Snakes in the Grass, Alas

Those were the days of no Fraternization. The Army had made a law against it. You were not allowed so much as to speak to a girl on the street. It was the spring of 1945, in Bavaria, and the Germans had just surrendered. We were a medical unit running a hospital – actually a sort of rest-cure establishment for exhausted soldiers – on a lake about 40 miles southeast of Munich. I was the duty sergeant and also the unofficial go-between with the natives, being the only man in the outfit who knew enough German to be useful; so all the problems and gripes came to me before they got any further.

And there were plenty of gripes about this anti-girl business. Maybe the war was over, but the Germans were still the Enemy – and that included the women. Our boys were not to be contaminated by any contact with them. Needless to say, this was driving them crazy. A dogface would offer a cigarette to a willing Fräulein on the corner and right away, before he could make his pitch, an M.P. was on top of him with, "Move along, trooper. You know the rules. No fraternization."

It was ghastly.

It was so ghastly, in fact, that I knew McHugh could not leave it alone. McHugh was our mess sergeant, a big, carelessly constructed guy with a face like what would happen if a sculptor started out on a gorilla and then changed to Fernandel at the last minute; and the main thing about him was his pure and gemlike hatred of the Army and its officers, which led him to evolve the most fantastic (and, incidentally, profitable) exercises in insubordination. And sure enough, one evening he showed up in the snack bar with the familiar mad gleam in his eye.

"Accompany me," he commanded, "and I will let you in on my latest stroke of genius."

We left the snack bar. It was dusk of a day in May, the kind that sets the buds to popping, the birds to yodeling, and the hormones to careering through the blood stream. As we walked along the margin of the lake, McHugh embarked on his topic.

"Consider this grotesque no-fraternization edict," he declared. "It exemplifies the Army mentality in its fullest and most idiotic flower. Here we've won the goddamned war and the Army decrees that we are not to enjoy the most elementary fruits of our victory. Clearly, our buddies need a champion, quick-witted and resourceful. To wit, me. Now, I have asked myself how the boys could best evade the sharp eyes of the M.P.s and indulge their natural instincts unmolested, and I have concluded that they should go out into the country to hunt snakes, under the protective wing of an officer. These hills are dotted with picturesque farms and hamlets, all of them teeming with females —"

"Chaplain Withers!" I exclaimed.

"Precisely. As you know, his hobby is snake collecting. I've sold him on the idea of a series of weekly excursions – he's already arranged for the transportation."

"Truly," I said, "an inspired concept." Without any question, the chaplain was the solution to the problem: a lover of his fellow creatures, a fountain of Christian charity, a man of serenest good will, and, after a lifetime of missionary work among the heathen, possessed of an almost saintly innocence.

"Surely ten dollars per trip per buddy," McHugh went on, "is not too much to require for the privilege of participating in this project."

"And the only thing wrong with it," I said, "is that you won't find any snakes, being so busy with other matters."

"Ah," McHugh said. We had reached the service entrance to the kitchen, and McHugh led me down a corridor to the door of a storeroom, which he threw open. In one corner I saw about 20 two-quart jars, with labels on them; and each one contained a snake.

"These pickled snakes," McHugh explained, "were, until a few days ago, adorning the cellar of the bombed-out Museum of Natural History in Munich. It was not difficult for me, in my guise as a colonel of the United States Army, to persuade the Curator of Reptiles —"

"Are you telling me," I asked, "that you impersonated an officer?"

"A full turkey colonel of the Third Airborne Division, by the name of Jones, who signed a receipt for these twenty-four bottles of snakes, with which he hopes to instruct his troops in the joys of herpetology. The curator – a fine old geezer – was surprised and delighted to learn that the American barbarians were interested in such lofty things. He helped me load them into the jeep." McHugh surveyed his booty with a smile of quiet satisfaction; and suddenly he started one of his ghoulish chuckles. It began with his knees, which vibrated. It worked its way up his trunk, in a sort of wave, involving more and more of his body, until finally it reached his face, which curdled – all the lines in it changing direction – and he shook up and down while his horrible "Huh! Huh! Huh!" filled the room.

And it worked out just the way McHugh thought it would. He gathered up a group of 15 with no trouble about the 10-dollar fee. Two of the men were given snakes (well dried out in one of McHugh's ovens), which they secreted. The chaplain requisitioned two weapons carriers and off they went into the country on a sunny Saturday afternoon to a likely spot chosen by McHugh: a dozen farms and a small community within a mile.

