ALL MEN ARE
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she addressed her employees in the factory yard, he shouldered them
aside, glared at her, told her he didn't want any crowds gathering
that close to our
CPo
He told her that kraut talk grated on his ear,
made him nervous, made his rifle itchy. He was used to pulling
triggers when he heard kraut talk. He turned to the workers and
told them to scram.
«Heraus!
Beat it. Get the hell out of here." He
waved his arms at them like they were crows he wanted to rout from
the garden. Margaret gave him her special smile and I saw how
hungry Smitty's rifle was.
He was in a morose condition, drunk, one night, when he sud–
denly arose from the bed and announced to me that he was going
to fix her. He took his rifle with him.
"Smitty, she isn't worth it. Don't let that fool screw you up."
He gave me a look so fierce that I didn't try to stop him. The
lieutenant had gone to the neighboring town where the company
headquarters were located. The platoon sergeant was with him. Sgt.
Whitney was in charge. He was an easy-going, indefinite man and
no more capable of dealing with Smitty than
I.
We went out into
the yard, but Smitty was already gone. We asked the
GI
on guard
duty which direction he'd taken. He nodded toward the factory.
"You ain't supposed to let anyone go there," Whitney told him.
"You know that's off limits."
"You try stopping
him,
Sarge."
Whitney thought the best policy would be to return to the
house and wait until someone complained.
"Look, Whitney.
If
she's dead, she won't complain."
"He ain't going to kill her. Naw. She can take care of herself.
She's not alone there. We don't know that he actually went into the
factory anyhow. The guard only said he went in that direction."
"It's none of my affair," I told him. "You're in charge."
"Smitty'S not going to do nothing," he said hopefully. We were
both worried and waited for a scream, a shot, or Smitty's return.
Smitty returned with his rifle dragging. His face was scratched,
and he greeted us with a twisted sneer. I thought, "Murder has
been done." I even looked at the butt plate of his rifle.
"Give me a pro, Medic," he ordered.
It
didn't seem to me plausible that Margaret had slept with
Smitty. Men have asked me for pros who haven't touched a woman.
