Rally Round the Flag, Boys!

by Max Shulman

  “Morbidly sensitive to cold, every one of them. Know what happens if I eat ice cream?”

  “No,” confessed the Major.

  “Agony!” declared Guido. “Wild, screaming agony!”

  “Pity!” murmured the Major.

  “What’s it going to be like when I get to the frozen North?” said Guido.

  “Agony?” ventured the Major. “Wild, screaming agony?”

  “Right!” said Guido. “I’ll be no use at all to the battery. I’ll be in the dentist’s chair all day long.”

  “Tell you what,” said the Major brightly. “We’ll have all those teeth pulled before you go!”

  “Very funny!” muttered Guido, casting the Major a baleful look.

  “Lieutenant,” said the Major, chuckling, “I’m going to miss you.”

  “Sir, you’re making a big mistake!” cried Guido. “How can you send me to Alaska? I’m an Italian. For a thousand years my family lived in sunny Napoli. Couldn’t you find a Swede?”

  “I want you to know, Lieutenant,” said the Major, clasping Guido’s hand, “that when I ship you out, I will count it as a great personal loss. In these last couple of weeks, you have brought bushels of joy into this dreary life. Now get out of here so I can get some work done.”

  Guido started disconsolately for the door, but before he reached it, in walked a civilian, a tall man of thirty-some years. Guido looked at him curiously. Somewhere he had seen that face before; he would take his oath on it.

  “Can I help you, sir?” said Major McEstway to the civilian.

  “I’m Harry Bannerman,” said the civilian. “I have an appointment to see Colonel Thorwald.”

  “Go right in, sir,” said Major McEstway.

  Ah! thought Guido. Now he remembered. Harry Bannerman of Putnam’s Landing. They didn’t exactly move in the same social circle, but Guido had seen him around town a few times. What, thought Guido, was he doing here?

  Then another question crossed Guido’s mind. The Major had told him that Captain Hoxie was going to command a new base. Then along came Harry Bannerman from Putnam’s Landing. Could it be more than a coincidence? Was it possible that the new base would be at Putnam’s Landing?

  But why speculate? Why not find out?

  He walked quickly out of Post Headquarters, around to the back of the building, squinched down under Colonel Thorwald’s open window, and listened.

  Captain Walker Hoxie was not angry all the time—only in peacetime.

  In wartime a professional soldier—like Captain Walker Hoxie—had stature. He was somebody; he got respect from people. But what did he get in peacetime? Hind tit, that’s what.

  Coolie wages, that’s what, and sweat-shop hours, and assignment to holes that would appall a gopher … But never mind all that. What really griped Captain Walker Hoxie, what churned his guts and ground down his back teeth, was that the average American civilian regarded the professional soldier as an out-and-out burn! If a man was able to make a living anyplace else, asked the average civilian in a tone that brooked no rebuttal, why in the world would he choose to stay in the Army?

  Such an assumption in the case of Captain Walker Hoxie was a plain canard. Walker was a guided missile expert—a category woefully short in the Army, but even more woefully short in private industry. He could have resigned his commission any day and gone to work for a fancy salary at some missile or electronics factory, but the hateful thought never crossed his mind. He flatly did not want to be a civilian. He had never had a good day with civilians in his life. His father, a civilian in the moonshine line in Searcy County, Arkansas, had walloped him daily until he ran away from home at the age of sixteen. For the next two years he had drifted around, riding the rods, picking a little fruit, piling up a goodly collection of vagrancy raps, and getting his skull banged regularly by yard bulls, deputies, and turnkeys—all civilians. In 1934, aged eighteen and seeking a place to lie down till his ears stopped ringing, he walked into an Army recruiting office and signed up.

  He loved the Army from the very beginning. For one thing, people stopped hitting him in the head. For another, his life finally took on meaning. He had a mission at last, and not a small one: to protect and defend the United States of America.

  He was a sergeant when World War II broke out. He came back from overseas with a battlefield commission for gallantry. In Korea he won the Bronze and Silver stars. After Korea, harking to the Army’s urgent need for missile officers, he transferred to Fort Bliss, overcame an extensive inacquaintance with mathematics, took a full year’s course in Nike, and ended up an expert technician.

