1945

Weapons were stacked in their tents, but they all still wore the steel pots that had protected their skulls since the landing. About a third of the men who had landed with the regiment were dead or wounded. They'd paid a helluva price for a beer and a warm place to sleep.

Paul walked past a group of enlisted men who were sprawled on the chill ground. "Hiya, Lieutenant," said Weaver, a PFC from Chicago. Weaver had been slightly wounded but had declined a chance to go to the rear earlier. By declining to go, he had probably screwed up his chance for a Purple Heart. Paul made a mental note to see if he could do something about that.

"Hi yourself," Paul said, grinning, ignoring that none of them had made any effort to come to attention. It was not the time to be tight on military formality. Now was a reminder that it really was a citizen army, with few professional or career soldiers. First Sergeant Mackensen was the only one he could think of, although some would doubtless want to remain in the service after the war ended. If, that is, the war ever ended.

"Got a question for you, sir," Weaver said.

Paul stopped. "Okay."

"Do you think they should have drafted Frank Sinatra like they did Joe Louis?"

Paul laughed. "I have a question for you- who the hell cares?"

Weaver pretended to be hurt. "We do, sir. Every day we come up with a topic to discuss, and Sinatra's draft status is today's issue of deepest concern. Hell, sir, it helps keep our minds out of the war."

Makes sense, Paul thought. Keep the agony at bay with silliness. "What other questions have you come up with?"

Weaver belched and almost dropped his beer. As it was, he spilled some and it sloshed over his leg. He didn't seem to notice. "Well, sir, yesterday we discussed whether or not Judy Garland fucked the Tin Man, and the day before we decided that smoking really was good for you and wouldn't stunt your growth."

"Heavy stuff." Paul laughed. "What's the consensus on Sinatra?"

Weaver looked at the others, who nodded for him to continue. "Well, we think we're better off without him. We think he's so skinny someone would have to carry his gear for him. Also, I don't think he sings that great anyhow and won't last, despite what my little sister writes about him. She just loves his skinny little dago ass. By the way, last week we decided that Scarlett O'Hara probably was a lousy lay. We still wonder, though, whether Jap pussy is slanted sideways like their eyes are. Guess we'll have to find that out ourselves, although none of us are so horny yet that we'll screw someone who actually eats raw fish."

"You will be soon," Paul told them solemnly. "Keep up the good work, men."

He walked past where Sergeant Collins, First Sergeant Mackensen, and several others were relaxing as well. Collins had a silly grin on his face while Mackensen's eyes were blank. Sweet dreams, Paul thought. Sergeant Orlando, owner of the M4 Sherman that had proven its worth a dozen times, brushed by him on his way to join the group.

"Sorry, Lieutenant, but this is the NCO club. Officers' country is two trees and five rocks over to your left."

Paul slapped him on the shoulder and told him where he could drive his tank and then spin the turret. All the rules were relaxed, at least for the time being, and it was good, damn good, to be alive.

Just about two trees and five rocks over, Paul found Captain Ruger, Lieutenant Marcelli, and Lieutenant Bergen sitting on the ground. Lieutenant Kinski, he recalled, was resting from a bout of near pneumonia. Kinski was a new guy who'd replaced Houle, who'd been killed a week before.

"Siddown," Ruger ordered, and Paul happily complied. He squatted on the ground and took a long pull of beer. Each of the others had a beer in his hand and a couple more in the pockets of his jacket. "Ammunition," Ruger added, and patted a full bottle. "Never want to run out of ftickin' ammo."

Paul sprawled on the ground and looked up at the sky. "What now, brave captain?"

Marcelli answered, "Live for today. There may not be a tomorrow."

Ruger cuffed him on the arm. "God, that's dismal. We're getting out of here. All of us! Even Kinski, when he gets over his case of the sniffles."

Paul thought such fond hopes were the alcohol talking. Unless the war ended soon, they'd have to return to the fighting and take their share of casualties once more. Paul wondered just how many times a man could be shot at before the bullet with his name on it was fired. He decided to change the subject.

"Okay, Captain, we go home. Then what?"

"Gotta get home real fast and get out of the army so I can make a lot of money while I can. The Depression was ended by the war, but it sure as hell is coming back. Roosevelt might have fixed it for a little bit, but this Truman character ain't smart enough to keep the wolves from returning. I was poor before and I ain't gonna be poor again."