Primal Spillane: Early Stories 1941-1942

The Mouse Fights Back

For the umpteenth time, Cuthbert Cashmere, of the Back Bay Boston Cashmeres, stood in front of the examining doctor on the Army Board. Every week since the war started he had stood in front of a sawbones with a quart of milk and a dozen bananas in his stomach to keep his weight up, but it seemed that the added bulk only served to shove his arches down further... so he was rejected for flat feet. If it wasn’t that, it was something else. The docs found more things wrong with him than an Army mechanic could find with an old Model T.

But, nevertheless, Cuthbert was persistent... sooner or later somebody would overlook something and he could go home in a soldier suit and give his ritzy friends the horse laugh. They said that the Army wouldn’t take him even if the U. S. were invaded... and to date it looked as if there was a lot of truth in what they said.

The doctor held the stethoscope against his chest. “Hmmmm,” he said. He moved it around a bit then said another, “Hmmmm.” By this time Cuthbert Cashmere was beginning to figure out where the next enlistment station was that he could take a crack at. This wasn’t any too promising looking. But lo and behold, the medico dropped the gadget and scribbled an O.K. on the sheet and sent him on to the next examiner!

Cuthie breathed deeply and went over. This fellow was the one to be careful of... the dog man, he checked for flat feet... and recruit Cashmere had ’em!

“Next. Come on... step it up!” Cuthbert hopped into line. The doc took a good look up and down scrawny Cashmere and felt his feet. “Ever have any trouble with the feet?”

“Nope. Usta have flat ones, but I’ve been walking on my toes for a month now.”

The doctor hid a grin at that. “Anxious to get in I suppose?”

“Well.” Cuthbert replied. “I was — but I’ve been turned down so many times I’m beginning to get discouraged!”

The doc grunted a few times, picked up the sheet and wrote. He handed it back with a big smile and walked away. Cuthie was afraid to look at it, but... O.K., it said!

Over behind the curtains the doc was talking to his colleagues. “This guy Cashmere wants to get in, so don’t be rough on him. I guess he must have tried every office in the country. He’ll be a good man... give him a break.”

The rest nodded and smiled... and when little Cuthbert went through the rest of the exam he could have fallen over. Every one of the doctors “Oohed” and “Ahaad” when they saw his physique.

When he got finished Cuthbert Cashmere felt like a man!

The rest was a snap. Cuthie’s muscles were all in his head, and it didn’t take anyone very long to find it out. Three weeks after he landed at camp he was a Sergeant! However... when the boys took a look at their new boss, all he got out of them were loud guffaws. “Mouse,” they called him, and he certainly looked it. His clothes were too big, and his frame too skinny. Sticking out in front of his face was a nose that kept wrinkling like it was sniffing cheese.

Poor Cuthbert Cashmere, all he was to the men under him was a mouse... and a mouse doesn’t command respect! But there was one thing they didn’t figure on... Cuthie was smart! When the men marched they looked like something the cat dragged in. So, with a twist of his nimble brain, Sergeant Cuthbert found a plan. He marched them onto the parade ground... let out a squeaky “for-awrdddd, march!”... and had them go by the officers’ recreation hall. All day long they paraded with the eyes of Major Dooley on them. The Major had always said that Cuthie could never be a good Sarge... but he took notice when the boys went by.

Never once did they let their shoulders drop, never once did their eyes move out of line... for Major Dooley was known as a tough man... and they weren’t taking any chances. So even if it wasn’t any of their doing, the men of the Cuthbert squad became efficient soldiers. At night they stood around the barracks telling each other what they would do to Mr. Cashmere when they got him alone some night. But Cuthie never went out at night, so all they did was talk... that is, all except one guy. Big Hank Faller was made a physical training instructor, and when he taught the boys wrestling, he used the little Sergeant as a subject.

Man! Did the boys laugh when Cuthbert went sailing through the air and landed flat on his back! What Hank didn’t do to him was nobody’s business. Three days of it and Cuthbert was five feet five of sore joints and big blue bruises. Here Mother Nature stepped in and took a hand. The lessons continued as usual, with the laughing audience getting the thrill of a lifetime out of the Sergeant’s discomfort. There was one thing they didn’t notice, however, Cuthie was losing the black and blue marks he had acquired earlier in the week. Then, too, all this violent exercise was making him eat... besides which, he had stood up to Hank so long that he was beginning to learn just what Hank was trying to teach the men...

