"Uh, sure." said Eddie. "Don't touchanything ," he said to the boys.

Outside, the two walked far enough away from the shed to be out of earshot.

Santee finally let loose the grin he'd been hiding. "So, it's not every day you get to whitewash a fence, eh, Tom Sawyer?"

Eddie beamed, relieved that he wasn't in trouble and rather pleased that Santee realized what he was doing. "Yeah."

"Okay then, time for a command lesson. If one of those kids double-charges a round and blows up a rifle, or worse yet a person, who's to blame?"

Eddie thought a second, and his face got serious "Me, I guess."

"Yep. So if you want to make this work, you better watch them. Keep the shifts short so they stay interested. Come up with safety checks for each round you load-after you put the powder in, a wood dowel should drop to the same level in each case."

"I'd thought of something like that. One caliber and load at a time, too."

Santee nodded. "Make a schedule. That shed is too small for a bunch of boys in there. I'll try to get Frank to talk up how important reloading is when he's around any teenaged boys. That should get you all the help you want." Eddie nodded, his face earnest.

"Now I'm going to go back in there and give you and those boys the safety lecture of your life, and read you the riot act on letting anyone in there unsupervised. That should scare them into taking this seriously...

Tom Sawyer."

Santee picked a beautiful day a few weeks later to try out their hand-loaded ammunition. He and Eddie took two hunting rifles, a .30-06 and a .308, along with a few hundred round of ammo loaded to various speeds. The idea was to find a mild but accurate load for each of the two main rifle calibers, and then try some full-power loads for the M-60 and Julie's wickedly accurate sniper rifle. (One of Julie's targets was hanging in the reloading shed, so all the shooters in town knew what it-and she-could do.) To keep the noise from disturbing the townspeople, they'd picked a shooting area far out of town, down a lane that led past the area of the Battle of the c.r.a.pper. They tied the rifles, ammo, and various spotting scopes and shooting gear to a primitive, unsteady cart they'd cobbled together and towed the whole a.s.sembly behind Eddie's dirt bike. Eddie rode slowly and carefully, shutting off the motor and coasting downhill whenever possible to save precious gasoline; Santee walked alongside.

On the far edge of the battle site they pa.s.sed a small clearing. "Look at that," Eddie said. He stopped the bike and pointed. "Germans have been out here with wood-axes. I wonder how long it took to chop that big tree down?"

"Hard to tell. I had to chop firewood by hand when I was your age, and it was a Pure-D b.i.t.c.h when the wood was tough. I had a good steel axe, too. The natives here probably don't have anything but bronze or iron axes."

"Miz Mailey would know, I guess, or another one of the teachers." Eddie got off the bike to examine the tree. "What I'm wondering is why they did this. It was after the battle-see here where the axe cut through this bullet track-but they just left most of the tree here after they cut it down. I'd only go to all that effort if I wanted that wood."

Santee was puzzled too, and scouted around the area. "Can't really tell, I guess. Maybe something scared them off? There are wolves around here; I've heard them at night. Or boars; I know wild boars are pretty mean and run in packs. Still, it doesn't make sense-there are at least four sets of footprints around here, and four people with axes should be able to take care of themselves. Weird."

They shrugged and went on toward their shooting area, which Eddie's friends had helped scout out for them. It was in a valley formed by a small creek, pointing up a gentle slope so stray shots wouldn't escape. They didn't expect this first set of ammunition to be particularly accurate.

a.s.suming that the point of aim with their lower power ammo would be off, they'd brought large sheets of cardboard with targets at the top, and now they set them up at one hundred yards. Then they put on earm.u.f.fs and safety gla.s.ses and started systematically testing the ammo, one load for one target, not adjusting for aim, just to see where the bullets were hitting and how they were grouping together.

After the second set of shots Santee squinted into the spotting scope. "Pretty good group there, Eddie.

What load is that?"

"What?" Eddie took off his earm.u.f.fs, and Santee repeated the question while he took off his own. "Uh, #14. I left the details back in town."

"Not a problem, just keep notes like we talked about."

