One to Count Cadence

2. Operations

The job of the 721st involved a sort of reverse spying for the Filipino military establishment on themselves. They provided us with schedules and frequencies of transmissions in certain areas, and we recorded the messages – Morse code groups by typewriter (mill) and voice on tape – and then the Filipinos checked for security violations by individual operators. These violations were nothing so dramatic as giving information to the enemy (nonexistent, anyway), but were usually on the order of one operator (op) saying so long to another op when he was being transferred or discharged, or the transmission of a message in the clear when it was supposed to be encoded. This was supposed to be a foolproof scheme to double-check on their communications security – but things proof against a fool are seldom of any help against a clever man.

Joe Morning was clever. If he thought he might be recording a violation, he would manage to lose the signal at just that moment. He claimed no desire to punish some hapless Pfc in another army making even less money than he. After the newness of the work wore off, I tended to agree with him, just so it didn't happen too obviously; but at first I stayed on his back once I found out what he was doing. It was to his credit, I suppose, that he admitted what he was doing without being accused.

The afternoon of the first day I discovered his game with the static and security violations. I was checking copy-sheets, filing the necessary carbons and placing the originals in the attaché case the Filipino officer would pick up at 1530. I noticed that most of the copy was quite good for the day-trick, when interference was heaviest, except for Morning's which was spotted with marks of ((((((GARBLED-GARBLED-GARBLED)))))) (((QSA NIL QSA NIL))) ((HERE NIL MORE HEARD – QSK 5 X 5)). I checked his next scheduled transmission on the extra console, and although the op had an unusual style of keying, he was so loud he might have been next door. Morning's copy was again spotty. I thought perhaps he might not be a good Morse op, but later in the afternoon I watched him copy, with two fingers, a Chinese Communist (Chi Com) propaganda station sending 35 words per minute clear text Spanish. Morning copied without a mistake, almost without effort; he was a fine op. Only Novotny might be better. Morning stayed with the Chi Com a few minutes into his next schedule (sked). When he finished with it, I mentioned something about the quality of his copy earlier in the day, hoping he would understand that I knew what he was doing.

"Well, Sgt. Krummel, I had both ends on that sked," he said, pointing to the copy I was holding, "and this one fellow's wife is expecting her first and the other guy's wife has had six kids, so he was telling him not to worry. They were talking in clear text, but it just didn't seem right to bust a guy because he gets excited about his wife having a kid. More people should care about their wives that way." He answered me as if there could be no question about it. (He had the ability of never sounding wrong – not in any pushy way, but purely in his self-possession and confidence that he knew the truth.) It pleased me that he had confessed without being accused, but it left me in the position of either letting him get away with it or being against expectant fathers.

"Okay, Morning, but watch that sort of thing or there will be more than a father to get busted." Already he had me on shifting ground. "I don't like waves, and I don't like trouble, and that kind of shit makes for stormy, stinky waters." Who was I kidding? I was hooked. I didn't know quite how much just yet.

"Sure. I will. I'm really sorry," he said frankly, "but that guy was so damned excited, so worried, I just couldn't get him in trouble." Morning smiled, and I remembered hearing the quivering urgency of his keying when I had listened and now understood those handfuls of dits and dahs he had so frantically been throwing on the air, then I smiled too.

"God, it's taken him eight years to make corporal, and with a kid he's going to need the extra money," Morning said, at ease now that he knew I wasn't going to push him. His voice was friendly; he was talking to me, not my stripes.

"I thought they were talking about kids?"

"Yeah, this time, but I knew from before. He has such an odd fist, I can always tell when he's working. I remember when he made corporal. He broke into clear text then too. But he doesn't usually do that. He's really a good op, Sarge."

"Remind me to give the net to someone who isn't a member of the family, Morning. Jesus."

"He's being transferred to an automatic Morse net next month." Morning couldn't keep from grinning, and he knew neither could I.

"Well, goddamn, I guess you Dear Abbys are going to miss him and his family troubles," I said to the Trick in general. "I'll see if the chaplain's office doesn't need some extra help. Or maybe I can let you all open a home for unwed mothers in your spare time."

