Rally Round the Flag, Boys!

by Max Shulman

“Okay, so they were ten lousy years. But I’ll tell you something: only a sonofabitch like me could have held you for ten years. If you want to get married again, good luck. But find somebody like me. Don’t start up with guys like this.” He jerked his thumb at Harry.

  “I can pick my own men,” said Angela furiously. “Now get out of here!”

  “Angela, Bannerman’s a nice guy. That’s not for you. You marry him, you’ll have him chewed to a pulp in six months. Then what? Back to Reno again? Then look for another Bannerman? Chew him up? Back to Reno? Is that the routine?”

  “Oscar, butt out!” Her voice was a shriek and her eyes were swimming with tears.

  “Angela, don’t do it,” said Oscar quietly. “Not Bannerman. I’m telling you this because, believe it or not, I really feel for you. Lay off Bannerman. You’re a monster, Angela. Find another one.”

  Angela flew at Oscar, her claws out, her mouth working in a rage that was beyond words. Oscar grabbed her wrists and held her powerfully for a moment while he looked into her eyes. Then he released her, turned, and walked out of the room.

  Harry stood in silence, pity and embarrassment keeping his gaze averted from Angela. “I’m sorry about this,” he said. “About everything … Good-bye, Angela.”

  “No!” cried Angela, bursting into tears. She rushed to Harry, threw her arms around him, pressed her heaving body against his. Clutching, trembling, weeping piteously, she begged, “Don’t leave me! Please, Harry! Not just yet. Please stay awhile. Just a little while. Please!”

  Gently Harry pried himself loose. “I’m going, Angela,” he said as kindly as he could.

  “Oh, God, I’m so alone!” she wailed, throwing her hands over her face. “I’ve lost everything—everybody! God, dear God, doesn’t anyone care?”

  Harry fought to keep his arms at his sides, to keep from gathering Angela to him to kiss her tears and stroke her shoulders and salve his guilt. “Goodbye,” he said softly. “Believe me, it’s best.”

  She turned her face to his. Mascara streaked her cheeks. Her mouth trembled. Desperation darted from her eyes. “A little while,” she begged. “Please stay with me a little while. You owe me that much!”

  Harry hung his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, almost inaudibly. He picked up his coat, opened the door, and left without looking back.

  He walked to the elevators and pressed the button. In a moment an elevator arrived. “Down,” said the boy.

  Harry stood rooted.

  “Going down, sir?” said the boy.

  “No,” said Harry.

  The elevator descended without him. He turned and walked slowly back to Angela’s room.

  17

  Picture a dumbell, such as you would see in a gymnasium, but a very lopsided dumbbell. This, roughly, is the shape of a Nike base. One bell of the dumbbell contains about ten acres, the other contains about fifty acres, and connecting the two bells is a narrow bar approximately one mile long.

  The ten acre bell is called the IFC (for Integrated Fire Control) Area. This is the brains of the Nike system. There are three radars here: one scans the skies; one tracks the target; one tracks the missile. There are also two vans, the size of trailer trucks, both jammed with electronic equipment. The RC (for Radar Control) van operates the radars and gathers their data; the BC (for Battery Control) van computes the data and sends the Nike up after the target.

  The Nike takes off from the other bell—the fifty acre Launching Area. This bell includes a large shed where the Nikes are assembled and ground-tested, a fueling area behind eight-foot mounds of earth where the Nikes are filled with fuming acids, an LC (for Launching Control) van which maintains contact with the IFC Area, and three concrete launching pits thirty feet deep. In these pits, the combat-ready Nikes are stored. When an alert is sounded, some quick last-minute adjustments are made to the Nikes, the steel doors on top of the pits yawn open, and the Nikes are hydraulically lifted to the surface for launching.

  Joining the two bells is a mile-long strip, cleared of trees, hills, and buildings, so that the line of sight may be unbroken.

  In both the IFC and Launching Areas are various administrative buildings, supply rooms, mess halls, bachelor officers’ quarters, and barracks—all neat, low, cinder-block structures, painted to harmonize with the surrounding countryside.

