It was the morning after the big fight. Mahoney sat in the latrine, taking his morning shit. The latrine consisted of a pole suspended over a big hole in the ground. The hole was filled with human excrement and flies buzzed around, occasionally landing on Mahoney’s bare bottom. A big square of canvas covered the area so that men moving their bowels wouldn’t get wet when it rained.
Mahoney thought he was going to die. His body ached as if every tank in the Hammerhead Division had rolled over it, his left eye was purple and completely closed, he had a splitting headache, several of his teeth were loose, he had bruises all over his face, and he thought his left hand was broken. But the picture was not totally bleak. He had thirty-two hundred dollars in his back pocket and he was wondering whether to send it to his mother to hold for him, because he wanted to buy a bar when the war was over.
A little private with a freckled face walked into the latrine and unbuckled his belt. He looked at Mahoney and did a double take. “Aren’t you Sergeant Mahoney?” the private asked.
“Yeah,” moaned Mahoney.
“Oh boy, I saw that fight yesterday, Sarge. What a fucking fight! I couldn’t believe it. Wow!” The private let down his pants and sat on the pole beside Mahoney. “You’re the greatest fighter I ever seen. I bet you even could take Joe Louis!”
“Think so?” Mahoney asked.
“Sure. You can take a punch and you hit hard too. If you ever hit that nigger he’ll go out like a light.”
Mahoney reached for the toilet paper and tore some off. A lot of big promoters hung out in Gleason’s Gym in New York and maybe after the war he’d talk to some of them. Maybe he could become heavyweight champion of the world instead of just heavyweight champion of the Hammerhead Division.
Mahoney stood, pulling up his pants. His ribs felt like knives were being jabbed between them. He’d intended to go on sick call that morning but he’d slept too late. They’d let him sleep late because he’d brought glory to the 15th Regiment, and now he hoped they’d let him see a doctor at the dispensary or even a pharmacist who could give him some pills.
A corporal approached the latrine as Mahoney was limping away. “Hey—are you Master Sergeant Mahoney?”
“Yeah,” Mahoney replied.
“Colonel Simmons wants to see you at his office.”
“I don’t think I can make it,” Mahoney said.
“I got a jeep.”
Mahoney followed the corporal around the tents and they came upon a crowd of men.
“Hey—here comes Mahoney!” somebody yelled.
They rushed toward him, and Mahoney held out his hands. “Don’t touch me!” he screamed.
They crowded around and slapped him on his back and shoulders anyway.
“Great fight, Sarge!”
“You were terrific yesterday!”
“What a fuckin’ fight!”
“You’re okay, Sarge!”
Mahoney grimaced and tried to push them away. “Get away from me—you fucking bunch of scumbags!”
“Hey, whatsa matter Sarge!”
“Don’t touch me!”
Mahoney, following the corporal, hobbled through the crowd. Soldiers in green fatigue pants and white T-shirts looked at him admiringly.
“What a fucking killer!” somebody said.
“Do you think he’ll ever be able to use that eye again?”
A jeep was parked on a dirt road near some pup tents. The corporal slid behind the wheel and Mahoney gingerly climbed into the passenger seat. The corporal started the jeep and drove away. Every time it hit a bump Mahoney thought his spine was going to crack in two.
“Hey, take it easy, willya pal?”
“Sure thing, Sarge.”
The jeep slowed down and Mahoney held on to the handle on the dash. They passed rows of pup tents and huge wall tents used for mess halls and command posts. Mahoney anticipated that Simmons was going to congratulate him for winning the big fight. He was surprised that Simmons wasn’t at the fight himself but figured the colonel didn’t want to be around to see his man lose. Well his man didn’t lose. Mahoney intended to ask Colonel Simmons if he could go to the 33rd Division hospital for a major checkup, because he was sure he had internal injuries and was dying slowly.
Finally the jeep arrived at the big complex of regimental command post tents. The driver braked and Mahoney crawled out, adjusting his steel pot. The driver led him to a tent where the regimental flag flew from a ten-foot pole and two soldiers stood guard. Mahoney went inside and saw Arnold Goodwin, the regimental sergeant major.
Goodwin arose from behind his desk and held out his hand. “Congratulations, Mahoney.”
