Three Day Pass

Our Office Bowlers get together every Wednesday evening. Afterwards some of the fellows meet at the bar for a couple of rounds and friendly discussions on politics, philosophical ideas, and broads.

On this particular Wednesday, we were recalling some of the humorous times we'd had in service. The war-years, with the super-patriotism, rationing, and man-hungry females, seemed like another world now.

Our traffic manager recalled an amusing weekend he'd spent in Washington, D.C. with a willing girl and no hotel room--our head of personnel told about several experiences he'd had in and around London--but my three day pass topped 'em all. It was right here in Minneapolis--it got my picture on the front page of the Press-Telegram--and it won back my girl.

The Rocket didn't leave from Kansas City until noon, and it was only nine o'clock. I checked my bags and got shaved by a lady barber named Delilah who complimented me on the texture and consistency of my skin and mentioned that she had little, if anything, to do that evening. Taking my pointed silence for shyness, she invited me to come up to her place for a home-cooked meal, after which she promised she would show me how to hone a razor properly. "Full many a razor has been ruined by improper honing," she said thickly, dusting my face lingeringly with talc and slipping into the pocket of my blouse a card on which was written her name, address, telephone number, and the admonition: "If not at home the first time, try, try again!"

At noon the train caller announced, not without pride, that the Rocket was on time. There followed a charge of an intensity not seen since the Cimarron was opened. The train seats were filled in an instant. Nimble young men leaped into the baggage racks and were shortly joined by a contingent Three Day Pass (continued from preceding page) of lithe, long-flanked girls returning to college after the Easter Holidays. Next the aisles were jammed with passengers sitting on upended suitcases. A young devotee of group singing whipped a harmonica from his pocket and started to play "Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition." With many cries of "What the hell. War is war," the passengers joined the singing, except for a group of marines, piled like cordwood in the rear of the car, who stoutly sang "From the Halls of Montezuma." The conductor, grown grizzled in the service of the line, came upon the scene and frankly wept.

Aloof in his Diesel sanctum, the engineer released the throttle or whatever the hell they do, and the train rolled forward.

I had just come from six months in Oklahoma, which is a dry state. In Oklahoma, if you want some whisky, you go to the nearest hotel and ask the bellboy for a pint. There is a little good-natured formality that you go through before you get it. He asks what kind you want. You say Old Schenley or Ancient Age or Four Roses or some such name. Then he goes down to the basement and finds an empty bottle of the brand you named. He fills that from his gallon jug of moonshine. He brings it to you; you give him five dollars, and after a few secretive winks and expressive smackings of lips you slink off to a dark room and bolt the swill as quickly as you can.

Frequently, as I had lain on an Oklahoma floor waiting for welcome paralysis and oblivion, I had mused about the wet and dissolute North where a man can order a highball and sit in a clean, well-lighted place sipping, smoking, making small talk, and looking out the windows at passers-by as frankly as if he lived a good life. I had promised myself that the very first time I left Oklahoma I would hit for the nearest bar to luxuriate in a resumption of what I liked to think of as civilized lushing.

Always one to keep promises of this nature, I squirmed out from under two women officers who had abused their ranks somewhat and were sitting on my lap, and hacked my way to the club car.

A group of friendly revelers made room for me at their table. "Sit down, Sarge," invited a jovial, round man.

By the time we had reached the Iowa line we were all fast friends. The globular fellow who had invited me to sit down was Leo Nine, a Southern congressman and author of such legislation as the Nine-Estes bill to tax Negroes for not voting, the Nine-Coy bill to sell Ellis Island, and the Nine-Carruthers bill to spay school-teachers. He was on his way to Minnesota for a farm-bloc conference where it was planned to find a new and imaginative interpretation of parity.

Miss Spinnaker, the lady in the party, was a maiden teacher of English at the Harold Stassen High School in Minneapolis. Two men completed the group--Mr. Torkelbergquist, a Minneapolis rubber-goods dealer, and Senor Rarrara, a South American commercial attaché.

The afternoon passed with drinking and conversation. Leo Nine told of crowded Washington conditions and how he himself had scarcely been able to find lodgings. Only after many days of searching, he said, was he able to sublease an apartment from three horribly scarred women who were in Washington posing for propaganda posters.

Torkelbergquist explained the rising birth rate as a consequence of the rubber shortage, speaking, out of deference to Miss Spinnaker, in oblique terms. He had grave Malthusian fears about the outcome of the situation and after a few drinks hinted delicately at regulated female infanticide.

