He glared at Frank, who passed the unspoken test when he nodded emphatically. Bad officers were common enough in ‘Nam; good men died when they did stupid things. “I’d just made E-7 and was breaking in some new guys. ‘Piece of cake,’ I told them—the tunnels weren’t big and we went through them fast… Bastards.” The last was said almost under his breath.
Santee took a deep breath, let it out, and started again. “Anyways, I don’t talk about it ’cause it just pisses me off. I get—got—some disability and some money from some stocks and such. I do okay. I live up on the hill, and I hunt and fish and garden…” He paused a moment. So, am I going to tell him? Yeah, he’s going to find out anyway. “And for fun, I have an Oh-Three FFL.” Frank looked puzzled and he explained. “I’m a licensed collector of Curio and Relic Firearms. I can get guns in the mail, legally, if they’re over fifty years old or on the special list. So I buy ’em and trade ’em, and keep a few I like.”
Frank sat up with renewed interest. “Uh, if you don’t mind my asking… how many guns do you have?”
“Oh, say fifty or sixty or so long guns, and maybe twenty pistols.” The actual count was higher, but you didn’t lay all your cards face up. “The thing is, lots of them are oddballs.” At Frank’s quizzical look, he went on. “I got German and French and British rifles from World War One—they all have different calibers, and they keep changing calibers too. For instance, I went hunting last year with a Turkish Forestry Carbine in 8mm Lebel. It started life as a French Berthier infantry rifle from World War One, and the Turks cut it down to a carbine in the ’40s. I’ll bet I have the last boxes of 8mm Lebel ammo in… hell, in the whole world.” Of course, the world had a different meaning now. “And some old rolling-block rifles, and Mausers, and Carcanos…” He stopped at Frank’s lack of recognition and waved his hand dismissively. “A bunch of ’em, anyway. I gave Eddie Cantrell an old Russian revolver. I figured he’d be safer with it.”
Frank grinned. “Yeah, he showed it to me. He was real proud of it. I’m glad you did that; Eddie’s basically a good kid.” Frank closed his eyes and tipped his head back a moment, thinking. “Your arsenal may be screwy, but most of what we’ve got is screwy, and the whole Ring of Fire is screwy. If you’d be willing to contribute some of it, it could make a huge difference in our war effort.”
So here it was. Santee had to make up his mind now. He kind of liked Frank Jackson, and Mike Stearns had seemed competent during their brief meeting that afternoon, but he still didn’t like the choices—come join their army and give them all his guns, or tell them to fuck themselves and go back and defend his cabin and guns by himself. He decided on compromise: give them some of his guns and help them out a little but stay independent. He’d long ago promised himself he wasn’t going to take orders ever again, and that still held.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said slowly. “I’ll do an inventory and see what I have that I don’t need and you guys could use, and I’ll let you know.”
Frank looked deflated, but he said, “Thanks a lot. We’ll appreciate any help you can give us.”
They talked on for awhile, but it was getting late. Too late and too dark for Santee to walk back to his cabin, even if there hadn’t been marauding Germans around. He warily accepted the spare bed Frank offered him for the night, but he left early the next morning and chewed over his choices all the way back.
* * *
It was a cold shock to see his front door half broken, hanging open on its hinges. Santee froze, then stepped silently back behind some brush, drew his .45, and listened intently. Nothing. From where he stood he could see tracks in the dirt, coming and then going—big odd-looking, flat footprints. Germans! Three of them, he decided; two tall and one short. He waited a long while, then flicked a pebble onto the porch. Nothing happened. Very quietly, very stealthily, he crept up on the porch and entered the cabin.