Once there was a war

A NORTH AFRICAN POST (Via London), August 37, 1943—It was well after midnight. The sergeant of MPs and his lieutenant drove in a jeep out of Sidi Belle Road from Oran. The sergeant had carved the handles of his gun from the Plexiglas from the nose of a bomber and he had begun to carve figures in it during off times with his pocket knife. It was a soft African night with abundant stars. The lieutenant was quite young and sensible enough to depend a good deal on his sergeant. The jeep leaped and rattled over cobblestones. “Let’s go up to the Engineers and get a cup of coffee and a sandwich,” the lieutenant said. “Turn around at the next corner.”

At that moment a weapons carrier came roaring in from the country, going nearly sixty miles an hour. It flashed by the jeep and turned the corner on two wheels. “Jeezus,” said the sergeant, “shall I go after him?”

“Run him down,” said the lieutenant.

The sergeant wheeled the jeep around and put his foot to the floor. Around the corner he could see the tail lights in the distance and he seemed to gain on it rapidly. The weapons carrier was stopped, pulled up beside a field. The jeep skidded to a stop and the sergeant leaped out with the lieutenant after him.

Three men were sitting in the weapons carrier, three in the front seat. They were quite drunk. The sergeant flashed his light in the back. There were two empty wine bottles on the floor of the truck. “Get out,” said the sergeant. As the men got out he frisked each one of them, tapping the hind pockets and the trousers below the knees. The three soldiers looked a little bedraggled.

“Who was driving that car?” the lieutenant asked.

“I don’t know him,” a small fat soldier said. “I never saw him before. He just jumped out and ran when he saw you coming. I never saw him before. We were just walking along and he asked us to come for a ride with him.” The small fat soldier rushed the words out.

“That’ll be enough out of you,” the sergeant said. “You don’t have to tell your friends the alibi. Where did you dump the stuff?”

“What stuff, Sergeant? I don’t know what stuff you mean.”

“You know what I mean all right. Shall I take a look about, sir?”

“Go ahead,” the lieutenant said. The sergeant went to the border of the field and flashed his light about in the stubble. Then he came back. “Can’t see anything,” he said, and to the men, “Where’d you get this truck?”

“Just like I told you—this soldier asked us to come for a ride, and then he saw you coming and he jumped out and ran.”

“What was his name?”

“I don’t know. We called him Willie. He said his name was Willie. I never saw him in my life before. Said his name was Willie.”

“Get in the jeep,” said the sergeant. “I’ve got the keys, lieutenant. We’ll send out for the truck. Go on now, you guys, get in that jeep.”

“We ain’t done anything wrong, Sarge. What you going to take us in for? Guy named Willie just asked—”

“Shut up and get in,” said the sergeant.

The three piled uncomfortably into the back seat of the jeep. The sergeant got behind the wheel and the lieutenant loosened his gun in its holster and sat on the little front seat with his body screwed around to face the three. Only the little man wanted to talk. The jeep rattled into the dark streets of Oran and pulled up in front of the MP station, jumped up on the sidewalk, and parked bumper against the building. Inside brilliant lights were blinding after the blacked-out streets. A sergeant and a first lieutenant sat behind a big, high desk and looked over at the three ranged in front of them.

“Take off your dog tags and put them up here,” said the sergeant. He began to make notes on a pad from the dog tags. “Put everything in your pockets in this box.” He shoved a cigar box to the edge of his desk.

“But this here’s my stuff,” the little man protested.

“You’ll get a receipt. Put it up and roll up your sleeves.”

The two men who had been with the little fat man were silent and watchful. “Who was driving the truck?” the desk sergeant asked.

“A fellow named Willie. He jumped out and ran away.”

The sergeant turned to the other two. “Who was driving the truck?” he asked them.

They both nodded their heads toward the little fat man and neither one of them spoke. “You bastards,” the little fat man said quietly. “Oh, you dirty bastards.”

“Roll up your sleeves,” the desk sergeant said, and then: “Good God, four wrist watches. Say, this one is a GI watch. That’s government property. Where did you get it?”

“I lent a fellow money for it. He’s going to get it back when he pays me.”

“Put your wallet up here.”

The little fat man brought out a wallet of red morocco leather and hesitantly put it up. “I want a receipt for this. This is my savings.”

The desk sergeant shook out the wallet. “God Almighty,” he said, and he began to count the mounds of bills and he made notes on his pad. “Ten thousand Algerian francs and three thousand dollars, American,” he said. “You really are packing the stuff away, aren’t you, buddy?”