Senor Rarrara told of his country's war effort. Their air force, he said, had lately acquired several pushertype biplanes and the slingshots of two divisions of infantry had already been replaced with muzzle-loaders. As for their navy--Rarrara chuckled ominously--let any U-boat venture up the Orinoco and it was a dead pigeon.

I looked at posters on three sides of me which proclaimed in turn. "Loose Lips Sink Ships," "The Enemy is Listening," and "North and South, Keep Shut The Mouth," and I said nothing.

Also silent was Miss Spinnaker. At first she listened attentively to whoever spoke, smiling or chuckling, whichever was warranted, at the proper points in the narratives. But after a bit her attention started to wander. She smiled at the wrong times and once laughed explosively as Leo Nine described the dignity of Lee's bearing at Appomattox. A little later she gave up listening altogether and began sticking her ancient legs out in the aisle to trip the waiters. When the waiters learned to step carefully over her sere limbs, she turned to sticking her thumb in our drinks when we weren't looking, and finally to snatching them up and drinking them.

Chivalrously, these matters were not brought to her attention. The conversation continued. Leo Nine was telling about the pioneer days when his family had crossed the frontier in an Angostura wagon. He had been born on that journey, the tenth child in the family. His father had been a scholar, he explained, and had named him Leo, which means ten in Latin. At this point Miss Spinnaker began shouting a raucous ballad entitled "Thirty Years a Chambermaid and Never A Kiss I Got." Only then was any note taken of her conduct.

"Really, Miss Spinnaker!" said Leo Nine.

"I suppose," she said, "you think I'm just a dried-up old virgin."

"Really, Miss Spinnaker!" said Torkelbergquist.

"I suppose," she continued, "you think I use a bed just to sleep in."

"Really, Miss Spinnaker!" said Rarrara.

"I suppose you think I don't know what a roll in the hay is."

"Really, Miss Spinnaker!" I said, not caring how many enemy agents heard me.

She drained all four of our glasses as we sat back aghast. "I've worked every cat house from Honolulu to Rio," she announced. "You look surprised. Well, maybe you won't be when you see a picture of how I looked in those days."

She opened her knitting bag and passed around an old daguerreotype. I was only twenty-four years old, but I knew a picture of Lillian Russell when I saw one.

"They called me 'Hot Helen' then. Sometimes just 'Hot.' I serviced 'em all--kings and stevedores, bankers and draymen. Jim Fisk gave me this." She showed us a trylon-and-perisphere souvenir ring from the 1939 New York World's Fair. " 'Hot Jim' I used to call him."

She lit a cigarette recklessly.

"During the Bull Moose convention I did twelve thousand dollars' business in one night," she said. "That was my best night, but I had plenty almost as good. Don't worry, I've got a nice little nest egg stashed away in the Morgan Bank. Old J. P.'s taking care of it for me. 'Hot J. P.' I used to call him."

A new waiter walked by, and she tripped him neatly. She reached over and swiped a drink from the next table.

"I've shilled every crooked wheel from Singapore to Hatteras," she roared. " 'Lucky Lou' they used to call me. I dealt six-pack bezique to prime ministers and played the shell game with bumpkins. Arnold Rothstein gave me this." She showed us the ring again.

" 'Hot Arnold' I used to call him.

"Poker, craps, dominoes, faro, blackjack, euchre, red dog--I know 'em all. Name your game, gents. I'll play any man from any land any game he can name for any amount he can count."

She rose unsteadily to her feet. "Wait'll I go to the toilet, and I'll tell you all about the days I ran Chinks over the border."

She lurched down the aisle. "I once smugged (continued on page 8) Three Day Pass (continued from page 6) in Sun, Yat-Sen. 'Hot Sun' I used to call him," she yelled over her shoulder.

She stumbled into the nearest lavatory, exiting hurriedly, speeded by the shouts of angry men.

"Well, gentlemen," said Leo Nine, "we're almost in. I guess I'll be going. Now, you all be sure to look me up when you're in Washington."

"You bet," we said.

Torkelbergquist and Rarrara left immediately afterward, each inviting me to look him up.

"You bet," I said.

After a while Miss Spinnaker came walking feebly back. She was very pale. She sank weekly into a chair. "I was told," she said, "that if you drink a tablespoon of olive oil before you begin, it doesn't affect you."

"It doesn't work," I said.

"No, I suppose not." She looked at me for a long while. "Weren't you in my English class a few years ago?"

"About ten years ago."

"Miller," she said, remembering. "Harold Miller."

"Daniel."

"Yes, Daniel. It's nice seeing you, Daniel."

"Nice to see you too, Miss Spinnaker."

We both looked out the window. We were coming into Minneapolis.