  In one of the barracks at the Nike base in Putnam’s Landing on a Saturday morning in early spring, Corporal Opie Dalrymple, in his underwear, was handing down a pronouncement to several of his colleagues, also in their underwear. “Frinds,” said Opie, “today, as evabody knows, is Welcome Nike Day. In a little while we’re all goin’ down to the Town Hall and drank some temperance punch and look over the poon. Now, frinds, they’re gonna be lookin’ us over too. So hear me good: Put on yore cleanest, newest, spankin’est uniforms. Shine yore buttons and make a pretty little knot in yore necktie. Polish yore boots till you can see yourself in ’em. Walk tall. Suck in yore gut. Throw back yore shoulders. Step along on yore tippy-toes. Look shorp … You got that?”

  “Yes, Opie,” they said.

  “All right,” he continued. “That’s half the secret: look shorp. Now Ah’ll give you the other half: ack mis’able.”

  “Look sharp and act miserable?” asked Private William O. Wambess with a puzzled frown. “I don’t get it.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ attracks a gal like a mis’able man,” explained Opie. “But while yore ackin’ mis’able, you got to look shorp. Otherwise there ain’t no curiosity to it. Ah mean, if you stand around lookin’ raggedy and beat-up, the gal ain’t gonna wonder why yore ackin’ mis’able. She’ll figger anybody looks so mis’able jest naturally oughta be mis’able.”

  “Ah!” said the young warriors, comprehending.

  “But don’t stay mis’able too long,” cautioned Opie. “Jest kinda establish it, and then git frisky and sparklin’. Tell her that heavy-laden though you be, you jest cain’t stay sad with her around. Tell her she melts yore troubles like a summer sun burns off a mornin’ mist … If that don’t get her, she ain’t worth havin’.”

  “Ah!” said the men-at-arms.

  “Any questions?” said Opie.

  “How do we convince them that we’re miserable?” asked Private Roger Litwhiler.

  “Easiest thang in the world,” said Opie. “Tell ’em how lonesome you are for the gal you left back home.”

  “Tell the new girl about the old girl?” asked Private Ernest J. Hoffman incredulously.

  “Why, shore,” said Opie. “Then she knows she ain’t scratchin’ after a prize that nobody else wants.”

  “Ah!” said the citizen-soldiers.

  “But what if you haven’t got a girl back home?” asked Private Gustave Morrissette.

  “Then lie,” said Opie. “But lie from the hort!”

  At this point someone at the end of the barracks hollered “Ten-hut!” Everybody popped to attention in his underwear, and Lieutenant Guido di Maggio came walking into the barracks.

  “Oh, it’s you, Lieutenant,” said Opie, and everybody promptly stood at ease. The boys had been at Putnam’s Landing only three days, but already they knew that Guido was not a man to dwell on rank. In fact, it embarrassed the hell out of him.

  “Fellows,” said Guido, “I guess you’ve all got some civilian clothes here, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” they said.

  “Good,” said Guido. “I want you to wear them to the Welcome Nike party.”

  “Oh, but, sir,” said Opie, “we was figgerin’ on wearin’ our uniforms. We’re proud of our uniforms, sir. Mighty proud!”

  “I am deeply moved,” said Guido. “But you’ll wear civvies to the party. This town hasn’t been occupied since the Revolutionary War, and I’d just as soon not make the burghers any shakier than I have to.”

  “But, sir,” Opie persisted, “we all shipped our good suits home. All we got is slacks and sport shirts. What Ah mean, sir, we’d look a heap more staunch and manly in our uniforms.”

>   “I don’t want you staunch and manly,” said Guido. “I want you puny and boyish. I’m trying to persuade this town that you’re just a bunch of sweet, harmless, freckle-faced American kids.”

  “Sir,” said Opie sympathetically, “you shore got your work cut out for you.”

  “I have that,” agreed Guido. “So I’d appreciate all the help you can give me today. When you meet the citizens, would you kind of gawk and shamble and say ‘Shucks’ whenever possible?”

  “Ah can make my voice crack if you want,” said Opie.

  “We better not overdo it,” answered Guido. “But thanks anyhow … All right, get into your slacks and sport shirts. There’ll be a truck in front of the orderly room at eleven-thirty. And please, when you get to Town Hall, try your very, very best not to goof. You see, gentlemen, I have been sent to Putnam’s Landing on a trial basis to establish good public relations. If I don’t, I will get my can shipped right out of here … And, believe me, gentlemen, no matter who they send in to replace me, you couldn’t possibly have it this good!”

