Primal Spillane Read online

  Target Terrors

  SLAMMING away with the sharp “slap” of high power rifles, the boys on the firing line poured a steady stream of bullets into the distant targets. Practice was becoming a serious thing for the boys at Camp Dixon, for in a few days there was to be a meet with other regiments from out of the state.

  Sergeant Kennedy walked the length of the line inspecting the group, but after each one he shook his head. Try as they might, these new recruits wouldn’t be able to match the scores of the regulars that they were coming up against. With only one week’s practice they were doing fine, but not good enough. He went over to Major Bixby. “It’s gonna be sad, Major!”

  “Think so, eh? Well, don’t worry too much. These kids pick up pretty fast. Maybe they’ll surprise you!”

  “I doubt it. Our pistol shooters are even worse. They can hardly hit the target, far less than the bull’s eye!”

  Practice was dismissed and the boys went back to the barracks. Most of them felt sure that their camp could take the meet, although half of them had never even handled a rifle before. Kennedy went to the pistol range, only to find the same thing there. Soldiers banged away, missing three out of five. The instructors were frantic trying to correct their mistakes, but to no avail.

  What a day, Kennedy thought to himself, what a day! It’s too bad we can’t bring in some of the old timers! He went to his shack and plopped in a chair, muttering to himself. If they lost this meet by the score he expected them to, he’d be the joke of the army!

  On the following day, the team members were selected to represent his barrack group. Only the eight best were selected out of each group, and when the sergeant saw their targets, he turned cold. Why, they were shooting only forty out of a hundred, while the other camps could stick them in the high eighties or nineties!

  Practice was held day after day, with the meet drawing closer, but there was little improvement. He bellowed and he bullied — he even babied, and all he got was a score rise of one or two points. Finally he tapped one contestant on the shoulder. “Can’t you do better than that!”

  “Gorsh, Sarge, I just cain’t seem to. This li’l gun doesn’t figger to help any, either. It won’t hit what I shoot at!”

  “Nerts!” said the sergeant, and stalked away.

  At the pistol range it was even worse. Two of the boys, who were better than most, ran up scores of fifty, which practically set a record for the group. Kennedy tore his hair out and gave it up as hopeless. Never in a hundred years would these mugs be able to shoot a gun. What would happen when they faced an enemy?

  “SERGEANT. Sergeant Kennedy!”

  It was the Major.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “How are things progressing, Sergeant?”

  “Rotten, er-er — I mean, terrible, sir! The outside team has this meet in the bag!”

  “That’s too bad. I understand that the winning team is getting a two week’s furlough. Well, that’s the way it goes!”

  Kennedy groaned. Just when G.H.Q. was feeling generous with furloughs, he’d get stuck with a team like this one! Phooey!

  Saturday was the meet — only one day off. Kennedy was so grouchy that no one could speak to him. He glared at the recruits like a cat at a dog. When his disgust was at its peak the phone rang.

  “Sergeant Kennedy? This is the hospital. I’m afraid that you’re going to lose nearly every one of your men for the meet!”

  “WHAT!”

  “Yeah, Denrier, Mason, Giles, Stuber, Remwick, and Brian have poison ivy. They’ll be out for a while. Oh — Joe Wilson got in a fight with Archie Ward and broke a finger. Archie has a sprained wrist.”

  Kennedy paled and hung up. All those men were on his team. “Ohhhhhh! What’s going to happen next?”

  “What’s up, Sarge?” a shrill voice piped up.

  “What’s up! Why, I just lose every man on my pistol squad and some on the rifles, and you ask what’s up! What’r ya, a wise guy!”

  “Now, don’t get sore, Sarge. I know what we can do! I’ll fill in for you, and Pete and his brothers can help some. There’s seven of them, you know!”

  “What do you office mice know about — pistols, anyway!”

  “Oh, just a little — but we’re as good as any of the rest you have. Come on, give us a shot at it, we’re sick of being cooped up at typewriters!”

  “Okay, Okay! You can’t be any worse! You’ll take over on the pistols and I’ll fill up the rifle spots with our cookie and his pot-wallopers. Once I saw them shoot a sixty, so they oughta do!”