"All right, fellows," Captain Withers said, full of enthusiasm, "the thing to do is to scatter through the woods and fields. Poke under fallen logs, thrash around in the thickets. When you scare out a snake, try to catch him alive, the way I explained to you. OK, let's go!"

Off they went. The chaplain went off in one direction, beating at the underbrush with much spirit, and the 15 snake-hunters went off in 15 other directions, laden with cigarettes, candy bars and soap. All of them had a fine convalescent light in their eye, and it was not long before all were improving remarkably in the company of young females, offering material inducements to friendship, and in general accomplishing the purpose for which they had paid their sawbuck.

When, around sundown, they straggled back to their transportation, they found the chaplain rather crestfallen. "I didn't find a single snake," he said to the first few tired but happy warriors. "Not a one."

"Neither did we," they said. "Not a single snake."

"Golly, fellows," the chaplain said, "I hope this hasn't been too great a disappointment for you."

"Oh, no, sir!" they cried. "It's been fun! We want to try again."

The chaplain was feeling happy about this profession of interest when the real clincher came through: one of the men came running up waving a snake in the air. The creature, alas, had succumbed to the rigors of capture; nevertheless, Captain Withers was overjoyed. After his eager inspection of it he was also astonished. "Astounding!" he exclaimed. "What a great addition to my collection! I've never seen one like it before."

(Hardly surprising: it was a Tasmanian viper, totally extinct since 1884.)

And then another soldier burst into view with something in his hand. It, too, was a snake the chaplain was unfamiliar with – as it happened, a Glypholycus bicolor, found only in Lake Tanganyika. "What a day!" he cried. He was the happiest man in the ETO.

News of the snake hunt spread through the hospital like a life-giving flame. Guys on crutches and in wheel-chairs experienced miraculous cures and wanted to go hiking. The next week there were 28 applicants, and the week after that, 46, and McHugh was getting wealthy. Every Saturday the trips went out, in a veritable motorized column: we had the best-fraternized sector of Germany and the chaplain, bless his innocent soul, had the best collection of anonymous snakes in the world. He put them in bottles on a bookshelf in his office, and admired them and puzzled over them, but he couldn't lay his hands on any reference books to find out what they were.

"But when he finally does," I warned McHugh, "the party will be over, and you can explain to a general court martial why you felt tempted to dress up like a colonel."

And one Monday morning, after about the sixth excursion, the chaplain came bursting into the orderly room in a state of great excitement and dragged me over to his room to look at something.

He picked up a bottle. "One of the men found this day-before-yesterday, and I have just figured out what it is. Amazing!"

"What is it?" I asked, fearing the worst.

"Sergeant," he intoned solemnly, "this is nothing more or less than the boom-slang of South Africa, the Dispholidus typus. I collected several of these during my missionary work down there. South Africa! Sergeant, do you realize what this means?"

I knew what it meant: the end had come.

"It's a major scientific breakthrough! It proves that in prehistoric times there was a land bridge between Africa and Europe–otherwise how could this boomslang boomsling himself – ha ha! – all the way to Bavaria? And how it fits in with the Higher Criticism! The Biblical Flood, you see, was the inundation of the Mediterranean Basin, which destroyed the bridge. I'm working up a treatise —"

"Oh, I wouldn't be too hasty, sir," I said, thinking fast. "If this boomslang has been in Bavaria since prehistoric times, how come he wasn't discovered here until last Saturday?"

The chaplain pondered a moment; and who should wander in during that moment but Lieutenant Barnes, the mess officer. Now, this Lieutenant Barnes was a thoroughly odious character, a puffy little guy with a nasty way about him, who always knew all the answers and made like a big shot, pushing people around and abusing privilege.

"Yes," the chaplain said unhappily, "I'm afraid you may have something there. But then we still have the question of how he ever got here."

"Maybe," I suggested, "he escaped from the Munich Zoo during a bombing raid and sneaked off into the country."

"I suppose that's what happened," the chaplain said.

"An enemy agent on the loose?" Lieutenant Barnes asked. "What's this all about?"