"Need something exciting around this fucking place," Novotny growled, "and I reckon unwed mothers would be just the right thing." A few chuckles followed, then they turned back to their work, not yet sure of me. It isn't easy to trust the man who gives the orders.

"Sgt. Krummel, I'm really sorry about the trouble. But you get so damned bored around this place, and thinking of the guy on the other end of this business as a buddy makes things pass easier. No one likes to be a sneak and a tattletail to boot," Morning said. "But I am sorry."

"Forget it. And don't tell me about the Chinese spy you keep in business because his mother's sick. Don't tell me."

"If I don't tell you, how will you know?"

"I don't want to know. Anything."

There was never any more trouble. I kept Morning on the higher echelon nets where the ops were more careful and on the training nets where the ops were sloppy and mistakes and violations came every sked. In spite of the smoothness of that problem, Morning always had the ability to get me mixed up in his crap. Never again, I said, walking back to my desk, Never again. But I was already holding my breath, waiting for the waves. (Morning would have said that my involvement with him was as much my fault as his, which is true. He was my fault. But I took care of that in Vietnam.)

The operating section of our building was contained on a single ground floor room, with most of the space taken up by electronic equipment and desks, but with a small area left open for the trick chief's desk, coffee pot and weapons' rack. The Detachment officers, as opposed to the company officers, a major, two captains and four lieutenants, had offices, for some never explained reason, underground, reached by an outside stairwell. They occupied these holes only in the daylight and seldom bothered with the actual operation of the Det unless an unusual problem arose. I quickly learned that work on the ground floor could proceed untroubled by the "Head Moles" as they were called. This peace was increased by a warning system installed in the air-conditioning unit by the Trick radio-repairman, Quinn. When a badge was inserted into the key slot which opened the front doors, the compressor coughed shyly. With this early warning system the men relaxed in a way unusual for enlisted men so near officers. My only real duty was to be sure that the Sked Chart was met and copied in all the bullshit sessions, the word games and general gold-bricking which made up the bulk of the hours. I settled that quickly: "Any op I catch missing skeds loses his pass for seven days, no questions asked." I got everyone's pass except Quinn's the first two days, then signed the three-day passes for the Break as if I had forgotten. The Trick understood, but they weren't my Trick yet.

The Trick and I seemed to work well in the beginning – more credit to them than to me. They were a good group. Only Quinn and Peterson had not been to college, which might have been unusual for the Army as a whole, but was about the average for the 721st. None of the men were draftees dislodged from their life plans, but all had enlisted, probably because their lives were already out of joint. Only Collins had finished college; the others had flunked out or quit. Any one of them might, and did, cause God knows what trouble in Town, but only Franklin would at Operations. He was an unhappy kid who had gone to MIT on a math scholarship, then been ejected for peeing in a main lounge on Mother's Day. He never caused any real trouble because he, alone, thought my return to the Army a gallant gesture: a big, fat finger to the world. He liked that.

We worked well together then, the Trick and I, but it wasn't like later when we would march down the streets of Town ten men strong, and they would sing "We are Krummers Raiders / We're rapists of the night / We're dirty son of a bitches / And rather fuck than fight!" That was fine.

Oddly enough it was through Franklin, rather than my first friends, Novotny, Cagle, and Morning, that the Trick and I became united. The seventh night of my first set of mids Franklin came to work drunk. Nothing unusual. In fact at least half of the men came to every mid-trick a little bit drunk. And Franklin had been having problems with his family since he had written a letter home telling about his being busted for indecent exposure – peeing in the street; everyone did it, but not on AP jeeps – and that he was in love with a Filipino barmaid, a nice girl who didn't work in the rooms out back, a lovely girl, and he couldn't believe she loved him. He had acne, a dead-white skin and long, greasy blond hair. The Devil as a juvenile delinquent. His parents had replied to his honest confession and plea for understanding with a Dear John asking him not to return home, ever. Franklin was nineteen and believed it. The first thing he did was seduce the girl, first with a cigarette, then a drink, then a trip out back. He stayed drunk for a week afterward, but had caused me no trouble, until this night.

