparently had read such a regulation. All right, draw some dungarees — no need to get your uniform dirty along with your hands. Go aft and find your platoon sergeant, tell him about Brumby and order him to prepare recommendations to close the gaps in the T.O. in case I should decide to confirm your recommendation for Brumby. Then tell him that you are going to put in all your time on ordnance and armor — and that you want him to handle everything else. Tell him that if he has any problems to look you up in the armory. Don’t tell him you consulted me — just give him orders. Follow me?”
“Yes, s — Yes, I do.”
“Okay, get on it. As you pass through the cardroom, please give my compliments to Rusty and tell him to drag his lazy carcass in here.”
For the next two weeks I was never so busy — not even in boot camp. Working as an ordnance & armor mech about ten hours a day was not all that I did. Math, of course — and no way to duck it with the Skipper tutoring me. Meals — say an hour and a half a day. Plus the mechanics of staying alive — shaving, showering, putting buttons in uniforms and trying to chase down the Navy master-at-arms, get him to unlock the laundry to locate clean uniforms ten minutes before inspection. (It is an unwritten law of the Navy that facilities must
Guard mount, parade, inspections, a minimum of platoon routine, took another hour a day. But besides, I was “George.” Every outfit has a “George.” He’s the most junior officer and has the extra jobs — athletics officer, mail censor, referee for competitions, school officer, correspondence courses officer, prosecutor courts-martial, treasurer of the welfare mutual loan fund, custodian of registered publications, stores officer, troopers’ mess officer, et cetera ad endless nauseam.
Rusty Graham had been “George” until he happily turned it over to me. He wasn’t so happy when I insisted on a sight inventory on everything for which I had to sign. He suggested that if I didn’t have sense enough to accept a commissioned officer’s signed inventory then perhaps a direct order would change my tune. So I got sullen and told him to put his orders in writing — with a certified copy so that I could keep the original and endorse the copy over to the team commander.
Rusty angrily backed down — even a second lieutenant isn’t stupid enough to put such orders in writing. I wasn’t happy either as Rusty was my roommate and was then still my tutor in math, but we held the sight inventory. I got chewed out by Lieutenant Warren for being stupidly officious but he opened his safe and let me check his registered publications. Captain Blackstone opened his with no comment and I couldn’t tell whether he approved of my sight inventory or not.
Publications were okay but accountable property was not. Poor Rusty! He had accepted his predecessor’s count and now the count was short — and the other officer was not merely gone, he was dead. Rusty spent a restless night (and so did I!), then went to Blackie and told him the truth.
Blackie chewed him out, then went over the missing items, found ways to expend most of them as “lost in combat.” It reduced Rusty’s shortages to a few days’ pay — but Blackie had him keep the job, thereby postponing the cash reckoning indefinitely.
Not all “George” jobs caused that much headache. There were no courts-martial; good combat teams don’t have them. There was no mail to censor as the ship was in Cherenkov drive. Same for welfare loans for similar reasons. Athletics I delegated to Brumby; referee was “if and when.” The troopers’ mess was excellent; I initialed menus and sometimes inspected the galley, i.e., I scrounged a sandwich without getting out of dungarees when working late in the armory. Correspondence courses meant a lot of paperwork since quite a few were continuing their educations, war or no war — but I delegated my platoon sergeant and the records were kept by the PFC who was his clerk.
Nevertheless “George” jobs soaked up about two hours every day — there were so many.
You see where this left me — ten hours O&A, three hours math, meals an hour and a half, personal one hour, military fiddlework one hour, “George” two hours, sleep eight hours; total, twenty-six and a half hours. The ship wasn’t even on the twenty-five-hour Sanctuary day; once we left we went on Greenwich standard and the universal calendar.
The only slack was in my sleeping time.
I was sitting in the cardroom about one o’clock one morning, plugging away at math, when Captain Blackstone came in. I said, “Good evening, Captain.”
“Morning, you mean. What the deuce ails you, son? Insomnia?”
“Uh, not exactly.”
He picked up a stack of sheets, remarking, “Can’t your sergeant handle your paperwork? Oh, I see. Go to bed.”
“But, Captain—”
“Sit back down. Johnnie, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I never see you here in the cardroom, evenings. I walk past your room, you’re at your desk. When your bunkie goes to bed, you move out here. What’s the trouble?”
“Well … I just never seem to get caught up.”
