One

Colonel Warren Giles, European Theatre Commander of the Chemical Warfare Service, greeted First Lieutenant Lew Danforth and Second Lieutenant Paul Mason with a hearty handshake. “Please excuse the packing cases and file cartons. We’re in the midst of moving twenty miles north to an I. G. Farben sales office in Bad Nauheim.” The tall, thin, gray-haired colonel wore the ring of a West Pointer, class of 1919. His slightly stooped shoulders and mild unhurried manner suggested the habits of a staff officer than a field commander.

“Very frankly,” he continued, “we’re looking forward to being on our own. Our problems seem small in comparison to caring for half a million POWs and another half million Displaced Persons. We’re a huge headache to USFET with dangerous lethal chemical agents that can’t be exploded like ordnance ammunition. An attempt to dump toxic shells into the North Sea raised a hue and cry from the fishing industry, and justifiably so.”

They were being assigned to the St. Georgen Depot, the largest and most modern of the five chemical depots in their Zone. It was undamaged, being so well camouflaged the Air Force hadn’t seen it. The SS Colonel-in-charge had threatened to use gas on our ground troops unless given 24-hours to evacuate. This had been completely ignored by the advancing units, who had found on arrival the SS had fled and the depot deserted.

Complicating the present situation was the hectic German retreat to the Alpine Redoubt in Austria for the last stand that never materialized. The frantic drivers had dumped tons of toxic munitions in the wooded areas from a half-dozen countries, now rusting and leaking.

“We’ve a great opportunity here,” the colonel concluded, handing each of them a Michelin roadmap of Bavaria and a pocket-size German Word and Phrase Book. “Winning the peace is as hard, if not harder, than winning the war. Versailles taught us that. As a young officer in our sector of the Rhineland, never could I have imagined being here again twenty-seven years later. We’ve unfinished business to settle once and for all.”

The colonel pushed his chair back and stood at full height. “Gentlemen, history is being made here, and you’re part of it. Welcome to the Occupation and your new duties.”

Both were glad to climb into the jeep where their driver, Sergeant Richmond from the depot, awaited them. All about them lay Frankfurt in ruins of twisted girders, dangling staircases, mound after mound of pulverized rubble in street after street. People shuffled about in drab and shabby clothes, some in partial uniforms—bent, worn, dazed. At night the passenger platforms in the shattered central railroad station became dormitories for bombed-out residents and homeless refugees.

Driving eastward, however, in the wake of the advancing armies from the Rhine, they passed the wreckage of rail yards, factories, and bulldozed paths through towns and villages. Detours were constant. And late April or not, intermittent snow flurries fogged their windshield and made them shiver and stomp their feet to stay warm.

“When,” Lew asked irritably, “are we ever going to get there?”

“Close to halfway, sir,” shouted Richmond. “We’ll make good time once we hit the autobahn.”

Surprisingly, the autobahn proved to be a superhighway of four lanes divided by a grassy median. The sun finally peeked through the leaden sky as they traversed plowed fields, rolling meadows, and tall hop vines. Military vehicles were the only traffic, and then merely a wave or a beep. Now and again they were slowed down by a dynamited bridge; and, in four-wheel drive, descended a dirt track to cross a stream and climb back up, slipping and sliding and splattered with mud. Once, off to the right, a German fighter plane sat half-hidden among the trees when the autobahn served as a retreating runway.

Paul cupped a hand to his mouth to be heard above the engine and flapping winterized canvas sides. “Let me take the wheel for a while, Sergeant.”

“I’m OK, Lieutenant,” replied Richmond.

“You’ve been driving all day and must be tired.”

Richmond hesitated, but being stiff and a little drowsy, he braked to a stop. Lew remained asleep in the back seat, wedged like a mummy between their luggage and spare jerry cans of gasoline, his cap pulled down over his eyes, his hands buried in his field jacket.

Dusk faded into night. All traffic ceased. On the side roads, their headlights bored holes in the blackness. At a crossroad, Paul drifted to a stop for Richmond to shine a flashlight on a maze of wooden directional arrows.

Lew, half-awake, asked, “Everything all right?” What if they had a breakdown out here in the middle of nowhere?

“Right on target, sir.” Richmond said over his shoulder and then to Paul, “I’ll take it in, Lieutenant. There’s some tricky turns ahead along with potholes and washouts. Oh, almost forgot!” Richmond unlocked the glove compartment and buckled on a web belt and holster with a Colt .45 automatic pistol.

“Why the sidearm?” asked Paul.

“CO’s orders on trips. Nighttime is when the werewolves come out.”

“Werewolves?” Lew cried out.

“That’s what they call the roving gangs of POWs and DPs who hide out in the woods and steal anything that isn’t padlocked or nailed down.”

Lew nudged Paul in the back to say, “Didn’t I tell you the colonel painted us a rosy picture.”

* * *

Paul opened his eyes. Sunlight streamed through the window. He slid his hand along the floor beneath the bed for his watch. Eight-thirty! He hadn’t heard the call for reveille or any noises in the hallway. He must have been dead-tired. Last night’s Charge of Quarters couldn’t find Supply Sgt. Vacchio or Lt. Henderson, the Officer of the Day. They weren’t expected until today, but wool blankets were finally found for them. His skin itched, and he scratched himself until white nail marks showed. He did a dozen pushups and deep-knee bends to work out the stiffness and stay in good shape.

