Free MATT HELM: The War Years by Keith Wease

mortals to comprehend, let alone master.  I've been known to tell beginners how hard it is to shoot straight, myself.  Actually, making a boat or horse go where you want it to, or making a gun go bang in approximately the right direction, isn't all that tough once you've decided not to let the experts intimidate you.  Sailing, however, seems to attract an inordinate share of these unforgiving experts.  You've got to call everything by the right name or the damn boat will sink like a rock.  At least that's the impression I got from the dockside geniuses.
     

We had been sent to Annapolis for a two-week course in small-boat handling for spooks who might be put ashore on strange coasts and were learning to do things the Navy way, on the water, at least.
     
    We'd each been given a two-week leave before reporting to Annapolis.  I'd spent part of mine in Albuquerque with an old friend - well, girlfriend - who was willing to overlook our last disagreement.  She hadn't appreciated, nor understood, my sudden decision to join the Army.  She thought it was just terrible that men had to kill each other and why did I have to stoop to that level?  I think Kathy also had other plans for me which involved a ring and a church, but that was strictly a one-way proposition.  I avoided the subject as much as possible to keep the peace, but anyone who calmly eats meat of any kind while railing against the hunters who kill those poor animals is not going to figure much in my long-range plans - especially matrimony.
     
    I always swore that the first time I met a girl with smoke still curling up from the barrel of her rifle, a hunting knife in her hand and blood up to her elbows from dressing out her kill, I would propose on the spot.  I knew there was at least one like that out there somewhere.  My life would have been a cruel joke if there wasn't.  Meanwhile, while I was waiting for my dream girl, simple biology played its own jokes on me.  I seemed to be constantly getting involved with otherwise intelligent females who looked at me in horror when I insisted on my annual hunting trip.  You'd think I would have found one who, although not sharing my interests to the point of joining me, would at least be tolerant enough to indulge my infrequent forays into the wilds.  The closest I ever came was one who condescended to join me on a fishing trip, but refused to touch a worm or a fresh-caught fish.  She was, however, perfectly willing to eat the fish after I did the necessary preliminary work, including the cooking.
     
    I'll admit I don't understand this aversion on the part of the current female population to harm an animal which, for thousands of years, had provided sustenance to their ancestors.  It seemed to me we were breeding most of the survival instincts out of the human race.  I can't remember anything that startled me more than one episode during training.  I'd found myself being attracted to Stella, despite her attire.  Well, the fact that she was the only female in sight might have had something to do with it - I'm human, regardless of some opinions to the contrary.  She might have been inexperienced with firearms, but put a blade or a garrote in her hands and she was sudden death.  She got carried away in one practice session and damn near strangled me when I failed to get my hand between the loop and my neck.  She was concentrating so much that Rasmussen, the instructor for the class, had to stop her before she did some permanent damage.  She immediately apologized and, far from being upset, I was looking at her with a new respect.
     
    Later that night, a few of us were sitting around the canteen, discussing various hunting experiences.  Stella came by and I half-jokingly - if she'd accepted I would have gladly followed through - suggested she join me in a deer-hunting trip after training to give her some practice with a real live target.  She looked at me in astonishment and coldly stated, "I would never