Free One to Count Cadence by James Crumley Page A

reference on his security clearance application, and after nine months at Fort Carlton, he came to the 721st. (The Alabama judge bit was only half a lie, and Joe Morning told it with such skill and a great ability to laugh at his troubles, that everyone, including me, believed it. Only Quinn ever suspected, and he was crazy. Even as I know the truth, I still think Morning told a fine story.)
    Morning was open and friendly with me from the start, as he was with nearly everyone, but I never knew quite what to make of him in the early days. Surely he hated the world order, the capitalist system, the American miscarriage of democracy, the slavery of the Army, the Philippines, Clark Air Base and the 721st; but not necessarily in that order, because his moods would change. But I don’t think he hated any single man. He would rail for hours against Southerners, but would defend the other Southerner on our Trick, Collins, to any and all comers. But to the South in general he shouted, “Freedom Now! Fuck understanding your particular problems!” It was the same with Filipinos: he thought them thieving, sneaky bastards. But each trick he risked a court martial for some Filipino private he didn’t even know. Morning hated Christians, particularly Catholics, but he would defend the Catholic Church against the accusation of holding back education three hundred years during the Middle Ages; and he probably knew his Bible better than any man I knew, but he hid his knowledge, and only shouted verses of damnation when he was crazy drunk. His friends never knew quite where he stood, but they did know that Joe Morning would do anything they asked, and seldom ask anything of them. When he did, it was with such great shyness that no one could refuse him. He was thoughtful to boot and kind in the bargain, and easily forgave the thoughtless and unkind acts of his friends. He could be cruel, moody, but he endured these things with a wry, self-effacing humor which took the bite out of the bitterness. Ordinarily he was a happy, perfect drunk, but once each month or so, he would lose control in a wild, insane night, and cry and fight and scream and beat his head on the floor till no one knew who or what he was…
    Such was Joe Morning, Joseph Jabez Morning, hanging between the sun and the moon, a man of great tides. Like all men without roots, direction or patience, he was a revolutionary, not a rebel but a revolutionary, a destroyer, a reacher for all or nothing for anyone. (It would be easier, so much easier, this history I record, if Joe Morning could have been a bad man, an evil heart, but he was good, and in his misguided virtue drove me to the evil of excess and even to murder, and in the end passed the avenging, burning, falling stone of revolution to me.)
    * * *
    He came to me the morning of Franklin’s salvation and asked, “Sgt. Krummel, the Trick is having a Roll Call in Town today, if you’d like to come.” Roll Calls were for the men, and no trick chiefs allowed unless asked by the men.
    “Thank you. I’d like that.”

3
Town
    By the time I ate and walked up to my room, the Trick had already changed out of their uniforms and gathered in my room.
    “What’s the hurry? I’m going to shower first,” I drawled.
    “Shower!” they screamed. “What are you? a preacher? You don’t shower before you go to Town!”
    Outvoiced, I reached in the closet for a pair of slacks.
    “What are you? Got a date or something? You don’t wear slacks to Town.” They were dressed in Town clothes, that is, everything from shoes to shorts which could be ripped, stolen, or shit on for all they cared. I tried a pair of Levi’s.
    “What are you, a new guy? No Levi’s, no blue jeans off base!”
    I took another pair, light brown, a knit shirt and a pair of buff Wellingtons, and sat them on the table. “Okay, troops, out,” I said, opening the door. “You just wait in the Orderly Room, I’ll be right down. As soon as I shit, shower, and