The Wandering Ghost by Martin Limon

time. Right across the chops.
    Crossed pistols.
    The unit emerging out of the narrow alley—the men stumbling into one another, packed like sardines, and now redeploying on the wide expanse of the MSR—was none other than Headquarters Company of the 2nd Infantry Division Military Police.
    “They’ve been hunting us,” Ernie said.
    I didn’t want to believe it. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “They’re doing their morning exercise.”
    But even as I spoke, I realized Ernie was right. They had to be hunting us. Why else would they squeeze through the ville, run down dangerous railroad tracks, and then turn up an alley too narrow to hold them?
    The MP company emerged from the gap in the dark red wall, all wearing bright green caps pulled down low over their ears, looking like a giant reptile slithering out of a cave. And then, without anyone barking orders, they re-formed into four columns behind the guide-on. The sergeant was shouting out the cadence now and the unit started its relentless trot, heading down the MSR toward the main gate. Heading directly toward us.
    “Just keep walking,” Ernie said. “We’re not going to run.”
    He shoved his fists into the pockets of his jacket, hunched his shoulders, and continued to march resolutely down the sidewalk. We had more than a quarter of a mile to go. The arch of the main gate of Camp Casey loomed in front of us. Above us, the glassy-eyed MP statue stared impassively at our dilemma. We’d never make it. The MP formation was already bearing down on us. The sergeant leading the formation had spotted us and he was shouting a new song:
    “On your right!”
    “On your right!” the MPs repeated.
    “ On your right!”
    As if to get our attention.
    “Sick call!”
    There’s nothing lower than a GI who shirks his duty by riding the sick list.
    “Sick call!” the MPs repeated. And repeated again. “Sick call! Sick call!”
    The sound was thunderous and getting louder. Still, neither Ernie nor I looked back. Here it comes, I thought.
    Feet trod on cold cement. Big feet. Dozens of them, breaking away from the formation, cantering toward us.

4

    B efore I dropped out of high school to join the army, I played some football. Being as big as I am made me an anomaly among the Chicanos of Lincoln High School in East L.A. The coach wasn’t sure what to do with me so, of course, he put me on the line. Right tackle, but then he moved me to guard. Although I was too tall to play guard—in the usual way these things are looked at—the coach saw that I could pull off the line quickly. As soon as the ball was snapped, I moved to my right or my left, behind my other teammates on the line who were lunging forward. My job was to hit some defender, when he was least expecting it, and knock open a hole for the ball carrier to plunge through. That was the theory.
    The fact of the matter was that our coach wasn’t the greatest tactician who ever paced the edge of the gridiron, and most of the other guys on the team—almost all Chicanos like me—were barely big enough to support their shoulder pads. We lost every game. Except for the one brawl we had with Roosevelt High—but that’s another story.
    Still, our coach was right about one thing. I could move off the line quickly, without tipping the defenders as to which way I was going to move. It was a skill that I reverted to when I heard those MP footsteps closing on us.
    I swiveled and crouched and launched myself at them, body parallel to the ground, in a flying block that I hoped would throw them off stride. It did. My shoulder hit one guy in the stomach, my rump hit another in the knees, and the third guy got whacked on the shins by my flying feet. All three went down. I rolled atop them, hoping to cause as much damage as possible and, as soon as I was able, popped back to my feet. Then I slugged another guy coming in, and another. It worked for a few seconds, but finally I was enveloped by a sea of sweaty gray. I