That was all the chaplain needed to set him off on a lengthy exposition, not only of the immediate problem but of the whole history of the weekly expedi- (continued on page 56) Snakes in the Grass (continued from page 42) tions. He drew the lieutenant over to the shelf and showed him with pride the fruits of the men's efforts in the field. The lieutenant went from jar to jar, peering carefully at the inhabitant of each, and I could see on his face the suspicion that was forming in his dismal brain.

"Captain," he said, "doesn't it strike you as remarkable that all these specimens are different? That they never catch the same snake twice?"

"Well now," the chaplain said, "that is remarkable. I never thought of that. Upon my word, how extraordinary, when you think about it."

"And you can't identify any of them?"

"I thought I was a pretty good snake man," the chaplain said with a happy chortle, "but these have me stumped – all except the boomslang. That's what makes this thing so terribly exciting."

Lieutenant Barnes said, "And another thing – don't these snakes look a bit old and beat up to you? They look pretty gray and soggy to me – like they'd spent a lot of time in formaldehyde."

The chaplain was beginning to look puzzled. He was too sweet-spirited a man to be able to suspect that somebody had pulled a fast one on him, and this left him with a lot of questions, all of a sudden, that he couldn't answer. Lieutenant Barnes drew himself up with a triumphant smirk. "Captain, if I may make a suggestion, next Saturday, when your snake-hunters come back with strange and exotic snakes, you just smell those snakes. Just smell them." And, with a fine sense of the dramatic curtain line, the cocky little bugger strutted out of the room – so bedazzled by his histrionics that he forgot I was listening.

"Now what in the world could he mean by that?" the chaplain asked me. "Surely he knows that snakes are odorless."

"He thinks they smell fishy," I said, and got out of there as fast as I could in search of McHugh. "The game is up," I told him; and, as I gave him a rundown on Barnes' detective work, his face took on the awful aspect of the enraged officer-hater lusting for the kill.

"Why, that slob! I'll crucify him!" He gnawed his nether lip for a while, as his features gradually turned back from Hyde to Jekyll, and then shifted around to Dagwood As Fiend. He went through his entire "Huh! Huh!" routine. "Tomorrow or the day after," he said, "there will pass through your hands, in the incoming mail, a letter for the chaplain. It will be in German and he will ask you to translate it. Your job is to translate it in a loud voice while Barnes is within earshot." He would tell me no more, having a taste for the mysterious and flamboyant.

The letter arrived the next afternoon, all right, looking authentically German, but it was not until the following Monday that the opportunity arose to make use of it. That morning Lieutenant Barnes was in the orderly room when the chaplain toddled in for his regular morning yak session. "Good morning, fellows," he said.

"Good morning, Captain," Barnes said. "I hear you didn't find any snakes on your trip last Saturday."

"That's true, by jiminy," the chaplain said. "For the first time, nobody caught a thing."

"Caught?" Barnes hooted. "Do you still think those men are catching those snakes? Captain, don't you realize —"

"Excuse me, Lieutenant," I interrupted, practically shouting, "but I have something urgent here for Captain Withers." I took the letter out of the drawer. "Sir, I believe this must be for you. It's addressed to the officer in charge of morals at the hospital."

"Morals?" the chaplain said. "Upon my word. That must mean me, I guess. What's it say?"

"Oh, I haven't opened it, sir," I said.

The chaplain tore it open and looked at it. "I'm afraid my German isn't up to this," he said. "Sergeant, would you be so good as to translate?"

I took the letter and cleared my throat.

"'Most Highly Respected American Officer,'" I read. "'An unprotected and helpless girl implores you to help her identify the heartless villain who has abused her innocence and has made her an about-to-be mother. I have not told him of my condition, for fear that he will run away and not marry me.'"

"What?" Lieutenant Barnes interrupted. "Some soldier has got a girl into trouble?"

"It seems so," I said, and continued:

"'But I will describe him to you so that you can identify him and keep him from escaping. Every Wednesday and Sunday he drives up to our place in a jeep. He is about one meter seventy tall, blond, with a little mustache —'"

"Drives up in a jeep, you say?" the chaplain broke in. "Well, it shouldn't be too hard to find out who the man is. Somebody in the motor pool, I imagine. Wouldn't the trip tickets show it?"

I was watching Barnes from the corner of my eye and was pleased to note that his healthy pink had fled. "Jeep?" he croaked. "Wednesday and Sunday?" He got himself under control. "Captain Withers, I think I can handle this. Let me look into the matter."