• • •

I spent my first day at home with the folks. Ordinarily I would have spent the evening with my girl, Estherlee, but Estherlee and I had had a slight misunderstanding, and she was now busy going steady with a marine.

The night before I had left for the Army we had, as she euphemistically put it, "gone all the way." A quick unsatisfactory spasm it had been, but, nonetheless, a major step. Weeks of conversations, reassurances, plans, vacillations, considerations, rationalizations, yeas and nays, pros and cons, had preceded the act. At length a sort of agreement had been reached, an agreement that had half negated itself during its actual consummation.

I'd enlisted in the aviation cadets just before graduation from the University of Minnesota. I waited through the summer for my induction orders. During the days I went around doing little kindnesses for people so that they would remember me favorably when I was dead. The nights were spent with Estherlee in hot, desperate clinging. Bravely we talked about how dulcet and decorous it was to die for one's country. From our morbid convictions it followed naturally that we deserved a little of the summum bonum before it was too late; would in fact, be remiss not to take it. So we talked and necked and hemmed and hawed and needled one another into emotional turmoils until the night before I left, when we finally agreed that my certain destiny outweighed the moral considerations. In spite of gnawing last-minute doubts and fantastic inexperience on her part and acute nervousness on mine, it was done. I went off dry-eyed to war.

For three weeks I was an aviation cadet. As eager as any of them, I bounded from my bed at reveille, learned to salute, drill, march, and sing the Air Corps song, did calisthenics that previously I had seen only on the Orpheum circuit, ran around the camp during my off-duty hours to develop my mind, read nothing but aircraft-silhouette books, and took ice-cold showers. By God, I said, feeling my flabby muscles congeal, I'm going to get some of them bastards before they get me.

Then I washed out on a slight technicality--something about I couldn't see.

I was transferred to the Air Force ground forces and sent to a new Oklahoma airfield as a member of the Headquarters Company. When they gave me a desk and a typewriter of my very own, I considered suicide. In my righteous, civilianish opinion, a soldier who held a desk job was a slacker, unless he was deathly ill, and such I suspected of malingering. But I soon learned you don't put ten million citizens in an army and get them where they have to be, fully trained and fully equipped, without a million miles of paper. Every spoon in every mess kit and every Flying Fortress has to be accounted for. I soon saw that each soldier who types, files, and records papers is in every sense a soldier. I learned my work and learned it well: my rapid promotions proved that.

I had, however, some difficulty convincing my girl. There she was, sitting in Minneapolis, trying to convince herself that our last night was something fine and beautiful and waiting for my death notice to square her conscience. And there were my letters coming from bombproof Oklahoma: "Darling, today I was promoted to private first class." "Darling, today I was promoted to corporal." "Darling, today I was promoted to sergeant." "Darling, today I'm real busy getting out a survey of non-expendable office supplies." "Darling, today I cut my finger on the edge of a piece of paper. I went to the infirmary and they put some sulfa on it, and it feels better already. Isn't sulfa wonderful?"

Estherlee sat there waiting for "The War Department regrets" and I sent her news of promotions and cut fingers. She got hotter and hotter, and her letters got colder and colder. In her last one she said, "You must be feeling proud of yourself sitting there in Oklahoma at your safe job and knowing that you got what you wanted from me."

"I should live so long, Estherlee," I wrote back, "that little episode is all forgotten. It means nothing to me."

I must have said something wrong, because after that she started going steady with the marine.

My second day home, I visited my old alma mater. I wandered across the green campus. Leggy coeds flexed and posed, apparently to keep in practice, because, except for a few underage freshmen, there were no men in sight. Emboldened by sharp, two-noted whistles and undeniable winks, I stopped and talked to a group of four coeds. "Nice day," I said.

"It certainly is, Lieutenant," cooed one, smiling and wiggling late pubic acquisitions.

"This spring weather," sighed another, slithering sinuously over the grass. "It does something to me. Does it do something to you, Captain?"

"I feel so kind of cuddly and lovey, Major," a third confessed, debarking a young spruce with her writhing back.

The fourth went all out. "Colonel," she panted, "let's."

I escaped with bruises and continued my walk. There were coeds everywhere. Some leaned against buildings. Some hung out of windows. Some sat in convertibles with motors running (both the convertibles' and the coeds). Some fidgeted on the grass. All kept their eyes peeled for the infrequent male--the draftproof aeronautical-engineering student, the medical student finishing his course under army sponsorship, the seventeen-year-old freshman, the bald or balding professor.