“Not too hard,” Mahoney said, offering his hand.
“You look like hell,” Goodwin said, shaking his hand delicately.
“I think I’m going to die,” Mahoney told him.
Goodwin held his stomach and laughed. He was forty-five years old and prematurely gray, with the paunch common to old sergeants who had desk jobs.
“I’m not kidding,” Mahoney said.
“The old man wants to see you,” Goodwin replied, his face red from laughing. “He’s thataway.” He pointed to a flap in the tent.
Mahoney ducked his head and went through the opening. Coming up, he saw Colonel Simmons sitting behind a desk, reading a piece of correspondence. Simmons was as tall as Mahoney but lean and rangy. He’d recently made bird colonel and taken over the regiment after the former commander was hit by an artillery shell in the Falaise Pocket.
“Mahoney,” Simmons said in his Kentucky drawl, getting up and extending his hand, “my deep and heartfelt congratulations.”
Mahoney grimaced and held out his hand. “Shake it easy.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I ache all over.”
Simmons clasped his hand. “I’m sure Kowalski is worse.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better, sir.”
“Have a seat, Mahoney.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Mahoney lowered himself carefully into one of the folding camp chairs in front of the desk. Even his ass hurt. I’m never going to get over this, he thought. I’m probably going to be punch-drunk for the rest of my life.
“Everybody in the division is talking about you,” Simmons said with a wide toothy smile on his face. “I’m proud of you, son.”
“How come you weren’t at the fight, sir?”
“There was an emergency meeting yesterday at Third Army headquarters. I had to be there, but you know I would rather have seen you bring glory and honor to the Fighting 15th.”
“I figured you weren’t there because you didn’t want to see me lose, sir.”
Simmons looked hurt. “I didn’t think you’d lose, son. I had faith in you, and you won. My faith in you was justified.”
“When am I gonna get my cushy job, sir?” Mahoney asked.
Simmons grinned and leaned forward. “I got something better for you than that.”
“Better than a nice cushy job, sir? What could be better than a nice cushy job?”
“Paris,” Simmons hissed.
“Paris, France?” Mahoney asked.
“I sure as hell don’t mean Paris, Oklahoma, son.”
Mahoney’s battered face brightened. “You mean we’ve taken Paris?”
“I don’t mean that at all. But we have orders to take Paris, and you’re going in with the first wave.”
Mahoney swallowed hard. “The first wave? Why can’t I go in with the last wave?”
“Because we need men who can speak French. You see, Paris is going to be taken by General Duloc and his French 12th Armored Division, and we need a liaison group to go in with him. That’s what the meeting was about yesterday at Third Army headquarters. We’re trying to round up men who speak French fluently, and that means guys like you. I understand you speak French like a Frenchman. You worked with the maquis behind the lines for a while, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, for a few months.”
Simmons smiled and held up his hands. “Well, you’re going to Paris, son.”
“But my back hurts!”
“You’re young and strong—you’ll recover.”
“But what about my nice cushy job!”
Simmons grinned confidently and leaned forward. “This is your nice cushy job—don’t you see? The French are going to do all the fighting—you’re just going along for the ride. The Hammerhead Division is going to support the French in case they get into any trouble. All you have to do is file reports. It’ll be a piece of cake, and then, when Paris is liberated, you can have a little fun. Get the picture?”
Mahoney shook his head slowly. “The Krauts aren’t going to give up Paris that easily.”
“Nobody said war is supposed to be easy, son, but you’ll be on a liaison detail. You’ll just lay back behind the lines someplace and send daily radio messages to General Bradley’s headquarters. Like I said, it’ll be a piece of cake.”
“It’s not my idea of a nice cushy job, sir,” Mahoney complained. “I was hoping to get something in the Quartermaster Corps, handling supplies far behind the lines—get what I mean?”
“This’ll be better. Take my word for it.”
Mahoney looked through his one good eye at Simmons and wondered if he’d been a used car dealer back in civilian life. “I got a buddy who speaks good French,” Mahoney said. “Can he come along too?”
“What’s his name?”
“Corporal Edward Cranepool.”
Colonel Simmons looked at the sheet of paper before him. “His name’s already on the list,” he said.