Eddie scribbled. "Okay, got it. Let's go get the targets so we can measure... What was that?"

"What was what?"

"I heard something, like a scream. A long ways off." They paused, making no noise, waiting.

"There!" Eddie said. "You hear it?"

"No, but if you heard a scream, I believe you. I don't have young ears. Where'd it come from?"

"Can't tell. Maybe over that way." He pointed vaguely off to the left.

Santee quickly reloaded the two rifles and gave one to Eddie. Grabbing the spotting scope with one hand, he started up the side of the small valley, in the direction where Eddie had pointed, motioning for him to follow.

When they got to the top of the slope, they could see a farmstead about a half mile away; smoke was coming from one of the buildings. Santee quickly dropped p.r.o.ne and set up the spotting scope, peered through it, and stiffened. "d.a.m.n. s.h.i.t. There's some b.a.s.t.a.r.ds down there sacking that farm. The house is on fire, and I just saw a half-naked woman being chased by three guys. s.h.i.t."

"I'll go get the ammo." Eddie said, and rushed off before Santee could say anything. In a few minutes he was back with the canvas bag that held all their bullets, and had thought to throw in the canteens full of water. Santee had moved over to a low spot beside a fallen tree. Eddie dropped the bag beside him and began sorting out the ammo, which had gotten jumbled. He found a box of .30-06 for himself and handed a box of .308 to Santee.

"Eddie, put on your m.u.f.fs. I'm going to try a Julie and at least scare 'em good. They're bringing up a horse and wagon, I guess to haul away their booty."

The first shot wasn't close, but it kicked up dirt where he could see. By the time he'd fired the fifth shot and the magazine was empty, he was. .h.i.tting near the wagon, and he'd definitely provoked a reaction. The marauders turned the wagon to face him and started whipping the horse. He saw six or eight men run to the wagon as it started across the field toward them.

"They must know there aren't many of us by our rate of fire, and they must want modern guns real bad.

We've got to take out that horse." Eddie looked stricken, and he said, "Can't help it. Shame to waste a good animal, but he's their motor. Try that load #14 if you have any more. I can't seem to hit the f.u.c.ker."

They both kept firing at the wagon as it came slowly across the field. It was obviously heavy, and they didn't seem to be having any effect on it. Finally, as it got to the edge of the field where a lane ran in their direction, the horse suddenly dropped in its traces.

"Got the somb.i.t.c.h!" Eddie could barely hear him because of his earm.u.f.fs, but understood. He had rolled over and begun fishing for more ammo in the bag when Santee suddenly jumped up and swung his rifle around. Two shots rang out, the second one a deep boom that didn't come from Santee's gun. When Eddie turned to look, he saw a man with a wheel-lock slowly folding, blood on his chest. When he turned back to congratulate Santee, he saw him lying on the ground, on his side, writhing in pain. The gun Santee had been shooting was lying next to him demolished, the stock splintered.

Eddie dropped to his side. A continuous stream of quiet profanity now came out of Santee.

"Motherf.u.c.ker shot my rifle. s.h.i.t. I think it broke my f.u.c.king leg. s.h.i.t. See any blood?"

Eddie looked at Santee's right leg, which was already swelling. "No blood. Maybe just a bruise?

"I can feel the bone grating," Santee's said tightly. His face was white with pain. "Okay, here's what we do. Take a quick look at that wagon."

Eddie poked his head up and quickly ducked back down. "They cut the horse loose. It looks like they're about to get the wagon onto the lane."

"Okay, quick three-sixty and see if you see any movement."

Eddie looked. "I don't see anything. Probably they sent a guy ahead when they first heard us shooting, and you got him."

"What's the range to that wagon?"

Eddie took another quick look. "Three hundred yards, a little downhill. They've turned the wagon around, and I think they're pushing it this way."

"Sight in, bear down, and use the Julie loads. Aim for the center of the wagon. You should be able to punch right through it at this distance."

Eddie did as he was told, while Santee tried to fish through the bag of ammo for the .30-06 cartridges that would fit the remaining rifle.

