William Peter Blatty - The Ninth Configuration

For the purposes of this story, I have taken some liberties with the facts; there are, for example, neither psychiatrists nor medical officers in the United States Marine Corps.

WPB

For Linda

I have some rights of memory in this kingdom

Hamlet

The mansion was isolated and Gothic, massive, trapped in a wood, grotesque. It crouched beneath the stars under clustered spires like something enormous and deformed, unable to hide, wanting to sin. Its gargoyles grinned at the forest pressing in on it thickly all around. For a time nothing moved. Dawn sifted in. Thin fall sunlight pried at the morning entombed within the arborescent gloom, and fog curled up from rotted leaves like departing souls, dry and weak. In the breeze, a creaking shutter moaned for Duncan and a haunted crow coughed hoarsely in a meadow far away. Then silence. Waiting.

The voice of a man from within the mansion carried with firm conviction, startling a small green heron from the moat.

Robert Browning had the clap and he caught it from Charlotte and Emily Bronte.

A second man, angry, bellowed, Cutshaw, shut your mouth!

He caught it from both of them.

Shut up, you crazy bastard!

You dont want to hear the truth.

Krebs, sound Assembly! the angry man ordered.

Then a military bugling shattered the air, ripping into the fog, and an American flag, fluttering defiance, leaped up a pole atop a spire. Twenty-seven men in green fatigues exploded like shrapnel from the mansion and hurtled out to the center of its courtyard, muttering and mumbling and crooking their elbows, dress-right-dress, in the forming of a military line. Above their denims some affected other dress: one wore a rapier and golden earrings; from the head of another bloomed a coonskin cap. Imprecations floated up from them like steam alive with sparks:

Hillo ho ho, boys! Come, bird, come!

You know, I wish youd douche; sincerely.

Sink the Bismarck!

Watch the elbow!

A man with a shaggy mongrel dog in his arms burst into the center of the line. He bawled, My cape! Have you seen my cape?

Hell, whats a cape? snarled the one with the sword. Just fucking fabric.

Fabric?

Foolish fucking fabric.

What country is this? asked a man at the end of the line.

A blond-haired man confronted them briskly. He wore tattered and dirty black Keds, his left great toe protruding through a hole; and over his fatigues he flaunted a New York University sweater: on the sleeve of one arm were lettermans stripes, and on the other, a NASA astronauts patch. Attention! he commanded with authority. It is I: Billy Cutshaw!

The men obeyed, then stiffly raised their arms in the salute of ancient Rome. Captain Billy, let us serve you! they howled into the fog; then they dropped their arms and stood unmoving, hushed, like the damned awaiting judgment.

Cutshaws gaze flicked over them swiftly, flashing and mysterious, luminous and deep. At last he spoke:

Lieutenant Bennish!

Sah!

You may take three giant steps and kiss the hem of my garment!

Sah!

The hem, Bennish, mind you, the hem!

Bennish took three steps forward, then cracked his heels together resoundingly. Cutshaw measured him with reserve. Excellent form, Bennish.

Thank you very much, sir.

Dont let it go to your fucking head. There is nothing more vile than hubris.

Yes, sir. Youve said that many times, sir.

I know that, Bennish. Cutshaw was probing him with his gaze as though seeking out insolence and outrage, when the man with the sword bawled, Here comes the fuzz!

The men began booing as out from the mansion, in angry stride, marched the starched and militant figure of a major in the Marine Corps. Cutshaw scuttled into the line, and over the booing the man with the sword shouted out at the major, Wheres my Ho Chi Minh decoder ring? I sent in the goddam boxtops, Groper; where the hells the

Quiet! Groper quelled them. His little eyes seared out from a face that was pummeled beef adorned with a crew cut. He was hulking and heavy of bone. Fucking weirdo yellow smartass college pricks! he snarled.

That says it, muttered someone in the ranks.

Groper paced the rank of men, his great head lowered as though ready to charge them. Who in the hell do you think youre kidding with your phony little squirrel act? Well, bad news, boys. Tough shit. Cause guess whos coming to take command next week! Can you guess, boys? Huh? A psychiatrist! He was suddenly roaring, quivering with uncontrollable rage. Thats right! The best! The best in uniform! The greatest fucking psychiatrist since Jung! He pronounced the J.

Now he stood breathing heavily, gathering air and dominion.

Finking combat-shirking bastards! Hes coming to find out if youre really psycho! Groper grinned, his eyes shining. Isnt that great news, boys?

Cutshaw took one step forward. Could we knock off this boys shit,

Major, please? It makes us feel like were cocker spaniels and youre the Old Pirate in Tortilla Flat. Could we

Back into line!

Cutshaw squeezed a rubber horn in his hand the size of a baseball. It emitted a raucous, unpleasant sound.

Groper rasped, Cutshaw, what have you got there?

A foghorn, answered Cutshaw. Chinese junks have been reported in the area.

Someday Ill break your back, I promise you.

Someday Im going to leave Fort Zinderneuf; Im getting tired of propping up bodies.

I wish theyd clobbered you in space, said Groper.

The men began to hiss.

Quiet! barked Groper.

The hissing grew louder.

Yeah, hissing youre good at, you slimy little snakes.

Bra-vo! Bra-vo! commended Cutshaw, leading the men in polite applause.

Others added their praise:

Good image.

Splendid, Groper! Splendid!

Just one more thing, sir, Cutshaw began.

Whats that?

Stick a pineapple up your ass. Cutshaw looked away. He felt a premonition. Somebodys coming, he said.

It was a prayer.

The trouble had begun with Nammack. On May 11, 1967, Nammack, a captain in the United States Air Force, was piloting a B-52 on a bombing run headed for Hanoi when his co-pilot reported hydraulic malfunction, whereupon Nammack had quietly stood up, slipped off his high-altitude flying helmet and said softly and confidently, This looks like a job for Superman.

The co-pilot took control. Nammack was hospitalized and persisted in his delusion that he had superhuman powers and could not be totally cured without Kryptonite. Yet psychiatric testing and evaluation yielded the tantalizing conclusion that Nammack could not clearly be labeled psychotic. Up until the moment he had stood up in the cockpit, in fact, all the evidence suggested that his psyche and emotions were remarkably sturdy.

Nammack was the forerunner. Soon he was followed by dozens, then scores: military officers manifesting sudden mental disturbance, usually involving some form of obsession that was striking and bizarre. In no case was there any history of mental or emotional imbalance.

Government authorities were baffled and grew increasingly disturbed. Were the men malingerers? It was noted that the Nammack case had occurred very shortly after Captain Brian Fay, a Marine who had refused to enter a combat zone, was sentenced to years of hard labor. The war was controversial, and most of the men involved were in combat or scheduled for combat. The suspicion that their illness was feigned was inevitable.