The cell-size room contained a dresser, table and chair, and coat rack. He shuddered to think a dreaded, black-uniformed SS elite officer, perhaps of his own rank, had used this very same room. He stepped over his Val-Pac, opened flat on the floor on which he had dropped his clothes, and found the Phrase Book. His equivalent was Untersturmfuhrer. What a mouthful! But that was then, and today is now.

Something on the wall hung from a shoelace tied to a nail. It was an Emergency Signaling Mirror with a center sighting cross, marked in good Army fashion ESM-I. He adjusted the lace until the cross was at his taller eye level, and smoothed down his rumpled hair. Slipping on trousers and untied shoes, he grabbed his shaving kit and went next door. “Good morning!”

Lew opened one eye. “What’s good about it?”

“We’re here safe and sound.”

“Yea, with only 174 more days to go.” Their orders stated that the two officers listed were to report to the European Theatre on temporary duty for 180 days for the purpose of handling captured enemy chemical munitions.

The Mess Hall was next door, nestled among tall pines facing a series of barracks around a central oval in what had been a stand of trees, but now an ugly clearing of crudely cut stumps. Upturned chairs sat on tables inside a large dining room with a central stage. Upon seeing them enter, the German orderlies mopping the floor snapped to attention. A staff sergeant promptly appeared, saluted, introduced himself as Mess Sgt. Murphy, and led them into a small adjoining officers’ dining room.

“Sorry, sir,” Murphy said, “no one was here last night to get you something to eat, but we weren’t expecting you until today. But we’ll try to make up for it.”

“Where’s Capt. Hartley?” Lew asked.

“He’ll be here around ten to sign the Daily Morning and Sick Reports, sir.”

“Any idea, Sgt.,” Paul asked, “why all the trees outside were cut down?”

“For heat, sir. Last winter was one of the worst on record with coal scarcer than food, electricity rationed, and a poor crop of winter wheat. Blankets are like gold. We wore socks to bed and slept in our winter long johns. Jokers said it’d be warmer sleeping out in the snow. Some people are never happy unless they’re complaining. You know how that is, Lieutenant.”

Murphy was true to his word, and they complemented him when leaving. “We try to make it like home, sir,” Murphy said. “There isn’t much to do off-duty around here, and no place to go without driving a couple of hours.”

Once Paul began unpacking his duffle bag, the room started to look livable and, with a few Modern Library books and pocket-size Armed Services Editions on the table, civilized. Happily, his mother was a reader and loved books. No matter how low the family budget, she always managed to pay the book rental fees at the library, or take him and his younger brother to the used-book sales. Great books, she was fond of saying, never age or grow stale. Certainly that was true of the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn discovered oddly during the cramped ten days to Bremerhaven, which he’d found so new and different that he’d laughed aloud at times that had drawn quizzical and lunatic stares. But this hadn’t deterred him. All too often, conversation on board was about how much PX items were worth on the Black Market, or how available girls were with no-strings-attached. Such comments, from officers too, only intensified his resolve never to take advantage of a defeated and destitute people—women most of all.

A jeep screeched to a halt. Paul looked out the window. A stockily built man of medium height got out balancing a coffee mug in one hand, dressed in a lacquered helmet liner and camouflage coveralls bloused over ankle-high combat boots. Suspended from a webbed belt were a flap holster and canteen.

“Howdy!” Capt. Hartley’s boomed as he rapped on their open doors. “Let’s mosey on down to the Lounge.”

Lew and Paul followed him down the hall to a room with a sofa, armchairs, dining table with chairs, and a corner bar.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Hartley said, pushing his glossy liner back on his close-cropped brown hair. “Me n’ Henderson have been run ragged since we lost Evans and Waddell.” He turned a chair around and sat down, resting his arms on the back. “Sorry no one was around last night, but we weren’t expecting you until today. Saturday we’ll make everything right with a welcome party. You had breakfast?”

“Sgt. Murphy took good care of us,” Lew said.

“One of my best men. We don’t have many or keep them too long. Redeployment is killing us. Not so with the Russians. They’re at wartime strength ready to take over everything, us most of all. How about an eye-opener?”

Lew and Paul declined.

“Think I’ll finish mine Irish,” Hartley said. “Still winter out there.” He went behind the bar and poured a long shot of Canadian Club whiskey into his mug. “Help yourself whenever you like. All first-rate stuff. Here’s to you!” He drained the mug and dried his lips on his cuff. “Have to run, but see you in my office at five. Tell Vacchio to issue your supplies. I’ll sign for them later. Look around all you want, for it’ll be your last free day for a long while. That’s the way it is. See you then.” He went out the side door. The jeep roared off in a shower of pebbles.

Sgt. Vacchio was away in Munich to draw supplies. A German orderly unnecessarily carried everything to their quarters. Capt. Hartley didn’t appear at lunch, but they met First Lt. Henderson, tall, slender, loose-jointed, with light sandy hair, who spoke little in a slow drawl and ate much before he left.

Lew said, “Real friendly bunch.”

“You can say that again,” Paul said.

“Real friendly bunch.”

They laughed spiritedly. Since meeting at Camp Kilmer, they had spent most of a monotonous four weeks together. Though unlike one another, they had found much in common, little interested in frequenting local bars and clubs, or spending money on brief trips to nearby cities. Lew had been a shipping clerk in a Pittsburgh steel mill before being drafted, and had been married over a year. At twenty-eight, Lew was seven years older. In Paul’s basic training company, there was a fellow trainee of the same age, whom they all—at eighteen—had called “The Old Man.” Now, three years later, twenty-eight didn’t seem that old.

