by Len Levinson
Cranepool broke out into a cold sweat as he remembered the venereal disease movie they’d shown him at Fort Benning, Georgia, before he shipped out for Italy. The movie had depicted guys with their dicks literally rotting off from venereal disease. The dicks had been green and filled with every kind of pus imaginable. The narrator of the movie said that guys sometimes went crazy and even died from venereal disease. Then the movie showed how they tried to cure venereal disease. They stuck a big long needle into a man’s dick, and then turned a knob that made the tip of the needle into a little claw like apparatus. Then they dragged this claw right up the man’s dick, bringing blood, pus, and infected flesh along with it, and Cranepool had nearly fainted in the movie theater. Guys were puking into their handerchiefs and sergeants strolled around punching guys who closed their eyes because they couldn’t bear to look any longer. After it was over, Cranepool swore that he’d never screw again in his life, but of course, like all the other GIs, he did not keep this promise very long.
And now, in the little canvas stall, he thought of the movie with its rotting dicks and needles and little claws on the end. He remembered Louise and wondered if she’d given him a dose. Maybe she had. Maybe his dick was going to start rotting away. You were supposed to use the Pro Kit right after you got laid, and that had been several days ago, but maybe it would still work. He’d watch his dick very carefully for the next few weeks, making sure that no scabs or cankers appeared on the head. He hoped the venereal disease didn’t make him crazier than he was already.
Unbuttoning his fly, he took out his sorrowful little dick and let it hang in the humid atmosphere of the tent. Then he tore the end off the tube, grabbed his dick with his left hand, and inserted the end of the tube into the little eye on its head. He squeezed the tube, and felt the stuff enter his dick. A weird sensation ensued, as though the stuff was flowing into his balls and even into the heels of his feet. When the tube was empty he withdrew it, put his dick back where it belonged, and buttoned up his pants. He left the stall and carried the empty tube to the sergeant at the desk, who was pushing a Pro Kit toward another GI.
“Here you go, Sarge,” Cranepool said, holding the empty tube in the palm of his hand.
The sergeant squinted at it. “In the bucket, shit-face.”
Cranepool dropped the tube into the bucket. “Can I go now, Sarge?”
“Get the fuck out of here before I make you take another one,” the sergeant growled.
Cranepool ran out of the tent and looked around to see if the other tent was still serving coffee and donuts. There was a line in front of it, and Cranepool thought that maybe the afternoon wouldn’t be a total loss after all. He trotted through the rain toward the end of the line, his poncho flapping around his long legs, and took his place at its end. The tent in front of him had a chimney sticking out the top, but Cranepool decided he shouldn’t take any more chances. He tapped the shoulder of the guy in front of him, and the guy turned around. He had a big red nose and his eyes were half-closed.
“Whatcha want?” the guy asked in an unfriendly manner.
“Is this the coffee and donuts tent?” Cranepool asked.
“Of course it’s the coffee and donut tent. What are you, dumb or something?”
Cranepool shrugged. “Just thought I’d make sure,” he said.
Chapter Four
It was night at SHAEF Headquarters in Bushy Park near London, and General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the Supreme Commander, was alone in his office poring over his maps. A solitary lamp overhead directed light onto the map, and the rest of the room was shrouded in darkness.
Ike looked down at the city of Caen on the Orne River. The British Second Army under the command of General Bernard Law Montgomery was supposed to have taken the city immediately after landing on the Normandy beaches, but it was June 12 and he still hadn’t done so. The city was important because it controlled the road net that lead to the heart of France. Whoever controlled Caen controlled troop movements between the coast and Central France and Monty’s forces had to take it soon, yet it didn’t appear as though they’d take it in the near future.
The problem was that the Germans also knew of Caen’s significance, and had rushed the Twenty-First Panzer Division there upon learning of the Allied landings in the vicinity. Since then the Germans had transferred divisions from other parts of France to Caen, sending them into attack as soon as they were brought up on the line.