One of the last-named fell in beside me as I walked. "I won't deny," he said, guessing what I was thinking, "that at first I was pleased by all this. To be whistled at, jostled against, and mentally undressed by an attractive young woman is flattering. I am still a young man, relatively speaking, and I am still a sound man biologically if I exercise prudence. It is not unpleasant to be the object of such lascivious overtures, and there is some poetic justice in it too.

"In previous years I used to stare at these girls and think my thoughts, and when I reached the boiling point, as it were, I went to an understanding trollop who served me at these times. I never resented the indifference of the coeds, their obliviousness to my feelings. To be sure, I concealed my feelings, for I am a man of dignity. But nonetheless, when a younger man lusted after one of these young women, no matter how well he disguised his passion, she always was aware of it and acted accordingly. But I--when I saw them rolling a stocking or (continued on page 10) Three Day Pass (continued from page 8) settling a twisted breast in its harness (braziers, I believe they are called), they would proceed with their tasks as unhurriedly as though a glimpse of thigh or mammae had no more effect on me than on a hall tree.

"But, as I say, I did not resent that. I am a teacher to whose care the young are entrusted for learning. I considered it an oblique tribute to my excellence as a teacher that these young women did not think of me as a man. Nevertheless, I was gratified at first when I became one of the few remaining men on the campus and cognizance was taken of my gender at least. Now when I see them rolling a stocking they hoist their skirts down with alacrity. But now they roll their stockings whenever they think I'm looking.

"At first, I say, I was gratified. But soon it became disconcerting. I have neither the money nor the strength to make all the visits to my friend that I have felt the need for in recent months. And to make advances to a student is unthinkable. Caught between the Scylla of excitement and the Charybdis of age plus a fixed income, I am going to pot.

"I have offered my services to the Army, but they informed me that the demand for experts in Byzantine architecture is slack at this time and that no boom is anticipated."

He stopped in front of a lecture hall.

"Now," he said, "I am going to give a lecture. There is one man in my class, a frail youth whose health precludes military service. God grant that he is well enough to be here today so that I may fasten my eyes on him and thus be able to deliver my lecture. I cannot stand much more of breast and leg and hot, mascaraed eyes. Good-by, young man. Buy bonds."

After an afternoon on campus, I required the services of the professor's friend myself.

• • •

I spent the last evening of my pass with Sam Wye. Sam was home on furlough after eighteen months of engineer's training. He looked happy and fit--his shoulders had broadened, his bucktoothed squirrel's face was brown underneath his crew haircut.

Sam was a strange fellow. Let's not say he was sadistic--let's just call him mischievous. Yes, mischief governed his every action. Anyone who was around Sam long enough--a whole evening, for instance--would most certainly become involved in his machinations. Not even his own mother and father were exempt. Those two had been living acutely incomplete lives since Sam had convinced them that normal relations past forty result in curvature of the spine.

His dog, Nero, was also a study in neurosis. By walking past Nero every day for weeks with a plate of hamburger, then going into his room, closing the door, and purring, Sam had persuaded the hapless beast that he was discriminating against him in favor of a cat. He further rocked Nero's sanity by feigning inadvertence and calling him Kitty.

Sam's torts against me included signing my name to letters he sent to the Atlanta Constitution urging the practice of miscegenation, alienating a young woman with whom I was making good progress by telling her that all my forebears were midgets, and prevailing upon me to make a fourth in a quarter-of-a-cent bridge game with three strangers who he knew full well were a touring bridge-exhibition team. On these occasions and many more I had soberly considered breaking with him, but with a world full of dullards, you don't cast off Sam Wyes.

On this particular evening, we went to the Sty, a charming little tearoom on the edge of town run by a retired madame. Red, green, and yellow neon lights bathed the front of the place in a soft glow, and cheery signs blinked: "Checks Cashed," "Best Floor Show in Town," "Open All Night," "Drink Old Specimen," and "Buy Bonds." The proprietress, looking old-worldly in a red satin gown slit down one side to expose a flaccid thigh, bid us welcome at the door. "Just in time, gents," she said. "Floor show's just going on."

And indeed it was. We paid our three-dollar couvert and were relegated to a newly built, but as yet unenclosed addition within artillery range of the dance floor. Renting binoculars from a cigarette girl in a rather daring costume (she was mother naked), we adjusted the lenses and watched the first number.

It was entitled simply "America." A line of lasses clad in red, white and blue G-strings and a dab of phosphorus on each nipple advanced to the center of the floor, kicked once to the left, once to the right, about-faced, touched buttocks by pairs, about-faced, and screeched a charming patriotic ditty that ended, "We'll stick with our boys through thick and thin, Uncle Sammy-Whammy's going to win!"

