The 40s: The Story of a Decade (111 page)

“Hello, Seeger,” he said, returning the salute with a mild, offhand gesture. “What’s on your mind?”

“Am I disturbing you, sir?”

“Oh, no. Just writing a letter to my wife. You married, Seeger?” He peered at the tall boy standing before him.

“No, sir.”

“It’s very difficult.” Taney sighed, pushing dissatisfiedly at the letter before him. “My wife complains I don’t tell her I love her often enough. Been married fifteen years. You’d think she’d know by now.” He smiled at Seeger. “I thought you were going to Paris,” he said. “I signed the passes yesterday.”

“That’s what I came to see you about, sir.”

“I suppose something’s wrong with the passes.” Taney spoke resignedly, like a man who has never quite got the hang of Army regulations and has had requisitions, furloughs, and requests for courts-martial returned for correction in a baffling flood.

“No, sir,” Seeger said. “The passes’re fine. They start tomorrow. Well,
it’s just—” He looked around at the company clerk, who was on the sports page.

“This confidential?” Taney asked.

“If you don’t mind, sir.”

“Johnny,” Taney said to the clerk, “go stand in the rain someplace.”

“Yes, sir,” the clerk said, and slowly got up and walked out.

Taney looked shrewdly at Seeger and spoke in a secret whisper. “You pick up anything?” he asked.

Seeger grinned. “No, sir, haven’t had my hands on a girl since Strasbourg.”

“Ah, that’s good.” Taney leaned back, relieved, happy that he didn’t have to cope with the disapproval of the Medical Corps.

“It’s—well,” said Seeger, embarrassed, “it’s hard to say—but it’s money.”

Taney shook his head sadly. “I know.”

“We haven’t been paid for three months, sir, and—”

“Damn it!” Taney stood up and shouted furiously. “I would like to take every bloody, chair-warming old lady in the Finance Department and wring their necks.”

The clerk stuck his head into the tent. “Anything wrong? You call for me, sir?”

“No!” Taney shouted. “Get out of here!”

The clerk ducked out.

Taney sat down again. “I suppose,” he said, in a more normal voice, “they have their problems. Outfits being broken up, being moved all over the place. But it’s rugged.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad,” Seeger said, “but we’re going to Paris tomorrow. Olson, Welch, and myself. And you need money in Paris.”

“Don’t I know it?” Taney wagged his head. “Do you know what I paid for a bottle of champagne on the Place Pigalle in September?” He paused significantly. “I won’t tell you. You wouldn’t have any respect for me the rest of your life.”

Seeger laughed. “Hanging is too good for the guy who thought up the rate of exchange,” he said.

“I don’t care if I never see another franc as long as I live.” Taney waved his letter in the air, although it had been dry for a long time.

There was silence in the tent, and Seeger swallowed a little embarrassedly. “Sir,” he said, “the truth is, I’ve come to borrow some money for
Welch, Olson, and myself. We’ll pay it back out of the first pay we get, and that can’t be too long from now. If you don’t want to give it to us, just tell me and I’ll understand and get the hell out of here. We don’t like to ask, but you might just as well be dead as be in Paris broke.”

Taney stopped waving his letter and put it down thoughtfully. He peered at it, wrinkling his brow, looking like an aged bookkeeper in the single, gloomy light that hung in the middle of the tent.

“Just say the word, Captain,” Seeger said, “and I’ll blow.”

“Stay where you are, son,” said Taney. He dug in his shirt pocket and took out a worn, sweat-stained wallet. He looked at it for a moment. “Alligator,” he said, with automatic, absent pride. “My wife sent it to me when we were in England. Pounds don’t fit in it. However …” He opened it and took out all the contents. There was a small pile of francs on the table in front of him when he finished. He counted them. “Four hundred francs,” he said. “Eight bucks.”

“Excuse me,” Seeger said humbly. “I shouldn’t’ve asked.”

“Delighted,” Taney said vigorously. “Absolutely delighted.” He started dividing the francs into two piles. “Truth is, Seeger, most of my money goes home in allotments. And the truth is, I lost eleven hundred francs in a poker game three nights ago, and I ought to be ashamed of myself. Here.” He shoved one pile toward Seeger. “Two hundred francs.”

Seeger looked down at the frayed, meretricious paper, which always seemed to him like stage money anyway. “No, sir,” he said. “I can’t take it.”