Eddie had fired all five rounds in the rifle when he ducked down again.

"Santee? My turn to cuss. s.h.i.t. I just figured out why they chopped that tree down. They know how to stop our bullets: it just takes enough wood, and the bullet track in that tree they cut down told them how thick it had to be. They put a couple of feet of green wood planks on that wagon, and they go almost down to the ground. Without the horse they only have people to push it, so they're moving slow, but it's coming this way."

Santee handed Eddie some more bullets. "Shoot low, try to bounce one under the wagon."

Eddie shot again, then dropped back. "I think it worked. I saw one fall. I think they put him in the wagon. They stopped moving, for now at least."

"Okay. Now do as I say. Help me get up to the top of this ridge, and put the ammo next to me." Moving was clearly painful for him, and it took them a minute or two to get him set up in a good position, ammo and canteen within easy reach.

"Eddie. Get on your bike and go pick up that big motherf.u.c.king safari rifle. Then get your a.s.s back here and blow the s.h.i.t out of that wagon." Eddie started to started to open his mouth, but Santee stopped him.

"No arguments. This is an order, Eddie. Last lesson in soldiering: sometimes you gotta suck it up and do what you're told."

Eddie swallowed hard, and nodded.

"I'll wait for you here." Eddie nodded again and ran down the hill.

Eddie ran into Mrs. Tippett's house without knocking, running for the parlor where some of the guns were still stored.

"Young man, what are you doing?" she said, indignant at the intrusion, and followed him.

Eddie pushed the stacks of rifles aside, searching for the big safari rifle. "Santee's been shot. He's holding off the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds by himself. I gotta get the big rifle and get back there."

He found the rifle, tore it out of its case and slung it over his shoulder, then stuffed his pockets with the big bullets. Mrs. Tippett asked what she could do to help.

"Call the cops and tell them it's out past the c.r.a.pper where the battle was-Jeff and Larry and Jimmy Andersen will know where. Sorry about this"-he pointed to the mess he'd made-"I gotta go. You call them right now, okay?" He ran out the door and jumped on the still-running dirt bike.

The trip back to Santee was the longest of Eddie's life. He was no motorcycle racer, and the little dirt bike just couldn't go fast enough. He almost wrecked it once, when the big rifle slung across his back shifted, so he slowed down some, but kept speeding up again whenever the track was straight.

As he got close to the shooting area he heard a shot, which made him speed up even more. He'd only been gone a half hour or so, but the shot meant that someone-hopefully Santee-was still alive. He rode the bike up the slope but dumped it when it got too steep. He ran the rest of the way up to Santee, who was still there, shooting over the rise.

Santee turned and grinned. He had a trickle of blood running down the side of his face, and some splinters in his hair. "Good time," he said, a little weakly. "Good timing too. I think they were getting ready to rush me, but they heard your bike. That d.a.m.ned wagon's only fifty yards away now."

Eddie was panting. He didn't answer, just loaded the hotdog-sized cartridges into the big bolt-action rifle. It held only two in the magazine and one in the chamber.

"They're shooting from the back right side of the wagon. I think there are six of them left; they're reloading fast enough to make me keep my head down. I've only got twelve rounds left, but they don't know that."

Eddie crawled up next to Santee with the big rifle and got ready to shoot over the hill, but Santee stopped him. "No, you'll break your collarbone. You have to stand up to shoot that monster. Stand below the ridge bent over, then stand up and shoot right after I do."

"Okay... ready."

At Santee's shot, Eddie stood and sighted in on the lower right side of the wagon. When he pulled the trigger on the .577 T-Rex rifle, his world exploded. It felt like he'd been kicked by a mule in his right shoulder. He went blind for a second, and the rifle flew out of his hands. He had no earm.u.f.fs this time, and his ears started ringing painfully, but he could faintly hear"Mein Gott!" from the wagon. In pain, he picked up the rifle again and worked the bolt.

