by Len Levinson
The bus bounced so much she couldn’t get any rest. With a sigh, she reached into her field jacket and took out her pack of cigarettes, lighting one with a gold cigarette lighter given her by Sam Goldwyn when she’d signed her first contract with M-G-M. She had auburn hair, brown eyes, and long legs that had made her a pinup favorite throughout the world. Sam Goldwyn had told her once that she had the prettiest smile he’d ever seen, but she suspected he told that to all his stars. She was twenty-six years old, earned a half million dollars a year, and managed to spend just about every penny of it.
Next to Laura sat her hairdresser and makeup artist, Lyle Farnsworth, whom she’d brought along at her own expense because she wanted to look her best for America’s fighting men. The rest of the bus was filled with the other members of the troupe: the magician, puppeteer, and the chorus girls. But Laura and Bob Hope were the headliners. Bob opened the show and acted as M.C., and she closed it with her song-and-dance routine.
Lyle, a gaunt man of fifty wearing a moustache and matching toupee, pointed out the window. “I believe that’s our next stop,” he said.
She looked and saw a city of tents and Quonset huts spread across a field. It appeared to be deserted. “I wonder where the soldiers are?” she asked.
“Probably at the arena waiting for you, darling.”
The bus slowed down, and there was a big commotion as the magician tried to pull down his trunk, filled with tricks, and the chorus girls primped and adjusted their clothes. Bob Hope stood up and did a tap dance in the aisle, singing an old British music-hall tune. Laura turned to Lyle and closed her eyes; he put fresh lipstick on her, powdered her cheeks, and fixed her eyes.
The bus stopped, and the doors opened. Bob Hope was the first one out, holding his right hand straight ahead and grinning like the old showman he was. Colonel Boylan from Special Services was there to shake his hand, and behind Boylan were some members of his staff and a handful of MPs to protect the entertainers from drunk and disorderly GIs.
The entertainers filed off the bus, and when Laura came to the door, she put on her famous smile and stepped down to the mud. She saw all the officers and MPs staring at her, but men had been reacting to her this way since she was sixteen years old. She held out her hand, and Colonel Boylan grasped it, bowing slightly.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Hubbard,” he said. “Welcome to this camp.”
“It’s awfully nice to be here,” she replied, looking forward at the tents. “I don’t see very many soldiers back there. Where are they?”
“The division that was here left this morning for the front, but later in the day the Hammerheads will arrive.”
“The Hammerheads?” she asked, pulling a strand of hair back from her eye. “Who are the Hammerheads?”
“Oh,” said Boylan, “they’re one of the hardest-fighting divisions in the Third Army. The Germans call them ‘Roosevelt’s Butchers.’ We’ll have a special MP detachment in front of the stage tonight to protect you from them because they’re a wild bunch of boys.”
Laura wrinkled her brow and looked at Bob Hope. “I don’t think we need to be protected from American soldiers, do you, Bob?”
“I was just thinking the same thing myself, Laura.” Bob Hope turned to Colonel Boylan. “I don’t think we want that special detachment of MPs. We don’t have anything to fear from our boys in uniform.”
Boylan cleared his throat. “Maybe you don’t, Mister Hope, but I think the ladies might. The Hammerheads are a pretty rowdy bunch, and they’ve been on the line practically nonstop since D-Day. Some of them haven’t seen women for a long time. I’d advise you strongly to let us provide this precaution for the ladies in your troupe.”
Laura looked at the chorus girls. “We’re not afraid of American soldiers, are we?”
“Hell, no!” they said in unison.
Laura turned to the colonel. “No MPs in front of the stage,” she said firmly.
“Miss Hubbard, I think you’re making a mistake.”
“No MPs,” she repeated.
Colonel Boylan sighed and shrugged. “Whatever you say, Miss Hubbard.”
~*~
The Hammerheads hit the R & R (rest and recuperation) camp like a hurricane. The first thing they did was invade the PX tent and start swilling down beer. Then they went to the supply tent and drew clean uniforms. The next stop was the latrines so they could shower and shave. The main topic of conversation from one end of the camp to the other was Laura Hubbard and the USO show they were supposed to see that night.