  “Sir,” said Opie, “we are fairly warned.”

  “See you,” said Guido and waved and left.

  Sadly the men gathered around Opie. “That sure takes care of our plans!” complained Private William O. Wambess.

  “Man proposes, God disposes,” said Opie philosophically. “But stay loose, frinds. We’ll play it by ear.”

  18

  The Welcome Nike Party commenced promptly at noon in the meeting room of the Town Hall, and among those present were the following nervous persons:

  Guido di Maggio

  Grace Bannerman

  Harry Bannerman

  Comfort Goodpasture

  Manning Thaw

  Guido di Maggio was nervous because he knew that if he did not make good as public relations officer, he would soon be on a shipping list to the frozen North, and standing not two feet away from him was one of the century’s great hazards to public relations: Captain Walker Hoxie. Walker, it must be said, had not wanted to come to the party. He had, in fact, informed Guido that he would sooner dive into a tank of barracuda, but Guido had felt dutybound to argue. “Sir,” he had said, “you must come. The town has gone to a great deal of trouble to throw this big affair for us, and they won’t take it very kindly if the commanding officer doesn’t show up. Remember, sir, what Colonel Thorwald said about the importance of public relations, and I don’t see how we can ever have good public relations unless you show a little bit of friendliness. I know, sir, that you do not have a very high opinion of civilians, but I assure you, sir, that this community is exceptional. All I ask is that you meet these people and talk to them and then make up your mind. That’s only fair, isn’t it, sir?” and Walker had said, “All right. All right, goddamit, I’ll come to your goddam party,” and Guido had been content because he had felt sure that Walker would be won over when he met some of the delightful personalities with whom Putnam’s Landing abounded. Now, however, as he stood beside Walker in the meeting room of the Town Hall and looked at his flinty eyes and truculent mouth, he did not feel one-quarter so sure.

  Grace Bannerman was nervous because although she had worked day and night as chairman of the Nike Hospitality Committee, there were still many tasks which she had had to delegate to others, and she was not at all certain that everything was in readiness. To be sure, most of the ladies on the committee had done splendid work. For example, Minna Coleman, chairman of the Sewing Subcommittee, had run up some terribly attractive dotted swiss curtains for the barracks; Doris Steinberg, chairman of the Dayroom Furnishing Subcommittee, had succeeded in obtaining twelve gilt chairs and the complete works of Jane Austen; Eleanor Milburn, chairman of the Hobby Shop Subcommittee, had gone down to the railroad station one morning and passed out one hundred notices to commuters, asking whether they had any power tools they wanted to donate to the Nike base, and ninety-one had said yes; Monica Farquhar, chairman of the Recreation Subcommittee, had gotten the soldiers free memberships to the YMCA and an invitation to the Purim dance at Temple Israel; Lucy Weisskopf, chairman of the Housing Subcommittee, had, for the benefit of married officers and men who wished to live off the post with their wives, managed to locate several attractive rentals: the gatehouse of the McAllister estate containing four rooms and a bath for $300 a month, the upstairs of the Owl Garage containing two and a half rooms and a stall shower for $175 a month, and a number of furnished rooms, some as low as $80 a month with kitchen privileges; and other workers had done equally brilliantly. It was chiefly Betty O’Sheel who troubled Grace. Seeking to lift Betty’s morale after the second tabling of the garbage plant proposal, Grace had given her the important job of chairman of the Refreshment Subcommittee for the Welcome Nike party. It had not worked. Sulky and vague, Betty had piled error upon error, and now, with the noon hour struck and the room full of hungry soldiers and citizens, Grace could see no sign either of refreshments or Betty O’Sheel.

  Harry Bannerman was nervous because he had just spotted Angela Hoffa across the meeting room. She had spotted him too and was already knifing through the crowd after him. Harry sidled rapidly away in an opposite direction. Since that overcharged afternoon at the Plaza Hotel, he had managed to avoid Angela by staying close to Grace. Unfortunately, the only way anyone could stay close to Grace in the last few weeks had been by joining the Nike Hospitality Committee, so Harry had devoted his leisure hours to draping bunting, hanging Japanese lanterns, cranking mimeographs, delivering messages, fetching and carrying, pulling and hauling, lifting and toting—none of which made him what you would call merry in his heart. But, all the same, he preferred it to another ramble with Angela. Each new encounter with Angela brought a new bundle of guilt, and he already had more than a man could carry.