"I wish you would," the chaplain said. "How distressing."

That evening I told McHugh of Barnes' gratifying reaction and asked him to explain it.

"Simple and predictable," he said.

"The lieutenant assumed that the letter, of which I was the author, referred to him."

"Has the lieutenant been dallying with indigenous personnel, female?"

"Twice a week for the past month," McHugh said, "Barnes has made me drive him out into the country to pick up a quantity of locally manufactured Branntwein, or brandy, for the stupefaction of our estimable officers."

"Preposterous," I interjected. "McHugh, you are lying to me again. Everybody knows we aren't allowed to get anything from the Germans. Anything. No food, no souvenirs, and certainly no liquor."

"A measure," he answered, "of the debased quality of all officers. Because this Barnes is doing it, and the others are drinking it. We drive up to this distillery, about five miles due south along the back roads. On the way, Barnes changes to a jacket without insignia. When we get there a blooming maiden, in a perfect state of preservation, appears in the doorway. She is a dilly, and her name is Minna. They embrace – a hideous experience for a man of my sensitivity. Together they walk to the warehouse, to see what hooch may be on hand. This process takes about an hour. An hour! Meanwhile, I am instructed to guard the jeep until Barnes saunters back with her haunch in one hand and a jerry can of brandy in the other. 'Home, James,' he says, the sonofabitch, and on the way back he has several swigs. Does he offer me any? He does not. And now, in addition, he wants to louse up my snake act. You will understand why I am so bent on his extermination."

"Tell me how this letter will exterminate him."

"Well," McHugh said, "a gentleman would immediately go to the girl and want to know why she had not told him, and he would stick by her in one way or another. But Barnes is an officer. My guess is he will try to skip out."

McHugh's guess was half right: Barnes did make the move to skip out, by applying for a transfer the very next day. I saw the papers – approved – on the CO's desk. But he was even less a gentleman – and more of a patsy – than McHugh had imagined. He planned to cover his tracks by framing McHugh, who told me about it a couple of days later.

Lieutenant Barnes, it seems, ordered the jeep on Wednesday as usual, just as if nothing had happened. But on the way to the distillery he manifested a much greater than usual concern for his driver's welfare.

"Sergeant," he said, "I've been thinking. I mean, about the foolishness of this (continued on page 58)Snakes in the Grass (continued from page 56) rule about fraternizing. Don't you think so?"

"Whatever the Lieutenant says," McHugh replied.

"I mean," Barnes went on, "it just doesn't make good sense. Sergeant, I want to give you the chance for some female companionship. Today, you go get the brandy and I'll guard the jeep."

"Oh no, sir," McHugh said. "I couldn't do that."

"Couldn't do that? Why couldn't you do that?"

"Because, sir, that would be breaking regulations, getting something from the German economy."

"Oh, stow it, will you?" Barnes said. "We've been doing this for weeks now."

"We, sir?" McHugh said. "No, sir, you, sir. I've just been driving the jeep, on your orders."

"Dammit, man, get wise," Barnes said in exasperation. "I'm trying to do you a favor. That brewer's daughter is a very delectable and willing cooky. You would appreciate making her acquaintance."

By this time they were pulling up in front of the distillery.

"Oh no, sir," McHugh said. "I really wouldn't want to make her acquaintance. That would be against regulations."

"Goddammit, McHugh!" the lieutenant shouted. "I'm ordering you to go in and get that liquor! Drink some of it, and take your time about it!"

"Well, if it's an order, sir," McHugh said, and got out with the jerry can.

Minna appeared at the doorway. Lieutenant Barnes pushed over a carton of cigarettes, said into the driver's seat, and took off as fast as he could. McHugh went up to Minna and explained that he would be picking up the order this time. She looked perplexed for a moment, but not displeased, and together they proceeded to the warehouse. Two hours later they came out, hand in hand. The jerry can was full and they were using "Du" with each other, the intimate form of address.* They bade each other farewell with much tenderness and McHugh hiked a half mile down the road to where Barnes was hiding in the jeep.

"Have another drink, Sergeant," Lieutenant Barnes said, eagerly offering the can. "How did it go with good old Minna?"

"Oh, very well," McHugh said. "We had a most enjoyable talk."

