by Len Levinson
“Take your hands off me this instant,” Farlington said testily, “unless you want me to add assault to the AWOL rap you’re going to get.”
Mahoney held onto Farlington and tried to think of something. He decided that if he was going to get court-martialed for assault and AWOL, he might as well get court-martialed for bribery too. He had $1,800 in the pocket of his bathrobe, and money sometimes could extricate a fellow from a bad situation.
“Farlington,” Mahoney said warmly, “how much would it cost to make you keep your mouth shut?”
Farlington looked down his pink nose at Mahoney. “Are you trying to bribe me, Sergeant?”
“I damn sure am,” Mahoney replied with a grin.
“You don’t have enough money to bribe me,” Farlington said self-righteously.
“How about twenty dollars?” Mahoney asked.
“Twenty dollars is an insult to a man like me,” Farlington said.
“Thirty?”
Farlington thought for a few moments. “You’re getting warm.”
“Thirty-five?”
“How about fifty?” Farlington asked.
“Fifty! Fifty dollars is a lot of money!”
“Not as much as you’ll lose if they bust you down to Pfc and lock you in the stockade for a few months.”
Mahoney grasped the logic of Farlington’s argument, and reached into his pocket. “It’s a deal,” he said, taking out a small portion of the roll he carried there.
He counted out fifty dollars and handed it to Farlington, who counted the bills to make sure.
“It’s all there?” Mahoney asked.
“Yes,” Farlington replied, stuffing the bills into his pocket. “I’ll just go back to my desk and continue reading, and as far as I’m concerned I haven’t seen you since lights-out, Sergeant Mahoney.”
“Thanks a lot, Farlington.”
Farlington harumphed and returned to his desk. Mahoney turned and slinked down the corridor to the stairwell. He was pleased to have gotten out of that scrape so easily, since fifty dollars was only a small portion of the $1,800 he had in his pocket. Taking out the papers he’d lifted from Farlington’s desk and neglected to mention to him, he opened the door to the stairwell and proceeded to descend it. His plan was to take the stairwell all the way down to the basement, where the supply room was. He’d worry about how to break into the supply room when he got there.
He descended the stairwell, passing the various floors of the building. He could have taken an elevator, but he might run into MPs in the elevator, or some orderly or nurse who knew him. This way was more roundabout, but there was less chance of getting caught. The main thing was not to get caught.
Finally he reached the basement. The sign on the door said OPERATING ROOMS, and he realized that he’d have to pass through that area, and maybe a few other areas that he didn’t know about, before he’d reach the supply room in the other wing of the hospital.
He opened the door and a big MP was standing directly in front of him, a Colt .45 in the holster strapped to his belt.
“What do you want?” the MP asked, scowling.
Mahoney held the papers in the air. “I have to deliver these to Major Queensbury, you know where he is?”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s down here someplace. I’ll just have to look for him.”
Mahoney walked past the MP and down the corridor, trying not to appear furtive. He passed a closed door that said OPERATING ROOM #8 and a few yards down the corridor on the other side: OPERATING ROOM #7. A door opened and a doctor in a bloody white gown came out, followed by two nurses. Mahoney envied the doctors in the hospital, because they got first crack at the nurses, some of whom were quite pretty. Unfortunately, the nurses were officers and they preferred to screw other officers, and not enlisted men like Mahoney. The few ugly pockmarked nurses who deigned to screw enlisted men were considered pathetic and déclassé by their more fortunate sisters. A few days ago Mahoney had made a few lewd suggestions to a certain cute nurse, and she threatened to have him thrown in the stockade. That’s when he’d decided that he’d have to find himself a nice congenial whorehouse if he wanted to get laid.
Mahoney turned a corner and bumped into another MP.
“Have you seen Major Queensbury around here?” Mahoney asked, thinking quickly.
“I think he went up to the fourth floor,” the MP replied.
Mahoney did a double take, because he hadn’t imagined that a real Major Queensbury might exist. “I’d heard he came back here.”
“Maybe he did, but I haven’t seen him.”
“I’ll go look,” Mahoney replied, turning away and walking down the corridor.
The double doors in front of him opened and some orderlies wheeled a patient through, evidently on their way to one of the operating rooms. Doctors and nurses in white uniforms followed the soldier, and Mahoney hugged the wall to let them pass, holding the papers in a conspicuous position.
He drank from a water cooler and pushed through another set of double doors. On the side of the corridor was a sign that said LATRINE; he went in and took a leak. Leaving the latrine, he hooked a left and walked down the corridor. Halfway to the next double doors he saw a door with a sign that said: DOCTORS ONLY. He looked back and forth in the corridor and didn’t see anybody, so he opened the door, and his eyes bugged out when they fell on officers’ uniforms on hangers in a pipe rack. No one was in the room so he dashed to the pipe rack and checked out the uniforms quickly. A couple of them looked like they might fit him so he selected the one that was largest, took the pants off the hanger, and put them on. The pants fit okay in length, but the waist was a little too big.