They waited for the laggards among them to finish, kicked once to the left, once to the right, about-faced, touched buttocks by pairs (a routine they knew consummately), and retired from the floor.

We ordered drinks from a waiter who was about to get nasty about it. "Can't live off'n people just settin' around," he chided gently as he brought our watered whisky and water.

Two ripe matrons came over to our table. The bolder one said, "We been watching you two soldiers, and we thought you might be lonesome, so we though we'd join you if you don't mind."

"For patriotic reasons," said the other.

They sat down. "I'm Mrs. Spetalnik, said the first, "and this is my girl friend, Mrs. Gooberman."

"Blanche and Marge," supplied the second.

"Which is which?" asked Sam.

His little just dispelled the formality, and we fast became friends. We ordered drinks, whiskey for us, sloegin fizzes for the ladies. "I seldom ever drink," said Blanche, whom I had drawn. "It just helps sometimes to get away from the war. Know what I mean?"

"I understand," I said simply.

"What's your gentlemen's names?" asked Madge.

"Oh, excuse me," Sam said. "This is Robert Jordan, and I am Montag Fortz."

"Pleased, I'm sure," they said.

"I'll bet you gentlemen have seen plenty of action," Blanche said.

"I, nothing. But Robert--" said Sam. "Tell them of the bridge, Robert."

"The floor show," I said.

The m. c. was at the microphone calling for order. During the preceding number, a routine in which the girls from the chorus had wandered among the tables patting the customers' heads, one of them had failed to return, and there was some confusion. At length the m. c. restored quiet. "And now, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "let's get serious for a moment. We're all having a lot of fun, but our hearts are with the boys over there." A blue spot was thrown on him, and the pianist played soft chords. "Everybody here has got somebody near and dear to them over there," he continued. "Let's take time out for a minute and think of them. They haven't got it easy in the mud and filth of their fox holes. They never know when death will strike them, but they don't complain. They've got a job to do."

Blanche's hand stole into mine.

"We're all doing all we can on the home front." There was a round of applause. "But we must do even more, although it don't hardly seem possible. So tonight Miss Emma Fligg, proprietress of the Sty, has arranged a little added attraction."

Miss Fligg stuck her leg through the slit in her dress and bowed in acknowledgement of the ovation.

"Tonight," the m. c. went on, "we're all going to have a chance to make a further contribution toward speeding the day (continued on page 16) Three Day Pass (continued from page 10) of victory. Come out, Miss Petite." Miss Petite came out. "Ladies and gentlemen, Dawn Petite!"

Dawn Petite was dressed in a costume of four strategically placed war bonds. "Who'll buy my bonds?" she asked.

"Yes, ladies and gentlemen," said the m. c., "who'll buy Miss Petite's bonds and win the privilege of taking them off? The first one goes for $18.75."

A large man in a black, pin-striped suit with a black shirt and a yellow tie rushed forward. He lunged at Miss Petite. "Whoa," chuckled the m. c. "Just a minute. What is your name, sir?"

"Ed Tarboosh," he said impatiently, and started for Miss Petite.

"And what is your occupation?"

"Riveter."

"Riveter!" cried the m. c.

The patrons stamped and whistled.

"I suppose you're working on war materials," said the m. c.

"Yeh, yeh."

"Well, Mr. Tarboosh, I want to say for everyone here that we're grateful to you home-front soldiers."

"The bond," said Mr. Tarboosh.

"All right. Now, Miss Petite, will you kindly turn around and let Mr. Tarboosh take his $18.75 bond?"

Although Mr. Tarboosh was more than a little disappointed, he made the best of it.

"The next two go for $37.50 apiece," said the m.c.

"I'll take them both," cried a slavering fellow running up with cupped hands.

"Your name, sir?"

"Hitler," he answered. "Everybody kids me about it. I don't think they should. I'm a good American."

"I should say you are, Mr. Hitler," said the announcer. "You're certainly showing the proper spirit tonight."

"I do my best," said Mr. Hitler.

Which he also did in collecting his bonds.

"The last bond goes for $75," said the m. c.

Instantly the place was in an uproar. From the melee one man finally reeled, his left arm hanging useless, a broken beer bottle in his right. He snarled at the m. c., knocked the microphone down, and went forward to claim his reward as the lights went off. When they went on again, Miss Petite was in her dressing room nursing a chill and the m. c. was imploring everyone out on the floor to dance.

"Tell us about the bridge," said Blanche to me.

"Would you care to gavotte?" I asked.

"You got to show me how," she said, taking my arm.