  SATURDAY was a beautiful day, but not for Kennedy. The men from the other camps streamed in by truck and car to see the match. Somehow the word of the terrible scores and the new substitutes got around, and the ribbing that the Dixon boys took was something awful. Rumor had it that the out-of-state contestants were shooting close to perfect scores, which meant the end of Dixon’s hopes!

  But the gang was not easily discouraged. The kidding got under their skin until they were betting their shirts and what-not on the outcome. Major Bixby wore a worried frown as he met Major Johnson from the other camp. Johnson was smiling broadly. “Hello, Bixby, have you made any bets on the match?”

  Bixby was mad. “Listen, Johnson, I’ll make a bet. If we win you push a peanut around the parade grounds with your nose. If you win, I’ll do it!”

  “Major, you have a bet!”

  THE BOYS lined up on the range. Camp Blair was firing first, and they set about their job with a vengeance! Their rifles cracked steadily, making the targets “splat” with each hit. It was apparent that they were knocking out some fancy marks. If a new record wasn’t set it would be a wonder!

  When the targets were brought in and totaled up, the scores averaged ninety-two, a new record! Kennedy almost passed out when he saw it. He ambled up to his gang with a sigh and threw up his hands in resignation. “It’s all yours, fellows! Shoot it anyway you like!”

  “You all mean we can shoot how we please, Sarge?” asked the hillbilly on the squad.

  “Yeah, it won’t make any difference!” The sergeant set his jaw and put his hands in his pockets.

  “Hot dog, fellers, we can squint up the li’l ole barr’l any which way!”

  The hillbillies let out a funny yell and got in position. They seemed filled with new life. The spectators’ eyes almost popped out when they saw what happened. Instead of regulation positions, they lay every which way, aiming with the wrong eye, shooting lefty, using a wet finger to find wind drift and what-not. Kennedy stood dumbfounded … his mouth dropped open.

  “Well, I’ll be — !” he muttered.

  It was a strange story when the targets came in. The centers were shot completely out of them. They had set a new record five minutes after the other bunch! Everyone was screaming their lungs out when they moved to the pistol range.

  But Kennedy was still dejected. The pistol average would be sure to lose the meet for them. Imagine having three typists on the team, men who hadn’t held a gun since they came to camp! He could’ve cried. What he wouldn’t give for just one pistol expert!

  Again the Blair boys lined up first, shooting by relays to make the event more spectacular. One by one they banged away, peppering the black bull’s eye with holes. Their shooting was superb! After every shot a tremendous cheer went up. This bunch was good!

  WHEN the last man had finished they counted up. Ninety-six out of a possible one hundred was the average! Incredible! That was sharpshooting for sure! Major Bixby and Sergeant Kennedy shook their heads in unison. Already Bixby had horrible pictures of himself pushing that peanut around.

  Dixon’s team came by, the three typists in the lead. They winked broadly as they went by. All morning they had been practicing as a team, secretly. They lined up, raised their guns to eye level in one smooth motion — then let go! Volley after volley poured into the black spot.

  The amazement on everyone’s face was funny. Never had they seen such shooting, and from a group of letter-mec
hanics! Even the other team gaped with wide opened mouths. The Dixon boys never let up, until their last cartridge was spent. Their score read … ninety-eight out of a hundred! Another record!

  AFTER the shouting died down a little, Kennedy got the team together. “Now give, you mugs! How didja do it?”

  The hillbilly spoke first. “Well, we never could get used to squintin’ army fashin’, so when you told us to do what we liked, we used the Kaintucky rifle style!”

  The camp cook laughed heartily, “I used to own a rifle range at Coney Island! These other kitchen sweepers were my help!”

  With a broad grin the typist turned to Kennedy. “We used to be trick shooters in the circus before the army got us. We just polished up the old act a little bit and went to it!”

  “Well, can you beat that!” Kennedy said softly.

  Just then, Major Bixby ran by holding a peanut. “Johnson!” he yelled, “Oh, Major John–son!”