From his window, Paul watched the company file out of the barracks for field duty and climb back into the trucks, which sped recklessly around the one-way oval and disappeared in clouds of dust. Not a person was to be seen. He might as well take the captain’s advice and enjoy the afternoon off. He propped up the pillow at the foot of the bed to catch the window light to read, stretched out, and turned to his place in the paperback edition of The Education of Henry Adams, the title of which had intrigued him. The preface called it a classic and a great work of art on the quest for a meaning to vindicate life. Though slow and heavy going, he wasn’t going to give up on it. But after a few pages, he realized he was merely reading words and laid it aside.

He went next door to see if Lew wanted to take a walk around the place. He was asleep. Impatient to be doing something, he went out by himself and followed the rutted oval road. A light breeze swayed the crowns of the thin dense pines. Someone coming out of a barrack saw him and quickly ducked back inside. He stopped at the bulletin board beneath the headquarters porch and looked over the duty rosters and crinkled, faded notices. There wasn’t much point in making a second circuit. Back in his room, he decided he might as well write home, though there wasn’t much to say, other than where he was.

Paul followed Lew along a footpath around the splintered stumps to the Orderly Room. Upon their entrance, the company clerk jumped to attention and saluted. Paul returned the salute and said softly, “As you were,” to the very young and quivering soldier. “We’re looking for Capt. Hartley’s office.”

“D-down the hall, sir, on the right.”

“And your name?”

“Dix-Dixon, sir.”

“I’m Lt. Mason, and this is Lt. Danforth.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lew opened the door. Tools lay strewn on the desk, rusted shafts leaned against the walls, greasy housings sat here and there on the floor. Draped over chairs were stiff, oil splattered fatigues and muddy socks.

“I hope this isn’t it,” Paul said.

“Sure looks like a repair shop,” Lew said and lit a cigarette out in the hallway.

Paul tried another door and motioned Lew to follow. Lew shook his head. Before long, Henderson strode in and pointed out the captain’s office on his way to “warsh” up. On the captain’s desk, both IN and OUT baskets were stacked high with file folders. Tacked on one wall was a German map of the depot with numbered buildings. On another wall hung a smudged and tattered road map of Germany West marked with successive heavy black lines of the Final Rhineland Campaign: March 26 at the river; April 15, Wurzburg; April 20, Nuremberg; April 30, Munich; May 4, Berchtesgaden.

“Went fast,” Paul said. “A little over a month.”

Henderson entered combing back his wet hair, slumped down in one of the chairs, and lit a cigarette.

“Which Army was this?” Paul asked.

“Sandy Patch’s Seventh.”

“Where’s the Seventh now?”

“Reassigned from Munich to the Third in Heidelberg.”

Heavy footsteps resounded in the hallway, followed by Hartley’s booming voice, “Hey, Mac, get us some coffee.” He hung his helmet and holster on wall pegs and sat down behind his desk, quickly scribbling his name on several papers. He looked up and yawned. “Everybody all set? Good! Danforth, you’ll take the motor pool and be working with me and Henderson in the field. Mason, you’ll have the Supply Room, mess hall, and security detail. Officer of the Day is rotated with trade-offs being mutual. Any questions?”

Paul wondered what other assignments there were that he and Lew didn’t have. It looked to be a long six months.

There was alight knock at the door, and Dixon came in with a tray of four wobbly mugs. “Good job, Mac,” Hartley said. “Cigar anyone?” Henderson took one, Lew preferred a cigarette, Paul didn’t smoke.

Hartley propped his feet up on the desk and lighted his cigar with a Zippo lighter, which he then tossed over to Henderson. “Nice to have a breather.” He sipped his coffee and puffed on his cigar until a light gray ash formed. “Before we adjourn for happy hour to the lounge, a word of advice. This is an occupation. We’re not here by invitation, but because we fought a war and won it. You’ll hear it all different. Every Kraut claims he fought on the Russian Front; every civilian claims he wasn’t a Nazi and knew nothing about the slave labor and death camps. All innocence and ignorance. “Right, Henderson?”

Henderson nodded.

Hartley studied the end of his cigar and added, “Don’t be taken in. I can tell you things and show you pictures that’ll turn your hair white. And if you think I’m stretching things, read about the trials going on up in Nuremberg. Liberating the camps showed us plain and simple what we were fighting for, believe you me. Right, Henderson?”

“Something you’ll never forget, the smell most of all,” Henderson said.

Hartley blew thick smoke into the air, swung around, and planted his feet on the floor. “A final word.” He reached over and patted his holster. “I carry a .45 for a purpose. It’s the one and only law these people respect. A Kraut is a Kraut. Always were, always will be. What they don’t like is taking the same medicine they dished out to everybody else. So remember, no coddling! C’mon, let’s go. I’m dry as a bone.”

On the portable record player, Glenn Miller’s band played “My Blue Heaven.”

Henderson sat beside Emma on the sofa, talking and laughing together as if no one else was present. Lew sat smoking in one of the chairs by the front window opposite Martha, who smiled occasionally, as she knew little English. Anna, beside Paul, was their switchboard operator who spoke English with a British accent. Her round face and plump figure were far from his idea of feminine beauty.

Henderson changed the record to the Ink Spots singing “Paper Doll.” Lew studied his hands. To make conversation, Paul asked Anna where her family lived.

“Munich,” she replied.

“And where did you learn English?”

“At school.”

“So did I,” he said, but elicited no response.

The minutes ticked on and on.

