Field Commission 9

By the time the Stars and Stripes reporter comes a-callin, I'm back to being plain old me, the homicidal maniac faded away.
"I'm curious," she asks after a bit, "how is it you were so very average before?"
"Well you see," in most laid back manner, "I was starting to get ashamed. My people were passing me. Didn't wanna end up looking like an idiot. So I shot some practise rounds."
It's impossible for her to check. No record is kept of practise rounds because it's not part of your official score, nor is live ammo used and accounted for.
"How many practise sessions did it take to get that good?"
"Bout five dozen."
She grins, "guess your unit will be confident now, knowing you can shoot. And off the record, why is it so many officers are so totally indolent they never do anything except out of fear of shame? I'll bet you have a messy desk too."
I grin sheepishly, don't reply. Whew! Much better than her knowing the real story.
As usual, the authorities get the last word. I receive a forceful letter from the counsellor. Yes I am still permitted to do the Belfast tour. But it turns out she checked my last dozen scores, found the same ongoing pattern.
Immediately upon my return from Ulster, I am commanded to attend one counselling session per fortnight until deemed to be ok. Let me add my amendment to that. Nobody here is ok; til I'm sort of ok, which is good enough.
I pass it to Parvana. Absolutely wicked smile, "wanna show them you've laid the phobia to rest?"
"I am all ears, please tell me how."
"Shoot three civvies in Belfast, all women."
It's so outrageous we both laugh.
"Still, you better hope we don't get jumped by the Ra. Shoot a dozen of the boyos and she will view it as verr-rry Freudian."
"Come on, if that's what is there, and it's shooting, you shoot back."
Her sly wink let's me know she was only teasing.
I'm over at the Brit unit, going over detail with the CO, when the RSM appears. She gasps, stares at my face, takes it in her hand, gently turns it back and forth.
Turning to the CO, "she slated for Belfast?"
"Yes."
"Downcheck her."
"May I ask why?"
"Look real careful. Who does she resemble in history?"
CO blanches, "my God! That's it, you're off the tour."
Baffled I ask, "why?"
RSM grimaces, "call up archives, it'd be ten no eleven years ago." And there, staring at me is my almost identical double.
I ask, "this person is well known?"
RSM spits out, "too bloody right sunshine, read the article."
It was during the Londonderry mega riots. My double was at that time a section commander in 2 Para. Lotta civvies were shot. Investigation put it in the gray zone, that is not wholly legit nor wholly illegit.
"Just a minute," I protest, "I struggled to get this gig. Had considerable problems with the powers that be. If I don't go, my entire contingent stays in Germany. First, no other Black Watch officer is infantry-qualified. Second, none would lead draftees, against their principles. Perhaps we can come to some compromise."
RSM views my face again, "now a woman's head shape is very largely defined by hair. Just a trim won't do it. Only one way to get a radically different look, brushcut."
"Won't I look like a dyke?"
She groans loudly, "you are sooo outa date. You'll look say ten years older, thinner, maybe a bit ill."
"We-ell."
RSM continues, "during the Malaya campaign, was a very practical style. Heat and bugs and all. Lotta those vets liked it, stayed with it. Anyone sees you, will just assume you're a Malaya vet."
"All right, I'll do it, if that's what it takes."
"Also sunshine, opt for British helmet and visor. Your choice if you want to. Obscures you a lot more than the American version. Makes the face look almost pixellated."
I try it on. Stare at myself in the mirror. I don't even recognize me.
RSM grins, "come with me, I'll get you the haircut free, duty related."