The Bavarian Gate By John Dalmas

Their expressions changed from cheerful to unhappy. It was Cavalieri who answered him. “Jesus, Macurdy, I’d sure as hell like to, but–”

“But what?”

“They–they took your clothes. This morning.”

“What! Who took them?”

“We weren’t going to tell you, but you’ve been transferred.”

“Transferred Where?”

Cavalieri could hardly bring himself to say the words. “To the MPs. It’s in your records that you were a deputy sheriff, and the sawbones said you won’t be able to jump anymore, or anything like that, so…” He shrugged. “They latched onto you. Your khakis went to your new outfit, your jumpsuit and Cts to supply. Maybe I could get your boots back though, and bring them to you.”

Macurdy seemed to collapse for a moment. “Shit.” He paused. “I’ve got to think about this.” Then he changed the subject, asking what the battalion had been doing, an didn’t mention the matter again, except to take up Cavalieri’s offer on the boots. He’d like to have them for old times sake, he said.

The best thing he could do now, it seemed to him, was act resigned to it.

After Cavalieri and Luoma left, he wondered briefly if maybe he should resign himself to it. MP duty was unpopular-at least MPs were-but someone had to do it, and it was relatively safe. As an MP, he’d likely return alive to his wife, while as a paratrooper, his prospects were doubtful.

On the other hand, he wondered, not for the first time, if Mary might not be better off if he didn’t come home. Their future as a couple held decades of relocations, while she grew old and he remained young.

But his decision didn’t grow out of that. It simply seemed to him he was supposed to be airborne. For better or worse, he’d spent most of his life heeding his deeper feelings, and for better or worse, he’d follow them now.

So he had a serious discussion with Keith, their voices scarcely louder than whispers. When it was over, he gave some attention to Keith’s leg again. The thread-like lines of energy around it looked pretty much normal, so he concentrated on increased blood flow. He didn’t pay much attention to his own leg anymore. It seemed to him he didn’t need to.

The next day the company supply clerk sent out Macurdy’s boots, by a guy pulling fatigue duty; Cavalieri was off on a training problem. After checking the boots for a bottle, the duty nurse told him to put them under Macurdy’s bed.

Roy Klaplanahoo stopped by that evening as early as he could. The three troopers plotted briefly in undertones, then he left. Two hours later he was back. He could never get away with bringing in a package; the nurses and orderlies would suspect booze, and search it. But inside his Class A khaki shirt required wear on pass-he wore a second, both tucked into the outer of the two pairs of khald trousers he had on. He carried the hacksaw blade in two belt loops of the inner pair; Macurdy would have to make do without a frame for it. All in all, Roy felt both conspicuous and uncomfortable, but it was twilight out, and no one paid much attention to him. After looking around nervously, he took off the outer pants, then the outer shirt, and put them under a sheet. The blade he tucked under the edge of Macurdy’s mattress.

“Can you cut off the cast yourself?” he murmured worriedly. “I’ll manage. Later, when it’s darker.”

Both Macurdy and Keith shook hands with Roy then, and the Indian left.

It was after midnight when Macurdy did it. The leg didn’t look as bad as he thought it might. His healing actions had done more than repair bone, muscle, and connective tissue; they’d reduced the discoloration to a pale greenish yellow, and atrophy was minor.

In the small ward, he was the only man fully awake. Roy’s pants and sleeves were a little short, but beyond that, the fit was decent. After cloaking himself with his invisibility spell, Macurdy left carrying his boots. The saw blade he’d left with Keith. No one looked up as he padded barefoot down the corridor and past the nurses’ station.

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