The lounge door opened, and a tall, attractive blue-eyed girl entered followed by Hartley, who wore a trim dress uniform of pinkish trousers and a green waist-length Eisenhower jacket with two ribbons of decorations called fruit salad. “What is this,” Hartley cried, “an old ladies’ tea party? Turn the music up. Move that table so we can dance.” He turned off the overhead light. “Danforth, Mason, this is Lisa, and don’t get any ideas.”

Lisa laid her shoulder wrap on the windowsill. “How do you do,” she said in a musically accented English. Long gleaming blonde hair almost reached the waistline of her white silk evening gown, the folds of which accentuated a full, youthful figure.

“I’ll get the drinks,” Hartley said, going behind the bar. “What’ll it be Danforth, scotch or whiskey?”

“Either one, with water.”

“Mason?”

“Coke or ginger ale.”

“How about a beer? It’s not that 3.2 stuff from the PX that has to be passed through the horse again. This is the real thing made right here in Bavaria, the beer capital of the world.”

“I don’t care for beer,” Paul said. Hartley shook his head.

Paul smiled to himself as he watched Hartley dance with Lisa, recalling Miss Wellhauser’s strident voice at her dreaded dancing school, “No pumping oil, please, unless you’re from Texas.” Twirling around, Hartley lost his balance and almost fell, but grabbed onto a chair. “Whew!” he said, pulling out his collar. “Getting too old for this. Danforth, Lisa’s yours for the next number. I need a drink to cool off.”

Lew smiled shyly. “I’m married.”

“Your wife can’t object to being nice to half the human race. How do you like her gown? Made it herself from a parachute I got her. Some sewer, isn’t she? Looks like it’s up to you, Mason.”

Lisa was light on her feet and glided about the floor easily and gracefully. When the record ended, Hartley clapped and cried, “Again! Again!” Lisa curtsied and extended her hand. Her teeth were perfect, her cheeks lightly flushed. What, Paul asked himself, could someone like her ever see in Hartley?

Before long, everyone grew tired and gradually drifted into two groups, the girls speaking German. At eleven, a mess hall orderly brought in a large tray of lunch meats, cheeses, and salads with pickles and rolls. The girls immediately seated themselves at the table and began eating. Hartley turned on the radio to the Armed Forces Network—the twin voices of Munich and Stuttgart—and offered Henderson a cigar. Lighting up, they began playing gin rummy, a nickel a point. Lew drifted over to watch.

Paul was hungry enough to eat a sandwich, but remained on the sofa. He couldn’t help recall the sad and pitiful ending of a Sunday concert in Frankfurt for military personnel. He and Lew had taken a wrong turn when leaving and passed by a kitchen side room where the musicians, mostly thin and pale white-haired elderly men, sat at a table cramming food down in complete silence.

The party broke up at the Cinderella hour of twelve. Lisa and Henderson each took Hartley by an arm and helped him into his jeep. Henderson told a relieved Lisa that he would drive and tossed his keys to Lew to take the others home.

“I don’t know where to go,” Lew said.

“The girls do. It’s only to the compound.”

Paul helped Anna out of the jeep and switched on the flashlight to climb the wooden steps of her barrack and down the black unlighted hallway. “Here,” Anna said.

He shined the light on the lock. She inserted the key, stepped quickly inside, and shot home the bolt. He stood there with the light still focused on the lock. Of all the nerve!

What did she think she had to fear? Nothing whatsoever from him. A hag compared to Lisa. He spun on his heel and left.

Paul climbed into the truck cab beside Corporal Hunt at the motor pool. The crew of workers sat quietly in back as the truck turned onto the main blacktop road that bisected the depot, a mile square. After a short ride, Hunt shifted into low gear and followed a bumpy two-wheel track to the perimeter stockade fence. The men jumped off with shouts and jibes and carried the tools—saws, axes, shovels, crowbars, sledges, hammers—over to where the work had stopped. Sections swayed back and forth, posts were rotted loose, others with gaps chopped out for firewood or missing altogether.

The crew went right to work. A wispy gray-haired man, an unlighted pipe in his mouth, came forward with his cap in hand and spoke to the interpreter. The interpreter said, “He wants to know if work is good.”

Hunt looked at Paul, who said, “Looks all right to me. Tell them to keep going.” The interpreter translated in a surly, haughty tone. Annoyed by this, Paul asked the older man’s name. When translated, the older man came to attention and said, “Karl Hofermann.”

Paul, having studied his phrasebook, spoke directly to him and said, “Guten Morgen, Herr Hofermann.” Hofermann returned the greeting with a nod and a broad smile, showing several gold-capped teeth.

At ten, work stopped for a break. The men sat cross-legged or stretched out on the cushion of brown pine needles. Others leaned back against a tree to nibble on a crust of bread or suck on an empty pipe. Fifteen minutes later, without a word being spoken, everyone was back hard at work. The only superfluous person there was Paul himself. Hunt at least had to operate the front winch of the truck to drag a sapling or hold one in place to be cemented, wired and nailed. Nonetheless, Paul was pleased to be outdoors, to feel the heat of the sun on his back, to hear the rasp of the two-handled crosscut saw, to feel the bite of the ax notching a tree, to breathe the fresh cut pinewood with its aroma of turpentine. What a joy to be alive!

Midweek, Paul told Hunt they wouldn’t need the interpreter anymore.

“But Lieutenant,” protested Hunt, “I don’t know any German!”

