Stick with the Majority

"Private Samuel Owen, I'm telling ya, don't bother with that man yonder."

Private Daniel Jensen, who had been at the Takenhuti Base four long years more than Owen, who had just been transferred from Hong Kong, directed a warning forefinger towards the brittle-looking man sitting alone some seven yards away.

"Why?" The inevitable question of the younger man floated in the air. "He don't look so bad."

Jensen doused his standard-issue U.S. Army cigarette against the olive helmet in his arm somewhat exasperatedly.

"Well, to tell ya the truth, son," Jensen replied slowly, leaning against a slender palm trunk. "The man is a real regular priss. You go up to him, ask him for a light, and he just looks up and spits at ya. He ain't got no friend in the world, no family neither. Never laughs, never opens 'is mouth 'cept to cuss or boast like a sailor, and he's said to sneak around the base after nightfall pickin' up bugs fer to eat . . . but the last one mighta' just been the result of Franklin Pickering's wild imagination, which I'll tell ya about later."

"Who is he?" Owen gazed curiously at the subject of their conversation. The loner was unwrapping a bit of chewing tobacco. Facing the opposite direction, he was oblivious to the two other men watching as he gazed thoughtlessly at the beach not far away from him.

"His name is Private Gary Cormic on the roll, but no one, 'cluding Colonel McKane, has called him that for years. We've titled him O'l One-Eye--see how he squints at the sun so? That's the reason. He got shot hard near close to his right eye one time, that's how come he got the squint. Would ya know, he's been in more battles than either of us will ever see? That is his only claim to fame, or so Ben Allison said last night."

"You don't say." Owen wrinkled his nose in deep thought.

"Yep. Ol' One-Eye, he's always roaring about how us young 'uns should give him 'respect' and all, just because he's been through 'every major assault on this base since before the British left it.'"

"You believe him?"

"Why not? He's shown us 'is ol' British gun. It's a real ugly thing. I guess that once the British left, he kinda stayed on until the grand old U.S. of A. came in and sorta took over."

Owen stared at the man who seemed so despised by his fellows. He felt some pangs of sympathy for the old Briton, deciding that it was simply national prejudice that prevented his being social.

"I'm going to go talk to him, mate. He looks downright unhappy."

Owen had a British aunt and uncle--perhaps with that connection he would be able to work his way into the favor of the aging infantryman. Besides, he wanted to see if someone who had survived so many years of warfare had any tips on self-preservation. Owen had a beautiful fiancé at home, and absolutely was going to live through the war. He had no choice.

"Don't ya do that! Really, ya don't know what yer getting yerself into!" Jensen shook Owen's shoulder. "And of course he's unhappy . . . he's always been unhappy, and always will. Don't take it upon yerself to do the impossible."

Owen looked at the ground. "All right, if that's what you think," he muttered uncertainly.

But he resolved to at least keep one of his own eyes on the strange creature they called Ol' One-Eye.

--

Private Gary Cormic glared at base of a thin palm tree a few feet away, his jack-knife poised in midair. A stick of driftwood he had been whittling into a pipe lay forgotten on his knee. He could have sworn, and then actually did so very loudly, that there had been a pair of field glasses pointed in his direction from the top branches of the palm.

"You American scum, get down outa there and face me like a man!" He spit fiercely on the ground and stared intensely into the tree's gently swaying branches. Suddenly, an abrupt movement rewarded his alertness. A shrill cry pierced the air, and a little monkey was leaping out of the tree to another, with a cheeky grin and lovely orange fur.

Without a word, Cormic angrily took up his rifle. He took a split second to aim, then fired. The monkey, flying through midair, did not even have time to shriek. It simply dropped like a stone before Cormic's feet. Cormic gave a snort of approval and turned back to his whittling. He was startled to see the new boy, whose name he did not know, standing aghast.

"That was one hell of a shot." Owen did not bother to conceal his genuine awe.

Cormic was flustered. He was not accustomed to being complimented. "Hell yes it was, now you keep a civil tongue, young man!"

Unexpectedly, Owen grinned broadly. "Well, the boys at the base sure were wrong about you!"

Cormic raised an eyebrow, too late deciding not to act interested. "What . . . oh, humbug."

Owen caught on to Cormic's hidden curiosity. "They've said you wouldn't even speak to me. Well, even the majority can be wrong."

Cormic gruffly nodded, and sat down again to resume his woodworking. "Certainly."

Owen was not sure how to go on with the conversation. "So."

Cormic, though, seemed eager to pursue conversation. "Have you been the lad watching me lately?"

Owen saw it was fruitless to lie. "Yes, sir."

Cormic turned and gazed into Owen's eyes searchingly. "Young lad," he said in a tone bordering unctuous, "Don't follow me anymore. I stay on my own 'cause it's what I like, see?"

