Uncommon Type

by Tom Hanks

  “Butterfly. Butterfly!” A sharp whisper came from the dark to the left of the hole, the password for the day.

  “McQueen!” Virgil hissed in response.

  A second later, Sergeant Bud Boling tumbled into the shelter, weaponless. He had been trying to sleep during daylight hours, covered up in a hole of his own. Once it got dark he roamed the front in silence, alone, returning at daylight to report whatever he had seen to the CP before tucking away in his dark hole again.

  “Krauts. Twenty-five of them. Who the fuck are you?” Bud meant the new guy, Junior. Before a name could be offered Bud said “never mind” and gave an order. “Gimme your rifle and get to the CP and tell them a Kraut probe is coming on the left.”

  Junior’s eyes went wide. He had yet to be in any combat. As he kicked his way up and out of the hole, Bud repeated “Kraut probe on our left.” And the kid was gone. Bud readied the M1 rifle, tucking spare ammo clips into his jacket.

  Virgil lifted the machine gun in one piece, tripod and all, and faced it at the foxholes nine o’clock. “I was right ahead of them, Virgin.”

  “They see you?”

  “No fucking Luger-head ever sees me.” The men whispered with the confidence of experienced soldiers, which they were, not like twenty-two-year-old boys, which they also were.

  A footfall from the darkness cracked hardened ice.

  “Light ’em up,” Bud hissed.

  PFC Vigil Beuell pulled the trigger of his machine gun, spitting fire into a column of enemy soldiers not three yards in front of him. Bright muzzle flashes and red tracer rounds illuminated the shapes of bodies and the trunks of trees as other American boys took to their weapons. A fury of fighting lit up the woods, and the thin line of defense took on the look of an impenetrable wall. In a flash as well defined as that from a Speed Graphic camera ringside at a prizefight, Virgil saw the helmet of a German soldier explode in a cloud of fine, blood-red mist and soggy clumps of what had been the man’s head. The German soldiers spread out quickly and spewed death themselves. Bud raised up just high enough to aim his rifle and squeeze out a full clip into the invading force—eight continuous BLAMs—spreading his rounds with a geometric precision until the pi-cling of his empty clip flying out of its breach meant his ammo was spent. Instinctively, Bud reloaded and was raised up again when a body came crashing into the shelter through the pine branch roof.

  The German was firing as he fell, hitting Virgil in his left knee without Virgil feeling a thing. Another shot made the fingers on Virgil’s left hand sting like a hornet’s bite.

  “Fuck you!” Bud yelled, driving the butt of his M1 across the German’s jaw. “Fucker!” he yelled, smashing the German’s face twice more. Someone began firing parachute flares that lit up the woods in a harsh limelight, and Bud saw he had broken the nose and smashed the jaw of the German, who lay glassy-eyed and motionless. He spun his rifle around, pointed the muzzle at the middle button on the soldier’s uniform, fired two rounds point-blank, and ended the man’s life. “One less of you fuckers,” he said to the dead enemy soldier.

  The small reserve force of American boys was coming forward now; what had started as a probe by the enemy had become a severe and deadly mistake for them. A pursuit was under way as the Germans retreated. Virgil ceased fire and was breaking down his weapon to join the move forward when he realized something was wrong. His hand was sticky and his leg was numb.

  “My leg fell asleep!” he yelled. Trying to stand, Virgil fell back, on top of the faceless, lifeless German. He tried to stand again, but his left leg bent the wrong way at the knee and Virgil could not figure out what had happened. Luckily Bud Boling was there to help him up. But rather than getting him on his feet, Bud squatted, pulled Virgil over his shoulders, and lifted him clean off the ground.

  That much, Virgil remembered of Christmas Eve 1944. Somewhere between the foxhole and the aid station to the rear, he slipped into the slumber of the unconscious.

  —

  Virgil felt like a god damn fool.

  Next year was an anniversary for him because the war ended for PFC Beuell on Christmas Eve 1944. He awoke at an aid station in Bastogne proper, after the American tanks had come and the German advance had collapsed. A few days later, he woke up again at a field hospital in France. Weeks later he became one of thousands of wounded men in hospitals in England. When Germany surrendered and the war was over in Europe, Virgil began to think of himself as one lucky bastard. His left leg was gone, severed above the knee, and three fingers of his left hand were now stumps, wrapped in so many bandages he looked like he was wearing a gauze catcher’s mitt. But he still had two thumbs, one good leg, his sight, and his manhood. Compared to many other guys in those hospitals and on the ship home, Virgin felt like he had won the 1945 Irish Sweepstake. All he really wanted back was his wedding band, which had been lost somewhere in those woods in Belgium.

