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, sir, we work for about two hours shoveling coal into the truck. None of us had had much experience and the noncom in charge, Corporal Lumbowski, was getting impatient. He had a job to get done and we were way behind schedule.’
Weiss nods and gives a few hmms to show he’s listening. I think he really likes hearing this kind of crap. Maybe psychiatrists get into it because they like freaky stories.
I’m just getting up a sweat, when the moron T-5 jumps down from the cab, puts out his cigarette and comes back. I can see the jigs looking through the cab window over the coal we’ve piled up. The T-5 has promised them some kind of show. I’m expecting the worst. The T-5 stands watching half a minute, then comes over to me. He grabs my shovel and pushes me aside.
‘Dat ain’ no way ta shovel, musclehead. Do it lak dis heah!’
He drives the shovel into the coal, tilts and swings it over his shoulder in one movement. He does another. They gave this fart the coal detail for good reason, he’s got to be some kind of coal miner in civilian life. The other guys have stopped to watch. He pushes the shovel back at me.
‘Naoull, gitto it. Stop de fuggin’ golbricken’!’
He goes back. The cab door opens and they’re laughing; deep, inside, nigger laughing. That laughing sounds warm. I’m so frozen, even my Sicilian laugh wouldn’t work. I start shoveling.
About five minutes later, he’s there again. He stands watching, banging his mittens together, stamping his feet. I’m trying to show the bastard up; digging in hard, tilting up a full shovel load, and really swinging back to get it all in the truck. No fartface, hunky, coal miner’s going to outdo Al Columbato. He comes over to me.
‘Foah chrissake, musclehead; yer trowin’ haf de coal unner de fuggin’ truck. Giddown deah an’ scrape it all ou’ an’ trah ta aim atta gawhdamn truck instead’a all oveah de yahd.’
Five days in the regular army and I’ve already found somebody to kill. I lean under the truck and scrape out the coal. There’s not half a shovelful. I start shoveling again. After about two shovelsful, he grabs me by the arm and reaches for the shovel. I pull the shovel away.
‘Keep your fuckin’ hunky hands off my shovel, shithead.’
Everything stops; nobody’s shoveling. The T-5 stares; there’s no going back, now. I’m not going to let myself be pawed over by a dumb shit like him, stripes or not.
Weiss has stopped jacking off his pencil; he’s tense behind those glasses. He’s practically holding his breath, waiting for a violence scene. The trouble is, I want to shock the shit out of him. What the hell, the war’s over. They can’t lock me up. I’m ready to be discharged. I have more than enough points with the Purple Heart and everything.
The T-5 takes a step toward me and sticks his ugly face out.
‘What’d yoou say, soldjur?!’
‘You heard me, asshole. Keep your filthy hands off my shovel. I’ve got work to do.’
I start shoveling again.
‘Oh yeah? Oh Yeah?! Yore in big trubble, soldjur. Gimme dat shovel. Ahm takin’ yoou off deetail naull an’ turnin’ yoou in!’
He reaches for the shovel.
I step back about two steps to the edge of the coal pile and swing from the hips! God, I’ve got to say, it feels good! I catch him flush in the face, straight on, flat out!!!
Weiss is breathing hard; maybe he’ll have an orgasm.
The T-5’s feet go out from under him and he’s on his back in the coal pile. He starts to get up, then falls back again. His face looks blurred, as if somebody’d pulled a silk stocking over it. At first, it’s white, then the blood starts.
The jigs have both jumped out of the truck. Blood’s really flowing now. The T-5 begins spitting teeth. The jig holds the hunky’s head up so the blood can come out. It’s dark, thick blood and there’s not a tooth left across the front of his mouth.
The other jig is holding a pistol on me with both hands. He’s shaking and he has his finger on the trigger. I can’t tell if the safety is on or not.
