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.”
