A memoir of a Vietnam veteran
“Here they come.” Someone whispered as Captain Smith and Lieutenant Swann left the barracks next to ours. They slammed through the screen door in one-two formation. There was a creak of the spring on the screen door and the communal gulp of air as my fellow lieutenants came to attention, followed by the thud of the door smacking against the wall stop. Someone had the presence of mind to shout, “TENNN HUTTT!”
The words echoed, bouncing off the bare floor and walls. They were followed by the scrapping of leather across the pine floorboards as shoes clicked together, arms came to sides, and rifles rocked back into place.
Angry footsteps pounded down the center of the first floor. From the corner of my eye I caught the polished black helmet liner. Smith stopped and executed a perfect right face to glare into me. I strained to keep my eyes away from his, taking advantage of my height I looked across the horizon formed by the top of Smith’s helmet and the grain pattern in the pine walls behind him. Swann was behind my back going over my wall and foot locker, my desk and my bed, looking for anything he could gig me on.
My left hand came across my body and grasped the front grip on the M-1, pulled the rifle up and to the left, bisecting my chest at a 45 degree angle, the right hand slid down the stock until it found the notch behind the rear sight and the trigger housing. I held the rifle 6 inches from my heaving chest. Smith's hands flashed up… this was a critical point. You had to let the inspector snatch the rifle from you. You didn’t shove it toward him and God help you if you let go before he grabbed it and the rifle fell to the ground. It was part of the game… I held the rifle just that one required millisecond before I let Smith snatch it from my grip. My arms shot down to the seams of my trousers.
Smith pulled back the receiving lever, the rifle giving off a sharp, metallic “caa lunk.” He peered into the breech as if he half expected to find a spider’s nest in the mechanism. He balanced the rifle in one hand while his free hand explored the chamber, his index finger sliding over the bore opening, looking for evidence of dirt or too much oil. He stared at his finger tip. It was clean with just a slight glisten from the oil. I could feel my stomach relax a bit. He swung the rifle off to his left pointing the receiver toward the light from window and fixing his eye to the muzzle. Again he seemed pleased. He pulled the rifle back to “present arms”, waiting that one fraction of a second to try and get me to anticipate his next reaction and reach for the rifle before it was specifically offered. I kept my arms braced against my sides. He thrust the rifle forward and my hands flew to the stock to snatch it back, correctly responding to his final tug. My right hand held the receiving lever back, I stuck my thumb into the breech, pushed down to release the catch, removing my thumb just before letting the lever fly shut, avoiding the dreaded “M-1 Thumb,” snapped the rifle back to my right side, carefully lowering it until the butt plate rested, silently, on the floor.
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