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THE HANG OF IT

This country lost one of the most promising young men to tilt a pinball table when my son, Harry, was conscripted into the Army. 

As his father, I realize Harry wasn't born yesterday, but every time I look at the boy I'd swear it happened sometime early last week. So offhand I'd say the Army was getting another Bobby Pettit.

Back in 1917, Bobby Pettit wore the same look that Harry wears so well. Pettit was a skinny kid from Crosby, Vermont, which is in the United States too. Some of the boys in the company figured Pettit had spent his tender years letting that Vermont maple syrup drip slowly onto his forehead.

Also one of the dancing girls in that 1917 company was Sergeant Grogan. Us boys in the camp had all kinds of ideas about Sarge's origin; good, sound, censorable ideas that I won't bother to repeat.

Well, on Pettit's first day in ranks the sarge was drilling the platoon in the manual of arms. Pettit had a clever, original way of handling his rifle. When the sarge hollered "Right shoulder arms!" Bobby Pettit did left shoulder arms. When the sarge requested "Port Arms!" Pettit complied with present arms. It was a sure way of attracting the sarge's attention, and he came over to Pettit smiling.

"Well, dumb guy," greeted the sarge.
"What's the matter with you?"

Pettit laughed. 
"I get a little mixed up at times," he explained briefly.

"What's your name, Bud?" asked the sarge.

"Bobby. Bobby Pettit."

"Well, Bobby Pettit," said the sarge. 
"I'll just call ya Bobby. I always call the men by their first names. And they all call me mother. Just like they was at home.

"Oh," said Pettit.

Then it went off. Every fuse has two ends; the one that's lighted and the one's that clubby with the T.N.T.

"Listen Pettit!", boomed the sarge. "I ain't runnin' no fifth grade. You're in the Army, dumb guy. You're supposed t'know ya ain't got two left shoulders and that port arms ain't present arms. Wutsa matter with ya? Ain'tcha got no brains?"

"I'll get the hang of it," Pettit predicted.

The next day we had practice in tent pitching and pack making. When the sarge came around to inspect, it developed that Pettit hadn't bothered to hammer the tent pegs slightly below the surface of the ground. Observing the subtle flaw, the sarge, with one yank of his hand, collapsed entirely Bobby Pettit's little canvas home.

"Pettit," cooed the sarge. "You ar...without a doubt...the dumbest... the stupidest...the clumsiest gink I ever seen. Are ya nuts, Pettit? Wutsa matter with ya? Ain'tcha got no brains?"

Pettit predicted, "I'll get the hang of it."

Then everybody made up full packs. Pettit made up his like a veteran - just like one of the Boys in Blue. Then the sarge came around to inspect. It was his cheery custom to pass in rear of the men, and with a short, bludgeon-like stroke of his forearm slam down on the regulation burden on the back of every mother's son.

He came to Pettit's pack. I'll spare the details. I'll just say that everything came apart save the last five segments in Bobby Pettit's vertebrae. It was a sickening sound. The sarge came around to face Pettit, what was left of him.

"Pettit. I met lotsa dumb guys in my time," related the sarge. 

"Lots of 'em. But you, Pettit, You're in a class by yourself. 

 Because you're the dumbest!"

Pettit stood there on his three feet.

"I'll get the hang of it," he managed to predict.

First day of target practice, six men at a time fired at six targets, prone position exclusively. The sarge passed up and down, examining firing positions.

"Hey, Pettit, Which eye are you lookin' through?"

"I don't know," said Pettit. "The left, I guess."

"Look through the right!" bellowed the sarge. 

"Pettit, you're takin' twenny years offa my life. 

 Wutsa matter with ya? Ain'tcha got no brains?"

That was nothing. When, after the men had fired, the targets were rolled in, there was a gay surprise for all. Pettit had fired all his shots at the target of the man on his right.

The sarge almost had an attack of apoplexy. 

"Pettit," he said,

"You got no place in this man's army. You got six feet. 

 You got six hands. Everybody else only got two!"

"I'll get the hang of it," said Pettit.

"Don't say that to me again. Or I'll kill ya. I'll akchally kill ya,

  Pettit. Because I hatecha, Pettit. You hear me? I hatecha!"

"Gee," said Pettit. "No kidding?"

"No kidding, brother," said the sarge.

"Wait'll I get the hang of it," said Pettit. 

"You'll see. No kidding. Boy, I like the Army. 

  Some day I'll be a colonel or something. No kidding."

Naturally I didn't tell my wife that our son, Harry, reminds me of Bob Pettit back in '17. But he does nevertheless. In fact, the boy is even having sergeant trouble at Fort Iroquois. It seems, according to my wife, that Fort Iroquois nurses to its bosom one of the toughest, meanest first sergeants in the country.  There is no necess-
ity, declares my wife, in being mean to the boys. Not that Harry's complained. He likes the Army, only he can't seem to please this terrible first sergeant. Just because he hasn't got the hang of it yet.

And the colonel of this regiment. He's no help at all, my wife feels. All he does is walk around and look important. A colonel should help the boys, see to it the first sergeants don't take advantage of the boys, destroy their spirit. A colonel, my wife feels, should do more than just walk around the place.

Well, a few Sundays ago the boys at Fort Iroquois put on their first spring parade. My wife and I were there in the reviewing stand, and with a yelp that nearly took my hat she picked out our Harry as he marched along.

"He's out of step," I told my wife.

"Oh, don't be that way," said she.

"But he is out of step," I said.

"I suppose that's a crime. I suppose he'll be shot for that. See he's  in step again. He was only out for a minute."

Then, when the National Anthem was played, and the boys were standing with their rifles at present arms, one of them dropped their rifle. It makes quite a clatter on a hard field.

"That was Harry," I said.

"It could happen to anyone," retorted my wife. 
"Keep quiet."

Then, when the parade was over and the men had been dismissed, First Sergeant Grogan came over to say hello. 

"How do, Mrs. Pettit."

"How do you do," said my wife, very chilly.

"Think there's any hope for our boy, sergeant?" I asked.

The sarge grinned and shook his head. 

"Not a chance," he said. "Not a chance, colonel."

©J.D. Salinger

 Colliers, July 12, 1941

  

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Footnote
Hall Of Fame basketball player,  Bob Pettit,  was eight years old when this story was written.

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