Spanky

A Short Story under 1,500 Words

Maybe if I had just played chess that day, I never would have seen a man die.  Or maybe that’s a stretch.  I mean, the two events were five years apart and on different continents.  But we draw connections in our minds to see where we could have made different choices.   Or maybe everything is just fate.  Maybe. Maybe.

During my senior year at Kingswood Regional High School, I thought I was funny.  Mrs. Burnham apparently didn’t think I was funny at all, at least while I was cracking jokes in study hall.  She reminded me more than once to be quiet.  She finally gave me an ultimatum, either play a game of chess, do some writing, or go to the principal’s office.  I could have played chess.  Eddy was sitting right across from and had the board and pieces out.  The board was made of cheap cardboard.  The pieces were small and plastic and one of the missing pawns had been replaced with a rock.  At least the rock was the same shade of off-white.  We were both on the school chess team and he would have jumped at the chance.  He also would have won.   I glanced over at him.  But just then, I heard a grunt that made me look to my right.

Andrew (never Andy) was furiously filling out some form.  He told me that he was applying for an Army ROTC scholarship.  He had an extra application and tossed it to me without another word.  He just pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and kept scribbling.  I don’t know why I filled it out.  I guess it was that or lose to Eddy.

Months went by and I got called for an interview.  My parents made me go.  There were no ultimatums like Mrs. Burnham.  No threats.  Just that look of disappointment when I suggested that I may skip it.   In our home, that was making you go.  I drove two hours to the University of New Hampshire, wearing the only suit I had, a grey one from Sears &Roebuck, passed down to me from my older brother Dean.  The pants were too short for me.  We called them “flooders” back then because even if there was a flood, the pant legs were so high they still wouldn’t get wet. 

I wasn’t nervous until I entered the interview room at Huddleston Hall.  Three U.S. Army officers stood behind a table.  Each of them had a chest full of ribbons, short hair, and intimidating eyes.  If I hadn’t suddenly become scared, I might have asked if they were related to each other.  Each shook my hand, stated their rank and name, and directed me to the lone metal chair facing their table with a one-word command, “Sit.”  By the time I did, I already forgot all their names. 

Suddenly and inexplicably, I wanted to do well.  I sat with rigid posture and tried to pull my pant legs down to an appropriate level.  The questions came fast but they seemed easy enough.  My confidence was increasing.  Then the tallest one, who seemed to be in charge of the other two, barked at me, “Tell us about your views on government ceiling spending.”  I was done at that point.  I had no Idea what that even meant, let alone be able to form an opinion on it.  Instead of addressing the specific question, I regurgitated some stuff from Mr. Colson’s Economics class on the laissez faire policy of minimum governmental interference.  They didn’t blink.  They just moved on. 

I knew we were almost done, when I was told by one of them that they just had one last question, “I see you are on the chess team,” the officer observed, “Can you achieve checkmate if all you have left is your king, one knight, and one bishop?”  I froze for a second thinking this is exactly how Detective Columbo catches the bad guy.  Just one last question.

“Absolutely,” I responded without hesitation or any idea whatsoever if I was correct. 

A few months passed.  I was awarded the scholarship at our end-of-year assembly at school.  Most of my classmates were surprised.  I didn’t have a reputation for being academic.

The next few years were a blur.   I went to training at Fort Bliss, in El Paso, TX.  Afterwards they shipped me off to an Army Air Defense unit on a lonely hilltop in Hontheim, Germany.   I was 23 years old, and I was the Assault Platoon Leader responsible for 41 men and women and $27 million dollars’ worth of equipment.   My clearest memories of my first year were the daily walks uphill from our offices at the base to the tactical site on top, especially on blistering winter days.   Each day I would repeat Rocky Balboa’s mantra to Clubber Lang in Rocky 3, “Ain’t so bad.  Ain’t so bad.”

By the second year, I was the most seasoned and experienced Lieutenant in the unit.  I was qualified and certified in every duty available.  One of the duties was to serve as a Missile Movement Supervisor.  Whenever we had to move the two-ton Hawk missiles, a certified officer or sergeant was required to monitor and approve each step, from the missile loader taking the missiles off the launch pad, to the loader, to the truck, and back again.  At the end of each exercise, we would repeat the process until the missiles were safely back on the launching pads.  As part of the qualification, I operated the loader several times.  I liked the way the three missiles would glide over me like a triangle, with one over each shoulder and the top one over my head.  I felt like I was safe in a cocoon with armor all around me. 

In January of that year, snow and ice were everywhere, but they felt more like concrete.  We had another exercise, so we loaded up all the missiles, trekked 40 kilometers away, and set them up again.  We did our drills, taught the “newbies,” and ate hot chow from the field kitchen mounted on the back of a 2 ½ ton truck.  The “deuce and a half,” we called it. 

The exercise was uneventful and after a few days it was time to go home.   We worked hard and fast.  By the time we made it back to our tactical site, night had fallen, and temperatures had dropped.  The temperature was five degrees below zero, but wind chills made it colder.    

I delegated one of the qualified sergeants to go be the Missile Movement Supervisor while I took care of paperwork.  I was tired, cold, and really just wanted to get some warmth.  My fingers still felt numb ten minutes later when I heard screams outside.  I ran. 

I arrived along with my Platoon Sergeant to find a crowd around the loader.  Soldiers were scrambling and crying.  The center missile had become dislodged, slipped, and was piercing the loader driver in his chest.  I drew closer to see that it was a young, affable, private, nicknamed “Spanky.”  He looked like Jesus on the cross with his arms stretched out wide as he looked up at me and uttered his last words, “why me?”  Even though he lost his pulse, we all struggled to pull the two tons of missile off his chest.  We finally did and brought his body into the maintenance building.  We covered him with a blanket that he would never feel. 

Before long, the German ambulance had arrived, and he was officially declared dead.  They had a wooden coffin and they asked us to put Spanky inside.  By then, rigor mortis had set in.  My Platoon Sergeant and I had to break both of his arms to make him fit.  I did not delegate the task.

A few days after, we had a memorial service.  A General came to speak.  He said nobody did anything wrong and it was determined to be a technical malfunction.  A Chaplain spoke.  The Brigade Commander.  Finally, they opened it up to anyone.  Spanky’s roommate slowly made his way forward, with tears in his eyes.  He bravely looked at all of us and shared that he had given Spanky that nickname, and that Spanky actually hated it.  He cried as he told us Spanky’s full name, not once, but twice.  He told us to never forget.  We vowed we would not.

A few years later and 3,000 miles away, I paused one cold morning to think about him, like I had a thousand times before.  But I couldn’t remember his real name.  The harder I tried and the more upset I got, the further it fell from my grasp.   I was sure that in time, a few minutes, a day, a month, it would come back to me.  But it never did.  

I remember more about that study hall than I do about that cold, tragic night.

I wish I had just played chess.

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