The dance floor was jammed with war workers and their wives, war workers and other men's wives, war workers' wives dancing with war workers' wives. Blanche and I inserted ourselves into the mass and were imbedded in erotic juxtaposition until the music stopped. We met Sam, who had also been dancing, as the impressions of his brass buttons on Madge's bare midriff testified, and we all went back to our table.

There were four strangers sitting at it, a pair of twin brothers and a pair of twin sisters. We looked at them askance. "Your table?" asked one of the brothers jovially. "Well, think nothing of it. Come on, Al, we'll get some more chairs." They reconnoitered briefly, unseated four near-by women, and came back in a moment with the chairs.

"Sit down, sit down," boomed the one who wasn't Al. "Plenty of room. Glad to have you, soldiers. We've got a couple of twin brothers in the Army ourselves, haven't we, Al?"

"Yes," said Al.

We squeezed around what had originally been a téte-á-téte table.

"P. B. Gelt's my name," continued Al's brother, "and this is my brother Al. Used cars is our business. You've heard of Gelt and Gelt. 'If your last car smelt, try Gelt and Gelt!' And these are the Vanocki twins, Vera and Viola. Met 'em at the twins' convention in St. Paul last year. Damn fine girls."

They blushed in unison.

"Charmed," said Sam. "This is Madge Spetalnik and Blanche Goober-man and Robert Jordan and I am Montag Fortz."

"Well, that's fine," said P. B. "Waiter, eight shots of gin. Fortz did you say your name was? I used to know a Fortz, didn't I, Al?"

"Yes," said Al.

"I remember now. Sold him a '27 Essex a couple of years ago. Had over 100,000 miles on it, two sprung axles, cracked block, and not an inch of wiring. He never even got it home," chuckled P.B. "No relation of yours, I hope."

"My father," said Sam. "He spent his last nickel for that car. My mother was selling shoelaces door to door at that time. She was out at a little settlement about thirty miles north of here when she was suddenly stricken with scrofula. The only chance was to get some serum to her immediately, and the only way to reach her was by car. Dad pawned everything he had in the world to buy that car. He didn't make it."

"Well, see here," said P. B., "I feel I ought to do something--"

"It doesn't matter," said Sam. "She was getting old anyway."

"It's nice of you to say so," said P.B. The waiter brought the drinks. "Eight more. By God, Fortz, you're not paying for a thing tonight. That's the least I can do."

"I'll bet you gentlemen have seen plenty of action," said Vera and Viola in unison.

"Robert has," said Blanche. "Tell them about the bridge, Robert."

"Mustn't let our drinks get cold," I said brightly.

We drank. "We've got a pair of twin brothers in the service," said P. B. "They're walkie-talkies."

"What about the bridge?" chorused Vera and Viola.

"Oh," I said, "I used to play a little bridge, that's all. Tell me, Mr. Gelt, how is the used-car business? I understand it's getting difficult to find good ones."

'Well," said P. B. pontifically, "it is and it isn't. You got to know where to find them. I got a '38 Olds on the lot--drive it away for $1,100, cash or terms--that's a little dandy. Just as good as brand new. Even better, 'cause it's been broke in. Used to belong to an old one-legged lady who just drove it back and forth in the garage for a few minutes every Sunday afternoon. Hardly a mile on the speedometer. Interested, Jordan? Might make a price for a serviceman."

"No," I said, "no, I don't think so. I was thinking of something bigger than an Olds, A Mercedes-Benz or a Rolls, perhaps."

"He got used to foreign cars while he was on the other side," Sam explained.

"Why don't you tell 'em about the bridge, hon?" asked Blanche.

"Well, look who's here!" I said. "The waiter! I certainly am glad to see you."

We drank, and P. B. ordered eight more. "By God, Fortz," he said, "I'm sorry about your mother."

"Forget it," said Sam. "She was a nuisance."

Blanche tugged at my sleeve. "Go on, tell 'em, Bob," she urged.

Miss Fligg was making the rounds of the tables. "Oh, Miss Fligg," I called. She came over. "I just wanted to tell you how much we're enjoying ourselves."

"That's real nice, dearie," she said. "I try to run a nice homey place where people can have a little fun and take their minds off the terrible war."

"Ain't it the truth?" Blanche agreed. "I seldom ever drink, but it helps sometimes to get away from the war, like you say."

The waiter brought the drinks. "Won't you have one?" I asked.