Mahoney finished his shower and stood in front of a mirror, working lather into his black beard with his fingertips. He wore a khaki towel wrapped around his waist and burped from the beer he’d drunk, a little surprised to see his face again and wondering what he’d look like when the beard was gone. The wound on his shoulder was now a thick, dark-red line, but Grossberger had removed the stitches and said it was healing fine.
“Wow,” said Private, First Class Berman, squeezing his pectoral muscles and rolling his eyes, “that Laura Hubbard’s got tits like two torpedoes. I could swing from them for the rest of my life if she’d let me.”
“I’d sell my wife into slavery if I could spend one night with Laura Hubbard!” said Private Trask, sitting on one of the toilets nearby and farting loudly.
Cranepool was shaving the few hairs on his chin, “I can’t imagine what it’d be like to go to bed with somebody like her. I’ll bet she’s just about the best fuck in the world.”
Butsko combed his blond hair. “Her kind only fucks millionaires and movie stars.”
Mahoney positioned the blade of his razor next to his left sideburn and pulled it down, leaving a swathe of smooth, ruddy skin behind it. “You guys are all a bunch of nitwits,” he said. “Any woman can be fucked by any man in the right circumstances. Women like to fuck just like men do, and the prettiest ones like it the most.”
Butsko laughed sarcastically. “Tell us about it, sarge.”
“Fuck you, twerp,” Mahoney replied.
“Mahoney, I heard you ain’t had pussy since pussy had you.”
“Up your ass with a ten-inch meat hook.” Mahoney cleaned the whiskers off his left cheek and then went to work on his right.
“Hey, sarge,” said Corporal Shackleton, “what would you do to Laura Hubbard if you ever got alone with her?”
“I’d fuck her deaf, dumb, and blind,” Mahoney replied.
Butsko guffawed.
“What would you know about it, Butsko? An asshole like you couldn’t get laid in a whorehouse even if you had a fistful of twenties.”
“You’re all talk and no action, sarge. I mean really—who would want to fuck you?”
“You’d be surprised,” Mahoney replied.
“I sure would be. About the only female that would want to fuck you would be a female gorilla.”
Butsko laughed, and some of the others laughed with him. Mahoney didn’t say anything; he just continued to shave. As his beard slowly was cut away, his facial features began to emerge. He had a few scars on his right cheek where a ricocheting bullet had sent slivers of stone into his flesh.
In a corner, holding his towel and razor, stood Private Riggs, a scowl on his face. He was all bones and pink skin, and his terrible posture made him look like a hunchback. He didn’t like the way Butsko and the others were making fun of Mahoney, who was a hero to him. “I’ll bet Sergeant Mahoney could go to bed with Laura Hubbard if he really wanted to,” he said in a voice quavering with emotion.
Butsko laughed. “Was that the baboon I just heard talking?”
“Lay off him,” Mahoney growled.
“You talk to him that way,” Butsko said.
“That’s right, but nobody else is gonna talk to him that way.”
Butsko frowned as he stepped back from the mirror and let somebody else take his place. He didn’t dare to go too far with Mahoney because Mahoney had beat the shit out of him once when Butsko accused Mahoney of cheating in a crap ga
me. But Butsko didn’t want to let this new matter drop so easily.
“How much you wanna bet?” Butsko asked Riggs.
“Anything you wanna bet,” Riggs replied bravely.
“A month’s pay?”
“As many months’ pay as you want.”
“Hey, sarge!” Butsko said loudly. “You’ve really got this guy trained.”
“I said lay off him.”
“I’m just trying to make a little bet with him.”
“You’re just trying to fuck him around, and I told you to cut it out.”
“He really thinks you could screw Laura Hubbard if you wanted to. What a dodo bird.”
Mahoney turned and looked at Butsko. “I’m not going to tell you again, asshole. Lay off him.”
“But you shouldn’t let him believe in bullshit things, sarge. You should tell him that you couldn’t fuck Laura Hubbard any more than you could fly to the moon.”
