Free B000FC0RL0 EBOK by Jerry Stiller

said as he pulled up at the package store. “You’d better take off the MP band and get rid of the .45.”
    I obeyed, stowing everything in the rear compartment of the jeep. I got back in the jeep. It was one of those blistering hot days when the rising dust particles reflect and the sun creates a Hollywood sunset.
    I waited in the jeep just as a civilian car drove up and an elderly major got out and also entered the store. He gave me an odd kind of glance. A woman, no doubt the major’s wife, remained in the car. The sergeant emerged carrying a brown paper bag. He handed it to me and asked me to stick it in the back compartment as he jumped behind the wheel. The major, carrying a purchase himself, bounced out the door of the package store.
    “Let’s go,” the sergeant said, the wheels screeching as he put the pedal to the metal.
    “Do you think he’ll follow us?” I asked.
    It was now dusk, and through the dust I could see headlights. The vehicle behind us speeded up. It was the major’s car. The sergeant slowed down. “We’ll see what he wants.” He seemed unperturbed.
    The car pulled alongside, forcing us off the road. The major got out and advanced toward the jeep.
    “Dismount,” he ordered. The sergeant and I obeyed, then saluted. We were silhouetted against a moon that was just beginning to rise on one horizon as the sun was disappearing on the other. The major looked directly at me and said, “What were you doing in that liquor store, soldier?”
    I didn’t answer.
    He repeated, “What were you doing in that liquor store, soldier?”
    “I was not in that store, sir,” I answered.
    “Are you calling me a liar?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Is there any liquor in that vehicle?” he asked.
    “I don’t know, sir.”
    “Why don’t you open the hatch.”
    I walked hesitantly to the back of the jeep.
    “Open it,” he ordered. I did.
    “Take out what’s in there.”
    I reached in and pulled out the MP band.
    “Why aren’t you wearing it?”
    “I thought I’d take it off,” I said.
    “What else is back there?”
    Once again I reached in and lifted out the .45 automatic.
    “What’s it doing back there?”
    “I don’t know, sir.”
    “Is there any liquor in this jeep?”
    “I don’t know, sir.”
    “Why don’t you look.”
    I removed the brown paper bag.
    “What’s in the bag?”
    “I don’t know.”
    I stopped calling him sir. Was he trying to get me to pin it on the sergeant? Why wasn’t he questioning him? Why didn’t the sergeant own up? Nevertheless, Lower East Side ethics were in force: Never squeal.
    “Take it out of the bag,” the major said.
    I removed a bottle of bourbon from the bag.
    “What are you holding in your hand?”
    “I don’t know, sir.” I was calling him sir again, hoping he’d let up.
    “Hold it up,” he ordered.
    I lifted the bottle above my head.
    “What’s in that bottle?”
    “I don’t know, sir.”
    His wife had got out of the car. I was on trial on a dirt road in Kentucky. Do I tell the truth? Blame the sergeant? This major can’t be serious.
    Grabbing the bottle from my hand, he waved it above his head, and using the rising full moon to illuminate the evidence, he shouted, “What do I have in my hand?”
    “I don’t know, sir,” I said quietly.
    “You’re under arrest. Mount.” The sergeant and I got back in the jeep.
    “Take me to your company commander.”
    We drove back. I drove, the sergeant sitting next to me, tight-lipped. When we arrived at company headquarters, the major told me to remain in the jeep while he and the sergeant entered the office. I could overhear him telling the lieutenant that I’d been purchasing liquor. The three ofthem emerged from the office. The major again asked me if I’d bought the liquor.
    I said again, “I was not in that store, sir.”
    He said, “Are you calling me a liar?”
    The sergeant, standing right next to me, never said a word.
    The lieutenant said, “You’re under arrest. Don’t