“Neither do I, “Paul said, “but we’ll manage with signs and gestures, and learn some of the language too.”

The next afternoon, Paul asked Hunt, “What shape is the fence on ahead?”

“Beats me, Lieutenant.”

“Think I’ll find out.”

“There’s a little path alongside the fence the Krauts used to patrol on horses. The old stable is boarded-up at the far end of the loop.”

“I’d prefer,” Paul said quietly, “we say Germans.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paul followed the faint overgrown path, pleased for the exercise, and promptly forgot about the condition of the fence. Before long, he reached the inner stockade of the compound, topped with barbed wire, where the orderlies, workers and other help lived. In the weed-choked aisle between the fences were a series of empty wire-mesh dog kennels. Hunt didn’t know anything about dogs or kennels. Perhaps Karl did.

On a notebook page, Paul drew a stick dog by a string of crosshatched boxes and pointed to the compound. Karl shook his head. “Ostarbeiter.” Paul looked through his phrasebook but couldn’t find any word close to it.

“It’s all Greek to me,” Hunt said.

After a hearty lunch, Paul stopped at the supply room next to the Orderly Room. In a chair behind the wall-to-wall counter, a German orderly dozed with his chin on his chest. Paul tapped on the counter. The orderly jumped to attention.

“I’d like to see Sgt. Vacchio,” Paul said.

The orderly dashed to the back. Vacchio’s small, slim figure approached down the center aisle of ceiling-high shelves, his form-fit uniform neatly pressed and shoes brightly polished. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” he asked, his dark complected face impassive except for keen, darting black eyes.

“I’d like to look over the property book,” Paul said.

“Everything is in good order, Lieutenant. We inventory every item on a rotation schedule and spot-check the big movers weekly. Security is foolproof with only one key to the front lock, which I keep on my dog tag chain that I wear even in the shower.”

Paul rested his elbows on the counter. No move was made to lift the hinged countertop entrance to see the storeroom. “Capt. Hartley speaks very highly of you.”

“He’s the best. I inherited one holy mess. Two units were deactivated here, and what records they had weren’t kept up. No one cared because everyone was due to be redeployed. The DPs stole us blind. I worked nights, weekends, evenings, to get things in shape.”

Paul listened patiently and said, “It should be simple and easy then to go over everything. Would you drop the Book off at my room after closing?”

Vacchio leaned back and ran a hand through his sleek black hair. “Capt. Hartley gave strict orders the Property Book was never to leave my office.”

“I’m sure the captain will make an exception in this case for the supply officer, and it’ll be back before you open up tomorrow.”

“If you insist, sir.”

Paul stood up and looked him directly in the eye. “I insist, Sergeant.”

Being Officer of the Day, Paul decided to make a quick tour of the barracks before Hunt picked him up. There wouldn’t be much to see as German orderlies made the beds and swept and mopped the floors. This provided employment, except training and disciple suffered in his opinion. At this odd time of day, he heard the sound of running water and looked into the shower. One of the men soaping himself stood beside a girl rinsing off. Quickly, she turned her back to him. He stood there dumbfounded. “Hi there, Lt.,” the soldier said. “Makin’ sure of killin’ any lice.”

Paul reported the incident at the staff meeting.

“Say that again?” Hartley said.

Paul repeated what had taken place.

“Was she pretty?” Hartley asked.

“I really didn’t notice.”

“Did you get his name?”

“No,” Paul said. “But I think I can recognize him.”

Hartley shook his head and sighed. “Well, boys will be boys. At least he’s practicing good hygiene.” His face hardened, and he bit down on his cigar. “If a visiting inspector saw it, we’d hang by our thumbs. Henderson, post another notice that barracks are off-limits to non-military personnel, with no exceptions.” He stubbed his cigar out in the ashtray. “Let’s call it a day. Mason, wait a moment.” He opened his desk drawer and handed Paul the property book. “Here’s what you asked for. You’ll find everything in apple pie order. Vacchio may not be the most respectful non-com, but the supply room is the best-run place here. And if I may offer some advice: if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

After supper, Paul picked up the property book he’d tossed on the bed. He might as well look it over to be truthful that he had. He knew it wouldn’t be an ongoing record of many hands but a neatly edited copy. And he was right.

Paul wasn’t at all surprised to see his name on the weekend Duty Roster again as Officer of the Day with Lew to follow. Weekends seemed endless. Forty-eight hour passes were available for the men who wanted them, but not too many did. Travel by truck was uncomfortable, distances long, the food risky. Much more inviting were the alternate Saturday night dances and Sunday evening movies.

The drivers ate early Saturday and fanned out to appointed stops and crossroads to transport local girls. Their own five-piece German band supplied the music, as they did at lunch and supper times for food and lodging in a boxcar on their rail siding. Third Army Special Services provided the sheet music of the latest song hits, all of which, however, sounded alike with a singsong melody and dirge like beat. But nobody else, as Murphy frequently boasted, had a live band, and hardly a week went by without another outfit trying to pirate them away.

Paul arrived late for lunch posting the newer guards. Hartley and Anderson were off somewhere, and he’d just missed Lew. One of their regular waitresses brought in his food. “Thank you,” he said, unable to recall the names of the two waitresses handpicked by Murphy because they spoke the best English. “May I ask your name?”

“Frieda,” she replied softly.

He smiled. “Thank you again, Frieda. Are you coming to the dance tonight?”

She lowered her tray, looked to see that no one else was present, and asked seriously, “Would you go, Lt., if you were a girl?”