"Talk? Is that all? Here, have another drink. Man, that girl wasn't made for just talk." Barnes got real confidential. "Listen, soldier, it happens they're transferring me out of here pretty soon, and I'd like to see you step into this nice little setup I have here. What a deal for you! I'll arrange it with the motor pool so you can make these trips alone. Man, you're in heaven! What do you say?"

"The lieutenant is most generous," was what McHugh said, "but this behavior of the lieutenant's is so unusual, and so contrary to regulations, that I very much fear the lieutenant is fixing to frame me for an unpleasant encounter with the provost marshal, sir."

"Oh, no!" Barnes exclaimed. "How could you ever suspect such a thing? I'm doing this because I like you, soldier."

And the upshot was that McHugh let himself be persuaded. He would consent to visit Minna twice a week and pick up five gallons of gorgeous brandy on the way back. Lieutenant Barnes left for his new post (the QM Supply Depot in Schweinfurt, a notoriously dreary place) smug in the belief that he had done a mighty foxy job of spreading the responsibility around if the question of paternity came up.

Thus, as usual, the mess sergeant landed on his feet, better off than before. Twice a week, with the blessings of officers thirsting for illicit liquor, he rode out to visit Minna, coming back to the hospital full of good spirits, some of which he retained for subsequent sale. Every Saturday he collected the head fees from the snake hunters and waved them off to their massive exploits in the cause of German-American friendship.

But toward the end of August the supply of snakes ran out; furthermore, the officers and doctors were getting noticeably curious about the weekly Völkerwanderung. McHugh decided, reluctantly, that the time had come to ring down the curtain. He was in the orderly room, debating with me how best to uncollect the chaplain's snakes and get them back to where they had come from, when the chaplain bumbled in and took the problem right out of his hands.

"How-de-do, fellows," he said; and then, after a little foot-scuffing and ministerial wind: "I've been thinking. About my snakes. And I'm positively ashamed. You know, it's been selfish of me to keep these wonderful specimens all to myself; selfish and unchristian. I've decided to donate them to an institution where others can share them. Yes siree, fellows, tomorrow we load all those bottles into a jeep and take them to Munich. To the Museum of Natural History."

It was the only time I have ever seen McHugh lose his composure. In fact, he nearly lost his balance. "Oh, sir," he said, "that's a very poor idea. That museum is completely bombed out – all the personnel dead. I know what! Let's start a museum of our own, right here."

"But that would be selfish too, wouldn't it?" the chaplain asked serenely. "No, Sergeant. Surely we can find someone in Munich to accept these snakes. And I want you two men to help, if you don't mind – I've arranged for your passes already."

"Oh lackaday!" McHugh exclaimed after the chaplain had left. "This plot I could sell to Sophocles or maybe even Aeschylus. Sarge, let us evolve a tactic, or I am done for."

So we evolved a tentative plan of action. And the next morning, about 10:30, there we were in Munich, toting bottles of snakes into the ruined bowels of the museum and hoping that this was the curator's day off.

"Remember," McHugh whispered to me, "this gink doesn't know a word of English. Everything depends on your abilities as a mistranslator."

Our hopes were not rewarded: Captain Withers, leading the way, found him in a large, bare room in the basement. He introduced himself and then, with many smiles and expansive gestures, stated that he was giving a superb collection of snakes to the museum, looking toward the day when it would be possible to exhibit them to the public. He asked me to translate.

"Captain Withers," I said, "has expressed his gratitude for the loan of your snakes and wishes to tell you that the American soldiers have derived much edification from studying them."

The curator executed a courtly little bow. While he was doing so, his eye fell on McHugh, who was hiding behind me. "But Colonel Tchones!" he said. "Why are you in the uniform of a sergeant?"

While I explained to him that American officers often mix incognito with the common soldiers, to see how well they are doing their work, McHugh was telling the chaplain that the old man had apparently mistaken him for someone else. "Now let's get another load of snakes," he suggested, and made for the door.

When the curator saw the rest of the snakes, he had another question. "Where are my original bottles?" he asked. "With the labels and all the data for the museum records."

"The curator is extremely grateful," I translated," and says it will give him great pleasure to identify the snakes and label them."

