"My fault, Captain. That's why I want to be transferred. Uh, sir, I think it's best for the outfit."
"You do, eh? But I decide what's best for my battalion, not you, Sergeant. Charlie, who do you think pulled your name out of the hat? And why? Think back twelve years. You were a corporal, remember? Where were you?"
"Here, as you know quite well, Captain. Right here on this same godforsaken prairie—and I wish I had never come back to it!"
"Don't we all. But it happens to be the most important and the most delicate work in the Army—turning unspanked young cubs into soldiers. Who was the worst unspanked young cub in your section?"
"Mmm..." Zim answered slowly. "I wouldn't go so far as to say you were the worst, Captain."
"You wouldn't, eh? But you'd have to think hard to name another candidate. I hated your guts, ‘Corporal' Zim."
Zim sounded surprised, and a little hurt. "You did, Captain? I didn't hate you—I rather liked you."
"So? Well, ‘hate' is the other luxury an instructor can never afford. We must not hate them, we must not like them; we must teach them. But if you liked me then -- mmm, it seemed to me that you had very strange ways of showing it. Do you still like me? Don't answer that; I don't care whether you do or not—or, rather, I don't want to know, whichever it is. Never mind; I despised you then and I used to dream about ways to get you. But you were always on the bounce and never gave me a chance to buy a nine-oh-eight-oh court of my own. So here I am, thanks to you. Now to handle your request: You used to have one order that you gave to me over and over again when I was a boot. I got so that I loathed it almost more than anything else you did or said. Do you remember it? I do and now I'll give it back to you: ‘Soldier, shut up and soldier!' "
"Yes, sir."
"Don't go yet. This weary mess isn't all loss; any regiment of boots needs a stern lesson in the meaning of nine-oh-eight-oh, as we both know. They haven't yet learned to think, they won't read, and they rarely listen -- but they can see... and young Hendrick's misfortune may save one of his mates, some day, from swinging by the neck until he's dead, dead, dead. But I'm sorry the object lesson had to come from my battalion and I certainly don't intend to let this battalion supply another one. You get your instructors together and warn them. For about twenty-four hours those kids will be in a state of shock. Then they'll turn sullen and the tension will build. Along about Thursday or Friday some boy who is about to flunk out anyhow will start thinking over the fact that Hendrick didn't get so very much, not even the number of lashes for drunken driving... and he's going to start brooding that it might be worth it, to take a swing at the instructor he hates worst. Sergeant—that blow must never land! Understand me?"
"Yes, sir."
"I want them to be eight times as cautious as they have been. I want them to keep their distance, I want them to have eyes in the backs of their heads. I want them to be as alert as a mouse at a cat show. Bronski—you have a special word with Bronski; he has a tendency to fraternize."
"I'll straighten Bronski out, sir."
"See that you do. Because when the next kid starts swinging, it's got to be stop-punched—not muffed, like today. The boy has got to be knocked cold and the instructor must do so without ever being touched himself or I'll damned well break him for incompetence. Let them know that. They've got to teach those kids that it's not merely expensive but impossible to violate nine-oh-eight-oh... that even trying it wins a short nap, a bucket of water in the face, and a very sore jaw—and nothing else."
"Yes, sir. It'll be done."
"It had better be done. I will not only break the instructor who slips, I will personally take him ‘way out on the prairie and give him lumps... because I will not have another one of my boys strung up to that whipping post through sloppiness on the part of his teachers. Dismissed."
"Yes, sir. Good afternoon, Captain."
"What's good about it? Charlie—"
"Yes, sir?"
"If you're not too busy this evening, why don't you bring your soft shoes and your pads over to officers' row and we'll go waltzing Matilda? Say about eight o'clock."
"Yes, sir."
"That's not an order, that's an invitation. If you really are slowing down, maybe I'll be able to kick your shoulder blades off."
"Uh, would the Captain care to put a small bet on it?"
"Huh? With me sitting here at this desk getting swivel-chair spread? I will not! Not unless you agree to fight with one foot in a bucket of cement. Seriously, Charlie, we've had a miserable day and it's going to be worse before it gets better. If you and I work up a good sweat and swap a few lumps, maybe we'll be able to sleep tonight despite all of mother's little darlings."
"I'll be there, Captain. Don't eat too much dinner—I need to work off a couple of matters myself."