Owen began to defend himself. "Sir, I have an aunt and uncle who still live in England, and both my parents are--"

"Do you think I damned care?" Cormic squinted mercilessly at the other man. "You're sucking up to me for some reason, you skunk, but I see through you. I see through you!" He stood to put more emphasis on his tirade, to seem more intimidating. "You, with your fool's compliments and calling me 'sir'! No self respecting man ever called me 'sir' and you know it! You're mocking me, that's what you are; dirty, rotten, good-for-nothing--"

But he stopped when he saw that the boy was walking away. Owen wasn't too foolish not to take a hint.

--

It was a week later when the base was attacked for the first time since Owen's arrival. Owen was scared; it was his first time in actual combat. In Hong Kong, he had worked as a clerk in a military storehouse, so although he knew how to shoot dozens of guns, he never had shot a man before in his life.

Owen crouched in the thick underbrush, watching as, one by one, Colonel McKane directed men forward to ambush the enemy from behind. He saw many men go that he knew--Ben Allison, Franklin Pickering, and even Daniel Jensen. However, there was one man he did not see head towards the battle--Gary Cormic. Suddenly, Owen spotted him, some yards away from anyone else.

Cormic was edging slowly backwards, as though preparing to run and pounce on some unseen foe. Finally, with a surreptitious look back and forth, he abruptly turned around and raced off as fast as he could go. Curious to see what Cormic was going to do--was he going to take a shortcut to the battle? Get more ammunition? Set a fuse to blowup the enemy?--Owen shouldered his gun and pursued.

Cormic ran a long ways. He did not stop until he reached a large, oddly-shaped rock. This he scuttled beneath, like a spider.

Owen looked around. The area around him was clear of gunfire and, actually was somewhat peaceful for the deep jungle. He didn't even think he could hear the shots anymore . . .

Then he realized what this meant. Cormic was not committing any valiant deed. He was not assisting his fellow men in the fight. He was not risking his life for his country and freedom. Gary Cormic was a deserter; no more great than a stinking, yellow-livered rat.

Owen became instantly enraged. "Cormic!" he yelled, approaching. His gun was cocked.

Knowing he was defeated, Cormic crawled from beneath the rock. He might have been mistaken for a puppy denied a walk. Weakly, he raised his hands above his head.

Owen looked at him and sneered. "Cormic! You devil! Is this what you call fightin'?"

Cormic grit his teeth and remained silent.

Nodding, Owen advanced and looked Cormic up and down. "You know, I thought there was something good about you. That you were just the guy everybody misunderstood. Even after the last time we met, I maintained that you were just shyer than most men, that you really weren't all that bad. But I should have not made my own minority and followed the majority--they were all right. You can't even keep your head up in battle. You run away, you leave earnest, good men to die. Men you could have saved, maybe, with your sharp shooting skills. So selfish, to keep all that talent to yourself. No wonder," Owen began to laugh, "No wonder you survived all those battles--you never even fought in them!"

Cormic had absolutely nothing to say.

"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" Owen taunted devilishly. Then he raised his rifle and put it to Cormic's head. "You're too cowardly to even face a gun, aren't you?"

Cormic closed his eyes and gulped in reply. He was too humiliated for words.

"You sure don't have a problem with shooting poor innocent little monkeys, do you? Just because they don't have one in a million chances with you--they don't have guns." With a disgusted sigh, Owen uncocked his gun and shouldered it. "Don't worry, I wouldn't kill you. I've never shot a man before, and I'm definitely not going to make you my first."

Cormic looked from Owen to his own rifle, which lay under the rock. "It . . . it is not too late to change, is it, lad?"

Owen's eyes lit up. Had he made a difference in this man's life? "No, sir. It isn't." Maybe he was originally right about Cormic . . . the poor man just had needed some encouragement . . .

In a flash, Cormic ducked down, grabbed his rifle, and ran towards the thick of battle.

"Yeah! Go Ol' One-Eye!" yelled Owen in spite of himself.

But as Cormic forged ahead with a fierce, determined spirit, the crack of a shot rang out, echoing through the forest. Cormic staggered in his run, and fell. Owen gazed in horror.

The rumbling of a jeep accosted him. Fearing that the man who had shot Cormic would be in it, Owen scrambled under the rock Cormic himself had abandoned. That was his mistake.

"Private Owen!"

Colonel McKane and two other men Owen did not recognize drove up to the rock.

"Get out from under there!"

--

Two weeks later, there were two significant events that took place in the Takenhuti base. First was the funeral of Private Gary Cormic, 'an honorable man who died defending his fellow army men in battle.' Or so they said.

The second major event was the trial of Private Samuel Owen, who was found guilty of being, as Jensen said later: a 'low-down, lily-livered . . . deserter'.