He put on the officer’s shirt and jacket, noting that that there were captains’ bars on the epaulettes. There were some brown low-quarter shoes on the floor and he put the biggest pair on, although he had no stockings. The collar of his shirt wasn’t buttoned and his tie was askew, but he figured he’d better get the hell out of that room and worry about those things later. Some hats were on a rack and he selected a soft cuntcap with captains’ bars on it, snatching it down and returning to the door.
He opened the door cautiously and looked into the corridor. Not a soul was there. Leaving the room, he walked down the corridor, adjusting his collar and tie. He pushed through another set of double doors, and an MP standing on the other side snapped to attention and saluted. Mahoney casually threw him a highball and walked by, thinking that was the first time in his life that he’d been saluted, and it made him feel pretty good. No wonder officers strutted around like peacocks, being saluted like that all the time.
He came to the elevators and pushed the button. A pretty young brunette nurse with green eyes and a friendly smile approached from the other end of the corridor and stopped beside the elevator.
“Good evening, doctor,” she said.
“Good evening,” Mahoney replied, trying to make his voice grave in the manner of doctors.
“Have a busy night?”
“Afraid so. You?”
“Uh huh.”
The elevator came and they both got on. Mahoney pressed the button for the first floor, and the nurse stood in a corner of the elevator; evidently she was going to the first floor too. Mahoney thought about coming on with her because she was extremely pretty, but decided that might not be a prudent idea.
The elevator stopped on the main floor of the hospital and Mahoney stood to the side so that the nurse could get out.
“Have a nice night,” he said.
“You too, doctor.”
She walked down a side corridor, and he proceeded to the front door of the hospital, opening it and walking down the steps. Two more MPs saluted him, and he saluted back, feeling better as every moment passed. It was nice to be an officer. MPs salute you instead of dragging you into a doorway and asking to see your pass, and pretty nurses asked whether you had a busy night. He’d love to have a busy night with that nurse. She could sit on his face for the rest of his
life, and he wouldn’t mind at all.
He turned to the right and walked along casually.
A road made a big circle in front of the hospital, and halfway around the circle was a bus stop and two benches. A few officers and nurses were there already, waiting for the bus, and he decided not to sit on the benches with them because that might lead to a conversation in which they might realize that he was a fraud and an AWOL.
So he hung back a little, pacing back and forth and wishing he had a cigar. As soon as he reached London he’d buy a box of them and smoke to his heart’s content. Then he’d look for a good whorehouse. He’d heard of one called Countess Lulu’s off Regent Street in Soho, and intended to check it out first.
The khaki bus appeared at the bottom of the hill and climbed up slowly, making its way around the circle and stopping in front of the benches. The doctors and nurses got on, and Mahoney followed them. He wished he had stolen a visored hat because he could cover his face with it, but it was too late to worry about that mission now. He walked to the rear of the bus and sat down, far from the others who’d crowded at the front of the bus, anxious to get off fast and mess around once they hit London. He wondered if he was being conspicuous sitting back there all by himself, but nobody turned around and said anything, so he figured he was okay.
The problem was that the bus didn’t leave. It just sat there with the motor running and the door opened, waiting for more passengers. Mahoney figured that it was ahead of schedule, and it was just his luck to be at the back of the bus like a sitting duck, AWOL and impersonating an officer. If they caught him it would be very serious, but they wouldn’t give him the firing squad or anything like that. He’d won the DSC in North Africa and an oak leaf cluster in Italy, and the Army normally didn’t shoot people like him. They just took away your stripes and sent you to the stockade for a while, or directly to the front lines. Either way, it would be worth it for a little pussy.
More doctors and nurses left the building and boarded the bus, and Mahoney looked at his watch impatiently. He hoped none of them would sit next to him because somebody might ask him a few questions and find out that he was there on a humbug.
The bus was about half full and nobody came on for a few minutes. Then he saw a figure leave the building and run down the sidewalk toward the bus. It was a nurse and she climbed onto the bus, walking toward the back. He recognized her as the one he’d seen in the elevator, and she smiled at him. He smiled back. She walked up to him.
“You saving that seat for anybody?” she asked.
“No,” Mahoney replied.
“Mind if I sit down?”
“Not at all,” he replied gallantly. “Would you like to sit next to the window?”
“No, that’s all right,” she replied, plunking herself down on the aisle seat.
Mahoney didn’t know whether to feel happy about this new development or not. On one hand she was a beautiful young woman, and she certainly looked a little frisky, but on the other hand she might figure out that he was an AWOL and a lowlife, and start screaming for the MPs.
The driver closed the door and shifted into gear. The bus began moving forward. The driver steered around the circle and headed down the hill. Mahoney looked back at the hospital with most of its lights out, and hoped he’d make it back before the orderlies started their rounds in the morning.
“Why are you wearing pajamas under your uniform?” the brunette nurse asked.
“Huh?” Mahoney said, completely taken by surprise.
“I said why are you wearing pajamas under your uniform?”
Mahoney looked at her, and his teeth nearly started chattering. “What makes you think I’m wearing pajamas under my uniform?” he asked weakly.
“Because the collar of your pajamas is sticking out from underneath the collar of your shirt.”
