A GREEN LIEUTENANT A memoir of a Vietnam veteran
		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. Smith turned on his heel without saying a word, Lieutenant Swann following a half step behind. I had made it. I would be free tonight! Others were not so lucky. From behind me, I heard the sad thump as a friend got his “bundle from home” and the words “Confined to quarters!” A half-hour dragged by as we faced the front and Smith and Swann ran amok on the second floor. I flinched when a footlocker hit the floor directly above me. I tried to sort out whom misfortune had visited. Finally the slam of the door told us that the inspection party had left. “Son of a bitch, look what the asshole did to my footlocker!” Tom Addison looked at his possessions, rolled up socks and underwear, a razor and blades, toothbrush and toothpaste tube (unused), stationary, aftershave, all of the shit we were required to buy for display purposes only and more strewn across the glossy waxed pine floor. “Fucking asshole.” growled Mike Crowley in his deep Alabama drawl after the inspection was over, “Every swinging Richard better have a set of dress blues hanging in his wall locker. Anyone who doesn't will be confined to post this weekend. That's what he says, so I go out and drop one hundred and fiftybucks on a God damn uniform I'll only wear once and then the mother fucker doesn't even look in my wall locker. Asshole!” Next