"Well now," the chaplain said, beaming all over, "I think I can give him a (concluded on page 115) Snakes in the Grass (continued from page 58) hand there." He knelt down and, pointing to one bottle after another, looked up at the curator and spoke very slowly and distinctly. "This is the fer-de-lance of South America, Bothrops atrox. This is a Vipera berus. This is a water moccasin, of course – Aghistrodon piscivorus. And here is a coral snake. Micrurus fulvius – dear me, what a venomous creature. Now, this is a Dendraspis angusticeps —"

McHugh and I were looking at each other in stupefaction, with our mouths wide open. The same thought was in both our minds: the chaplain knew the names of all those snakes, and that none of them lived in Bavaria.

"My dear Captain," the curator interrupted, "since I have lived with most of these snakes for about twenty years, I am quite well acquainted with their names. I am most anxious, nevertheless, to get back the original labels."

"The curator says," I managed to bring out, "that he is a snake man himself and can identify all these superb specimens."

"Splendid!" the chaplain said, getting to his feet. "In that case, I think we can regard our mission as accomplished." We all shook hands with the curator.

"The captain says he will send the original bottles tomorrow," I told him.

On the way to the jeep the chaplain remarked, "I must say, that museum chap wasn't as grateful as I'd have been if someone had given me such a magnificent collection."

McHugh and I fell behind a few paces and exchanged hurried whispers, laden with a wild surmise.

"He knew the men didn't find them!"

"He knew what was going on the whole time!"

And, as McHugh was driving us back to our lake, Captain Withers explained. "I guess I surprised you fellows a bit there," he said happily. "Now. I don't know where the men got their hands on those outlandish snakes, and I don't care. The main thing in life is to do good. Those poor wounded and troubled soldiers have to get well – that's what matters. If they have to break a few stupid regulations, and pull the wool over somebody's eyes while they're doing it, well, that's where I felt I could do my little bit." He twinkled his eyes at us with a mixture of slyness, myopia and love-of-fellow-man. "I don't see any harm in their indulging a perfectly normal and healthy appetite, do you?"

"No indeed, sir," McHugh said, with a sort of awe in his voice. "Certainly not, I guess."

"Of course not," the chaplain said strongly. "Why, their bodies need what they went out after – need it regularly, and a lot more often than once a week. They won't do anyone any harm. Oh, that reminds me, what ever became ofthat German girl who said some soldier had done her wrong? Lieutenant Barnes was going to look into it."

"There was nothing to it," I said. "We investigated thoroughly. She was trying to find some gimmick to get to the United States."

"It never did ring true to me," he said. "I've come to know the men pretty well, and that just didn't sound possible."

This appraisal of our buddies seemed a bit unrealistic, in view of what had been going on, and I asked cautiously, "Captain, what was it that tipped you off? I mean, that they weren't really looking for snakes."

"Well, when I found the boommslang," he answered, "and you pointed out how unlikely my hypothesis was about the land bridge, I began to recognize other snakes. But it was mainly – I realize now in retrospect – a remark I overheard on may be the third or fourth trip. One of the fellows. Honestly, Sergeant, never in my life have I heard a man get so ecstatic over a vegetable. How they must have been starving for fresh food! It was touching – really touching."

"Fresh food?" I said.

"This soldier," Captain Withers went on, "had discovered some fresh tomatoes at one of the farms. 'You should have seen that tomato,' he said. 'What a dish! So rosy, so plump, so nice and squushy!' I tell you, it warmed my heart, what pleasure there was in his voice."

McHugh nearly drove us into the ditch.

"After that, of course," he continued, "well, I just played along with them. And many's the remark my sharp old ears picked up. Why, do you know, some of those men must be pretty fine shots with their pistols, to be able to bring down a wild bird on the wing."

"Wild bird?"

"Yes siree," the chaplain said emphatically. "I know for a fact that one of the men got himself a quail on his very first try. I heard him say so."

That was when McHugh took us straight off the road and into the Drive Carefully – Stop Accidents sign.

*Usually, getting from the formal Sie to the Du status with a German girl takes a good deal of time and a lot of archaic hoop-la. But there is one situation in which the transition from Sie to Du is instantaneous. It is likely to sound something like this (German girl speaking): "Nein, tun Sie es nicht! Nein, ich bitte Sie! Sie sollen nicht – nein! nein! Sie . . . Ach, Du! Du!" It was a situation of this sort, I gathered, that arose in the case of Minna us. McHugh.