“Take it,” Taney said. “That’s a direct order.”

Seeger slowly picked up the money, not looking at Taney. “Sometime, sir,” he said, “after we get out, you have to come over to my house, and you and my father and my brother and I’ll go on a real drunk.”

“I regard that,” Taney said gravely, “as a solemn commitment.”

They smiled at each other, and Seeger started out.

“Have a drink for me,” said Taney, “at the Café de la Paix. A small drink.” He was sitting down to tell his wife he loved her when Seeger went out of the tent.

Olson fell into step with Seeger and they walked silently through the mud between the tents.

“Well,
mon vieux
?” Olson said finally.

“Two hundred francs,” said Seeger.

Olson groaned. “Two hundred francs! We won’t be able to pinch a
whore’s behind on the Boulevard des Capucines for two hundred francs. That miserable, penny-loving Yankee!”

“He only had four hundred,” Seeger said.

“I revise my opinion,” said Olson.

They walked disconsolately and heavily back toward their tent.

Olson spoke only once before they got there. “These raincoats,” he said, patting his. “Most ingenious invention of the war. Highest saturation point of any modern fabric. Collect more water per square inch, and hold it, than any material known to man. All hail the quartermaster!”

· · ·

Welch was waiting at the entrance of their tent. He was standing there peering excitedly and shortsightedly out at the rain through his glasses, looking angry and tough, like a big-city hack driver, individual and incorruptible even in the ten-million colored uniform. Every time Seeger came upon Welch unexpectedly, he couldn’t help smiling at the belligerent stance, the harsh stare through the steel-rimmed G.I. glasses, which had nothing at all to do with the way Welch really was. “It’s a family inheritance,” Welch had once explained. “My whole family stands as though we were getting ready to rap a drunk with a beer glass. Even my old lady.” Welch had six brothers, all devout, according to Welch, and Seeger from time to time idly pictured them standing in a row, on Sunday mornings in church, seemingly on the verge of general violence, amid the hushed Latin and the Sabbath millinery.

“How much?” Welch asked loudly.

“Don’t make us laugh,” Olson said, pushing past him into the tent.

“What do you think I could get from the French for my combat jacket?” Seeger said. He went into the tent and lay down on his cot.

Welch followed them in and stood between the two of them. “Boys,” he said, “on a man’s errand.”

“I can just see us now,” Olson murmured, lying on his cot with his hands clasped behind his head, “painting Montmartre red. Please bring on the naked dancing girls. Four bucks’ worth.”

“I am not worried,” Welch announced.

“Get out of here.” Olson turned over on his stomach.

“I know where we can put our hands on sixty-five bucks.” Welch looked triumphantly first at Olson, then at Seeger.

Olson turned over slowly and sat up. “I’ll kill you,” he said, “if you’re kidding.”

“While you guys are wasting your time fooling around with the infantry,” Welch said, “I used my head. I went into Reems and used my head.”

“Rance,” Olson said automatically. He had had two years of French in college and he felt, now that the war was over, that he had to introduce his friends to some of his culture.

“I got to talking to a captain in the Air Force,” Welch said eagerly. “A little, fat old paddle-footed captain that never got higher off the ground than the second floor of Com Z headquarters, and he told me that what he would admire to do more than anything else is take home a nice shiny German Luger pistol with him to show to the boys back in Pacific Grove, California.”

Silence fell on the tent, and Welch and Olson looked at Seeger.

“Sixty-five bucks for a Luger, these days,” Olson said, “is a very good figure.”

“They’ve been sellin’ for as low as thirty-five,” said Welch hesitantly. “I’ll bet,” he said to Seeger, “you could sell yours now and buy another one back when you got some dough, and make a clear twenty-five on the deal.”

Seeger didn’t say anything. He had killed the owner of the Luger, an enormous S.S. major, in Coblenz, behind some bales of paper in a warehouse, and the major had fired at Seeger three times with it, once nicking his helmet, before Seeger hit him in the face at twenty feet. Seeger had kept the Luger, a heavy, well-balanced gun, lugging it with him, hiding it at the bottom of his bedroll, oiling it three times a week, avoiding all opportunities of selling it, although he had once been offered a hundred dollars for it and several times eighty and ninety, while the war was still on, before German weapons became a glut on the market.