  Then, to his unspeakable disgust, he was sent to Fort Totten, Long Island. It was not Fort Totten which disgusted him. Fort Totten had, after all, acres of dusty drill fields, rows of ugly barracks, hordes of milling troops; it was, in short, homey. What raised Walker’s gorge was that the assignment was only temporary: he was scheduled to leave shortly to take command of a new Nike installation at some place called Putnam’s Landing. It would not be a post, mind you, not a base, not even an encampment—but just a tiny enclave of troops entirely surrounded by civilians!

  And now it gave him a conspicuous lack of pleasure to be sitting with one of those very same civilians—a man named Harry Bannerman—in the office of Colonel Thorwald, battalion commander.

  Colonel Thorwald, on the other hand, was wreathed in smiles. The Colonel was a portly, patient West Pointer of sixty years who had learned that the only way to run a Nike command was to keep smiling. You could never find a community that wanted Nike; you could never find enough qualified officers to run a battery. This left you two choices: smile or Section 8.

  “How do you do, Mr. Bannerman,” said he, smiling. “I am Colonel Thorwald, battalion commander. This is Captain Hoxie. I have asked him to join us because he will be in charge at Putnam’s Landing when we build the base … Now then, Mr. Bannerman, we are delighted that you are here because the only way we will get our little differences settled is by honest, friendly discussion. Have a seat, sir, and tell us what is on your mind.”

  What was on Harry’s mind was to get out of this ridiculous situation forthwith. But Grace was depending on him, and after his recent session of slap-and-tickle with Angela Hoffa, he felt that it might be well to play the dutiful husband for a spell.

  “Well,” said he, trying hard to conceal his sheepishness, “we feel that the Army should reconsider putting a Nike base in Putnam’s Landing. Surely you can find a more suitable place than a quiet little residential town like ours.”

  Walker gritted his teeth silently. Lousy civilians, he thought. They were all alike. You go in and try to save their stinking skins, and what do you get? The back of their hands, that’s what you get.

  “What I mean,” said Harry, wishing fervently he were somewhere else, “is that a Nike base will upset everything in our little community—social equilibrium, real estate values, things like that.”

  A column of red climbed rapidly up Walker’s neck. Lousy, maggoty civilians, he thought. Pudgy palmed, shifty-eyed, gray flannel crud.

  “So,” concluded Harry with a wan smile, “now that you see our side of it, I feel sure that you will look a little harder and find some other place.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bannerman,” said the Colonel courteously. “What you say is very interesting, and, of course, we quite see your point. Don’t we, Captain Hoxie?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Walker. “We see the point, all right. The point is that Putnam’s Landing is full of yellow-livered, money-grubbing, fat-bellied feather merchants, and if I had my way, I’d line ’em up against the wall and shoot the whole sickening lot of ’em!”

  “Aghast” is the word for the Colonel’s face at this point. Unmistakably “aghast.”

  Walker bounded out of his chair and stuck his nose, quivering with fury, an inch away from Harry’s. “What’s all this crap about real estate values?” he demanded. “Your country is in danger. The United States of America is in danger! Ar
e you an American? Or are you some kind of commie rat bastard?”

  Now Harry was on his feet too, every bit as outraged as Walker. “Just a minute!” he shouted. “I’m not going to stand here and have my patriotism impugned. It so happens that I did my bit in the last war!”

  “Sure,” sneered Walker. “You were drafted. If you’re such a hotshot patriot, why didn’t you re-enlist?”

  A moan escaped the Colonel’s lips and his mind turned longingly to the good old days when officers were gentlemen. Now they were technicians, and when you had one as good as Walker, you had to count yourself lucky. If he happened also to be a churl and a boor, all you could do was keep smiling and thank God he wasn’t a geek.

  “But no!” Walker was yelling at Harry. “You wouldn’t re-enlist. Defending the USA ain’t good enough for high class guys like you. That’s for slobs like me and the Colonel here … Well, all right, mister. We’ll save your bacon for you. We always have and we always will. But just don’t be getting in our way. Don’t be telling us where we can put our bases and where we can’t. That’s our business!”

