The Short Stories of G.E. (Gary) Farrell It's been some time since we've heard from this author. G.E. (Gary) Farrell published a couple of pieces in Inditer a long time ago...so long in fact that we have lost them, and the author's bio that goes with them. For now, we will tell you that G.E. Farrell lives in Brooklyn, NY and is a playwright, poet and fiction writer. Gary Farrel is a former lawyer and a veteran of the Vietnam War.
This new short story is entitled,
The Orderly Room
.....by G.E. Farrell
followed by: Returning Soldier
If you haven't used theI was dog tired after a day at the stockade guarding prisoners on work detail. It sounds more dangerous than it is. I carried a shotgun should any attempt to escape. Few did though. They were mostly AWOLs (Absent Without Leave) who just took off for home or to see a lady who had jilted them by mail. They were not dangerous. I got along well with them; indeed, many requested assignment to the crew that I was guarding. I was detailed to the stockade from my unit for thirty days and my time was almost up. Whether I would request another thirty day assignment I had yet to decide. That’s what I thought top, the First Sergeant, wanted to see me about.
When I entered the orderly room door which was in the hallway between the two bays on the ground floor of the two story barracks, the First Sergeant was standing there leaning over Murray, the battery clerk, who was seated at his desk. First Sergeant Monahan, a veteran of World War II, was slightly stooped, slightly bow legged and reed thin with curly grey hair cut short. He looked up at me when I entered the room which was painted institutional green and had a window out onto the parade ground, the glass of which was so clean that it was invisible.
“What the hell are you doing in my orderly room, Jaimeson?” he asked.
“Sergeant Pond said you wanted to see me, top.”
“He did. Do I want to see Specialist Jaimeson, Murray?”
“Yes, First Sergeant. Lurps.” The clerk handed him a single sheet of paper which he read for a moment.
“People like you always seem to luck out, Jaimeson,” he said. “You’re going to Munich. That’s in Germany. The frauleins are friendly, the beer is strong and the duty’s not too heavy. I spent two tours there and I can tell you that you’re going to like it. Wish I was going back. You’re a lucky son of a bitch, Jaimeson. Here.”
He held out the paper which I took from him.
“Now get the hell out of my orderly room,” he said. As I turned to go, he added, “And get your God damned hair cut.”
“Lurps” is Army slang for ‘Alert orders” which alert personnel that orders will be issued and the purpose of those orders. As the First Sergeant said, I was to be ordered to Munich, Germany, “Munchen” in the orders. He was not the first to tell me that Munich was good duty. And it was safe, half a world from the war.
I went to my bunk in the east bay on the same floor. After reading the orders over twice, I put them in my foot locker and dropped onto my bunk for a nap before chow.
II
I could not sleep though. I thought of Eddie, Charlie and Tom. Charlie and I had gone to a Marine recruiter together. We were going to join up on the buddy plan; that way we could stay together throughout out tours. However, the recruiter was not there, so we left out home numbers for him to call us. When he called me, I was not at home; my mother answered the phone. She and my father refused to permit me to join until I finished high school. Charlie had already done so. “If they want you, they’ll call you,” my father said. Charlie joined without me.
Eddie lived down the block from me. His father and Charlie’s father were friends and both bus drivers; they worked out of the same bus depot. When he finished school Eddie did not know what to do. His father suggested that he have his draft date moved up to get his service over with. Then he could plan his future without having to think about the service. He did so.
I worked with Tom after school in the A&P supermarket. He was a football player for the local team, a very good back.
I also thought of my younger brother. He was just shy of a year younger than I. His draft date was fast approaching.
I must have dozed off because I was startled to hear my battery mates coming into the bay. They were talking and laughing. Many had also received lurps, all for Germany, though not all for Munich. One who had received orders for Munich came over to tell me that we’d be serving together there. He congratulated me on my good luck.
III
“What are you doing in my orderly room, Jaimeson?” the First Sergeant greeted me as he always did. “Do I want to see you?”
“No, top.”
“Then why, pray tell, are you here?”
“I want to volunteer for duty in Vietnam.”
Murray, sitting at his desk, as always, looked from me to him.
“Are you playing with me?” Monahan asked.
“No, top.”
“Didn’t you recently get lurps for Germany?”
“Yes.”
“And you want to go to Vietnam.”
“Yes.”
“Are you playing with me?”
“No, top. I’m serious.”
“Let me explain something to you, Jaimeson. There is a war going on in Vietnam. People are getting killed there.”
“I read the papers.”
“Do you?” the First Sergeant asked. “Do you also read the rules of this battery that say that I don’t appreciate sarcasm?”
“Sorry.”
“All right. We don’t need you. Murray will let you know when the papers are ready. If I was you I’d think this over before you do it though. Now get out of my orderly room.” As I turned to go, I heard him say to Murray, “I didn’t think he had it in him.”