  ***

  The Mouse Fights Back

  For the umpteenth time, Cuthbert Cashmere, of the Back Bay Boston Cashmeres, stood in front of the examining doctor on the Army Board. Every week since the war started he had stood in front of a sawbones with a quart of milk and a dozen bananas in his stomach to keep his weight up, but it seemed that the added bulk only served to shove his arches down further … so he was rejected for flat feet. If it wasn’t that, it was something else. The docs found more things wrong with him than an Army mechanic could find with an old Model T.

  But, nevertheless, Cuthbert was persistent … sooner or later somebody would overlook something and he could go home in a soldier suit and give his ritzy friends the horse laugh. They said that the Army wouldn’t take him even if the U. S. were invaded … and to date it looked as if there was a lot of truth in what they said.

  THE DOCTOR held the stethoscope against his chest. “Hmmmm,” he said. He moved it around a bit then said another, “Hmmmm.” By this time Cuthbert Cashmere was beginning to figure out where the next enlistment station was that he could take a crack at. This wasn’t any too promising looking. But lo and behold, the medico dropped the gadget and scribbled an O.K. on the sheet and sent him on to the next examiner!

  Cuthie breathed deeply and went over. This fellow was the one to be careful of … the dog man, he checked for flat feet … and recruit Cashmere had ’em!

  “Next. Come on … step it up!” Cuthbert hopped into line. The doc took a good look up and down scrawny Cashmere and felt his feet. “Ever have any trouble with the feet?”

  “Nope. Usta have flat ones, but I’ve been walking on my toes for a month now.”

  The doctor hid a grin at that. “Anxious to get in I suppose?”

  “Well.” Cuthbert replied. “I was — but I’ve been turned down so many times I’m beginning to get discouraged!”

  The doc grunted a few times, picked up the sheet and wrote. He handed it back with a big smile and walked away. Cuthie was afraid to look at it, but … O.K., it said!

  Over behind the curtains the doc was talking to his colleagues. “This guy Cashmere wants to get in, so don’t be rough on him. I guess he must have tried every office in the country. He’ll be a good man … give him a break.”

  The rest nodded and smiled … and when little Cuthbert went through the rest of the exam he could have fallen over. Every one of the doctors “Oohed” and “Ahaad” when they saw his physique.

  When he got finished Cuthbert Cashmere felt like a man!

  THE REST was a snap. Cuthie’s muscles were all in his head, and it didn’t take anyone very long to find it out. Three weeks after he landed at camp he was a Sergeant! However … when the boys took a look at their new boss, all he got out of them were loud guffaws. “Mouse,” they called him, and he certainly looked it. His clothes were too big, and his frame too skinny. Sticking out in front of his face was a nose that kept wrinkling like it was sniffing cheese.

  Poor Cuthbert Cashmere, all he was to the men under him was a mouse … and a mouse doesn’t command respect! But there was one thing they didn’t figure on … Cuthie was smart! When the men marched they looked like something the cat dragged in. So, with a twist of his nimble brain, Sergeant Cuthbert found a plan. He marched them onto the parade ground … let out a squeaky “for-awrdddd, march!” … and had them go by the officers’ recreation hall. All day long they paraded with the eyes of Major Dooley on them. The Major had always said that Cuthie could never be a good Sarge … but he took notice when the boys went by.

  Never once did they let their shoulders drop, never once did their eyes move out of line … for Major Dooley was known as a tough man … and they weren’t taking any chances. So even if it wasn’t any of their doing, the men of the Cuthbert squad became efficient soldiers. At night they stood around the barracks telling each other what they would do to Mr. Cashmere when they got him alone some night. But Cuthie never went out at night, so all they did was talk … that is, all except one guy. Big Hank Faller was made a physical training instructor, and when he taught the boys wrestling, he used the little Sergeant as a subject.