He passed out. I saw him resting his head on his mill, and I shook him to remind him of his next sked. The swivel chair rolled toward the wall, dumping him at my feet with a thump I felt through my boots. Cagle turned around and said, "God-damnit, Franklin! If I told you one time, I've told you a thousand, to leave those fucking kites alone." He helped me lay him between the wall and console, then copied Franklin's sked.

Morning, who acted as if he had invented mitigating circumstances, checked with me. "You going to turn him in, Krummel? If anyone's had a tough deal out of life, that poor bastard has."

"Morning, I don't care if all you sons of bitches sleep. Forever." I left Franklin to sleep it off. Several bad jokes were made to ease the tension, then everyone went about their business.

Around 0400 Cagle dropped through the trap door which led to the roof and shouted that a jeep was turning down our road. Lt. Dottlinger was the Officer of the Day. If he didn't kill Franklin right then, he was sure to stick him in the stockade and prefer charges. Being the able leader of men that I was, I didn't know what to do. But the Trick looked at me. It would be my decision. I tried not to think, but grabbed Franklin's shirt front and dragged him over to the ladder. Morning helped me lift him to the roof. Cagle let Dottlinger in the gate, then followed us down the ladder and took his position.

Dottlinger entered to an "OH, no!" sigh of the compressor. He had been passed over for captain twice, and when the lists came out once more without his name on it, he would revert to his former enlisted rank of sergeant which he hadn't really made but was a gratuitous benefit of OCS. He loved being an officer, and looked for chances to seem efficient.

"Sgt. Krummel," he said, returning my greeting, "What are those men doing out of uniform?" Several of the men had removed their fatigue shirts.

"Operations policy, I understand, sir. The men on the mid-trick may remove their shirts while inside the building."

"Not when I'm Officer of the Day, Sgt. Krummel."

"I'm sorry sir, I didn't know. You men get your shirts on. And button up those flapping pockets." Dottlinger didn't like the pockets bit. He wanted to do it. He suspected me for finishing college. He hadn't made it.

Morning was copying very intently, and had not stopped to put on his shirt, though he heard me.

"That man is still out of uniform, Sgt. Krummel."

"He's copying, sir. He has a sked."

"I want his shirt on now, sergeant, right now."

"Yes, sir." I waved at Novotny to relieve him. He plugged his cans into Morning's console, and picked up the man at the end of a line as Morning slipped out of his chair.

"Ahhhh," he moaned, shaking out the muscles of his back as if he had been copying for hours instead of seconds. "Oh, hello, Lt. Dottlinger. How are you tonight? Or this morning, I should say. Haven't seen you in quite some time, sir." No trace of insolence in his voice. Nothing Dottlinger could hang a feather on.

"Get in uniform, Morning."

"Sir?"

"Your shirt. Get it on."

"Sir, we're allowed to remove our shirts on mids."

"I don't want excuses, soldier. Get in uniform." Dottlinger was red.

"Am I under arrest, sir? I don't understand. A phone call from home, sir? Tell me."

"What? Don't be silly. Get your shirt on – now!"

"You had me scared there for a minute, sir. I was sure it must be trouble." Morning started to walk away.

"Morning! Get your shirt on!"

"Yes, sir, right away. But I've been copying for over an hour and I ah… need to go to the latrine, sir."

"Now!"

"Yes, sir!" Morning fumbled with his sleeves, put the wrong arm in once, then buttoned one button too high, then one too low, and all the time jumping from one foot to the other. As he undid his pants, he shouted, "Jesus!" and ran for the latrine, his shirt tails flapping and his pants tumbling around his ankles. He ran like a man trying to hold a balloon between his knees. He didn't have any shorts on and the men laughed at his bobbing, bare white ass. He came back shortly, relieved, stretching and sighing, "Sorry about that, sir. But I just couldn't wait another second."

Dottlinger was twice as red in the face now, and he slapped his ball-point pen in his hand as if it were the swagger stick he couldn't carry any more. "Why aren't you wearing shorts, soldier?" he burst out. Levenson, our red-headed, freckled faced Jew, popped from behind the antenna patch panel, grinning like a weasel, giggling in his high-pitched voice, then ducked back as Dottlinger turned.