  Amos “Bud” Boling stayed in Germany for his full enlistment, which meant the duration of the war plus six months. While Virgil was being treated for his wounds and the deadly infections that came with them, Bud was attacking the Siegfried Line and killing his way into Nazi Germany. Then he breached the Rhine River and later the Elbe, swept south into pockets of enemy country that had seen no signs of the war in the four and a half years it had raged around him.

  Bud had never been wounded but he’d seen too many who had been, and too many killed. He had also killed a great many German men and boys. He had ended the lives of German soldiers who had been looking to surrender and survive but instead found Sergeant Bud Boling’s merciless eyes. Eighteen German officers were shot dead by his hand, alone or two or three at a time, off the roads and under the cover of trees, behind farmhouse walls or out in open fields. Bud used his .45 sidearm to wring a justice out of the war that made sense only to him. Bud killed one last German in August 1945. He had heard stories about a particular local, a former Nazi Party official who was using the false name of Wolfe. He found the man standing in a line of refugees who were hoping to return to their home cities in different parts of what had been the Third Reich. When Wolfe produced his papers, Bud ordered him out of the line. Behind a low brick wall Bud drew his sidearm and shot Wolfe square through his neck and calmly stood over the former Nazi bigwig as he thrashed about for the last few moments of his life. Bud Boling never talked of any of this. He never talked of the camps he’d seen, either. Virgil never knew any of the specifics. But he suspected. He saw the emptiness, the difference in his friend.

  —

  “How long you thinking of staying in San Diego, Bud?”

  “Maybe a week, maybe a year. May head up to Los Angeles for the New Year and catch that big parade.”

  “The Rose Parade?”

  “Yeah. Supposed to be gorgeous. I’d ask you where’re you headed but I already know. The shop for six days a week.”

  “I like my work, Bud. Don’t know that I could just amble about like you do.”

  “Virgin, I’d rather punch a cop than a clock.”

  The men laughed.

  “Merry Christmas to you. And you’ll be mighty welcome should you amble our way sometime.”

  “Always good to talk to you, Virgin. Glad you’re a happy man. You deserve such blessings.”

  “Thanks to you, Bud.”

  “Almost 1954. Can you believe it? There you are with Del and Davey and Jill and, uh, Connie? I get the new one’s name right?”

  “Connie it is.”

  “Virgil the Virgin has three kids. I understand the biology but the reality’s a fucking mystery…”

  The men gave each other a round of holiday wishes, repeated goodbyes, and hung up. They would talk again in a year.

  Virgil sat in the quiet, watching the fire until one in the morning. Then he pulled up out of Daddy’s Chair to bank the flames so that Davey would have embers to start up the Yule logs. He found the plug for the Christmas tree lights and yanked it from the wall socket, using the thumb, forefinger, and knuckle stumps of
his left hand. After almost forgetting, he stopped in front of the plate that held Santa’s cookies and ate three of them. He hesitated, then took a bite out of a fourth cookie, put it back on the plate, and drank a few sips of the milk that had gone warm.

  In darkness, he found his way to the stairs, climbing one riser at a time, his left shoe matching his right foot. He checked on both of the sleeping kids and Connie in her crib beside Del’s side of the bed. Del always laid his pajamas out for him, so once he was out of his trousers and had undone the straps and buckles of his prosthetic leg, he set the thing to rest beside the chair and wriggled into his sleeping clothes.

  A short stutter of a hop got him into bed. As he did every night, he found Del’s lips and kissed them softly, causing her to purr through her sleep. Virgil pulled the covers over him—the sheet, the two heavy blankets, and the thick quilt. He rested his head on his pillow after the long day and, at last, closed his eyes.

  As he did almost every night, he saw the lightning-like image of a soldier’s helmet exploding in a cloud of blood-red mist. He saw the soggy clumps of what had been the man’s head. Virgil forced himself to think of something else, anything else. He searched his mind for an image and settled on a vision of Bud Boling as a young man, twenty-two years old, standing in the warm sunshine on a California street, part of a great throng of people, all with smiling faces, cheering on a parade of floats covered with roses.