“Oh,” he replied, feeling around the collar with his fingers and tucking the pajamas back in. “Well, what do you know about that?”
“I noticed it when we were in the elevator, and I said to myself: ‘Shirley, I wonder why that Captain is wearing his pajamas underneath his uniform.’ So I thought I’d ask you.”
He looked at her, and she reminded him a little of Linda Darnell. She wore her little cap at a jaunty angle and her breasts looked pert and cute. His crotch started to get warm, but his mind was working and he thought of an alibi.
“I got an emergency call when I was home sleeping, and I got dressed without bothering to take my pajamas off,” he said.
“Oh. Well, that makes sense.”
“You know how it is when you get an emergency call.”
She laughed sweetly. “Oh, I know all right. Once I had an emergency call and I got dressed so fast I forgot to put my underwear on.”
Mahoney nearly came in his pants at the sound of that. He imagined her sitting next to him without any underwear on, and his heart started pumping furiously. “I certainly hope you’re wearing underwear right now.”
She fluttered her eyelashes. “Of course I am, doctor. What kind of emergency call did you get?”
“Somebody was dying.”
“What of?”
“Wounds.”
“What kind of wounds?”
“Stomach wounds.”
“Are you a surgeon?”
“Um . . . yes.”
“Where did you go to college?”
“Um . . . Fordham.”
“Oh, you’re from New York. I thought I detected something peculiar about your accent.”
Mahoney smiled. “Well, we don’t consider it so peculiar in New York. Where are you from?”
“A little town in Michigan. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it.”
“Oh,” Mahoney replied, wondering what he should say next. He looked out the window of the bus, at the streetlights and buildings they passed. “Nice night, isn’t it?”
“Yes. A lovely night.” Her shoulder touched his as she leaned toward the window and looked out. “I love London, don’t you?”
“It’s a very nice city.”
“The people are wonderful, aren’t they? I mean, they’ve been bombed so much and they’re still cheerful and optimistic. They just dig themselves out and set to work rebuilding everything.”
“Very nice people,” Mahoney agreed.
“Do you live in the B.O.Q.?” she asked, referring to the Bachelor Officers Quarters.
“Yes, do you?”
“Uh huh, but not the same one you live in.”
“Shucks,” he said.
She smiled. “Do you have a wife back in the States?”
“No, do you?”
She laughed. “No, I don’t have a wife back in the States.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t have a husband either.”
“A boyfriend?”
She smiled poignantly. “Yes, he’s in the Navy—a pilot. He’s on an aircraft carrier somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. The Gambler Bay.”
“When’d you see him last?”
“About a year and a half ago.”
Little wheels began to spin in Mahoney’s head. If she hadn’t seen her boyfriend in a year and a half, that meant the poor little thing must be literally sex-starved. On the other hand, if she had been screwing other guys during that interval of time, perhaps she’d screw Master Sergeant Clarence J. Mahoney too?
“Your name is Shirley?” he asked.
“Yes, what’s yours?”
“Joe,” he lied.
“Joe?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Riley,” Mahoney said, thinking of his old Yorkville pal, Joe Riley.
“You’re Irish?”
“As Pat Murphy’s pig.”
“That means you’re a Catholic.”
“Well, I used to be.”
“I used to be an Episcopalian.”
“It’s hard to take that stuff seriously anymore.”
She frowned. “Yes, if th
ere was a God, I’m sure he wouldn’t let things like this war happen.”
“That’s the way I see it.”
“But of course, God didn’t start the war. People did.”
“That’s true,” Mahoney said.
“People blame God for everything that goes wrong, but when something goes right they take the credit themselves.”
Mahoney raised an eyebrow. “I think you’re more of an Episcopalian than you think.”
She shrugged. “Maybe I am.”
The bus drove into downtown London, and the streets were deserted this time of night except for an occasional group of soldiers or sailors making their way from pub to pub. Mahoney had been to London several times, and thought it a beautiful quaint old city, but he didn’t know his way around very well. He had become an admirer of tall lean Englishwomen who were cold as ice until you got alone with them someplace, and kissed them on their necks a few times. Then they became hotter than the tea they served in the afternoon. He looked at the brunette sitting next to him, the shape of her crossed legs visible underneath her khaki skirt. She was giving him a hard-on, and he thought what the hell, I might as well take a shot.
“Got time to have a drink with me?” he asked, trying to sound as friendly and non lecherous as possible.
She looked at him and thought for a few moments. “I really don’t think I should.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you know, I have a boyfriend, and it wouldn’t be right I don’t think.”
“It’d just be a friendly drink.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“We could relax and maybe have a few laughs.”
She looked at him skeptically. “That’s what they all say.”
He smiled. “I don’t know what they all say, but when I say something you can build a house on it.”
“I bet.”
“It’s the truth. We happen to be in London together, there happens to be a war on, and we might as well relax with each other and maybe have a few laughs, for who knows, life is short and anything could happen tomorrow.”
She looked him in the eye. “Are you really a doctor?” she asked.
He was taken aback by the suddenness of her question. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve never met a doctor like you.”
