Santee was hung over, like the rest of the city, but was nonetheless close to yelling. “No fucking way. Uh-uh. Not me, Frank, not me. I’d shoot one of the stupid bastards, and then where would we be?”
“Come on, Santee. Those young recruits need to be trained by the folks who know what they’re doing.”
Santee looked tense and nervous, the opposite of his blithe confidence at the Battle of the Crapper, where he hardly got to fire a shot. “Frank, I’m an old, crotchety bastard. I know it. I have no patience for fools. I don’t speak any German and I don’t think my whorehouse Japanese will help. I’m an old relic. Find some other stupid fucking idiot about twenty years younger than me. I’m going to go get me some aspirin and then I’m going back to the reloading shed. Shoot me if you want. No.” He turned and stomped off.
Mike and Frank stood there, watching the receding Chief Weapons Scrounger. Frank shook his head. “He’s a relic, all right, and a curio too. Fits that damn gun license of his.”
Mike was philosophical. “Some people will either work alone or not at all. You can’t push a rope.”
“Yeah, I suppose. He’s happy and productive in a job the army needs doing. I guess it’s better to just leave him alone.”
* * *
Ten minutes later Santee joined Eddie in the reloading shed. “Stupid fuckers still want me to be a drill sergeant!” he said. “Can you imagine me teaching a bunch of stupid pissant kids? Shee-it. How are you doing there?”
By now, Eddie knew Santee well enough to kid him, just a little. “Mr. Santee? You’re teaching me. Does that mean I’m not a stupid pissant?”
Santee barked laughter. “You can’t be all that bright or you wouldn’t be here. Humph. Now how much powder are you putting in those cases? And where are the bullets we’ll be using?” Eddie showed him both, to Santee’s approval.
“Say Eddie, I noticed you had to go help with Driscoll’s computer when all the other privates were policing up the fired brass. How did you swing that?”
Eddie trusted Santee enough by this time to let some of the truth out. “Well, I’d been asked to help them when I had the time. I just sort of decided having the time then was the best way of not freezing my fingers and getting torn up by the briars.” Eddie glanced up a little apprehensively, checking for Santee’s reaction. He needn’t have worried.
“Good thinking. A smart solider avoids the grunt work if he can—as long as you’re there at the fight, I mean. And you were. I saw you do some stupid things in that battle, but Jeff did ’em even stupider, and you have to back up your friends sometimes.”
Eddie just nodded. He didn’t like to think of how close it had come to a bloodbath, down there by that outhouse. If the converted coal truck hadn’t come in when it did, he wasn’t at all sure he’d still be alive.
“Fight when you need to,” Santee said, “just don’t be a hero. They die too quick.”
“Not me. Idiot—I mean Jeff—can be the hero.” He turned back to the loading bench. “Get us all killed next time,” he muttered.
* * *
The next day, Santee heard voices inside the reloading shed. He hesitated, then stood outside to listen. It sounded as if Eddie had two younger boys there and was showing them around. “We’re keeping the loads down to minimum levels so the brass will last longer and we use less powder. We can’t do that for the machine gun, and we’re loading Julie’s ammo specially.”
“Cool!” said one of the younger boys. “Can we try it sometime?”
“Well, I don’t know… Mr. Santee is in charge of things here.”
“Pleeease?” came the wheedling reply.
Santee had heard enough, and walked in the door. He said sternly, “Hello, Eddie. Hello, boys. Eddie, can I see you a minute?”
The “Uh-Oh” looks among the boys were priceless. Santee managed to keep his face straight.
“Uh, sure.” said Eddie. “Don’t touch anything,” he said to the boys.