I returned to my bunk and opened my locker to begin preparing to move. Whether I was going to Germany or Vietnam, I was leaving Fort Sill, Oklahoma. I looked over the contents of my wall locker and foot locker and shook my head at the amount of stuff that I had accumulated in eight months. When I turned around I saw Murray standing by the bunk. I had never seen him standing before, not in all the time that I was in the battery. I was struck by how tall he was, though not the tallest in the unit. He was a good four inches taller than myself. “Are you crazy?” he asked. “You’re going to be assigned to great duty in Germany.”
“I can go to Germany as a tourist.”
“Not if you come back in a body bag.”
“Soldiers take chances like that.”
“Not if they can avoid it,” he said. “Why would you want to do this?”
“I have friends who were killed there.”
“Your getting killed won’t bring them back.”
“No, but I can help strike a blow against those who killed them.”
“You are crazy.”
“Maybe,” I replied. “But I believe in this country. There’s a war going on like top says. How could I look in the mirror if I spent it touring Europe? Besides, it’s the story of a generation; I want to be a part of it.”
“I can admire all of that,” Murray replied, “but I still think you’re crazy. I’ll have the papers for you tomorrow,” he added.
IV
“I have your orders and travel orders,” Murray said when I came through the door. I took the papers from him and looked through them. I was ordered to proceed to Oakland Army Terminal for transport to the Republic of Vietnam. While I was looking through them, Monahan came into the room.
“What are you doing here, Jaimeson?” he asked.
“Orders,” Murray answered for me.
“Let me see them,” the First Sergeant said. I handed them to him. He looked through them and frowned. “You’re to report immediately,” he said.
“I know.”
“No leave,” he said.
“No.”
“Come in here.” He turned on his heel and went into his office. I followed. It was a large office with a door connecting to the office of the battery commander in the wall opposite the orderly room door and two windows, with invisible glass, onto the parade ground. I was not invited to sit, so I remained standing.
He went behind his grey metal desk, sat down and picked up the phone. He dialed three numbers. “Headquarters Battery?” he asked into the phone. “This is First Sergeant Monahan of D Battery; give me Sergeant Major Woodson....Mike?....How are you?...Listen, I got a man here who just got orders from you people to report to Oakland Army Terminal for transport to Vietnam.... I know that, but there’s no provision for leave.... You want me to send this man to Vietnam without seeing his family first? You don’t want him to be able to say goodbye to them before he goes to war? What the hell kind of shit is that?... This man’s a volunteer. He should get thirty days plus travel time. This is nonsense... I know my language has improved. What about this man?.... What!.... You get those damn fools up there off their asses and have them do their jobs; it’s not his job to correct your God damned blunders. What the hell kind of.... All right, all right. We’ll expect them today.” He hung up the phone. “You’ll have new orders this afternoon.,” he said to me.
“Thanks, top.”
“All right.” I left his office. As I walked through the orderly room, he called after me. “Good luck, son,” he said.
More from Author G.E. Farrell:
Returning Soldier
.....by G.E. Farrell
The calendar had left the nineteen sixties just over a month before Jaimeson stepped from the bus into the drizzly Oakland night and stood before a large building. Lights shone from two windows high above him and from the double doorway some two hundred feet across the blacktop. These were the only openings in the otherwise blank buff colored wall. His attention was drawn to the doorway. Through it he would return to the world.
An inexpressible weariness had overtaken him while on the bus, driving all thoughts from his mind. The elation felt when the aircraft lifted off the runway at Bien Hoa and began its steep ascent to avoid hostile fire had long since passed. Like the bombs, the bullets, mines and helicopters that he left behind, the leaving itself was now a memory. A voice in the darkness called out instructions that he followed without thought.
Inside the doorway was a long corridor between hospital green walls decorated with unit insignia and lighted by equidistant hanging lights high above the floor. At the end was a twelve foot cutout of a soldier with right arm raised in greeting beneath the words, "Welcome Home, Soldier. Your Country Is Proud of You". A live soldier stood before him directing the arrivals; those going on leave to the right, those being separated to the left.
He went to the left where a short corridor opened on a gymnasium like room. Just inside the entrance, a sergeant stood atop a small platform. "As you can see," he said, "there are numbers on the floor. Drop your gear on one of those numbers and don't forget which one it is; write it down if you have to. Then go through that doorway on the other side to the mess hall where there's a steak dinner waiting for each of you." He dropped his duffel bag and suitcase on number fifty-eight and followed the others to chow.
After dinner and a cigarette, he was directed to another doorway and down yet another corridor to a room where he was given a medical examination and blood was taken from his arm. Then he followed the others to a supply area where he was fitted with a new winter dress uniform after which he showered, shaved and dressed. He then waited impatiently for the results of the blood test. Hours passed as he paced and smoked and napped. Finally they came for him and about forty others. They were negative. After receiving the results, he was directed to a room where a WAC told him and the others how to print their names on a form and where to sign it. That done, he was now a civilian again for the first time in two years. He found two other former GIs who were going to the San Francisco airport and split a cab with them.