Taken aback, he could think of nothing to say, and smiled lamely beforetaking a bite of food.

Once the last truck unloaded its passengers, Paul and Lew sat down at a back table in the mess hall, and waited until the band’s first break. They returned to their rooms with everything going smoothly. Paul lay back on his bed with his hands behind his head and munched on a large Hershey bar while listening to the “Swingtime Hour” on the radio. A newsbreak reported the arrest of six AWOL soldiers for uncoupling railcars and selling their contents on the black market.

A door slammed, and heavy running feet echoed in the hallway. “Next door,” Lew said.

“Lt., come quick… a guy has a gun… on the dance floor!”

Paul sat up. “Slow down, Watkins. Who has a gun?”

“Private Caudill, sir. There was a big argument over a girl, and he left and came back with it.”

Paul seated his helmet liner, adjusted his OD armband, and fastened his guard duty sidearm. “Where would he find a gun?”

“I don’t know, sir. Maybe a souvenir.”

They hurried past the parked trucks. A crowd of soldiers and girls blocked the doorway. Watkins ordered everyone to stand back. No one moved. He elbowed their way through. It took a few moments for Paul’s eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room. The stage was deserted. People stood on chairs along the walls. Alone in the center of the floor stood Caudill, swaying back and forth, waving a pistol from side to side.

“C’mon, out,” Caudill shouted hoarsely. “C’mon out where I can git ya!”

Paul walked out on the floor.

“So ya gonna face up to me, huh!”

Continuing toward him, Paul said, “This is Lt. Mason, and you’re under arrest.”

Caudhill cocked his head and squinted. “I got nothin’ ’gainst you, Lootenant, but stay out of my way.”

“Let’s have the gun, Caudill,” Paul ordered coming steadily closer.

“Stay where you are, hear me, or you’re no better ’n a rabbit.”

“The gun, please.” Paul gripped the barrel and pulled the gun out of Caudill’s weak grasp. Caudill’s shirt reeked of stale beer. Paul steered him into the kitchen. “Corporal Watkins!”

“Yes, sir, I’m right here behind you.”

“Take him to the guardhouse and lock him up for the night.”

Watkins swallowed hard. “Sir, we don’t have one.”

Paul blinked. “You what? Then take him to his barrack, and wait for me there.”

He found the band huddled backstage in a corner and ordered them to begin playing. The leader began to wring his hands and plead in German. Paul pointed to the stage and said, “Schnell!” The band took a few steps, hesitated, then scurried with Paul at their heels. He waited until they began playing, nervously, but playing.

No one seemed to know who the other soldier was. The girl was standing by the stage. She was very young with dark blue eye shadow, bright red lips, with a tight black sweater over a full heavy bosom. He asked her name. She leaned back and looked at him with a coquettish smile. “Are you OK?” he asked and bent down to hear better, noticing her heavily perfumed hair. He nodded as if he understood and left.

Caudill was sound asleep, snoring.

“Did he give you any trouble?” Paul asked.

“No sir,” Watkins said. “Came like a baby and began crying like one.”

Despite sideburns, Caudill’s smooth face looked calm and innocent as a summer camper. Paul pulled off his shoes and covered him with a blanket. “When he wakes up, tell him he’s under arrest for drunk and disorderly conduct and confined to quarters until Capt. Hartley sees him.”

Paul looked in on the dance again. Satisfied things were back to normal, he returned to their quarters to await the departure of the trucks.

“What was that all about?” Lew asked and, hearing what happened, wagged his head in disbelief. “You have to be the luckiest or biggest fool in the whole world. Drunk as he was, he couldn’t miss. How did you know he wouldn’t shoot?”

“I never gave it a thought.”

“Where’s the gun now?”

Paul pulled it out of his hip pocket.

“A German Luger!” Lew said. “That’s worth a lot of money. Put it away. Might go off.”

Back in his room, Paul opened the bottom dresser drawer and laid the gun under some clothes. As he turned toward the bed, his knees suddenly buckled, and he grabbed onto the chair to keep from sinking to the floor.

* * *

The rain fell steadily. Paul slipped on his raincoat and took the shortcut through the thicket of pines behind their quarters to the motor pool . Hunt had seen to it that the rear tarp was in place and tied down. They drove slowly, the windshield wipers swishing back and forth, back and forth.

“A day for ducks,” Hunt said.

Pools of water filled the ruts of the makeshift road. A wheel dropped into a deep puddle that shook the truck frame. They pulled over near the fence. The tall, wet pines looked like shiny black pencils. “Let’s wait a few minutes,” Paul said. The rain pattered steadily on the roof and the hood. The windshield steamed up, and they cracked a window open. The sky was a dull leaden gray. Time itself seemed soggy and gloomy.

When the rain let up some, Paul said, “We’ll work in shifts. No sense in everyone getting soaked to the skin.” He explained this with raised fingers and head shakes. They were making real progress, even if Paul had to say so himself, ever since organizing four rotating crews: sawing and trimming, trench digging, erection, clean up and brush burning—this being fairer, providing variety, and improving efficiency.

At break time, the crews took cover in the truck. Karl tapped on the door window to offer Paul a crusty piece of bread. “Better take it, Lieutenant,” Hunt said. “It’s probably all he has and wants you to have it.” Paul thanked Karl, and with some effort broke the damp piece in two and handed a piece to Hunt..

“Not for me, Lieutenant,” Hunt said, making a face. “It’s like concrete.”

Paul munched the bread slowly. “Tastes good. What is it?”

