Jenean McBearty
Colonel Montague loosened his collar. His last appointment was a half-hour late, and he was to meet recently divorced Addie Smithington for tea.
Come in,” he said when there was a soft knock at his door. A young man wearing an ill-fitting uniform entered. “It’s about time. My recommendations for the Victoria Cross are due by noon tomorrow.”
As the Sergeant appeared less than crackerjack, Montague dispensed with pleasantries. “Name of the deceased hero?”
“I can’t say, Sir.” The sergeant looked upwards, as though reading the arrival/departure notice at a train station.
“What do you mean? You’re his uncle. Your job is to deliver the name of the deceased being considered. I can’t award a posthumous VC to a nameless soldier.”
“Alright, his name is Granville. Yes, he was Corporal Granville.”
“First or last name?”
“Only, Sir.”
“Don’t be absurd. Only musical stars and circus performers use one name. Now, what is the name of the deceased?”
“I can’t do it. No. I can’t do it. I can’t tell you, Sir.”
“Why not, Sergeant?”
“You’ll behave inappropriately during the ceremony.”
“Sit down, you fool.” The sergeant sat in the wooden chair in front of Montague’s desk. “Who are you to tell me I’ll act inappropriately?” In his disheveled attire, the Sergeant didn’t look like a comedian. He might have been a genuine prognosticator, however. “Does your nephew have an unusual name?”
“I’d say so, Sir.”
“Suppose you tell me his name and let me judge for myself. What is it?”
“Sputterdribble. Granville Sputterdribble. They’re a good family with an unfortunate last name.”
Montague eyed him suspiciously. “Do you enjoy being insubordinate, Sergeant?”
“Yes, Sir, considering what hell the war was for the common man.”
Colonel Montague leaned back in his chair. “If you persist in this behavior, you could be court-martialed and cashiered from the army.”
“I hope so, Sir.”
“You’ll be branded a coward.”
“I am a coward, Sir.”
“You admit it?”
“Yes, Sir. I don’t want people to think I’m a liar.”
“But you don’t care if people know you’re a coward.”
“Yes, that would be accurate. I’m a truthful coward.”
“Then why are you lying about Granville’s name? Because I know for a fact that no one in the Army is named Granville Sputterdribble. You know it too.”
“I do know it. Granville is not his real name. As I’m compelled not to lie, his name is Sputterdribble Harvey, from Hampshire.”
Montague smiled sardonically. “You’re making that up.”
“You’re correct, he’s from Halifax.”
“So, you’re not above lying, Sergeant!”
“I always get Halifax and Hampshire confused.”
Montague left his seat and walked around the desk, coming close enough to the Sergeant to read his nametag. “I’m going to note your name, Sgt. Cooper, if that’s your real name.”
“I understand, Sir.’
“I mean it.”
“I believe you, Sir.”
“What is your full name?”
“Sputterdribble Harvey.”
“The name of the deceased? Then you’re stealing his name. Are you a thief as well as a coward?”
“You’ve pegged me correctly, Sir.”
Montague put his hands on Cooper’s shoulders and pressed down hard, pinning him to the back of the chair. “Tell me your full name immediately so I can write it down,” he demanded.
“James Fennimore Cooper.”
“Sergeant, you are neither a famous author nor a Mohichan.”
“That’s true, but that is my full name. My mother was an American from New Hampshire. Hence, my confusion.”
Montague picked up the phone. “Personnel? This is Colonel Montague. I want to know if His Majesty’s Army has enlisted men by the names of James Fennimore Cooper and Sputterdribble Harvey from Halifax.” He waited. “Can you verify that? Yes, after you’ve stopped laughing. Take your time.” He studied Cooper as he waited. “Do you want to leave the army, Sergeant?”
“Not necessarily, Sir. I’m not much interested in being a hero, but if the army is willing to make a hero out of a bastard like Sputterdribble, well, there’s something to be said for organizational administration.”