  Man! Did the boys laugh when Cuthbert went sailing through the air and landed flat on his back! What Hank didn’t do to him was nobody’s business. Three days of it and Cuthbert was five feet five of sore joints and big blue bruises. Here Mother Nature stepped in and took a hand. The lessons continued as usual, with the laughing audience getting the thrill of a lifetime out of the Sergeant’s discomfort. There was one thing they didn’t notice, however, Cuthie was losing the black and blue marks he had acquired earlier in the week. Then, too, all this violent exercise was making him eat … besides which, he had stood up to Hank so long that he was beginning to learn just what Hank was trying to teach the men …

  THEN came the day that Major Dooley told the boys that he was going to sit in on their classes to see how they were progressing. One of the men, jokingly, told the Major that Cashmere was doing the teaching now … and Dooley just laughed and laughed. He even invited a bunch of the officers to the show to teach them what happens to a pint-sized Sergeant in this war! The Major, being a six-footer himself, just didn’t hold with little men. Cuthbert’s marching and general drill had been okay … somehow, but now here was the test to prove a man’s personal ability.

  Shaking like a leaf in a high wind. Sergeant Cuthbert Cashmere sat in his hut chewing his hat. He groaned to himself whenever he thought how fate led him into this trap. Finally he sat up straight and took a deep breath.

  “Why should I worry?” he said to the walls. “Sure, I’ll get beat up again … maybe … yeah … maybe!”

  His wily brain started to buzz again, and a smile tugged at his mouth. Soon that smile was a grin, then he broke out into a laugh. Yes … if his plan worked … there would be some pretty silly explanations to be made by a certain party!

  AN ORDERLY called for him. “Hey, Sarge, time to get over to the hall!”

  Cuthbert put his half digested hat on and walked out. At the hall he took his seat and watched Hank walk onto the mat-covered square in the middle of the group.

  “Men,” Hank bellowed, “tonight we will demonstrate the art of self-defense. I need a subject. Perhaps Sergeant Cashmere …?”

  Cuthie nodded and went up. For some reason the men cheered. Maybe they liked the way Cuthbert took his daily punishment without a whimper. And no one particularly cared for Hank anyway … he talked too loud.

  The “ring” was ready for action. All eyes were on the two … big brawny Hank … and the little but now-wiry Sergeant. Determined to make it a fancy show, Hank rushed out with a roar intending to squash Cuthie … but Cuthie wasn’t there and Hank ran into the front row! What a holler he let out! He came back mad, dived at Cuthie and almost broke his neck when Cuthbert leaped clear. This was something … the men were standing on their feet cheering their heads off. The mouse was fighting back!

  Then … Hank grabbed a wrist. He turned and yanked … expecting Cashmere to fly over his shoulder, but Cuthbert’s
feet wrapped around Hank’s neck and down they went! Then all you could see was a flurry of arms and legs. Hank was trying for any kind of a hold now, but all those days of getting banged around had taught Cuthie just about everything Hank had to offer, and when Hank made a stab for one of those limbs that was dangling out of the pile, it just wasn’t there!

  Suddenly Cashmere leaped up. Hank tried to lumber to his feet when a couple of sinewy hands got him under the chin and flipped him onto his back, before he knew it he was down … but only for a minute. He threw Cuthie off him with a yell and tore in. Cuthbert dropped to his knees and Hank tripped over him. Then before he could move, Cuthbert had him by a leg and began to drag him around on his stomach!

  HOW Hank kicked! He wriggled like a steer, but the Sergeant hung on. Every time Hank went to get up, Cuthie gave a yank and Hank went down again. The men were screaming with joy. They waved and shouted until you couldn’t hear a cannon roar in the place.

  Hank couldn’t stand it anymore. With a terrific kick he loosened Cuthie’s hold and jumped to his feet. Here the wrestling ended and the fight really started. Hank pulled back his fist and sailed in. Lefts and rights whistled through the air … but nothing happened … Cuthbert just wasn’t there again! The sergeant took a swing of his own, popped Hank on the button by luck, and almost broke his fist on that iron jaw, knocked himself down with the effort, and in falling, his foot came up in a wide arc.

  Now, even the foot on the end of a skinny leg is something a big guy can’t argue with, especially when it catches you right under the chin … and this one did! Hank hit the deck with a thud!

  And then did the men cheer! Major Dooley went back with his arm around Cuthbert’s shoulder telling him how it will be the little guys that will win this war. No one would believe that kick was an accident … and brother, you ought to see that “mouse squad” march now!