Monty’s forces had been taking a terrific pounding, and it was no wonder that he couldn’t move forward. Yet it was a miracle that he hadn’t been pushed backwards. And surprisingly, the situation at Caen might prove to be beneficial, because Monty was destroying the German divisions one by one as soon as they attacked.
Ike thought the Germans might get better results if they marshaled their forces and attacked en masse. They might be able to push Monty into the sea, and there was the ever-present danger that they might do it yet. Yet Monty said he didn’t think they would. He’d fought Rommel before in Africa and knew his style. Rommel attacked as soon as he could with whatever he had. He believed in always keeping his enemy off balance, and never giving him a chance to mount an offensive, but Monty was ready for Rommel and knew how to handle him. He’d certainly been handling him all right so far, slowly chewing up his forces.
Monty could be expected to wear down Rommel’s forces, provided Ike could keep Monty supplied with fresh troops, tanks, ammunition, and gas. Otherwise Monty and the rest of the invasion force could very well be pushed into the sea.
The key to the issue at Caen was the supply situation. An army might be in a perfect position to attack, but could not do so if it lacked the wherewithal to wage war. Ike was facing great difficulties in his efforts to supply his invasion force. He had no natural port, so artificial ports had been constructed on the beaches of Normandy, but they were nowhere as efficient as a natural port, and a hurricane a few days ago had nearly destroyed most of the artificial port area.
Therefore it was important that he secure a real port at once. The Normandy area had been selected as the invasion site on D-Day because, among other reasons, it was close to the huge port of Cherbourg. Ike believed that it was imperative for the American forces which were closest to Cherbourg to capture the port as soon as possible. If he had the port he could easily resupply his beachhead and insure that Monty could hold Caen. If the port could not be taken, the invasion might fail, and if the invasion failed, the war would be lost.
Ike decided that the time had come to make a major all-out push on the port of Cherbourg. The future of the war may very well hang in the balance over it. If he could take Cherbourg soon, he was certain he could hold the beachhead forever, and then Monty could move north and capture the port of Antwerp. With Cherbourg and Antwerp, and the help of the Allied forces, Ike’s ground troops could move resolutely across Europe to Berlin, and maybe win the war by the end of the year.
Ike bent closer to the map and looked at the little flags and pins. He saw that the VII Corps, commanded by General “Lightning Joe” Collins, was closest to the Cherbourg Peninsula. Lightning Joe got his nickname from the speedy and decisive campaign he’d led on Guadalcanal, and was just the man to lead the battle for the port of Cherbourg. If he couldn’t take it, nobody could.
Ike moved around the flags and pins, figuring out the order of battle. He’d issue it to Lightning Joe as soon as he got it finished, and he’d tell him that if he didn’t take Cherbourg in two weeks, he’d better start looking for another job.
Chapter Five
“I’ve got to get laid,” Mahoney mumbled to himself as he lay in bed in a ward of the hospital in Southwick. He looked at his watch; it was a few minutes after midnight. He’d just returned to bed after a four-hour crap game in the latrine, and he’d won $1,800. He’d kept throwing sevens and elevens, and the dice weren’t even his. Lady Luck had been sitting on his shoulder, and now the only thing to do with that kind of money was to go to the nearest whorehouse and get laid
, because he knew he might be discharged from the hospital any day now, and sent directly to the front lines. If that happened, who knew when he might be able to get laid again? He might even get killed out there.
He lay silently in bed and tried to think of a plan. He was good at this type of strategic planning because he’d always obtained good results when he was a commando behind enemy lines in France. He hoped he could do half as well tonight. First of all, he needed to get a uniform from someplace, because he couldn’t go to a whorehouse in the Army pajamas he was wearing. And secondly, he had to get out of the hospital although he knew that security was tighter than a drum.
Where could he get a uniform? The supply room. Everybody who checked into the hospital left his uniform down there, and although Mahoney had shown up in ragged French civilian clothes with a German uniform over it, plenty of guys checked in wearing their regular uniforms of the day.