  Comfort Goodpasture was nervous because today was the day she had to give Grady Metcalf an answer. Since the first night she let him kiss her, he had been pestering her to go steady until she was practically wigsville! She had told him no a million times. She had called him a drip, a creep, and a primate and had said that the best thing he could do for her was to join The French Foreign Legion. Still, she continued to let him kiss her, and sometimes when he held her gently and the moon was high, a tide of sweetness came over her, a rush of warmth that pinkened her cheeks and parted her lips and placed a single tear in each eye. But then she would look at Grady, and the spell would fall off with a thudsville. If only, thought Comfort with many a sad sigh, if only she could find a boy who would not merely kindle the spark but also keep it burning bright! But where was such a dreamsville boy? Surely not at Webster High School. Of that sorry lot, Grady, dunce though he was, was clearly the pick. And now he stood in the meeting room of the Town Hall in his black motorcycle jacket and looked at Comfort through half-lidded eyes and waited for the answer she had promised faithfully to give him this day. And Comfort, faute de mieuxville, was deciding to say yes.

  Manning Thaw, first selectman of Putnam’s Landing, was nervous because today was Saturday. Ordinarily on Saturday he closed the Town Hall at noon. He turned down the thermostat before he left, and it was not turned up again until eight o’clock Monday morning, thus saving the town a tidy amount on fuel. But today, what with the Welcome Nike party going on in the meeting room, he couldn’t very well turn down the thermostat. And here’s the tragedy: there was only one thermostat in the whole building, so heat was not only rushing to the meeting room but also to all the empty offices upstairs. And to afflict Manning’s Yankee soul further, damn fool latecomers kept opening all the outside doors and letting in a steady flow of cold air. He wouldn’t be a bit surprised, thought he grimly, if forty dollars’ worth of oil went up the chimney before this dang party was over!

  Manning had to admit, however, that except for the oil, the party wasn’t costing the town one cent. The Nike Hospitality Committee had raised all the money themselves. And a pretty penny it must have been! thought Manning, looking around the meeting room. Everybody in town had sh
owed up, and everybody from the Nike base too. In sixty years of freeloading, Manning did not remember such a turnout.

  As yet the party was in its early, quiet stage. Intermingling had not started. Everyone stood in a group of his own kind. Manning was with the Yankee clippers: George Melvin, Doc Magruder, Waldo Pike, Isaac Good-pasture, and other such worthy men.

  Next to them were the Italians, clustered around Vittorio di Maggio, undisputed chief of the Italian colony since his son Guido had brought new prestige to the name.

  Next were the commuters, talking animatedly of topics that occupy the commuter mind: Neilsen ratings, sheep manure, penis envy, vermouth, and the like.

  Then came a dazzling group composed of Grady Metcalf and the New Delinquents. Like their revered mentor Grady, all the boys were now wearing black leather motorcycle jackets, each jacket gleaming in front with an astonishing number of chromium zippers, and adorned in back with a picture of a red and white eagle, its claws full of blue lightning bolts. Their hair was gooey with brilliantine, their sideburns bisected their cheeks, their lips languidly held king size cigarettes. Clinging to their calves were black denims pegged to fourteen inches, and on their feet were motorcycle boots.

  Their attention was fixed on another group of young men across the room—the troops from the Nike base. Slowly, warily, the New Delinquents examined the soldiers, and then, their eyes filled with cool contempt, they turned away. There was manifestly nothing to fear from these clean-cut, crew-cut types in their little cotton sports shirts and their unpegged slacks. Squares—that’s all they were: Government Issue squares.

  Next to Grady and his cohorts stood the maidens of the town, Comfort Goodpasture at their center. They, too, were casing the soldiers and finding them pallid. So boyish they looked, so artless, so inexperienced, so nowhere! “Dullsville!” said Comfort, reflecting the consensus, and the girls all nodded and turned their backs on the soldiers and their fronts toward the New Delinquents.

  Across the room the soldiers were casting covetous eyes upon the girls. “That’s mighty nice poon,” said Private William O. Wambess.