“You needn’t worry about winning a medal, Cooper.” Montague hesitated, then spoke into the receiver. “Really? You don’t say. The ceremony is going to be exceedingly difficult, demeanor-wise, when we read out the name of the deceased. Sergeant Cooper seemed able to repeat it without cracking a smile … probably fairly well acquainted with working class hilarity. Yes, improvisation is what’s needed in cases like this.” Montague hung up. “Looks like you’re going to be in the army long enough to be of service to your country after all.”
Sgt. Cooper looked at Montague with pleading eyes. “Don’t ask me to award him the medal. I’ll have to tell the truth about him. I won’t be able to stop myself.”
“You think your nephew undeserving? He saved the lives of fourteen men.”
“He got them into the bloody mess. What’s heroic about getting them out?”
“You hated Sputterdribble.”
“Hate is a strong word, Colonel. He ran off with my daughter, shot my dog, was a sot and a loafer, fathered three children by three women of the night, and stole my winning lottery ticket.”
“Did you kill him, Cooper?” It seemed a logical conclusion. “I mean, you’re a coward and a thief, you might also be a murderer.”
“I’d never kill a man I voted for.”
“He ran for office?” Montague searched his memory but couldn’t recall a candidate with a name even resembling Sputterdribble Harvey.
“Yes, he did, Sir. Labor Party. Before he enlisted. I campaigned for him, too, I’m proud to say.”
Montague dialed the phone again. “Is this the medical department? This is Colonel Montague. Send a few chaps to my office with a net, will you? I have a soldier here who’s bat-shit balmy. Labor my ass … I know for a fact Halifax voted Conservative in the last election.” He finished the call and wagged his finger at Cooper. “Nephew notwithstanding, tarnishing the name of a national hero ought to be a capital crime. I’m going to see that you’re hung.”
“So was Sputterdribble . . . Sir. Saw it myself.”
Come in,” he said when there was a soft knock at his door. A young man wearing an ill-fitting uniform entered. “It’s about time. My recommendations for the Victoria Cross are due by noon tomorrow.”
As the Sergeant appeared less than crackerjack, Montague dispensed with pleasantries. “Name of the deceased hero?”
“I can’t say, Sir.” The sergeant looked upwards, as though reading the arrival/departure notice at a train station.
“What do you mean? You’re his uncle. Your job is to deliver the name of the deceased being considered. I can’t award a posthumous VC to a nameless soldier.”
“Alright, his name is Granville. Yes, he was Corporal Granville.”
“First or last name?”
“Only, Sir.”
“Don’t be absurd. Only musical stars and circus performers use one name. Now, what is the name of the deceased?”
“I can’t do it. No. I can’t do it. I can’t tell you, Sir.”
“Why not, Sergeant?”
“You’ll behave inappropriately during the ceremony.”
“Sit down, you fool.” The sergeant sat in the wooden chair in front of Montague’s desk. “Who are you to tell me I’ll act inappropriately?” In his disheveled attire, the Sergeant didn’t look like a comedian. He might have been a genuine prognosticator, however. “Does your nephew have an unusual name?”
“I’d say so, Sir.”
“Suppose you tell me his name and let me judge for myself. What is it?”
“Sputterdribble. Granville Sputterdribble. They’re a good family with an unfortunate last name.”
Montague eyed him suspiciously. “Do you enjoy being insubordinate, Sergeant?”
“Yes, Sir, considering what hell the war was for the common man.”
Colonel Montague leaned back in his chair. “If you persist in this behavior, you could be court-martialed and cashiered from the army.”
“I hope so, Sir.”
“You’ll be branded a coward.”
“I am a coward, Sir.”
“You admit it?”
“Yes, Sir. I don’t want people to think I’m a liar.”
“But you don’t care if people know you’re a coward.”
“Yes, that would be accurate. I’m a truthful coward.”
“Then why are you lying about Granville’s name? Because I know for a fact that no one in the Army is named Granville Sputterdribble. You know it too.”
