Joel S. Witkin - Year 3 of the Shark [ss]

Some soldiers are not warriors.

But it takes all types to make an army - or a world.

I am Chief Master Sergeant Miltner tramping up and then down the high piles of brick rubble which choke the narrow street. I move with purpose - either kicking aside the debris, or stepping down hard on it so that it settles under me - because I am going to work. The early morning sun, I know, highlights the touches of gray around my ears, giving me an air of dignified reliability, of quiet competence. It suits a man with eight stripes. One is sure I will get to work.

At the end of the block, a few old men and some disabled veterans pick about in a demolished building. It is still smoking. They are looking for bodies. The last bombing raid ended only an hour ago. They are becoming so frequent. There is hardly a building left whole in the city. Explosions and rapid bursts of gunfire can be heard from the south where the troops are dug in with orders to fight to the last man.

Is the war going badly?

Last night our Leader came on the radio. He was convivial - yes, that is the word. Unworried, relaxed, amused. He gibed at those of us with defeatist attitudes, and reminded us of the secret weapons in the finishing stages of production. Did we doubt him? How could we? he wanted to know. Throughout the war hadn't there been numerous research projects which had given birth to many new and formidable weapons? What made us think that projects like these had suddenly stopped? Meanwhile, all that was necessary was for each man to continue doing his job. Then from one place ammunition would be supplied; from another, weapons; and from still another, food and blankets. Intelligent officers - and were not ours the best ever? - would then see that these well-equipped soldiers were sent to the right places. As long as each man worked to the limit of his capability, how could there be defeat? And the secret weapons would bring the turning point.

All this seemed reasonable to me. As long as I breathe, I will do my job. As long as I do my job, the war goes on - to victory. Was the war going badly? Not so badly. My wife, God forgive her, chooses to believe the enemy broadcasts which tell of no hope.

I am turning to my left to scramble off a rubble heap, before coming to the end of the block. I enter a door under the huge round shield which is our symbol. It shows a shark whose jaws are about to clamp shut on the world. The shield once gleamed in the sunlight. Now it is chipped, cracked and covered with dust. It is three years since the sign went up; it is Year 3 of the Shark, the third year of war. I am thirty minutes early as I enter the Branch Office and sit down at my wide metal desk. It has been my habit ever since I made chief, the highest enlisted grade, to be the first in the office every morning.

Around me is the shop I run. In front of me are the eleven desks of my subordinates, gleaming from last night's sponging. Only two will be filled today. The rest of my men have been transferred to the front, or have deserted. Along the opposite wall are my filing cabinets, which I keep accurate and current with a vigilance that probably causes more confusion than it avoids. I realize it. But should a priority job come along, I am ready. And I do well at inspection times. Behind me is the cubicle of my CO, whom I keep out of trouble. He was once a fanatic, but he never shows up anymore, or when he does, he always looks like he is about to break out into tears. He thinks we have already lost the war.

My shop is a good military shop, run with a firm but fair hand - mine. It gives me satisfaction to run such a shop, which sees the paper come in, get processed, answered, and filed.

I know why I work so hard, and why my shop is a model of military perfection. A lieutenant told me the reason a long time ago when I was only a master sergeant.

He was lazy and too damn friendly and affected a pipe. He liked to treat the enlisted men as equals, and wouldn't assume his responsibilities and tell us what he wanted done. "Whatever you think best, Sarge," he would always say. It made me angry and insecure.

One afternoon I took a stack of papers to him which were causing me trouble, and which he should have been taking care of anyway. He was leaning far back in his chair with his feet up on his desk, smoking his pipe, and daydreaming.

I held the papers out and said, "I don't know what to do with these, sir."

"Milt," he said, "I'm sure I don't either. Whatever you think best."

"Sir, I'll throw them in the waste-basket."

"Probably the best thing to do. I wonder if anybody will ever miss them?"

I blew. "You're supposed to be my boss! Don't you understand that? If you don't keep an eye on me, I'll screw off, and really screw you up in the bargain! I'm not honest! No one is! And for God's sake please stop treating me like your buddy! It's your shop! Now get off your ass and run it! Sir!"

The lieutenant looked up at me in amazement, but didn't move from his relaxed position. Then he laughed. "Nonsense, Sarge. Whether or not I tell you what to do, you'll keep right on working. You don't work because your boss tells you to. You work to justify yourself. Wait'll you're a chief and have no more promotions to get. You'll still work. Wasted your life if you don't. Now that that is settled, let me tell you that I'm just here to avoid the draft. This is not my chosen profession. I don't have to work to justify myself. So I'd appreciate it if you'd get busy and make me unnecessary to the smooth operation of this office."