"Sir?" Morning asked.

"The Army went to great trouble to issue you underwear, and gives you a clothing allowance, so why aren't you wearing shorts?" He shook his pen at Morning. "Don't you have any, soldier?"

"Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I do."

"Why aren't you wearing them?"

"I always wear them for inspections, sir. Always."

"I don't care about inspections. Why aren't you wearing them now?"

"It's quite personal, sir, and I'd rather not discuss it in front of the other men, if you don't mind, sir." Ordinarily Dottlinger would have understood personal modesty, but not now.

"I don't care what you'd rather not do – I want to know why, soldier!"

Morning ducked his head and mumbled something.

"Speak up!"

"They crawl… they get in the…" He even managed a blush. "In the crack of…" He seemed overcome by shame. "The crack…" Not a sound.

Dottlinger sighed, and for a moment I had visions of him ordering all pants dropped to check the shorts situation, but he caught hold of himself. "Morning, don't let me catch you without shorts again." Levenson giggled. You could see the resolve in Dottlinger's face to get Morning. "You think that's funny, Levenson."

"Yes, sir," he answered.

Dottlinger started to say something, then paused as if to say, "What can you do with a crazy bastard who sits around naked all the time in the barracks." He knew he had been taken for a ride, and a weary, familiar one at that. He looked like four o'clock in the morning. His face told of years of being the kid chosen last for the ball games, a fox first caught, a never successful hound, the kid who could never keep up, and he was behind again. He stayed a while longer, checking the building, listlessly searching for dust or dirt in a place cleaned and inspected three times a day. When he came up from the offices below, he said to me, "I believe the area under the major's desk could use some wax and a buffing, Sgt. Krummel, especially where he puts his feet. If you'd take care of that, please…" he said walking toward the door.

Petty bastard, I thought, no longer quite so understanding. "Yes, sir, I'll get the shit-house mouse on it right away."

He turned back. "I'd prefer if you didn't refer to the Operation's orderly in that manner, Sgt. Krummel. This is not the old Army, you know. We realize that profanity exhibits a vocabulary deficiency, and I don't think a man with a master's degree should suffer from that particular problem, do you?"

"You're quite correct, sir. Not that particular problem."

"Well, goodnight, sergeant. Ah, and don't neglect the major's desk."

"No, sir. The major's desk. Yes, sir."

As the heavy door slammed behind Dottlinger, Cagle slipped from his chair and up the ladder as quickly as a monkey to let him out the gate, then lowered Franklin through the trap. He was still out. Novotny lodged him in his chair and slapped his face with cold water until he came around. He woke, mumbling, "Fuck 'em, goddamnit, fuck 'em," then staggered to the latrine. He returned in better shape, his eyes puffy but awake and a silly grin on his face.

"Jesus Christ, it's four-thirty," he said, stretching his arms and yawning. As he rubbed the back of his neck, he found a few pieces of gravel. "Hey, where'd this come from?" Novotny explained. "You guys did that for me? Jesus…" He started to say something smart, then stopped. "Jesus. Thanks… Thanks." He started to cry, bewildered tears. "Nobody ever…" He stammered, then sat down and put his headsets on.

I put things in order, caught up the hourly log, then grabbed a can of wax, a mop and the buffer out of the utility closet. I took an hour on the major's floor, waxing and buffing until the tile was as shining hard and brittle as my anger.

When I went back upstairs, everything was clean and glistening except the floor, and Franklin was waiting for the mop and buffer. "I'm sorry, sarge," he said, taking the gear from me, "I promise you, if it ever happens again, I'll turn myself in. Promise. Thanks."

"Don't sweat it, kid. It won't happen again," I said, admiring the immaculate room. You, Krummel, you got troubles? A Trick-ful. It was different now, easier and more relaxed, like a family, now that I had pulled Franklin into the Trick by his shirt front, stepping into the living room myself. We knew where we stood, for better or worse: together.