“Peasant bread called swarts-something-or-other.”

“We ever serve it?”

“Nobody I know will touch it.”

The rain fell steadily, It was too wet to burn brush to dry off and keep warm.

“Hunt,” Paul said, “how about making a quick trip to the supply room and get as many ponchos as you can.” If he’d been thinking ahead, he’d have gotten them before they left.

Hunt returned with only four. “That’s all they had, Lieutenant.”

Paul made a mental note to check the stock record later. “Four are better than none.” He told Karl to work only one crew with ponchos, then trade places and ponchos with the next crew. Rain, soft and fine as mist, settled about them like fog.

Hunt rushed up to Paul by the stripping crew and pointed back to the main road. “Capt. Hartley, sir…wants to see you…right away.” Paul hopped from high ground to high ground along the swampy road. He saluted approaching Hartley, seated behind the driver’s wheel in a trench coat and rain-covered visor cap.

“How come,” Hartley said, “everybody isn’t working?”

This ought to be obvious, but Paul explained about the lack of rain gear and inability to start a fire.

Hartley said, “This isn’t a WPA make-work project. Ponchos are government property and not to be issued to civilians, Krauts most of all.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. “They’re men too, Captain.”

Hartley exhaled loudly. “Lieutenant, you’re trying my patience. They gassed millions of people, knocked out their gold teeth to sell, cut off their hair for bedding, shoved many half-alive into crematory ovens, and used their ashes for walkways.” He banged a fist on the steering wheel. “You heard my order. No coddling! Serve ’em right to drown like rats. And turn all ponchos back in at noontime. Is that clear?”

Paul gritted his teeth, saluted, and turned back not looking or caring if his boots squelched in the puddles. “Coddling!” He hated the word. How did Hartley ever get commissioned, much less promoted to captain? No wonder he drank, unable to stand himself. And who but Vacchio could have told him? Two of a kind, they were. And the colonel, was he blind to the obvious?

Fortunately, the rain slackened to a light drizzle. Karl and the crews, sensing what had taken place, jumped out of the truck and quietly went to work.

Paul’s sinuses began to clog up, and he made it through the rest of the week with aspirin and drinking two tall cans of canned grapefruit juice from Murphy. By Sunday, he began to feel like his old self again, and wrote a short letter home asking for a German-English Dictionary.

Noontime was the main meal, the kitchen staff having the evening off by preparing a cold buffet for supper. The movie tonight was Abilene Town starring Randolph Scott. It didn’t start until seven. Not that he cared. One Western was like another with cardboard characters. The only real scenes were the western landscape, the horses, and cattle. Plus, given the sound worked, there were jokes from the audience—some funny, some lewd—that disrupted the action or drowned out the dialogue. And, by the end, the cigarette smoke made it as hard to see as well as breathe.

He puffed up his extra blanket and lay back, reading, or trying to read The Education. His eyes quickly tired. He went next door to interest Lew in taking a walk; however, he was in the midst of writing a letter to Luanne. Her large color-tinted high-school graduation picture sat on his dresser of long brown hair, pointed nose, Angora sweater with a rhinestone heart locket. Paul wondered how it was possible to find anything to write about so often. Lew had met her at an USO dance. “We hit it off right away,” Lew had said. “A real nice girl, the kind you to take home to meet your mother. Next thing I know, we’re married. I never thought it would happen to me. I dated girls, sure, but nothing serious about anyone or anything until she came along. Sounds corny, but changed my whole life.”

Outside among the stumps, several men in green undershirts tossed a baseball back and forth. Around a net less basketball hoop, others practiced shooting and making lay-ups. Paul veered off the oval road onto the paved road to the back gate. The bright sun felt warm.

By a turnaround sat four squat, camouflaged storage tanks marked with a skull and crossbones above the words Gefar! Gas! Danger indeed. Poison gases were a terrible and fearful weapon, yet a necessary if lamentable insurance policy. Thankfully, none were used as in the First War when chlorine, phosgene, and mustard caused close to a million casualties. Oddly, when unprepared for gas warfare in the First War, they were used; in the Second when prepared, they weren’t. The Nazis had developed newer gases far more lethal than those held in readiness, but they hadn’t used them. And that was significant.

He followed the rutted wheel tracks that snaked through the slender pines. To his left and right stood long, neatly stacked artillery shells, drums, and bombs on log skids six feet high, strongly braced at each end. In front of every stack a canvas-covered stake identified each row: German, Hungarian, French, Austrian, Polish, Russian, Romanian Not all Nazis were Germans anymore than all Germans were Nazis. Farther on lay more scattered munitions, including heavy cumbersome one-ton containers, which had rolled to a stop after the panicked drivers had dumped them. When once completely segregated and stacked, what in the world were they ever going to do with all of them?

He strolled on amidst lacy sun patches. His footsteps made no sound on the carpet of needles. Hardly a twig or branch lay about as if some giant of old had swept the ground clean. The Occupation seemed far, far away, and himself no longer part of its affairs. Ahead beyond a barbed wire fence lay open farmland. He held a strand taut and slipped through. By the roadside, a post supported a carved crucifix. A steep gabled roof protected the drooping head, the gaunt body with large drops of blood painted red, the knees bent and twisted in pain. A handful of yellow and purple flowers lay at the foot of the post.

It is Sunday.