Now I'm a chief and work harder than ever. I like the idea that sergeants run the service, and take pride in the fact that my opinions have more weight than a major's. I am important. I know one thing: if I take the day off now, this office will close.

Tech Sergeant Donalo and Sergeant Cruze have just come in. Cruze goes to make coffee. I send Donalo after the latest list. He brings it back in two copies, and then sits down at the desk in front of mine. He sets out our metal baskets. Cruze comes back. I give him a copy of the list, and tell him to pull the folders. "What's the use," he mutters. I glare at him. He shrugs, goes to the cabinets, and starts pulling folders. Soon he has a stack which he places in my basket.

I pick up a folder. "Walters, Frank E., 7770-9987-F21. Master Sergeant. Unit 16, B Command." I find the name on my copy of the list. After his name it says, "Died in action, 23 May, Year 3. Effects."

"Normal Processing," I say to Donalo, and give him a Data Card from the folder. Donalo will make up the order for his effects to be turned over to the Leader's Treasury. He will also prepare the Death Notification Form.

I pull the Leader's Insurance Form and cancel it. I give it to Donalo. This, with the Death Notification Form, will go to the deceased man's family.

I pull the deceased man's Service History Form and add the pertinent information about his death. This I give to Donalo who will send it to higher headquarters. Next I destroy the file. Then I correct the Unit Listings. Later I will correct the Unit Strength Summary and make up a Command Reorganization Summary. This last is an innovation. Some units were down to only a few men. A few weeks ago I started, on my own authority, merely deleting them and reassigning men to new units. Nobody seems to mind, and nobody else is around to do it.

We work away half the morning. Then Cruze brings coffee and we talk about assignments. Donalo is amiable and gets in the spirit of it. But Cruze is nervous. He is worried about the war and his family.

An explosion jars the building. Bits of plaster fall from the ceiling. I am half deaf in one ear. Two of our windows break. Another explosion, and the lights go out. Then another and another. They start getting farther away. The lights come on again. Someone must have switched on the emergency power.

The bombs shouldn't be allowed to get this close. This is our capital city. "Where are our defenses?" I mutter.

"With our secret weapons," says a frightened Cruze.

It is quiet again. Cruze is back at the files. They are stacking up like they do every day. Donalo and I are hard at work.

The colonel comes in. He is thin and old, a reactivated retiree. He looks harassed, tired. "HQ says we need three hundred men at the gap. What's the strength of Unit Four?"

I look at my Command Reorganization Summary. "Deleted yester - day. Seventeen men reassigned to Unit Eight, sir."

Eyes wide in surprise. 'The whole unit," he breathes. 'The Fighting Fourth. It was my unit in the old days. Oh, well. Can we get the men?"

"Possibly fifty, sir. From the hospital squad. Some will have to get out of bed to do it."

"How about Second Perimeter Forces? Can we draw some men back?"

"No, sir. All forces on Final Perimeter." Final Perimeter: the line at which all units must fight to the last man.

"How about the guardhouse? Any deserters? Any guards?"

"One minute, sir." I check my listings. "Only twenty-five left. Two guards."

"Well, that's seventy-seven. See if you can come up with twenty-five more, and we'll call it a job. I'll be in my office."

"Yes, sir."

He leaves. I study my lists, looking and looking. Sixteen men from the fire brigades. Old men and disabled veterans. Three cooks. I look and look. I'm stymied. I purse my lips. I think of one more. I feel terrible about it. "Sergeant Cruze," I call, "you're going to the front."

Just then the colonel comes back. He is crying. He doesn't walk. He reels. He says, "The war is over. We surrendered. Our Leader has hanged himself." He reels out.

Donalo is silent at his desk. I am silent. Cruze is frozen at the files.

Finally Cruze, without looking at me, walks slowly out of the office. He will go north to find what is left of his little town and little family. He will have to walk for days. There are no trains or buses. He will probably be interned before he gets there. "Good luck, Cruze," I call after him. He has stayed to the end.

Still, he shouldn't leave while there are matters to clean up.

"Sarge," says Donalo, "I'm going too."

I don't say anything.

"Sarge?"

I remain silent. I realize that I am stunned.

He goes anyway. He has a wife in the city. "Luck, Donalo," I finally say.

Many ghosts go by the door. Then the building is empty. I am alone.

I start to get up.

I sit down again. The paper isn't processed. Everything remains half done. Open files on my desk. Envelopes not sealed. Papers in my basket. Transactions half consummated. It makes me itch. I think of a whole war machine like this. Orders, records, correspondence, all unfinished. Supplies halfway there. Food half cooked. Everything incomplete.

I start to get up again. I can't yet. Must finish with this open file. I finish with it. I pick up another. Perhaps there are other men such as me...