The Candidate
by Henry Simpson
Monday
at 0700 hours Lt. Kral, sitting at a battered metal desk in HQ Company’s hut, stared
into Pvt. Benes’ folder. “Six months at Novost College, academic probation.”
“That’s
wrong, sir,” Benes said, standing at attention. “I successfully completed a year
of Social Engineering. I am return-eligible.”
Kral glared at Benes. “Did
I ask?”
Benes
clicked his heels. “No.”
“No, sir, donkek.”
“Yes,
sir . . . no, sir.”
“Barely
qualified with Kalash. Does shooting frighten you, Private?”
“No, sir.”
“Got
shot in Basic Infantry Skills training, then a week in hospital. Disgusting!”
“Sir,
a recruit did that, with a blank.”
“Too bad not a live round! No officer recommendations.
Not even an NCO’s. One called you loner. another untrustworthy. Who
thought you were officer material, Private?”
“The
test did, sir. I got quite a high score.”
“Hah! So you believe
Aserna should send you to Officer Training?”
“I’ll go wherever
Aserna sends me, sir.”
“What say, Tirana?”
“That
would be fine, sir.”
“Varna?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Transylvania?”
“I’d
have to learn the languages first, sir.”
Kral laughed. “Not a chance. Anyway, I’m
responsible for you until the higher-ups decide your fate. Until then, you’re assigned
to Barrack 35. Go there, stand by, and await orders.”
“Yes,
sir. When . . .”
“Impossible
to know.”
Benes
clicked his heels, saluted, did an about-face, and left.
Barrack 35 was a large gray
hut in a long row of such huts, running down to a road. As Benes approached, he could hear
the sounds of voices and a radio playing popular music through its open door. A young man
in shorts and undershirt was standing outside, smoking a cigarette, and blowing smoke rings
as Benes approached. “Lt. Kral just sent me over here to stand by and wait. Would
you mind telling me what happens in this place?”
The
smoker shook his head. “What you do to get punished?”
“I applied for an education.”
“You
may die waiting. We go to mess hall three times per day and do work details. Best day Friday,
payday. Weekends, maybe go to town, matinee, swim ocean, night get drunk, if lucky meet
girl, party. Me? Average day I smoke cigarettes, practice rings. Else, sleep dream radio
cards gamble checkers, exercise if crazy, read propaganda. No chess. No TV. Evenings, drink
beer get drunk.
“Work?” Benes
asked.
“Shit
jobs—guard duty, hard labor, clean latrines, weapon repair, mess duty, go to war,
anything the bigwigs, they dream up. They got us here, slave labor, prisoners forever.
I’m Marek. What’s your name?”
“Private Benes.”
“Listen,
comrade. Here, no Privates, not here, never. No Corporals, Sergeants. We all same here.
You want to be officer?”
“Better than enlisted, I think.”
“Everyone
here in B35 enlisted. You think we losers?”
“Being an officer’s
better. Get an education, do something with life beside I take orders from know-nothings
till I die, never earn enough to live on, buy a house, get married, raise a family, the
good life. Otherwise, I got no choice, just nothing. Always someone else, they decide what
you are, what you get, and what do you finish with? Huh? Nothing, Marek. Nothing! That’s
me now, trapped. I want more.”
“You got it figured
out, eh? You met any good officer yet?”
“It’s not being an officer matters. It’s
the education to become one. Once I get that, I’ll find a way to live my dream.”
Marek
laughed. “Live your dream? Good plan, Benes.” He inhaled and blew another smoke
ring. “That’s my dream.”
Benes laughed. “What’s in this hut, Marek?”
“Door’s
open. Go inside and meet your new friends for life, for as long as you last.”
Benes
peeked through the open doorway. Inside, two rows of bunk beds with men sleeping or reclining,
others at tables, playing cards or games, or in groups, talking, or staring into space.
Marek
shoved Benes gently through the doorway, then whistled and slapped his hands together,
alerting a few men. “This is Benes, the new guy.”
Most of the men ignored him.
One laughed. Another said to speak softly, he had a hangover.
“Why
are they in here during work hours?” Benes said.
Marek motioned him to follow
to a game table with men at cards. “Ask them.”
“Why are you here?”
Benes said to the men.
A
small, bearded man raised his hand. “It is God’s will.”
“How do you know God’s
in charge?”
“He
talks to me,” the man answered. “We have long conversations about free will and
the afterlife.”
“He’s
crazy,” said a gray-haired man. “He believes God won’t let him fire weapons.
Why is the new guy here?”
“Benes wants an education,” Marek said.
“That
won’t help,” the gray-haired man said. “Revolution is the answer to all
questions.”
Marek
leaned close to Benes. “That’s Kovac. They sent him here for safe-keeping.”