  A Junket in the City of Light

  What brown fox jumped quickly over dogs that are lazy?

  Hey, this writing machine actually works!

  What the hell has happened? Who am I today? Still Rory Thorpe, I guess, but who is he?

  Last night—just hours ago—I was the guy in a huge movie that everyone was talking about, the guy who made out with a glamorous beauty, a guy with a fine ass. In the capitals of Europe—and America—I was hustled around like a politician, into cars and into ballrooms filled with camera-totin’, question-hollerin’ reporters. I waved to seas of people, many of whom waved back, even though no one knew who I am, even though I am, in fact, a no one. Although, I have in my possession…certain documents…that reveal Willa Sax’s TOP-SECRET CODE NAME (it’s Eleanor Flintstone!).

  I was 2 Days into taking the City of Paris by storm, with a 3rd to go, and Day 3 was going to have FIREWORKS! I had all my expenses paid. I was wearing free clothes. I could ask for a sandwich whenever I wanted, even though I was kept so busy I didn’t have time for much more than a few bites.

  But this morning all that is over. I have to be out of my room at checkout time. Too bad. This is a nice hotel. The Nazis stayed here.

  A good rule of thumb when traveling in Europe—stay in places with a Nazi past. The place in Rome had been Gestapo headquarters during the war. Big rooms. High ceilings. A beautiful garden. In Berlin, the hotel had been leveled when the Russians clobbered the Nazis who were hiding in it. To rub in their victory, the Commies never bothered to rebuild it or much of anything else in that part of East Berlin. When the wall came down, the hotel went back up and now the joint has a special room just for smoking cigars. In London, the old lady of a grand hotel had been bombed by the Luftwaffe sometime between the Nazi glories of Rome and the ass kicking they took from the Reds a few years later. The Queen has had dinner there twice since 1973.

  Finally, this Parisian hotel had been the headquarters of the German Occupation Staff. They say Hitler had a cup of coffee on one of the balconies before he drove around to take in the sights of his conquered City of Light.

  All this has been free of cost for me, including the hotels in L.A. and Chicago and New York, on the studio’s dime, because I play Caleb Jackson in Cassandra Rampart 3: Destiny at Hand. (Cassandra Rampart a.k.a. Willa Sax a.k.a. Eleanor Flintstone!)

  Day 3 of my junket—sorry, my Press Tour—would have been another wild ride of a day. Instead, I have to pack my bags and check out by 1:00 p.m.—I’m sorry, by 13:00…

  TO: RORY THORPE

  CC: IRENE BURTON, etc.

  FROM: ANNETTE LABOUD

  RE: PARIS PRESS SCHEDULE

  Welcome to Paris!

  We know you must be exhausted, but want you to know how thrilled we all are to be working on the French release of CASSANDRA RAMPART 3: DESTINY AT HAND! Our colleagues in Rome, Berlin, and London tell us the movie has been welcomed with wild enthusiasm…thanks to you! Our tracking numbers are strong, just 3 points off CASSANDRA RAMPART 2: AGENT OF CHANGE and only 10 points off CASSANDRA RAMPART: THE BEGINNING. For a sequel, these are fantastic numbers! It seems audiences are responding to the sexual tension between Cassandra and Caleb.

  We all feel France is a good territory for the film, as the Cassandra Rampart universe has a megafollowing on all social media platforms.

  As Irene Burton and the Marketing Dept. may have already explained to you, France does not allow the promotion of films via paid spots on television—which is why you may notice a few more on-camera interviews during your stay with us. These interviews are crucial in the French market. You have done so well on the U.S. tour and in Rome/Berlin/London there is no question you are warmed up!

  So have fun!

  Below is the schedule for the next three days. (Separate schedule for Eleanor Flintstone.)

  DAY 1

  1:10 (approx)—Arrive Charles de Gaulle Airport from London—Transport to Hotel.

  7:10—Grooming in Room 4114.

  7:40–8:00—Live appearance on “¡Nosotros Cacauates!” This is the most popular Young Adult morning show in Spain with a strong On-Line presence (4.1 million views). They have come to Paris especially for CR3:DAH.

  8:05—Transfer to Media Center on 3rd Floor.