“I do know it. Granville is not his real name. As I’m compelled not to lie, his name is Sputterdribble Harvey, from Hampshire.”
Montague smiled sardonically. “You’re making that up.”
“You’re correct, he’s from Halifax.”
“So, you’re not above lying, Sergeant!”
“I always get Halifax and Hampshire confused.”
Montague left his seat and walked around the desk, coming close enough to the Sergeant to read his nametag. “I’m going to note your name, Sgt. Cooper, if that’s your real name.”
“I understand, Sir.’
“I mean it.”
“I believe you, Sir.”
“What is your full name?”
“Sputterdribble Harvey.”
“The name of the deceased? Then you’re stealing his name. Are you a thief as well as a coward?”
“You’ve pegged me correctly, Sir.”
Montague put his hands on Cooper’s shoulders and pressed down hard, pinning him to the back of the chair. “Tell me your full name immediately so I can write it down,” he demanded.
“James Fennimore Cooper.”
“Sergeant, you are neither a famous author nor a Mohichan.”
“That’s true, but that is my full name. My mother was an American from New Hampshire. Hence, my confusion.”
Montague picked up the phone. “Personnel? This is Colonel Montague. I want to know if His Majesty’s Army has enlisted men by the names of James Fennimore Cooper and Sputterdribble Harvey from Halifax.” He waited. “Can you verify that? Yes, after you’ve stopped laughing. Take your time.” He studied Cooper as he waited. “Do you want to leave the army, Sergeant?”
“Not necessarily, Sir. I’m not much interested in being a hero, but if the army is willing to make a hero out of a bastard like Sputterdribble, well, there’s something to be said for organizational administration.”
“You needn’t worry about winning a medal, Cooper.” Montague hesitated, then spoke into the receiver. “Really? You don’t say. The ceremony is going to be exceedingly difficult, demeanor-wise, when we read out the name of the deceased. Sergeant Cooper seemed able to repeat it without cracking a smile … probably fairly well acquainted with working class hilarity. Yes, improvisation is what’s needed in cases like this.” Montague hung up. “Looks like you’re going to be in the army long enough to be of service to your country after all.”
Sgt. Cooper looked at Montague with pleading eyes. “Don’t ask me to award him the medal. I’ll have to tell the truth about him. I won’t be able to stop myself.”
“You think your nephew undeserving? He saved the lives of fourteen men.”
“He got them into the bloody mess. What’s heroic about getting them out?”
“You hated Sputterdribble.”
“Hate is a strong word, Colonel. He ran off with my daughter, shot my dog, was a sot and a loafer, fathered three children by three women of the night, and stole my winning lottery ticket.”
“Did you kill him, Cooper?” It seemed a logical conclusion. “I mean, you’re a coward and a thief, you might also be a murderer.”
“I’d never kill a man I voted for.”
“He ran for office?” Montague searched his memory but couldn’t recall a candidate with a name even resembling Sputterdribble Harvey.
“Yes, he did, Sir. Labor Party. Before he enlisted. I campaigned for him, too, I’m proud to say.”
Montague dialed the phone again. “Is this the medical department? This is Colonel Montague. Send a few chaps to my office with a net, will you? I have a soldier here who’s bat-shit balmy. Labor my ass … I know for a fact Halifax voted Conservative in the last election.” He finished the call and wagged his finger at Cooper. “Nephew notwithstanding, tarnishing the name of a national hero ought to be a capital crime. I’m going to see that you’re hung.”
“So was Sputterdribble . . . Sir. Saw it myself.”
Jenean McBrearty is a graduate of San Diego State University, who taught Political Science and Sociology, and received her MFA from Eastern Kentucky University. Her fiction, poetry, and photographs have been published in over three-hundred print and online journals. She won the Eastern Kentucky English Department Award for Graduate Creative Non-fiction in 2011, and a Silver Pen Award in 2015 for her noir short story: "Red’s Not Your Color."