There were twenty minutes before his flight, just enough to buy a ticket, check his bags and board the plane. He located his seat on the aisle next to a woman about his own age. She was reading and did not look at him when he sat down. He unbuttoned his jacket while watching her out of the corner of his eye. She wore a denim skirt and work shirt and sat with her bare legs crossed. Long, straight brown hair flowed from a part in the center of her head over her shoulders and right arm and hand where her head rested. He could not see the color of her eyes but her profile showed a weak chin and an overbite.
He laid his head back and closed his eyes. The excitement of coming home, the trans Pacific flight, the long hours in Oakland had exhausted him. Though he rarely slept on airplanes--he'd only slept two or three hours of the nineteen to Oakland--he hoped to sleep through the cross country flight to New York. Indeed, he was hardly in his seat when he began to doze. He was on the verge of sleep when the woman next to him brought him back by saying, "Excuse me!".
He opened his eyes. "Me?" he asked.
"Are you in the right seat?"
"I think so, but let me check." He got up and fumbled in his jacket for the ticket. Before he sat down again, she rang for the stewardess. "This is the right seat," he said, but she ignored him while looking for the attendant.
"Stewardess," she called.
A flight attendant came down the aisle. She was about twenty-five with short blonde hair and quite pretty though years of smiling had formed parentheses at the corners of her mouth. "May I help you?" she drawled.
"Could I move to another seat?" the woman asked.
The smile left the attendant's face. She looked at him and frowned. He returned the look and shrugged. "I'm sorry but we're full," she said to the woman. She looked at him again then back to the woman. "Is anything wrong?" she asked.
"No," the woman replied. "Everything's fine. Thank you."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure. Thank you." The attendant looked at him again, then returned to whatever she was doing when called. He sat down again.
The woman shifted in the narrow seat as though trying to get closer to the window and returned to her book. He closed his eyes again. He slept fitfully, never sure for how long if at all. The attendant woke him for dinner after which he dozed again. His next memory was of the stewardess asking if he would like a drink. He declined and dozed again.
Turbulence woke him, or he thought he was awake. He turned his head to see if it was dark outside the cabin window. He thought that he remembered the woman next to him asking for a vodka and orange juice. He must have remembered correctly because a plastic glass of orange liquid was on the tray before her.
The plane shook again causing the cup to move on the tray toward the woman. It moved again as he watched while she read her book. He thought that he should say something, to warn her before it fell into her lap. The drink moved again. He wanted to tell her but couldn't. His lips would not move, his throat would not make a sound. The cup moved to the edge of the tray. He tried to rouse himself. He wanted to warn her. He tried to raise his head, to shake off the drowsiness. The drink tipped into her lap. "Shit!" she said. He fell back to sleep.
The attendant woke him to fasten his seat belt and bring the back of his seat forward for the approach to New York. He did as instructed. He then rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked past the woman next to him through the window at the lights of the city stretching to the horizon and beyond, their glow reflecting on the night sky. They vanished as the plane banked over Jamaica Bay and positioned itself to land.
When they had taxied to a stop, the woman in the seat next to him threw off her seat belt and stepped brusquely past him into the aisle. She raised herself onto her toes to pull down a long coat from the rack. She draped the coat over her shoulders and held it closed over the stain from the drink. Then she was gone.
He unlatched his seat belt and waited for most of the passengers to disembark. It had been more than a year since he was home, a few minutes more to savor the moment would not matter. He stretched, rose, buttoned his uniform jacket, placed his cap on his head and followed the others through the portable tunnel connecting the plane to the terminal.
The terminal was crowded with men, women and children standing, sitting and moving in every direction. He followed the signs to the baggage area where a conveyor belt dumped the bags onto a revolving drum around which the recently disembarked passengers gathered. He lit a cigarette and waited for his suitcase and duffel bag to drop onto the drum. When they fell, he crushed the cigarette under foot, grabbed the bags and entered the main terminal area.
There were lines at all of the ticket counters and most of the plastic chairs were occupied. A young woman in tie dyed jeans and shirt turned her attention from a coin operated television to glare at him. He looked away. A young man with shoulder length brown hair called out to him, "How many you kill, man?" He ignored the question. A balding, middle aged man, wearing a grey suit, stepped in front of him. "Aren't you ashamed?" he asked through clenched teeth.
"Anything wrong?" a uniformed police officer asked.
“Birds of a feather,” the balding man said. He then turned on his heel and walked away.
"No, nothing," he replied to the police officer. Then, after a moment, he asked, "Could you tell me where the men's room is?"
"Sure, soldier. Go past that counter there with the long line in front of it and turn left. You can't miss it."
"Thanks."
He struggled into one of the stalls with his bags and closed the door. He then laid the suitcase flat on the bowl and opened it. After removing his civilian clothes, he opened the duffel bag and transferred a few items including his shaving gear and medals and citations to the suitcase. He removed his uniform and dressed in civilian clothes, jeans, sport shirt, loafers. He put his field jacket on and stuffed the uniform into the duffel bag. Leaving the duffel behind, he took the suitcase and left the stall. Re-entering the terminal, he crossed unnoticed to the exit and went out into the New York winter.
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