Over a slight rise appeared a strange sight of a cow and a horse pulling a wooden harrow weighted down with stones. A small slender woman, in a kerchief and angle-length dress, held the long reins to one side. At the edge of the tilled field, she turned the team around; then, she struggled to pivot one corner a step at a time. Paul moved forward to help. The woman, barefooted, stood rigid, clenched fists at her side. He stopped and looked around. No one else was there. Ah! The uniform. He retreated back across the road. He watched her snap the reins to urge the team over the rise and sink from sight in a funnel of dust.

Back inside the depot, he skirted an abandoned pillbox with a sod roof, still probably booby-trapped. Beyond the locked rear gate, he thought he heard a popping sound from a gun. He dropped to one knee and listened. Another pop sounded. Cautiously, he moved from tree to tree and spotted the guard seated against the sentry box, firing his carbine into a distant mound of brush and debris.

He put on his cap and strode forward. The guard dropped his carbine and jumped to his feet open-mouthed. “What in the world are you doing?’ he asked sternly.

The guard saluted. “Well…a…practicin’, sir, to pass the time.”

Paul picked up the carbine and pocketed the ammunition clip.

“I don’t mean no harm, Lieutenant. Nobody ever comes way out here.” He bit his lip. “I guess I’m really in for it.”

“That’ll be up to Capt. Hartley.” Paul handed him the carbine. “Firing a gun is serious business. There’s no telling how far a bullet will travel, and there’s farmland a short distance from here.”

“Yes, sir. I won’t never do it again.”

* * *

Lew was in his room listening to a replay of the Dodgers playing the Giants, always a grudge game. Paul handed him the clip.

“Where’d you get this?” asked Lew.

“From the back gate guard having target practice.”

“What a dumb thing to do! Somebody could get hurt bad or killed. Time to check the guard, and I’ll relieve him.” He gave Paul a searching look. “What were you doin’ out there, anyway?”

Paul shrugged. “Taking a walk.”

“Better learn a lesson yourself. This ain’t no city park.”

Later, Lew peaked around Paul’s doorway. “You asleep?”

Paul raised himself on one elbow. “Half-listening to the radio. How’s the guard? I forgot to get his name.”

“Gorski. Scared to death, but he’s OK now.” Lew explained the poor kid had been in less than three months and expected to be court-marshaled and shot at sunrise.

They agreed to keep what happened between the two of them.

Lew pulled a chair over, sat down, and looked at Paul with a weak, nervous smile.

“Ok if I smoke?” Paul nodded he could. Lew lit a cigarette, fanned the match out, and waved the smoke away. He took several more puffs. “Me and you,” he said without looking at Paul, “we’ve been together a good while. Seems even longer than it’s been.” He looked over for some encouragement, and Paul nodded. Taking a deep breath, Lew went on. “Now, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way. It’s about Capt. Hartley.” He held up both hands. “Before you say anything, I know you don’t think much of him, but he’s not really a bad guy. A little stuck on himself, but we all have our weaknesses.”

Paul swung his legs around. “He doesn’t know the war is over.”

“He fought in it, and that says something.”

“Something, yes, but not with any outfit like this. Blaming everyone for what happened doesn’t make for peace either, though some,” he grunted, “are considered exempt.”

Lew wrinkled his brow. “I don’t get it?”

“Is Lisa a Kraut?”

Lew pursed his lips and ground out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe. This peacemaking was not to his liking, but something had to be done. And how make peace without being peaceful? “I keep tellin’ him in a nice way that he’s got you all wrong.”

“Like what?” questioned Paul.

“You know. Vacchio. Giving cigarettes to the workers.”

“So there’s a Gestapo here too!” Paul said menacingly. “The cigarettes belong to me, and, if for no other reason, given for good work. As for Vacchio, he’s disrespectful and, I suspect, dishonest.” Caudill had asked about his Luger, and Paul had said that it’d be kept under lock and key in the supply room. Caudill had begged him not to do that because things like it could never be found when it came time to ship out. Paul, reluctantly, had agreed to keep the Luger safely locked in his duffle bag.

Appreciative of Lew’s good intentions, Paul reached out and swung the door closed. “The men aren’t to blame,” he said. “It’s up to the officers to lead the way. And Hartley,” he added scornfully, “except for being a bully and a drunk, and who calls everyone ‘Mac’ because he doesn’t know one soldier from another, is a shining example.”

“There’s been a lot of redeployment. He’s a drinker, yea, but not a drunk.”

“I suppose the canteen he carries is filled with pure Alpine water?”

Lew rubbed his forehead and coughed. “That’s not like you, Paul. Give him a break. He wants to stay in and get a “regular Army” commission, and he’s worried sick about the big test he has to take. Like me, he just made it through high school. He doesn’t have a job to go back to either like I do. This is a small place, and we’re only a handful, four of us tryin’ to do the work of eight. Keep the peace, if not for your sake, at least for mine. I have to be with him everyday. Is that asking too much?”

Paul smiled. “From you, no. Anybody else, yes.”

“Whew! I knew you’d listen. Tonight, I’m goin’ to sleep like a baby. How about sharin’ a coke?”

Paul followed him into his room. Lew poured half a coke into a glass for Paul and clinked bottle to glass. He then crossed off the day on the calendar. “One day closer to Luanne.”

Paul asked, “How many left?

“A hundred and fifty-four.”

“Four thousand miles to repair a stockade. I’m ready to call it quits.”

“Sortin’ shells ‘n stuff isn’t my idea either of makin’ Germany safe for democracy. Got any influence to get us sent home?”

“None.”

“Me neither.”

Maybe, Paul thought, he’d go to the movie.