Mahoney had figured out a way to get to the supply room. He’d merely go to the orderly’s desk on the floor he was on, and steal a piece of paper of some kind. Then he’d carry the paper down to the supply room as though he was on official business. Upon reaching the supply room, he’d pick a lock or break through a door, and then find himself a uniform that fit. After putting it on, he’d bullshit or bribe his way out of the hospital. It should be a piece of cake for a guy like him who’d outsmarted the Gestapo at every turn in France for three months.
Mahoney rolled out of bed and put his big feet into the slippers they’d issued him five days ago when he’d checked in. He took the gray cotton bathrobe from the foot of the bed and put it on too. The sleeves were halfway up his forearms because they hadn’t had a robe his size when he’d checked in.
His bed was in a bay area containing five other beds. Across the corridor was another identical bay containing six beds. The shades were drawn and the air smelled like alcohol and medicine. The only light came from the orderly’s desk down the hall.
Mahoney shuffled down the hall to the orderly’s desk, hearing guys snoring and mumbling. It was a ward where soldiers had been wounded in their arms or legs, and there were no serious casualties among them, although some would leave the hospital minus a limb, and get a one-way ticket back to the states.
Mahoney approached the orderly’s desk, and sitting behind it was Corporal George Farlington of Los Angeles, California, a rotund fairy wearing a white uniform. He had a pink complexion, blond hair, and was reading a comic book. He looked up from it as Mahoney leaned his elbow on the rail in front of the desk.
“Hello there, Sergeant Mahoney,” Farlington said with a big smile. “What can I do for you?”
“I can’t sleep, Farlington. Give me a pill, will you?”
Farlington looked him up and down. “Why can’t you sleep, Sergeant Mahoney?” he asked in his friendly girlish voice.
“How am I supposed to know?”
“Leg hurt?”
“No. It’s just about all better, as a matter of fact.”
“I noticed you limping still.”
“It doesn’t hardly hurt at all.”
Farlington made his eyes sultry. “Something must be bothering you, Sergeant Mahoney.”
“I guess so.”
“Care to talk about it?”
“I don’t have anything to talk about. I just want a pill to knock me out.”
“Maybe strange thoughts are keeping you awake, Sergeant Mahoney.”
“My thoughts aren’t so strange,” he replied.
“Well, maybe for you they’re not strange,” Farlington said with a grin, “but perhaps other people might think them strange.”
“I doubt it.”
Farlington looked toward a little room behind his desk. “Care to go in there and let me examine you?”
“Naw, I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“There’s no telling what’s liable to turn up.” Farlington winked.
“Can’t I just have a pill?” Mahoney asked, reconnoitering Farlington’s desk, looking at pieces of correspondence and forms, trying to figure out which would appear the most impressive.
“Sure you don’t want me to examine you?”
“I’m sure.”
“Nobody will know, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“Oh? Then what are you worried about?”
“Not being able to sleep.”
“If you let me examine you, I’m sure you’d be able to sleep well afterwards.”
Mahoney frowned. “Corporal Farlington, will you cut the shit? Would you get me a pill please and stop trying to fuck me?”
“How crude you are, Sergeant Mahoney,” Farlington said with regret and hurt in his voice.
Mahoney decided it was time to get tough. “Listen here, you little fruit. You’d better get me a couple of pills before I kick you right in the ass.”
Farlington’s face lit up. “Promise?”
Mahoney groaned and buried his face in his hand.
“Oh, all right,” Farlington said. “If you’re going to be that way, I’ll get you the darned pills.”
“It’s about fucking time.”
Farlington rose from the desk and turned around, opening the medicine cabinet behind him. Mahoney’s hand swooped down on the desk and grabbed a handful of papers, dropping them into his bathrobe. Farlington shook two pills into a little paper cup, turned around, and gave them to Mahoney.
