‘Sweet crap,’ Buchwald said. ‘Come on.’
‘It’s my pencil,’ the Iowan said. ‘I had it at that last big town we passed — what was the name of it?’
‘I can call a sergeant,’ the policeman said. ‘Am I going to have to?’
‘Nah,’ Buchwald said. He said to the Iowan: ‘Come on. They’ve probably got a pencil inside. They can read and write here too.’ The Iowan backed out of the car and stood up. He began to refold his map. Following the policeman, they crossed to the areaway and descended into it, the Iowan following with his eyes the building’s soaring upward swoop.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It sure does.’ They descended steps, through a door; they were in a narrow stone passage; the policeman opened a door and they entered an anteroom; the policeman closed the door behind them. The room contained a cot, a desk, a telephone, a chair. The Iowan went to the desk and began to shift the papers on it.
‘You can remember you were here without having to check it off, cant you?’ Buchwald said.
‘It aint for me,’ the Iowan said, tumbling the papers through. ‘It’s for the girl I’m engaged to. I promised her — —’
‘Does she like pigs too?’ Buchwald said.
‘ — what?’ the Iowan said. He stopped and turned his head; still half stooped over the desk, he gave Buchwald his mild open reliant and alarmless look. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong with pigs?’
‘Okay,’ Buchwald said. ‘So you promised her.’
‘That’s right,’ the Iowan said. ‘When we found out I was coming to France I promised to take a map and mark off on it all the places I went to, especially the ones you always hear about, like Paris. I got Blois, and Brest, and I’ll get Paris for volunteering for this, and now I’m even going to have Chaulnesmont, the Grand Headquarters of the whole shebang as soon as I can find a pencil.’ He began to search the desk again.
‘What you going to do with it?’ Buchwald said. ‘The map. When you get it back home?’
‘Frame it and hang it on the wall,’ the Iowan said. ‘What did you think I was going to do with it?’
‘Are you sure you’re going to want this one marked on it?’ Buchwald said.
‘What?’ the Iowan said. Then he said, ‘Why?’
‘Dont you know what you volunteered for?’ Buchwald said.
‘Sure,’ the Iowan said. ‘For a chance to visit Chaulnesmont.’
‘I mean, didn’t anybody tell you what you were going to do here?’ Buchwald said.
‘You haven’t been in the army very long, have you?’ the Iowan said. ‘In the army, you dont ask what you are going to do: you just do it. In fact, the way to get along in any army is never even to wonder why they want something done or what they are going to do with it after it’s finished, but just do it and then get out of sight so that they cant just happen to see you by accident and then think up something for you to do, but instead they will have to have thought up something to be done, and then hunt for somebody to do it. Durn it, I dont believe they have a pencil here either.’
‘Maybe Sambo’s got one,’ Buchwald said. He looked at the Negro. ‘What did you volunteer for this for besides a three-day Paris pass? To see Chaulnesmont too?’
‘What did you call me?’ the Negro said.
‘Sambo,’ Buchwald said. ‘You no like?’
‘My name’s Philip Manigault Beauchamp,’ the Negro said.
‘Go on,’ Buchwald said.
‘It’s spelled Manigault but you pronounce it Mannygo,’ the Negro said.
‘Oh hush,’ Buchwald said.
‘You got a pencil, buddy?’ the Iowan said to the Negro.
‘No,’ the Negro said. He didn’t even look at the Iowan. He was still looking at Buchwald. ‘You want to make something of it?’
‘Me?’ Buchwald said. ‘What part of Texas you from?’
‘Texas,’ the Negro said with a sort of bemused contempt. He glanced at the nails of his right hand, then rubbed them briskly against his flank. ‘Mississippi. Going to live in Chicago soon as this crap’s over. Be an undertaker, if you’re interested.’
‘An undertaker?’ Buchwald said. ‘You like dead people, huh?’
‘Hasn’t anybody in this whole durn war got a pencil?’ the Iowan said.
‘Yes,’ the Negro said. He stood, tall, slender, not studied: just poised; suddenly he gave Buchwald a look feminine and defiant. ‘I like the work. So what?’
‘So you know what you volunteered for, do you?’