Miss Fligg laughed lightly. "No thanks, dearie. Got to watch my figger." She exhibited her gnarled leg through the slit in her gown. "What are you drinking, gin? Have you tried a Sty Stinger? Specialty of the house. One part rye, (continued on page 18) Three Day Pass (continued from page 16) one part beer, and one part pure U. S. P. alky. Bring these folks a round of Sty Stingers," she told the waiter. "Well, folks, enjoy yourselfs. I got to go to the kitchen and watch the cook. That sonofabitch puts butter in the sandwiches when I ain't looking."

We drank the gin. The waiter brought the Sty Stingers and we drank those.

"How about the God-damn bridge?" asked Madge.

"Yes, tell us, Bobby," said Blanche.

"Yes, tell us about the bridge," said Vera and Viola together.

"We'd like to hear about it, Jordan," said P. B. "Wouldn't we, Al?"

"Yes," said Al.

"You tell them or I will," Sam threatened.

It was the Sty Stinger on top of the gin and whisky that did it. "Go obscenity thyself," I told Sam. "I will tell them. Who blew the bridge?"

"Thee," said Sam.

"Clearly," I said. "It was really nothing. Nada. A little bridge. A boy of twelve could have blown it."

"Thou art modest," said Sam. "It was a formidable bridge. The grandmother of all bridges. The Frank Sinatra of bridges."

"Was it a cantilever bridge or a suspension bridge?" asked P. B.

"What's the difference?" inquired Madge.

"A cantilever bridge is supported by spans," P. B. explained, "and a suspension bridge hangs from wires."

"Hangs from wires?" Madge asked. "Where do the wires come from?"

"From the wire factory," Sam said. "Tell them of the bridge, Roberto."

"That of the bridge fills me with sadness," I sighed. "I keep thinking of Anselmo."

"Who's Anselmo?" asked the twin sisters.

"Private First Class Herbert Anselmo," Sam said. "He helped Robert with the bridge. He was killed."

"Nevertheless, it was done," I said stoutly. "The Moors did not attack over that bridge."

"Where was the bridge?" Madge asked.

"Where do you suppose the Moors are?" asked P. B. irritably. "In Moorocco, naturally. Aren't they, Al?"

"Yes," said Al.

"Before I tell," I suggested, "let us have more of those drinks with the rare name."

"Eight Sty Stingers," P. B. told a waiter.

"A rare name," I said.

"Did you blow the bridge?" Blanche asked.

"Did I not," I said. "I ask thee, Montag."

"Oh, did thee not," said Sam.

"Oh, did I not," I said.

The waiter brought another round. I drank mine, and Sam kindly gave me his, which I also drank.

"Tell them from the beginning," Sam said. "Tell them that of Maria."

"Who's Maria?" Blanche asked.

"She of the short hair like a cropped wheat field," I said dreamily.

"Who?" Blanche demanded.

"Maria Fishbinder," Sam explained. "A woman with a feather bob who was sent along to keep house for Robert."

"Maria," I breathed. "Ah, guapa. Ah, little rabbit."

"What?" said Blanche.

"He says for suppa they used to eat a little rabbit," Sam answered. "You get pretty tired of K ration."

"I can imagine," said Madge. "That kind of stuff ain't natural. One night Rex--Mr. Spetalnik--brought home a little package of green stuff. 'What's that?' I says. 'That's dehydrated spinach,' he says. 'They's a whole bushel here. All you got to do is add water.' 'Rex,' I says, 'if the Lord had intended for spinach to be like that, he would have grew it that way.' I divorced Rex shortly after that. Don't know how I stood him as long as I did. He used to work in the stockyards, and every night he came home with manure on his shoes. He tracked so much manure on the rugs things was growin' there. Believe me you don't know what us women go through."

"Amen," said Blanche. "Gooberman used to keep bees in our dresser. I opened the wrong drawer one night and they raised lumps all over me. I've still got some."

"What about the bridge?" asked Vera and Viola.

"A formidable bridge. The grandmother of all bridges," I said.

"Tell them how thou blowst it up after Pablo stole thy exploder," Sam prompted.

"Unprint him. I this and that on him. That he would steal a man's exploder."

"That's a shoddy thing to do," said P. B.

"It could have been done safely. There was no need for Anselmo to die," I complained softly.

"Tell them how thou climbst among the girders of the bridge and fastened grenades to the explosives," I said.

A man materialized beside me. "Eight Sty Stingers," I said. "A rare name."

"I'm not a waiter," said the man. "I'm John Smith of the Press-Telegram. But I'll be glad to buy the drinks if I can hear the rest of that story."

"A reporter?" asked Sam.

"Well, sort of. I'm temporarily on classified ads." John Smith replied.

"A rare name," I said. "Even as I fixed the grenades to the explosives I could hear them coming up the road."

"Who?" asked John Smith.