“Well,” said Welch, “there’s no hurry. I told the captain I’d see him tonight around eight o’clock in front of the Lion d’Or Hotel. You got five hours to make up your mind. Plenty of time.”

“Me,” said Olson, after a pause, “I won’t say anything.”

Seeger looked reflectively at his feet, and the two other men avoided looking at him.

Welch dug in his pocket. “I forgot,” he said. “I picked up a letter for you.” He handed it to Seeger.

“Thanks,” Seeger said. He opened it absently, thinking about the Luger.

“Me,” said Olson, “I won’t say a bloody word. I’m just going to lie here and think about that nice, fat Air Force captain.”

· · ·

Seeger grinned a little at him and went to the tent opening to read the letter in the light. The letter was from his father, and even from one glance at the handwriting, scrawly and hurried and spotted, so different from his father’s usual steady, handsome, professorial script, he knew that something was wrong.

“Dear Norman,” it read, “sometime in the future, you must forgive me for writing this letter. But I have been holding this in so long, and there is no one here I can talk to, and because of your brother’s condition I must pretend to be cheerful and optimistic all the time at home, both with him and your mother, who has never been the same since Leonard was killed. You’re the oldest now, and although I know we’ve never talked very seriously about anything before, you have been through a great deal by now, and I imagine you must have matured considerably, and you’ve seen so many different places and people. Norman, I need help. While the war was on and you were fighting, I kept this to myself. It wouldn’t have been fair to burden you with this. But now the war is over, and I no longer feel I can stand up under this alone. And you will have to face it sometime when you get home, if you haven’t faced it already, and perhaps we can help each other by facing it together.”

“I’m redeployable. It’s so enjoyable,” Olson was singing softly, on his cot. He fell silent after his burst of song.

Seeger blinked his eyes in the gray, wintry, rainy light, and went on reading his father’s letter, on the stiff white stationery with the university letterhead in polite engraving at the top of each page.

“I’ve been feeling this coming on for a long time,” the letter continued, “but it wasn’t until last Sunday morning that something happened to make me feel it in its full force. I don’t know how much you’ve guessed about the reason for Jacob’s discharge from the Army. It’s true he was pretty badly wounded in the leg at Metz, but I’ve asked around, and I know that men with worse wounds were returned to duty after hospitalization. Jacob got a medical discharge, but I don’t think it was for the shrapnel wound in his thigh. He is suffering now from what I suppose you call combat fatigue, and he is subject to fits of depression and hallucinations. Your mother and I thought that as time went by and the war
and the Army receded, he would grow better. Instead, he is growing worse. Last Sunday morning when I came down into the living room from upstairs he was crouched in his old uniform, next to the window, peering out.”

“What the hell,” Olson was saying. “If we don’t get the sixty-five bucks we can always go to the Louvre. I understand the Mona Lisa is back.”

“I asked Jacob what he was doing,” the letter went on. “He didn’t turn around. ‘I’m observing,’ he said. ‘V-1s and V-2s. Buzz bombs and rockets. They’re coming in by the hundred.’ I tried to reason with him and he told me to crouch and save myself from flying glass. To humor him I got down on the floor beside him and tried to tell him the war was over, that we were in Ohio, 4,000 miles away from the nearest spot where bombs had fallen, that America had never been touched. He wouldn’t listen. ‘These’re the new rocket bombs,’ he said, ‘for the Jews.’ ”

“Did you ever hear of the Panthéon?” Olson asked loudly.

“No,” said Welch.

“It’s free.”

“I’ll go,” said Welch.

Seeger shook his head a little and blinked his eyes before he went back to the letter.

“After that,” his father went on, “Jacob seemed to forget about the bombs from time to time, but he kept saying that the mobs were coming up the street armed with bazookas and Browning automatic rifles. He mumbled incoherently a good deal of the time and kept walking back and forth saying, ‘What’s the situation? Do you know what the situation is?’ And once he told me he wasn’t worried about himself, he was a soldier and he expected to be killed, but he was worried about Mother and myself and Leonard and you. He seemed to forget that Leonard was dead. I tried to calm him and get him back to bed before your mother came down, but he refused and wanted to set out immediately to rejoin his division. It was all terribly disjointed, and at one time he took the ribbon he got for winning the Bronze Star and threw it in the fireplace, then he got down on his hands and knees and picked it out of the ashes and made me pin it on him again, and he kept repeating, ‘This is when they are coming for the Jews.’ ”