Anthonology

THE LIFE OF THE STRIPE

Only twice have I drawn on my two years military experience: here, and for my science fiction novel Mercenary. This fun-fantasy was rejected by F&SF, Playboy, Saturday Evening Post, Redbook, Rogue, Cosmopolitan and Knight before being published in Amazing in 1969. No great revelations or significance here, just a look at a phenomenon I noted along the way. I didn't like the Army; they refused to grant me my "leave" time (an illegal refusal, I believe) because they said I was too valuable as a survey instructor and math teacher to spare—then booted me from the job when my refusal to "volunteer" to sign up for their US Bond program—at 2.5% interest—prevented the unit from having 100% participation in that coercive program. Thus I was set to weed-pulling duty and the like, and limited to the rank of PFC for the duration of my two-year hitch. But this is the nature of the Army, as anyone who has served will verify. When there is trouble abroad, they call on the Marines, not the Army, to handle it. That does make sense.

Let's just say that he was a victim of circumstance. In one way, the court-martial that stripped him of his rank was merciful, but it was also easy for us to understand his anger and humiliation. One day he was M/Sgt Morton, twenty-two year veteran of the artillery; then—

You have to understand too that it was an exceedingly tight market for stripes. For six months there hadn't been a promotion in the battery, and a good thirty men were long overdue. With the Brushfire sucking up all the quota for overseas, and an administrative economy drive Stateside, such units had little opportunity to take proper care of their own.

That's why the BC—the battery commander—arranged to spread it out. He busted Morton in stages. He reduced him one grade and cut the orders for one new mastersergeant. That maintained the ratio, you see, and gave one good man his reward. You know the way it works.

On the second day he reduced Morton another stripe and passed it on, keeping it in the battery, so to speak.

In five days five men had their stripes, and Morton was down to PFC. That's when he cracked.

He stood up in the barracks at midnight and swore no one was going to have his last stripe. "I'm putting a curse on that stripe!" he screamed. "It's mine. It's mine!" Then he began throwing brushes and shaving cream and shoe polish from his locker, and the MP's had to haul him away.

It didn't change a thing, of course. We were all sorry for him, but it would have been a criminal waste to throw away that stripe. Morton couldn't keep it anyway, and with twenty-five men still far too long in grade—

The following day the orders came down for private Bruce Baal, henceforth PFC Baal. He was a nice guy nobody resented much, which made it a little easier for the others. The last stripe had been used up, and we expected things to settle down again.

Morton committed suicide.

Baal got nervous after that. Nothing seemed to go right for him. The guard-roster got fouled up and he had to march instead of getting the three-day pass he'd counted on; then some of his gear got misplaced and he was reprimanded for reporting for guard duty out of uniform. Finally he drew the one post where there was trouble: some civilian broke into the warehouse and Baal didn't catch it. He was a private again, less than a week after promotion.

The stripe went to Radburn. He was a big, hearty, strong lad, not overly bright but quite dependable. He worked in the motor pool.

Somehow the brake slipped on one of the trucks, and it rolled off the grease-ramp and smacked into the motor officers office. Radburn took the blame.

Keene didn't concern himself about the problems of the prior wearers of the stripe. He had been in six years and had been up to corporal and back twice. His attitude was laissez-faire; he figured either he'd be lucky and hold the stripe a few months before he showed up drunk again for duty, or he wouldn't. He lived for nothing but Softball, anyway.

He slipped in the latrine and broke his leg. The battery softball team had to face the season without its best man.

It was common knowledge that Keene got drunk next time on purpose. The stripe was developing a reputation, and he didn't want it any more.

Zelig got rolled the day after he made PFC. He lost almost a month's pay and, because he happened to be offpost without a pass at the time, the stripe.

Hartmann was implicated in the loss of some precision equipment in his care. Only after he'd been busted back to private did evidence turn up to clear him.

Fisk got his "Dear John" from his fiancee three days after taking the stripe. He walked up to the BC during inspection and cussed him out.

Drogo didn't wait. The moment he spied the order promoting him he wrote out a statement requesting an "undesirable" discharge. He claimed he was queer. The BC canceled the order and nothing more was said. (Drogo was married: four children.)

Suddenly it seemed there was no market for stripes. Stripes had had lives of their own ever since the grade-freeze began, but now every man in the battalion knew this one was cursed. It had to be retired.

About this time the economy drive loosened up a bit—somebody did a little math and discovered just how much it cost to train new men to replace the ones resigning—and a new stripe came down to the battery. This one was snapped up eagerly.

In only two days it became evident that the Morton stripe wasn't dead yet. The allocation may have been new, but the curse remained. It was retired again.

Three more were authorized the following month. Somewhat apprehensively, the selected men accepted them. The top name on the order got under a falling plank and tore his shoulder muscles. He kept the stripe—and was scalded as soon as he came off sick call by an exploding coffee-urn in the mess hall. He capitulated.

Suddenly the second man had problems. After the normal course had been run, the third one got it.

It was apparent that no one was going to hold a promotion until that stripe was dead.

But how do you kill a stripe?

So long as there were no promotions in the battery, the stripe was dormant. Fine—but the battery itself was dying. Requests for transfer piled the BC's desk, and men in other outfits went to great extremes to avoid transfer in. It was bad for morale; it cast its stigma upon the entire battalion and was even beginning to embarrass Post headquarters.

Word came down, couched in formal, almost incomprehensible army terminology, the essence of which was "or else!" Something had to be done, for a very important foreign dignitary from a nation something less than cordial was scheduled to tour the post, and this battery was on the itinerary. Change it? That was not the Army Way.

The BC had a bright idea.

And so it was done: the VIP was awarded a Genuine Honorary PFC stripe in token of improving relations between differing ideologies. He departed the battery with every indication of supercilious pleasure.

The accident, occurring as it did at a U.S. Army post, made unfortunate headlines. It did not trigger WWIII, quite, but the BC found it convenient to retire in a hurry. The stripe came home.

This time the word descended upon the battalion commander. The essence: "Do not make excuses. Clean it up." It was not necessary to add the "or else" this time, for I am the battalion commander, and I have just about time to make Light Colonel before retirement. I'm not stupid, as majors go. That, gentlemen, is why you see me out here in the rain, in the military cemetery, personally supervising this posthumous and somewhat irregular ceremony. I mean to be quite certain Private Morton knows, wherever he may dwell, that he is henceforth PFC Morton. I'm attaching the order to his headstone.

No one else has his stripe any more.

Any other questions?