Others
volunteered the reasons for their presence: lost records, awaiting discharge or court martials
for AWOL, disrespecting superior, disorderly conduct, alcohol abuse.
A
grandfatherly man said he was a civilian, misidentified as a soldier charged with desertion.
“They call me Kovac so many times I get confused. Now I answer to it because I must
collect my pay to eat at mess hall.”
“Do you have amnesia?” Benes said.
“Me,
or Kovac?”
“You’re
both the same, aren’t you?”
“That’s MPD, multiple personality disorder.
I’m not crazy.”
Marek grabbed Benes’
arm. “Don’t waste your time on him, Benes. His mind’s a swamp.”
Marek
pointed at a man asleep on a bunk. “That’s Chmiel. “He’s been here for years
and never speaks. He sleeps, wakes to eat, shit, and collect his pay, and then sleeps.
If no one interferes, he’ll continue till he dies.”
Marek found Benes an empty
bunk. “This one’s available. Consider it your home in this paradise.”
He laughed, lit a cigarette, blew a smoke ring, and left.
Benes roamed B35, observing
and befriending sociable men. Most were like him but less ambitious. Scattered among them
were jingoists, misfits, morons, criminals, zealots, and sociopaths.
Eventually
he settled on his bunk, ignored his surroundings, and reflected. What he regretted most
was succumbing to the recruiter’s invitation to apply for officer training. His bad
judgment had thrust him into a hellish quandary and uncertain future. His error had been
to believe he could wangle an education and escape paying the bill. He knew no one who
had ever done such a thing. Believing he was capable of such a miracle because he was adept
at multiple-choice tests had been foolish—idiotic, actually.
Now he
was caught in the web of Army bureaucracy and soulless military drones. Stuck in a barrack
of misfits, losers, fuckups, wackos, and Marek, an insane philosopher and smoke-ring master
who claimed to understand the place.
On that, his first day in
B35, nothing of consequence happened. At 11:30 hours, a horn blew throughout the camp,
signaling lunch hour. Benes followed the others as they adjusted their uniforms and filed
out of B35 and walked in disorderly fashion to the mess hall, filled their stainless steel
trays from the counter, ate, and returned afterward to B35, where they resumed their meaningless
existence. The meal routine repeated at 16:00 hours that evening and, again in the morning,
Benes assumed, at 06:30, 11:30, and 16:00 as before, ad infinitum.
On Tuesday morning, after
breakfast, a Corporal ordered Benes and two other men to board a mess hall truck and handed
them over to Sgt. Zarins, the mess hall NCO, to work for him through Friday. Zarins questioned
the men and assigned each to such jobs as food prep, cooking, cleaning, operating a dishwasher,
and make-work drudgery polishing brass, cleaning condiment jars, labeling boxes,
and so forth.
Benes
quickly befriended his co-workers, Koppel and Tamm. The work was mind-numbingly simple,
with ready access to foods, and ended each night at 21:00 hours, too late for an outdoor
movie. The Enlisted Club was open until 02:00 so they all got drunk there before returning
to B35, near midnight.
On
Saturday, Benes collected his pay at HQ and took a bus to the village, a backward place
with peasants, shacks, domestic animal transport, and a few battered Ladas. He walked by
the lake, looking for attractive girls, but had no luck. He explored the village, and returned
to post early. That night, he went to the Enlisted Club as usual. A weekend, there were
more women, but it lacked young, attractive single girls and was overstocked with older
ones willing to drink and dance with sexually-obsessed young men who paid for their drinks
and what came afterward. Benes wondered where in this region would he find a
suitable girl to spend his free time with.
That night, instead of getting drunk, he went to a movie
at the outdoor theatre. As lonely as he was, he had hoped for a romance, but the powers
that be selected violent, action-oriented movies with more gunshots and explosions than
dialogue, and, as usual, Benes was disappointed as soon as the opening credits exploded
on the screen.
And,
so, back to the Enlisted Club, another beer, not to get drunk, but to meet people, talk,
make the best of his situation with mostly drunk men who were funny, bitter, losers, smart,
empty-headed, interesting, or whatever they were. They were more or less like him, not
deep thinkers, but survivors, doing as well as they could. They could still become his
friends. Why not?
The
morning after his drunken insight, Benes went to HQ and discovered a Corporal named Saar
sitting at Lt. Kral’s desk. He didn’t ask the Corporal why he was there because
the Corporal outranked him and it was risky. Instead, he asked Saar to tell Lt. Kral that
Pvt. Benes was present and would like to meet with him.
Cpl.
Saar appeared annoyed. “Lt. Kral no longer works in this office. He’s been
transferred.”
“Who
took his place?” Benes said.
“No one yet,” Saar said. “Did you
have business with him?”