There was silence for a few moments as Mahoney washed off his razor. Then he bent forward and splashed water on his face, washing away the lather that remained. He pulled the towel from his waist and buried his soaking face in it.
“Who says I can’t?” he asked, his voice muffled by the towel.
“Who says you can’t what?” Butsko replied.
“Who says I can’t fuck Laura Hubbard?” Mahoney said, lowering the towel from his face.
Butsko blinked twice and tried to laugh, but somehow the sound wouldn’t rise out of his throat. The latrine became quiet except for the dripping of water. Even Private Trask stopped farting.
“I said you can’t,” Butsko told Mahoney.
Mahoney stared at him, a cocky smile on his face. “Put your money where your mouth is, shitbird.”
Butsko didn’t know what to say. How could Mahoney think he could screw the famous glamour queen Laura Hubbard? It simply couldn’t be done by a stupid old dogface like him. Was Mahoney trying to trick him? What was going on here?
“You can’t be serious,” Butsko said with a sneer.
“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” Mahoney replied.
“Come on, sarge, stop pulling my choke.”
“I told you I’m serious. How much you wanna bet?”
Butsko glanced around and saw everybody looking at him. He didn’t dare back out now. “How much you wanna bet, sarge?”
“How about five hundred dollars?”
“Five hundred dollars!”
“Sure. If I’m gonna go through all the trouble, you gotta make it worth my while.”
“Five hundred dollars is a lot of while,” Butsko said.
“You didn’t think I was going to do it for a month’s pay, did you, shitbird? What do you make in a month—twenty dollars? Shove your twenty dollars up your ass. Your old sarge doesn’t do anything unless there’s big dough involved.”
Butsko laughed again because he still thought Mahoney was joking. “Sarge, you almost got me believing that you’re serious about this shit.”
Mahoney looked Butsko in the eye. “I am serious about it, Butsko. Now put your money where your mouth is or shut the fuck up.”
“Where am I gonna get five hundred dollars?” Butsko asked.
“That’s your problem. You can owe it to me, or maybe you can give somebody else a piece of the action.”
Butsko looked as though he’d seen a ghost. “I think you’re serious!”
“You’re fucking right I’m serious.”
“You really think you can fuck Laura Hubbard!”
“I got five hundred dollars that says I can.”
“Show it to me.”
Mahoney hesitated because he had only a khaki towel with him. “You got my word.”
“Fuck your word. Show me five hundred bananas.”
Sergeant Billy McGhee, the mess sergeant for Charlie Company and the biggest wheeler-dealer in the Hammerhead Division, had observed the exchange from a corner of the latrine. He wore a blue terry-cloth robe around his fat torso, and now he stepped forward.
“I’m Mahoney’s banker,” he said. “I’m backing Mahoney with my own money.”
Everybody looked at McGhee. They knew he was a big-time hustler from Philadelphia, and he also was Mahoney’s manager and trainer when Mahoney fought in army boxing championships. Mahoney was presently the heavyweight champion of the Hammerhead Division.
“You heard me,” McGhee said. “I’m Mahoney’s banker.” He reached into the pocket of his terry-cloth robe and pulled out a roll of bills thick as his wrist. “How much you want of this, Butsko?”
Butsko was in a daze. Things were moving too fast for him, but he still didn’t think Mahoney could screw Laura Hubbard. “Fifty dollars.”
McGhee pointed to him. “You’re on, peckerhead. Who else?”
Pulaski threw his hands in the air and smiled sheepishly. “Sarge, you know I think a lot of you, but I’m afraid I can’t pass this one up.” He looked at McGhee. “I’ll take fifty, too.”
McGhee pointed at him. “You’re on!”
“I’ll take twenty-five!” yelled Trask.
“I want ten!” cried Berman.
“You’re all on!” replied McGhee, pointing at each of them.
Cranepool raised both his hands in the air. “Hold on—I want to put fifty on Mahoney!”
“Me, too!” said Private Grossberger, the medic.