  “What the Captain means,” said Thorwald with a conciliatory smile, “is that—”

  “I don’t give a damn what the Captain means!” bellowed Harry in a blind fury. What the hell was he doing here anyhow? What did he care if Nike came to Putnam’s Landing? How did he ever get into this horrid situation? … How? He knew damn well how. Grace, that’s how!

  “You see, sir,” said the Colonel pressing on gamely, “we have made a careful study of defense requirements—”

  “You sure as hell haven’t made a study of public relations,” retorted Harry hotly. “Or of common courtesy, for that matter!”

  With that he wheeled and stormed out of the office. He had left a cab waiting in front of Post Headquarters. He flung himself into the back seat and slumped in a corner, trembling with anger.

  “Back to the railroad station?” said the driver.

  “Yeah,” growled Harry, full of black bitterness. Thank you, Grace, he thought savagely. Thank you very much for this pleasant excursion. And for all the other joys you have brought into my life. Thank you for the rollicking days in the Bloodmobile, the enchanted evenings at the PTA. Thank you for making a pygmy out of what used to be a man.

  “Driver!” shouted Harry suddenly, so suddenly that the driver almost lost the wheel. “I don’t want to go to the railroad station. I’ve changed my mind—and high time, by God!”

  “Where do you want to go?” asked the driver.

  “Do you know the Hotel Miramar in Port Jefferson?”

  “Sure.”

  “Take me there,” said Harry with determination. “Let the revels begin!”

  Guido di Maggio, listening underneath Colonel Thorwald’s window, was struck with the most brilliant idea of his entire life.

  He scampered quietly away from the Colonel’s window, ran around to the front of the building, and burst into the office of Major McEstway, post adjutant.

  “Major,” he cried breathlessly, “I have to see Colonel Thorwald right away!”

  “What you have to do right away,” said the Major, “is go pack your gear. I just got a call from Mitchel Field. There’s an airplane waiting for you.”

  “No, no!” said Guido frantically. “I can’t go! I have to see the Colonel!”

  A steely edge came into Major McEstway’s voice. “All right, Lieutenant, it’s been fun, but playtime is over. Go get packed, and be back here in fifteen minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Guido glumly. This left him no alternative. He walked out of Major McEstway’s office, out of Post Headquarters, around to the back of the building, over to Colonel Thorwald’s open window, put his hands on the sill, and vaulted into the office.

  Colonel Thorwald and Captain Hoxie whirled and looked at Guido in pop-eyed wonder.

  Before they could recover, Guido started talking at machine-gun rate: “Colonel, sir, I know this is a little irregular, but believe me, sir, you’ll thank me when you hear what I got to say … Colonel, sir, let’s face it, sir, when you send Captain Hoxie to Putnam’s Landing, you are going to have yourself one hell of a public relations problem. True?”

  Still stunned, the Colonel nodded dumbly.

  “Colonel, sir,” continued Guido, pressing his advantage hard, “I got a way to lick it. What you need is an executive officer for Captain Hoxie who can not only perform all of an exec’s technical and administrative duties, but who can also conduct a public relations campaign … Me, for instance, Colonel, sir, I was born and raised in Putnam’s Landing and I know everybody in town and I played ball there and I was on the Scouts and the school police and I tell you the honest truth, Colonel, sir, there is not a soul in Putnam’s Landing that does not have only the highest esteem for me. You send me up there, Colonel sir, and I guarantee you I will put on a public relations program that will have the whole town clasping us to their bosom!”

  Walker Hoxie found his tongue first. “Colonel,” he said, “what do you want me to do with this lunatic?”

  “Just a minute,” said Thorwald to Walker. To Guido he said, “What kind of public relations program?”

  “Well, sir,” replied Guido, his fine Italian mind racing, “first I’d call a special town meeting and explain to the people that Nike is perfectly safe. Then I’d go around town and make friends with all the important organizations. I’d speak to the Kiwanis and Rotary and Lions. I’d sign up with the Red Cross blood bank. I’d ask the clergy if they needed anybody for their choirs. I’d enlist the men in the volunteer fire department.”