“Pleasant dreams,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“If you ever feel the need of a medical examination, I hope you’ll know where to come.” Farlington winked.
“I’ll know.”
“Good night, Sergeant Mahoney.”
“Good night to you, Corporal Farlington.”
Mahoney walked back down the hall toward his ward, then stopped and looked behind him. All he could see was the light from Farlington’s area. He dropped the pills into the pocket of his robe, got down on his hands and knees, and crept silently back toward Farlington’s desk, hugging the shadows, hoping no one would see him, because it would be very difficult to explain why he was crawling down the corridor in the middle of the night.
He approached Farlington’s desk and paused, gathering his strength for the big push past Farlington’s desk. He would have to be extremely silent, which meant he’d have to move very slowly. This meant there’d be plenty of time for someone to happen upon him. Well, the worst thing that could happen would be that they’d take away a stripe or two from him, but there were worse things, like not getting laid.
Mahoney crawled forward and now was in front of Farlington’s desk. He could hear Farlington turning a page of his comic book. Continuing his surreptitious movement, Mahoney was glad he had cotton nightclothes and cotton slippers on, because they made no sound at all on the polished tile floor.
He turned left at the corner of Farlington’s desk and proceeded into the next corridor, where there was a stairwell. Once he got to that stairwell he’d be loose as a goose. But first he had to pass an open gateway that led into the area where Farlington was sitting. If Farlington happened to look to the side while Mahoney was passing, he would see Mahoney, and then serious difficulties might arise. Farlington might call the MPs, or he might put Mahoney on report, or he might make him submit to an examination in the backroom for not calling the MPs or reporting him.
Life was fraught with difficulties, but Mahoney moved inexorably toward the gateway. When he reached it he peered around the corner and saw Farlington like a big fat apostrophe over his comic book, the simple queer bastard. Mahoney moved forward, silent as a snail.
Now he was directly in the gateway, in full view of Farlington if Farlington happened to look his way. Mahoney felt pinpricks of perspiration all over his body as he moved past the gateway. He was almost clear. Soon he’d be loose as a goose.
“Going somewhere, Sergeant Mahoney?” Farlington asked.
Mahoney froze and squinched his eyes sh
ut. Oh-oh.
Farlington rose from his desk and walked to the gateway, crossing his arms and looking down at Mahoney. “What are you doing down there, Sergeant?”
“Who, me?” Mahoney asked helplessly.
“You wouldn’t be going AWOL by any chance, would you, Sergeant Mahoney?”
Mahoney stood up and smiled sheepishly. “Naw.”
“Then what were you doing down there, Sergeant Mahoney?”
Mahoney shifted from foot to foot and tried to think of something. “I was just trying to figure out how sharp you were, Farlington. And it turns out that you’re pretty sharp. Congratulations.” Mahoney held out his hand.
Farlington looked at it haughtily, his arms still crossed. “I think it’s time for me to call the MPs,” he said, moving toward his desk.
Mahoney grabbed him by the shoulder. “Oh, no, don’t do that.”
Farlington stopped and raised his eyebrows. “Why not? What have you ever done for me?”
“I’m a wounded front-line soldier,” Mahoney pleaded. “Have mercy on me.”
“What mercy have you ever had on me?”
“You’re not a wounded front-line soldier, Farlington. Why should anybody have mercy on you?”
“I have my needs too, you know,” Farlington said icily.
“Oh, I’m sure you do, Farlington. And I’m sympathetic, don’t think I’m not.”
“I believe you called me a little fruit a few moments ago, and threatened to kick me in the ass.”
“Aw, I was only kidding,” Mahoney said with a big shit-eating grin.
“Well, I’m afraid I didn’t think it was very funny, so now if you’ll remove your hand from my shoulder, I’d like to go to my desk and call the MPs.”
Mahoney held his pudgy shoulder tightly. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, Farlington?”
“Wouldn’t I?”
“Please?”