‘Maybe I do and maybe I dont,’ the Negro said. ‘Why did you volunteer for it? Besides a three-day pass in Paris?’
‘Because I love Wilson,’ Buchwald said.
‘Wilson?’ the Iowan said. ‘Do you know Sergeant Wilson? He’s the best sergeant in the army.’
‘Then I dont know him,’ Buchwald said without looking at the Iowan. ‘All the N.C.O.’s I know are sons of bitches.’ He said to the Negro, ‘Did they tell you, or didn’t they?’ Now the Iowan had begun to look from one to the other of them.
‘What is going on here?’ he said. The door opened. It was an American sergeant-major. He entered rapidly and looked rapidly at them. He was carrying an attaché case.
‘Who’s in charge?’ he said. He looked at Buchwald. ‘You.’ He opened the attaché case and took something from it which he extended to Buchwald. It was a pistol.
‘That’s a German pistol,’ the Iowan said. Buchwald took it. The sergeant-major reached into the attaché case again; this time it was a key, a door key; he extended it to Buchwald.
‘Why?’ Buchwald said.
‘Take it,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘You dont want privacy to last forever, do you?’ Buchwald took the key and put it and the pistol into his pocket.
‘Why in hell didn’t you bastards do it yourselves?’ he said.
‘So we had to send all the way to Blois to find somebody for a midnight argument,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Get it over with.’ He started to turn. This time the Iowan spoke quite loudly:
‘Look here,’ he said. ‘What is this?’ The sergeant-major paused and looked at the Iowan, then the Negro. He said to Buchwald:
‘So they’re already going coy on you.’
‘Oh, coy,’ Buchwald said. ‘Dont let that worry you. The smoke cant help it, coy is a part of what you might say one of his habits or customs or pastimes. The other one dont even know what coy means yet.’
‘Okay,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘It’s your monkey. You ready?’
‘Wait,’ Buchwald said. He didn’t look back to where the other two stood near the desk, watching him and the sergeant-major. ‘What is it?’
‘I thought they told you,’ the sergeant-major said.
‘Let’s hear yours,’ Buchwald said.
‘They had a little trouble with him,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘It’s got to be done from in front, for his own sake, let alone everybody else’s. But they cant seem to make him see it. He’s got to be killed from in front, by a Kraut bullet — see? You get it now? he was killed in that attack Monday morning; they’re giving him all the benefit: out there that morning where he had no business being — a major general, safe for the rest of his life to stay behind and say Give ’em hell, men. But no. He was out there himself, leading the whole business to victory for France and fatherland. They’re even going to give him a new medal, but he still wont see it.’
‘What’s his gripe?’ Buchwald said. ‘He knows he’s for it, dont he?’
‘Oh sure,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘He knows he’s gone. That aint the question. He aint kicking about that. He just refuses to let them do it that way — swears he’s going to make them shoot him not in the front but in the back, like any top-sergeant or shave-tail that thinks he’s too tough to be scared and too hard to be hurt. You know: make the whole world see that not the enemy but his own men did it.’
‘Why didn’t they just hold him and do it?’ Buchwald said.
‘Now now,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘You dont just hold a French major-general and shoot him in the face.’
‘Then how are we supposed to do it?’ Buchwald said. The sergeant-major looked at him. ‘Oh,’ Buchwald said. ‘Maybe I get it now. French soldiers dont. Maybe next time it will be an American general and three Frogs will get a trip to New York.’
‘Yeah,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘If they just let me pick the general. You ready now?’
‘Yes,’ Buchwald said. But he didn’t move. He said: ‘Yeah. Why us, anyway? If he’s a Frog general, why didn’t the Frogs do it? Why did it have to be us?’
‘Maybe because an American doughfoot is the only bastard they could bribe with a trip to Paris,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘Come on.’
But still Buchwald didn’t move, his pale hard eyes thoughtful and steady. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Give.’
‘If you’re going to back out, why didn’t you do it before you left Blois?’ the sergeant-major said.
Buchwald said something unprintable. ‘Give,’ he said. ‘Let’s get it over with.’
‘Right,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘They rationed it. The Frogs will have to shoot that Frog regiment, because it’s Frog.