“Yes, Corporal. He was
handling my Officer Candidacy. Who’s responsible now that Lt. Kral’s gone?”
“No
one here at Company. Those are handled at Battalion.”
“Could you possibly
find out what happened to mine?”
“No point in that. It would be a waste of time.”
“But,
Corporal Saar, sir. My entire career depends upon that application. Can’t you do
something to help me?”
“For heaven’s sake, Benes. Don’t go
all teary-eyed on me. Here’s what I’ll try to do in the next week or so. I’ll
ask around and see if anyone remembers your application. If so, I’ll try to determine
its status. Now, please stay away from here and don’t come back for a while.”
“A
while?”
“That’s
a long, long time.”
“Thank
you very much, Cpl. Saar. I appreciate your help.”
“Of course, you do,
Benes. Of course.”
Benes
returned to B35. Everything was the same as a week ago, it seemed at first. The radio tuned
to popular music, men asleep or loafing around, and nothing new happening as far as he
could tell. He did notice that the posted roll call list contained four fewer names, now
down from 28 to 24, and that two previously occupied bunks were now vacant, but that seemed
reasonable, as men came and went over time.
The labor detail that week
worked from 08:00 to 16:00 with a one-hour lunch break starting at noon. The men spent
their time digging up earth, removing native plants and weeds, and planting ivy around
the Company’s twelve huts. It was tedious, boring work, much of it done kneeling
down on hands and knees. They took long breaks from time to time to relax. The Sergeant
in charge spent all of his time in his Gaz-69, sleeping or drinking local potato vodka.
After lunch, as he slept, the crews loafed. At 16:00 they went to the mess hall and
then to B35. Benes hung around with friends, and later attended a violent outdoor action
movie and then the Enlisted Club and got drunk.
The daily routine repeated
more or less the same each day except on Fridays, when the men got paid. As a Reservist,
Benes’s weekly allowance was 45 Leks, but he always received ten percent less from
the disbursing officer, an ancient, corpulent Captain. When Benes complained, a friend
said it was customary graft, that disbursing officers usually charged more, and
ten percent was a bargain.
As his third week began, Benes
considered checking in with Cpl. Saar. What would be the point, anyway? The past two weeks
had made him aware how much he hated the Army. The prospect of becoming an officer had
become less attractive. He still desired an education, but why surrender his life to the
Army that disrespected and abused him at every opportunity?
He had
changed, obviously, and now enjoyed the companionship of the other hapless slugs
in B35. He’d grown accustomed to the mindless routine, every week some new shit task,
no thinking required, was fed and paid, and otherwise left alone. Not altogether good or
bad, but tolerable, and one could almost do it while sleeping, which some of the hapless
slugs did. Benes smiled.
The following week, more news
and less popular music came from the radio. Aserna’s Assembly House was bombed on
Monday, killing several members and causing irreparable damage. An assassination attempt
was made on President Gorka. The assailants—agents of neighboring country Hudarli—were
quickly captured and executed. Hudarli was a small, neighboring country whose citizens
had a similar culture and spoke the same language as citizens of Aserna. How logical was
it for Hudarli to start a war with Aserna? It made more sense for Aserna to attack
and annex Hudarli.
Following
the news, rumors filled B35 and work areas. Some thought the bombing and unsuccessful assassination
were false flag operations conducted by Aserna’s Security Service. Other possibilities
were political enemies, militarists, and major powers.
The
labor detail that week refurbished AKs and Mosin Nagant 7.6s, test fired them, and boxed
them up for shipment. Workers cleaned up an ancient Maxim machine gun from the post’s
museum and test fired it. Other workers collected lost and buried brass cartridge shells
from a rifle range. Two men used mine detection equipment to locate and flag buried unexploded
munitions on artillery practice target areas. Weekend leaves were cancelled and men worked
extra hours all week. On Sunday afternoon, Benes noticed several empty bunks in B35 and
roster count dropped from 24 to 20 men.
At the beginning of Benes’
fourth week, the men were ordered to the supply depot to receive new all-weather camouflage
uniforms and refurbished AK rifles. As they stood in line, waiting to be issued clothing
and weapons, they speculated among themselves why Aserna, their peaceful enclave, was acting
generously for a change. No one had a plausible answer, the result being uncertainty and
concern.
Meanwhile,
the radio had stopped playing popular music. Now it was blasting marches, patriotic choruses,
news of threats to Aserna, declaration of martial law, and rousing Gorka speeches.
Aserna’s
Military was placed on alert, active-duty personnel were restricted to their posts until
the state of emergency was lifted. Rumors circulated that war was imminent and everyone
in B35 would be sent to the front lines. When Reserves were activated, Benes realized his
six-month Reserve enlistment was moot, and extended indefinitely. He began to consider
going AWOL or finding a quick and painless way to commit suicide.