  “Colonel, you’re not really listening to this guy?” asked Walker incredulously.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” answered the Colonel. “And, what’s more, I’m liking what I’m hearing. Continue, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Guido, ideas flooding into his brain as his confidence mounted. “I’d do a lot of work with kids, because kids are the No. 1 industry of Putnam’s Landing. I’d station soldiers at school crossings. I’d show films at assemblies. I’d give camping lessons to the Scouts. I’d manage a Little League team.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” snarled Walker.

  “Captain,” said Thorwald, turning patiently to Hoxie, “this boy has ideas about public relations. Do you?”

  “Certainly not!” cried Walker, deeply offended.

  “That’s what I figured,” said Thorwald. “Captain, I’m afraid my course is clear. I must admit I have certain reservations about an officer who comes leaping through my window, but just the same, he does have a public relations program for Putnam’s Landing—and with you in command, God knows we’ll need one … I’m sending him along as your exec and P.R.O.”

  “Now wait a minute—”

  “That,” said the Colonel mildly, “is an order.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Walker through clenched teeth.

  “Oh, thank you, Colonel!” cried Guido ecstatically. “You’ll never regret it.”

  “See that you don’t!” warned the Colonel, a new and menacing note coming into his voice. “Him”—he nodded at Walker—“I can’t replace. But you”—he pointed an ominous finger at Guido—“I damn well can!”

  “Yes, sir,” quaked Guido.

  “I’ll have no nonsense from you,” said Thorwald, fixing Guido with a bird-colonel’s glare. “No jumping through windows, no cutting up, no goofing. You’re going to Putnam’s Landing to do a job, and, by God, you better deliver!”

  “Oh, I will, sir!” declared Guido. “I will!”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Guido di Maggio, sir.”

  The Colonel frowned thoughtfully. “Aren’t you on a shipping list to Alaska?”

  “There’s been some rumors,” shrugged Guido. “Nothing definite.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you something definite,” said Thorwald. “I’ll give you time to get things organized in Putnam’s Landing, and then I’m coming up to inspect … And if I don’t s
ee results, you’ll be in Alaska the very next morning, I promise you!”

  “Yes, sir,” quavered Guido.

  The Colonel gave Guido a final scowl and flipped the key on his inter-office squawk box. “Major McEstway?” he said.

  “Yes, Colonel,” came the voice of the adjutant.

  “I’m assigning Lieutenant Guido di Maggio to Putnam’s Landing,” said Thorwald. “Cut some orders.”

  The squawk box was silent for several seconds.

  “Are you there, Major?” asked Thorwald.

  “Yes, sir,” came the voice.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I am taking my hat off to Lieutenant Guido di Maggio,” said the Major reverently.

  11

  Vittorio, the father; Serafina, the mother; Anna and Teresa, the sisters; and Pete, Bruno, Dominic, and Carmen, the brothers, were all in festive array on the station platform when Guido arrived in Putnam’s Landing the next evening to start Operation Friendship.

  They greeted him con amore, kissed him allegro, whacked him fortissimo, and then Vittorio grabbed him by the arm and headed him toward the delivery truck that served as a vehicle when the di Maggios travelled en famille. “Come on,” said Vittorio. “Letsa go home.”

  Guido freed his arm. “You go ahead, Pa. I have to make a stop first.”

  “Ah, come on!” cried Serafina, the mother, giving him a two-handed thump on the back that sent him reeling into the tailgate of the truck. “Come on home. We gotta big surprise!”

  “What do you want to go to Maggie Larkin’s for?” said sister Anna. “She hates you.”

  “Sure,” said sister Teresa. “Better you should come home and see the surprise.”

  “Listen—” said Guido, but the four brothers, two on each side, grabbed his elbows and lifted him into the truck. Then everyone else got in, and Vittorio started the motor and home they went.

  The first thing Guido noticed when he came into the house was how tidy the living room was: not a speck of dust, not a newspaper, not a cigar butt, not a stray sock anywhere. Then, walking forward, he saw that the dining room table was covered with the good lace cloth and set with the hand-painted Trylon-and-Peri-sphere dinner plates.