Then came the day that Major Dooley told the boys that he was going to sit in on their classes to see how they were progressing. One of the men, jokingly, told the Major that Cashmere was doing the teaching now... and Dooley just laughed and laughed. He even invited a bunch of the officers to the show to teach them what happens to a pint-sized Sergeant in this war! The Major, being a six-footer himself, just didn’t hold with little men. Cuthbert’s marching and general drill had been okay... somehow, but now here was the test to prove a man’s personal ability.

Shaking like a leaf in a high wind. Sergeant Cuthbert Cashmere sat in his hut chewing his hat. He groaned to himself whenever he thought how fate led him into this trap. Finally he sat up straight and took a deep breath.

“Why should I worry?” he said to the walls. “Sure, I’ll get beat up again... maybe... yeah... maybe!”

His wily brain started to buzz again, and a smile tugged at his mouth. Soon that smile was a grin, then he broke out into a laugh. Yes... if his plan worked... there would be some pretty silly explanations to be made by a certain party!

An orderly called for him. “Hey, Sarge, time to get over to the hall!”

Cuthbert put his half digested hat on and walked out. At the hall he took his seat and watched Hank walk onto the mat-covered square in the middle of the group.

“Men,” Hank bellowed, “tonight we will demonstrate the art of self-defense. I need a subject. Perhaps Sergeant Cashmere...?”

Cuthie nodded and went up. For some reason the men cheered. Maybe they liked the way Cuthbert took his daily punishment without a whimper. And no one particularly cared for Hank anyway... he talked too loud.

The “ring” was ready for action. All eyes were on the two... big brawny Hank... and the little but now-wiry Sergeant. Determined to make it a fancy show, Hank rushed out with a roar intending to squash Cuthie... but Cuthie wasn’t there and Hank ran into the front row! What a holler he let out! He came back mad, dived at Cuthie and almost broke his neck when Cuthbert leaped clear. This was something... the men were standing on their feet cheering their heads off. The mouse was fighting back!

Then... Hank grabbed a wrist. He turned and yanked... expecting Cashmere to fly over his shoulder, but Cuthbert’s feet wrapped around Hank’s neck and down they went! Then all you could see was a flurry of arms and legs. Hank was trying for any kind of a hold now, but all those days of getting banged around had taught Cuthie just about everything Hank had to offer, and when Hank made a stab for one of those limbs that was dangling out of the pile, it just wasn’t there!

Suddenly Cashmere leaped up. Hank tried to lumber to his feet when a couple of sinewy hands got him under the chin and flipped him onto his back, before he knew it he was down... but only for a minute. He threw Cuthie off him with a yell and tore in. Cuthbert dropped to his knees and Hank tripped over him. Then before he could move, Cuthbert had him by a leg and began to drag him around on his stomach!

How Hank kicked! He wriggled like a steer, but the Sergeant hung on. Every time Hank went to get up, Cuthie gave a yank and Hank went down again. The men were screaming with joy. They waved and shouted until you couldn’t hear a cannon roar in the place.

Hank couldn’t stand it anymore. With a terrific kick he loosened Cuthie’s hold and jumped to his feet. Here the wrestling ended and the fight really started. Hank pulled back his fist and sailed in. Lefts and rights whistled through the air... but nothing happened... Cuthbert just wasn’t there again! The sergeant took a swing of his own, popped Hank on the button by luck, and almost broke his fist on that iron jaw, knocked himself down with the effort, and in falling, his foot came up in a wide arc.

Now, even the foot on the end of a skinny leg is something a big guy can’t argue with, especially when it catches you right under the chin... and this one did! Hank hit the deck with a thud!

And then did the men cheer! Major Dooley went back with his arm around Cuthbert’s shoulder telling him how it will be the little guys that will win this war. No one would believe that kick was an accident... and brother, you ought to see that “mouse squad” march now!

Especially big Hank!