But Joe Morning and I were friends from the beginning. Perhaps it was as simple as two men just liking the look of each other, or as complex as covering hate with love. We looked somewhat alike, enough so that we often passed for brothers in Town, except for our coloring, Joe fair and I dark, and our noses, mine hooked and crooked as sin, his straight as an arrow. I affected a ferocious, drooping moustache, and Morning his scholarly spectacles. We stood the same six feet, but I was thirty pounds heavier than his 195, and I suppose it was the size which started us.

"You ever play any football, Sgt. Krummel?" he asked on his fourth trip to the coffee pot that first morning at work. I could tell he wanted to say something, to start a conversation, but he didn't, so I waited.

"I played a little in college."

"Where?"

I told him. He had heard of the small South Texas school. They had been NAIA contenders two seasons before.

"You play on that team?" he asked.

"No. I was at the University of Washington by then." We went through the routine about what I was doing in the Army, and then I pulled a quick history out of him. (Actually no one ever had to pull anything out of Morning. He told everything, which is a nice way to lie.)

He had been born in Spartanburg, South Carolina, but spent his first ten years or so in Phoenix, then back to Spartanburg for the rest of high school. He went to a large Southern university as a single-wing tail-back and Accounting major until he changed to drinking and Philosophy in his second semester, which he continued until he was expelled in his junior year. Then he commuted between Phoenix where he sang folk songs in a bar and the South where he sang in demonstrations, until, so he said, an Alabama judge, at Mrs. Momma Morning's request, sentenced him to three years in prison or the Army on an assault charge. Morning had forgotten how to passively resist. He took the Army as the greater of two evils, gave the judge as a reference on his security clearance application, and after nine months at Fort Carlton, he came to the 721st. (The Alabama judge bit was only half a lie, and Joe Morning told it with such skill and a great ability to laugh at his troubles, that everyone, including me, believed it. Only Quinn ever suspected, and he was crazy. Even as I know the truth, I still think Morning told a fine story.)

Morning was open and friendly with me from the start, as he was with nearly everyone, but I never knew quite what to make of him in the early days. Surely he hated the world order, the capitalist system, the American miscarriage of democracy, the slavery of the Army, the Philippines, Clark Air Base and the 721st; but not necessarily in that order, because his moods would change. But I don't think he hated any single man. He would rail for hours against Southerners, but would defend the other Southerner on our Trick, Collins, to any and all comers. But to the South in general he shouted, "Freedom Now! Fuck understanding your particular problems!" It was the same with Filipinos: he thought them thieving, sneaky bastards. But each trick he risked a court martial for some Filipino private he didn't even know. Morning hated Christians, particularly Catholics, but he would defend the Catholic Church against the accusation of holding back education three hundred years during the Middle Ages; and he probably knew his Bible better than any man I knew, but he hid his knowledge, and only shouted verses of damnation when he was crazy drunk. His friends never knew quite where he stood, but they did know that Joe Morning would do anything they asked, and seldom ask anything of them. When he did, it was with such great shyness that no one could refuse him. He was thoughtful to boot and kind in the bargain, and easily forgave the thoughtless and unkind acts of his friends. He could be cruel, moody, but he endured these things with a wry, self-effacing humor which took the bite out of the bitterness. Ordinarily he was a happy, perfect drunk, but once each month or so, he would lose control in a wild, insane night, and cry and fight and scream and beat his head on the floor till no one knew who or what he was…

Such was Joe Morning, Joseph Jabez Morning, hanging between the sun and the moon, a man of great tides. Like all men without roots, direction or patience, he was a revolutionary, not a rebel but a revolutionary, a destroyer, a reacher for all or nothing for anyone. (It would be easier, so much easier, this history I record, if Joe Morning could have been a bad man, an evil heart, but he was good, and in his misguided virtue drove me to the evil of excess and even to murder, and in the end passed the avenging, burning, falling stone of revolution to me.)

He came to me the morning of Franklin's salvation and asked, "Sgt. Krummel, the Trick is having a Roll Call in Town today, if you'd like to come." Roll Calls were for the men, and no trick chiefs allowed unless asked by the men.

"Thank you. I'd like that."