Line of Succession

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The steady cadence of cricket chirping echoed throughout the enlisted men’s barracks. Private Matt Doheny roused from sleep, his sheets sweat-soaked, the balls of his feet stinging from a 10-mile march through North Carolina hill country. He checked his watch and fell back asleep until the cricket’s looping high-decibel strain resumed. The racket was coming from under the bunk bed he shared with Private Walker. The jumbo-size insects at Fort Bragg beat anything the Boston native had ever seen. From his perch on the top bunk, Doheny turned and shined his penlight over the side of the bed. Sweat trickled off his nose and onto Private Walker’s outstretched arm. Walker didn’t wake. The cricket flitted into the shadows.

Doheny grabbed his can of spray insecticide, a recent acquisition that had prompted the other soldiers to dub him “Private Orkin,” and descended stealthily down the bunk bed ladder. He stretched his beanpole physique flat on the concrete floor and, holding the insecticide at the ready, shined the light under the bed frame. Nothing. Seconds later, the chirping resumed on the other side of the room.

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