  8:15–8:45—Print Media Round Table #1 (approx 16 outlets. List available)

  8:50–9:20—Print Media Round Table #2 (approx 16 outlets. List available)

  9:25–9:55—Print Media Round Table #3 (approx 16 outlets. List available)

  10:00–10:30—Print Media Round Table #4 (approx 16 outlets. List available)

  10:35–11:05—Print Media Round Table #5 (approx 16 outlets. List available)

  11:10–11:40—Print Media Round Table #6 (approx 16 outlets. List available)

  11:45–11:50—Reddit A.M. Session (for U.S.)

  BREAK

  12:00–13:00—Social Influencers Mini-Interviews (3 to 5 minutes each). The Social Influencers have at least 1.5 million followers. Each will have a specific request for their postings. Some will be very quick; others will be limited to 5 minutes.

  13:05–14:00—Photo Shoot on Hotel Roof (Note: Eleanor Flintstone will join you for last 10 minutes.)

  14:05–14:45—Lunch/Interview with PARIS MATCH. (Note: A photographer will be present.)

  14:50–15:00—Radio interview with TSR-1

  15:05–15:15—Radio interview with RTF-3

  15:20–15:30—Radio interview with FRT-2

  15:40–16:00—Informal Coffee with approved Social Media Outlets (approx 20) with minimum of 3.5 million followers. (List on request)

  16:05–16:10—Touch-Ups

  16:15–16:45—Live TV remote from Balcony for Belgian TV “PM TODAY.” (Note: Eleanor Flintstone will be joining you at 16:30.)

  17:00—Proceed by car to Studio du Roi for Air France promotional shoot. This will play on all Air France International flights to support CR3:DAH opening. Shoot will take approx 3 hours.

  20:00 (approx)—Proceed by car to Restaurant Le Chat. Dinner hosted by UPIC. (Note: A photographer will be present.)

  After dinner you are free to stay or return to hotel.

  Rory Thorpe thanked his lucky stars for Irene Burton; those stars had been mighty benevolent over the last two years. He’d been in a movie with none other than Willa Sax—Cassandra Rampart herself! He had money in the bank for the first time in his life! And he was getting a free trip to Europe out of the deal! All he had to do was give some interviews over there! His enthusiasm had Irene Burton mutely laughing her ass off.

  Irene was sixty-
six years old, had worked in marketing for every one of the six major film studios, and now lived in semiretirement in a beach house in Oxnard—far enough away from Hollywood to avoid the daily stresses of showbiz yet close enough to pop in when she was needed to clean up the occasional PR flameout. Eleven years ago, she escorted a young, talented, and beautiful actress through the press tour for a horrible movie called Dementia 40, which did lousy business but is now legendary for introducing audiences to the young, talented, and beautiful Willa Sax. The press called her Willa Sex for a few years—a fitting moniker—but now Willa was Cassandra Rampart, a one-woman industry who had her own line of exercise clothes, a home for orphaned pets, and a foundation that promoted literacy in third world nations. The first two Cassandra Rampart movies had grossed $1.75 billion worldwide. Willa Sax didn’t just command $21 million a movie plus profits, she commanded respect.

  “Irene,” Willa told her on the phone. “You gotta help me.”

  “S’up, punkin’?” Irene called all her young actors punkin’.

  “Rory Thorpe is as dumb as a box of hair.”

  “Who is Rory Thorpe?”

  “The guy in my latest thing. I just saw his EPK.” The electronic press kit is a house-controlled interview given to the press as background for a movie. “Most of his answers start with ‘Well, um. It’s like, you know…’ We have the junket coming up and I can’t go around the world with Doofus McGillicuddy as my costar. He needs to be told what the fuck not to do.”

  “I can do that.”

  So Irene did. She took Rory shopping at Fred Segal and Tom Ford for the clothes he’d need—casual-look outfits for interviews and black-tie tuxes for premiere galas. No charge. She took him luggage shopping at T. Anthony for the right trunks and suitcases—at a steep discount the studio covered—so those outfits would be ready to don at a moment’s notice. He’d be photographed in two-shots with one of the most beautiful women in the world and needed to look like he rated the position. He’d be answering the same questions a thousand times over, so she drilled into him the talking point memos the studio had provided: CR3—DAH brings the C. Rampart universe its most compelling & sophisticated film, for she is not just a heroine for our times but a woman for the ages. Please use “woman for the ages” whenever describing Cassandra.