The
labor details continued refurbishing, testing, and shipping weapons and locating unexploded
munitions from artillery ranges. No leaves and long working hours were the new rule. Benes
noticed more empty bunks. Now down to fifteen men, five more apparently lost; AWOLs? Arrested?
Were men being sent away? Running away? Where were they disappearing to?
At the
start of Benes’s fifth week, Cpl. Saar called him to HQ. What a surprise! He rushed
there, wondering if his Officer Training application had come back to life. He wished now
he had never submitted it. Officer material? He laughed now at his stupidity.
Cpl.
Saar handed Benes an envelope and said he had been promoted to Corporal. Dumbfounded, Benes
opened the envelope, read the official letter, making promotion official. “What now?”
“You’ll
soon see, Cpl. Benes.” Saar stood, clicked his heels, and extended his hand. Benes
shook it, soft and cold.
He
returned to B35. The radio was playing its usual recent stuff—marches, patriotic
choruses, Gorka speeches, news of threats, emergencies, martial law, military alertness,
military callups and restrictions. No popular music.
Fearing possible reactions,
Benes kept his promotion secret. It might be interpreted as collusion with the officers,
the tyrants in power. One did not get promoted for good work, good deeds, wisdom, or positive
attributes. What mattered was usefulness to those at the top, who loved and possessed power
and always wanted more.
Later
that morning, an order came down to all men in B35 to pack up and board trucks to “The
Front,” wherever that was. It specified that Cpl. Benes was to report to Lt. Kral
upon arrival.
Benes
packed up, boarded a truck, and traveled eight hours on poor roads. The destination was
a military post on Aserna’s side of the border with Hudarli. Both sides looked identical.
Upon
arrival, Benes went to the Division HQ building and asked the sergeant at the desk for
directions. The sergeant inside informed him that Lt. Kral was no longer present and Captain
Mauer had taken his place. Benes soon found himself sitting across another battered metal
steel desk from another intimidating leader, a large man in his fifties with watery eyes
who, based on the number of butts in his enormous ashtray and his reeking whiskey odor,
was a chain-smoking alcoholic with not many years left on his meter.
“Corporal
Benes, reporting as ordered, sir,” Benes said.
“Welcome aboard, Benes,”
Mauer said in the voice of a strangling man. How’re you feeling on the verge of our
historical mission?”
“I’m
fine, sir. I have a few questions. Do you mind, sir?”
“Do I mind? Why would
I mind? It’s not as if I don’t have time for a little chitchat before we all
go to war with those evildoers across the border.” Mauer grabbed a canteen, refreshed
his palate, and stared at Benes.
“I was supposed to report to Lt. Kral, sir. I
wanted to thank him.”
“I’m sure he deserved
it, Benes. Running off as he did, before the first shot was fired, was a big favor to all
of us. Some might call it cowardice. Wiser men would say it was sound judgment. Anything
else, Benes?”
“The
mission, sir. We left camp in a big hurry, and no one there explained what the mission
was, exactly. All we got beforehand were hints, you know, from listening to the radio about
the Assembly bombing and the assassination attempt, and then cleaning up all those old
Kalashnikovs that were in storage. And rumors, of course, but you can never trust rumors.”
“Rumors
of war you can sometimes trust, Benes.”
“Sir . . . are you saying . . .”
“Our
mission is to cross the border and occupy Hudarli.”
“Ah, sir. I see. That’s
good to know. Very helpful indeed. It sounds simple. Just walk across and set up camp on
the other side?”
Mauer
laughed. “Very funny, Benes. No, not quite. Tomorrow morning, we will conduct a surprise
attack. First, the artillery to soften up the enemy. Then the infantry, of which you are
a part, will cross the border, meet with and overcome the enemy, overwhelming them with
our superior numbers and fighting skills. We will take no prisoners! Absolutely none. We
will treat any Hudarli in the designated attack zones as enemy combatants and treat them
accordingly. In short, we will overcome, defeat, and occupy Hudarli, and make their land
ours.” Mauer paused. “Why are you staring at me that way, Benes?”
“It’s
a lot to comprehend, sir.”
“I’ll give you several reasons.
Duty. Patriotism. To serve your country, for Aserna’s
benefit, to defeat evil, protect our way of life, to bring peace to the troubled, misruled
nation of Hudarli. Are those reasons enough?”
“Yes,
sir. Of course.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear that. Very encouraging.
You’ll have to keep those things in mind tomorrow morning after the artillery finishes
shelling Hudarli and the horn blows to cross the border, and you, as their leader, a young
Lieutenant, lead them across to charge, overwhelm, and conquer the enemy.”
“I’m
a Corporal, sir.”
“We’re short of
Lieutenants, Benes. Consider yourself promoted. Make the most of it in the hours you have
left.”