"The fascists," Sam answered.

"How many of you were there?"

"Only he and Anselmo, who was killed," Sam said.

"And where was this bridge?"

"In Moorocco," said P. B. "Wasn't it, Al?"

"Yes," said Al.

"Maybe I better get a photographer," said John Smith.

"By all means," said Sam.

"Here's your drink," John Smith said to me. "Now you drink this and I'll be right back. Wait for me."

He got back as I finished the Sty Stinger. A rare name. "Now let me have your name and address," he said.

"I'll give you all that later," said Sam. "Let him go ahead with his story. You got a pencil and paper, Mr. Smith?"

"Shoot," he said.

I continued. "I could hear them coming up the road. 'Thee must pull the wire, Anselmo,' I said, 'if they reach the bridge.' 'Nay,' he said, 'not while thou arst on it.' 'It is of no consequence,' I said. 'Thee must pull the wire.' "

"Jeez, what a story!" exclaimed John Smith. "They can't keep me on classified ads after this one."

"She came to me as I lay in the sleeping bag," I said. " 'Get in, little rabbit,' I said. 'Nay, I must not,' she said. 'Get in. It's cold out there,' I said. 'Thee must show me what to do,' she said. 'I will learn and I will be thy woman.' 'Yes,' I said fiercely, 'yes, yes.' "

"What's all this?" asked John Smith.

"Nay," said Sam. "Tell them of the bridge. How thou hadst finished one side and they started to fire and thou strungest the wire down the other side and they started to fire and thou finished the other side just as they reached the bridge and thou saidst, 'Pull, Anselmo,' and he pulled and the bridge opened up just like a blossom."

"Did it not," I said. "A formidable bridge."

"This is more than a newspaper story," said John Smith. "This has the makings of a book!"

"You could call it For Whom The Bell Tolls," suggested Sam.

"That's no good," said Smith. "Hemingway's already used that title."

"Oh," said Sam.

"P. B. Gelt's my name," said P. B. Gelt. "I imagine a newspaperman like you needs a good car in his business, doesn't he Al?"

"Yes," said Al.

"They're getting scarce. You could do worse than invest in a good car a few years old. They knew how to build cars in those days, believe me. Now I got a '27 Essex--"

"Here's my photographer," said John Smith.

"Of course, if you'd like something a little (continued on page 50) Three day pass (continued from page 18) newer," said P. B., "I got a '38 Olds--$1,300 takes it, cash or terms--not a mile on it. The guy who owned it was president of a suicidepact club. He used to keep the car in the garage, and once a month one member of the club would go out and monoxide himself. That's all the car was used for."

"Manny," said John Smith to the photographer, "I want to get something a little unusual here. This guy blew up a bridge in Morocco. The fascist troops were shooting at him while he attached the explosives. They got his buddy."

"The bastards," said Manny.

"What do you think?" asked John Smith.

"Well, we'll fake something," said Manny. He turned to me. "You crawl under the table and I'll give you this extension wire and you pretend you're hooking it onto the table leg. You the other soldier--what's your name?"

"Montag Fortz."

"--stand by with your fingers in your ears."

"Swell," said John Smith. "I won't be writing classified ads much longer."

"Thee," Sam said to me, "getst under the table."

I crawled under. "I had a cousin who was a photographer," I said. "He smuggled a camera into an electrocution once. Had it strapped to his leg. When they turned the juice on the prisoner, my cousin hoisted his trousers and clicked the shutter. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to focus. All he got was the nape of H. V. Kaltenborn, who was covering the electrocution for the Brooklyn Eagle. Kalten-born later bought a dozen enlargements from him."

"All right," Manny said. "Now tie that wire around the table leg. That's it. Montage, you stick your fingers in your ears. That's fine. Now one more. Got it."

"Now if you'll give me the dope on your friend--" John Smith said to Sam.

Sam took him aside, gave him my real name and address, and enough additional material to make certain the story would make page one of next morning's paper.

"Gelt and Gelt," I said from under the table, "I see what you're doing to those twins. A rare thing." Then I passed out cold.

• • •

The next day it was all there--the picture alone got four columns. Everyone saw it--Mom, Pop, Estherlee. I tried to tell them that it was a mistake, but the story said it had been a secret mission (something Sam had added when I wasn't listening) and everyone thought I was just being modest. I thought I might get court martialled, but I guess the Army doesn't read the Press-Telegram. Estherlee thought my letters from Oklahoma were faked to hide the real nature of my assignment--I think Sam gave her that idea, too. She never did see the marine again.

As flash-bulbs popped, I blew the bridge!