Santee was now aiming over the top of the ridge, hoping the attackers would break cover. Eddie's next shot did some damage to one of them, either directly or from flying splinters, because a loud scream of pain came from the wagon. This time Eddie didn't drop the rifle, but his shoulder was so bruised by the recoil he could barely work the bolt. Just the same, he readied his third shot.

"Got the f.u.c.kers scared now, Eddie. One more time."

At the third shot, there were more screams from the wagon, and the rest of the marauders broke and started running the other way. There were only four now, and one was limping. One took off uphill into the forest, but the other three ran straight down the lane. Not being used to the Americans' long-range rifles, they thought adding distance was the most important thing to keep them from being shot. They'd made several mistakes that day, starting with raiding a farm near American territory, but this was their last. Santee fired and missed; then with his last shot, two fell down-either one bullet hit two of them, or the limping man couldn't run any further. The last man ran away weaving down the road, then off through some trees, moving away from Santee and Eddie as fast as he could.

Though Eddie's ears were ringing, he still heard the horn from the pickup full of men from the town as it raced up the hill. Santee was now lying on his back with his eyes closed, and Eddie dropped to his side in worry, but then quickly relaxed. Dead men don't alternately grimace with pain and grin.

September, 1631 Santee limped into the downtown office that served as Army headquarters, and with his cane at his side, lowered himself carefully to a chair by Frank Jackson's desk.

"Hey!" Frank said, "Good to see you up and around. Eddie thought they wouldn't let you out for another week."

"Oh, I sweet-talked 'em. How's Eddie doing?"

"He's okay. His hearing's fully back now, and he's been drilling with the other soldiers. And he's started a regular little program, showing the younger teenaged boys how to reload. So, how's the leg?"

"It's healing fine. But I sure had to lie in that G.o.dd.a.m.n bed a long time. I'd have gone nuts if I hadn't had so many visitors."

"Well, after all, you're a bona fide hero."

"You mean I'm a bona fide dumba.s.s. I got shot. If I hadn't lowered my rifle to see what I shot, like a greenhorn, I'd be called Stumpy."

"Heroes get shot too, you know."

"Bulls.h.i.t. Heroes get dead. I got lucky."

"No, really. You and Eddie accounted for seven bandits, plus you saved a farmstead. That's not just luck." Santee grunted. "Mike and I think you deserve a promotion."

Santee looked alarmed. "Oh, Jesus!" he said in emphatic disgust. "No I don't. You'll want me to take on some new job I'll hate. I like what I'm doing! Leave me alone."

"Look, you're wasted just making lists of guns and pouring powder into little sh.e.l.l cases. You know so much more than that." Frank looked him straight in the eye. "Please, Santee, we really do need you. Your experience is just too valuable for us not to tap into. What'll it take to get you to say yes?"

Santee closed his eyes and thought for a long time. "Okay," he said finally. "Here's what I could do. You guys are going to have shavetails, right? Wet-behind-the-ears second lieutenants in your new army, right?

Eddie going to be one?"

Frank nodded, silent.

"Well, I could talk to them. Not all the time, not every day, my patience would go, but I'll talk to them.

Everyone else is going to be teaching them how to give orders. I'll talk to them about what it's like toget orders, and what happens when they f.u.c.k up. Maybe, just maybe, one of them won't get their jaw busted by a sergeant."

Frank sat back and beamed at him. "That's one of the best things you could do! From what they tell me, those kids in our officer candidate cla.s.s really need it, the Americans and Germans both. Half of them want to be their unit's best friend, and the other half want to be their lord and master. Neither way works worth a d.a.m.n, and someone's got to teach them that."

They talked a while longer and worked out the details. Santee still refused any official army t.i.tle, so he'd continue as the Chief Weapons Scrounger, even though most of the actual scrounging was now done.

He'd still manage the inventory and oversee the reloading program, but for most practical purposes he'd be a roving instructor for the new officers they'd be training.

"Maybe I'll call the course 'Command Is a Loaded Gun,'" Santee said, thinking about what he was agreeing to.

Frank grinned at him. "I think the Army will still want to call it 'Princ.i.p.als of Leadership' or some such boring thing. Notthat much has changed."