Return to Honor by Doug Beason Read Free Book Online

shouted by the men—grew deathly silent. The marine rolled off the sidewalk and snatched up his rifle, only to be stopped by Balcalski.
    “Havisad!”
    The marine snapped into a brace. “Yes, Sergeant.”
    Balcalski glared for a full ten heartbeats. When Balcalski finally spoke, Havisad had to strain to hear him over the roar of the slidewalk. “Havisad, you’ve been out of Basic for two years. I’ve been out of Basic for thirty-one. The last time I saw a rifle dropped, the man who dropped it bought a Mexican bullet through his right lung. And the last thing I remember him doing was cursing himself, thinking that he could have killed the son of a bitch who shot him— even when he was dying. But he couldn’t. And do you know why?”
    “No, Sergeant.”
    “Because he dropped his damned rifle, that’s why, Havisad. He couldn’t shoot back because he didn’t have his rifle.”
    One of the marines coughed; Balcalski looked around. In the distance, a jeep was driving up to the mock-up. It looked like the battalion CO. Balcalski waved for the next, squad. “Get your butts up there. On the count of three, take the exit again. This time, I want every other man to roll to the right and cover the man behind him. Now move.”
    As the jeep crawled closer Balcalski saw that his guess was right on mark—Lt. Col. Krandel and Captain Weston, the platoon CO, were both decked out in camouflaged battle gear. An enlisted driver shared the front with Krandel; Weston rode alone in the rear of the jeep.
    Krandel was turning out to be all right. A little gung ho, maybe … but Balcalski had heard rumors that this was the colonel’s first operational assignment. He’d do fine if he wouldn’t try so hard not to screw up.
    Balcalski turned back to Havisad. He’d given the marine plenty of time to think over his mortal sin. “Private, the 37th doesn’t allow mistakes. It’s not only your ass that will get shot if you screw things up—it’s the platoon’s.” Balcalski pointed with his eyes to Havisad’s rifle. “Drop that once more and you’re out of here. If I don’t shoot you with it first. Understand?”
    Havisad stood rigid. “Yes, Sergeant.”
    “Then get the hell back with your squad; you’re wasting my time.” Balcalski turned and barked, “Morales!” As Balcalski turned away Havisad sprinted off to join his squad.
    A corporal left the group and trotted up. “Yes, Gunny?”
    Balcalski jerked his head at the jeep, which had pulled off the road. “I’ll be taking the colonel and Captain Weston through the mock-up. Run the men through—and make damn sure there aren’t any mistakes this time.”
    “Gotcha, Gunny.” Morales stacked his rifle with Balcalski’s as the squat gunnery sergeant went off to join the officers.
    “Afternoon, sir.” Balcalski held the salute until both Krandel and Weston returned it.
    “Good afternoon, Gunny,” returned Krandel. “How are the men doing?”
    “Fine, sir. Would you care to watch them run through the exercise?”
    Krandel nodded. “Lead the way.” Balcalski positioned himself to the right of and slightly behind the men as they moved toward the mock-up.
    As they walked, the officers were silent. Balcalski noted that Krandel’s boots, although flawlessly shined, still had the look of new leather. His uniform was immaculate, but there was an unbroken-in look about it: neatly pressed, the creases looked as though they could cut paper. Krandel seemed to move naturally, but it still appeared to require some effort.
    Balcalski took note of all the details he spotted but didn’t allow Krandel’s greenhorn tendencies to worry him. He had helped plenty of inexperienced officers through the years; it was part of a good sergeant’s job. But Krandel was different. Not only was Krandel inexperienced in the field, but he was the youngest senior officer that Balcalski had ever helped. He’d just have to be careful that he didn’t step on Krandel’s toes.
    Krandel allowed