Riggs jumped up and down, “Me, too!”
The rest of the soldiers, regardless of how much they respected Mahoney, all bet against him. They thought he was a great soldier, maybe the greatest in the army, but they didn’t see how he could crawl into the bed of the incredible Laura Hubbard. Finally, all the bets were made and covered. The men’s faces were flushed with emotion as they moved excitedly about the latrine, pushing each other and waving their arms.
“Hey, wait a minute!” said Butsko. “I just thought of something!” He turned to Mahoney. “If you say you screwed Laura Hubbard, how are we supposed to know you’re not lying.”
Mahoney balled up his fists. “Are you trying to say I’m a liar?”
“Well, I saw you pull a fast one with a pair of dice once.”
Mahoney lunged at Butsko, but big fat Sergeant McGhee got between them and held Mahoney back. Cranepool grabbed one of Mahoney’s arms.
“Cool down, sarge,” Cranepool said.
Private Berman raised his finger in the air. “Butsko’s got a point,” he said. “There’s a lot of dough involved here. How are we supposed to know whether or not you screw this cunt?”
Mahoney calmed down because he realized that Butsko and Berman were right. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll bring you back her drawers. Will that be good enough?”
Butsko nodded. “You bring back her drawers and that’ll be good enough for me.”
“Me, too,” said Berman, “and I hope they smell sweet.”
Mahoney grunted. “I’ll bet they smell sweeter than your breath, fuckhead.”
He walked to one of the hooks on the wall and took down his freshly laundered fatigues. Now the excitement was over, and the men continued shaving and taking showers. Private Trask felt free to fart again. The latrine coalesced into groups of men talking about the bets they’d just made. McGhee, Cranepool, Grossberger, and Riggs huddled around Mahoney.
McGhee shook his head. “I must have been out of my mind to back you on this one,” he said.
“Why did you?” Mahoney asked.
“I don’t know. I guess I thought you could do it.”
“I thought I could, too.” Mahoney sighed.
“What! You mean you don’t think you can now!”
“It isn’t going to be easy. I guess I got caught up in the excitement there. That goddamn Butsko always manages to piss me off.”
Cranepool patted Mahoney on the shoulder. “You can do it, sarge.”
“Yeah,” said Riggs, his eyes popping out of his head.
“You’ve done harder things,” Grossberger added.
Maho
ney buttoned on his fatigue shirt. “Well, I suppose where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
~*~
The entertainers dined that evening in the officers’ mess, which was a big Quonset hut. They split up and sat at tables with officers, and Laura Hubbard wound up with General Donovan and Colonel Boylan. The two officers tried to behave like gentlemen, but Laura was amused to notice that their eyes were drawn repeatedly to her famous bosom, and she realized that they hadn’t seen their wives for a long time, and they must be horny as a pair of old billy goats. The conversation was beginning to lag, because the officers and Laura lived in very different worlds, but she didn’t want to make them feel uncomfortable, so she thought she’d say something to keep the patter going.
She turned to General Donovan. “I understand the Germans call your division ‘Roosevelt’s Butchers.’”
Donovan blushed. “Why, yes, they do. I think it’s rather unfortunate myself because they’re good soldiers and not bloodthirsty killers as the term indicates.”
“How long have they been fighting here.”
“They hit Omaha Beach on D-Day, and they’ve been here ever since.”
“That’s a long time,” Laura said.
“Yes, it has, but of course some of the men have been in the war much longer than that. Some of them have fought since the very beginning in North Africa.”
“They must be very brave men.”
“The bravest,” Donovan agreed. “Sometimes they get a little out of hand, but nobody can say they’re not brave.” He looked up at her from his beef stew. “Colonel Boylan here told me that you refused to have MP protection during the show tonight. It’s very nice of you to have that kind of faith in our boys, and I appreciate your sentiments, but these boys have been out in the front lines for a long time, and I don’t think they’re very civilized right now. If I looked the way you looked”—and here he lowered his eyes—“I don’t think I’d want to get on the stage without a cordon of MPs in front of me.”
