Paper Doll (22 page)

“That's Bryant. I could tell by the shape of the head,” Willis Eddy called.

“And Piacenti ‘cause his hands aren't on the guns,” Lambert Ball said.

More sketches of the firing, the tracer streams double-dotted lines. Bryant's and Piacenti's guns were missing high. Snowberry's belly turret, now visible, was firing right into the cockpit.

A big explosion, a swastikaed tail flying outward with lines of force.

A final drawing, over which was superimposed
THE END:
a cartoon Snowberry curled inside the ball, winking, holding up an okay sign.

The men booed and threw gear. It did seem to Bryant as though morale had picked up.

“You gotta be kidding,” Lewis called. “I think the only thing you hit was the Fort opposite.”

“Hey, you see the curve in some of these?” Snowberry rustled around at his feet for the appropriate drawings. “I got off some classic, classic deflection bursts.”

“Hey, the only thing you know about deflection shooting is that you can't do it,” Lewis said.

Gabriel had a fat new cigar in his mouth, unlit, and he grinned around it at them like a proud father.

“Get a load of Billy Mitchell, there,” Hirsch said quietly from Bryant's left.

“Gabriel's all right,” Lewis answered. Gabriel was hearing again from Piacenti how the Messerschmitt had just appeared, as if out of nowhere. “He's starting to turn into one of those beady-eyed sons of bitches who absolutely hold the course, the kind of guy you want up there. And this movie thing with Snowberry was a good idea. We could use some loosening up.”

Lewis stood and suggested a game of Gordon Pong, and over Snowberry's protestations the idea was enthusiastically endorsed by the rest of the crew. Four crates were stacked two on two as a net and Snowberry was caught and dragged to one side. After some rules debate, it was decided that he would not be allowed to bounce once on the receiving team's side.

He kicked and squirmed too much—it was hard to maintain a good throwing grip—so they sat on him and tied his arms and feet. The officers agreed to play, and it was Bryant, Piacenti, Lewis, and Ball against Gabriel, Cooper, Hirsch, and Eddy. The gunners against the ninety-day wonders, as Lewis put it. Bean refused to play.

On the first toss Snowberry shrieked, so it was decided to gag him as well. After a few more tosses the best tactics revealed themselves to be: on the receiving end, spread out and close to the body as it flew over the crates; on the throwing end, try to produce a spin which would overload one end of the opposite line and defeat attempts at a good solid grasp. After one throw from the officers that just cleared the crates—Lewis called net ball but was argued out of it—Bryant commented to the group on the sheer terror in Gordon's eyes, and recommended a blindfold, both as a mercy measure and further elimination of distractions. It was agreed to, and Bean gave up a sock to that purpose when no one was able to produce a handkerchief.

The officers were ahead 3 to 0—they scored when any part of Snowberry touched the ground as the gunners caught him, tallying on two real rib-thumpers and a cheapie can of corn when a limp foot touched—when Lewis abruptly announced Refreshment Break. He poured a bit of Scotch from an abandoned cup into his Coke bottle and took a slug. Behind him in a tin lid used as an ashtray Piacenti laid a C02 cartridge atop Gabriel's now-lit cigar and everybody ducked. The cartridge exploded in a rain of tobacco leaf and the concussion knocked Lewis forward onto his knees. He got to his feet grimly amid the laughter, spattered with the dark bits of cigar and Coke, and shook his head. “I'll have another, barkeep,” he said. “In a clean glass.” Complaining of ringing in his ears, he ended the game prematurely. He and Bryant sat beside Bean while Piacenti and Ball laboriously began to untie Snowberry, who was again showing signs of life. Lewis offered his Coke and Bean shrugged it off.

“I hate to see a grown man dry,” Lewis said.

Snowberry was helping them now with his feet. “You guys,” he said with diffused menace. “You guys.”

“What a stand-up bunch of personnel, huh, Bean?” Lewis said. “Even when the going gets tough, there's still time for horseplay.”

The victorious officers had left. Snowberry pouted where he lay, rubbing his hip. There were tears in Bean's eyes.

“I don't know what I'm
doing
here,” he said. “What am I
doing
here?”

Bryant patted his shoulder. Lewis said, “You don't have to figure it out. Like today. All you have to do is turn on the Brownings and let them figure it out.”

Piacenti had started the jeep and was waving them over. Gabriel wanted another photo. Piacenti leaned on the horn, and revved the engine.

“I guess it's my buddy,” Bean said. “I guess I haven't gotten over him.”

“He's dead and you're not,” Lewis said.

“I feel bad,” Bean said.

“Feel good,” Lewis said.

“He told me if anything happened to tell his girlfriend the real story,” Bean said. “I think about that.”

“I think about home, takeoff, assembly, their fighters, our escort,” Lewis said. “Flak.”

They helped Bean to his feet, and climbed aboard the jeep. At the plane Gabriel arranged them as he had before. Snowberry said, “Why don't you make little white marks on the fuselage over our heads so you can see how much we've grown?” For the photographer, though, he joined with everyone else in pointing to the newly painted iron cross on the nose, and holding up one finger.

Tuliese told them what they had already heard, from a pal of the departed Gus Fleener: the operation the following day was going to be big and unusual. “Unusual” in this case had clearly sinister connotations. Bryant suspected Berlin, and was both excited and panicked. He imagined the Providence
Journal
headline:
LOCAL GUNNER A HERO IN HISTORIC FIRST RAID ON NAZI CAPITAL.
He had once asked Lewis, Imagine your name in a headline back home? Lewis had responded, Imagine your name on a list in the back of the paper?

Leaves and training courses, they knew, had been postponed. The last few missions had been, Lewis claimed now to understand, morale builders—short and easy with few or no losses. By the time they'd finished chow, there were all sorts of signs that supported the rumors: the beautiful and clear skies, which in the new iconography of the bomber crews meant Danger and Impending Missions; the heavy coming and going at Operations, including a buck-up visit, it appeared, from some major brass; fleets of extra petrol bowsers and bomb trolleys. Spare planes were wheeled to the dispersals alongside the combat-ready ones. Crew lists were displayed an hour after dinner, which struck them as formal and unusual and ominous. Everyone feasible was on the list, including the very newest crews. Lewis joked grimly as he read it that he'd found the names of three of the base dogs, including Audie. They were just to sit around and wait. It was suggested they retire around eight-thirty or nine o'clock. There were hints that roust-up would be earlier than usual.

They sat in the barracks playing cards. They were going to sit and wait for three hours to go to bed, and the theatricality of the unusual preparations made the waiting much more difficult. Hirsch had come out, pale, from a navigators' early evening briefing, and had not answered questions. He had gone straight to another building with an oilskin packet and could be seen through the window, bent over the pool of light on his desk, scratching long rows of figures with his pencil. Guys from
Archangel
and
Cathy Says
told the same story: navigators all over the base shaken and isolated.

Bean was signing his underwear. They found him cross-hatching lines on a small pile of laundry and he explained that that was what he was doing.

“What do you think, you're going off to camp, Harold?” Piacenti asked.

“Maybe I am,” Bean said, and Bryant understood he meant prison camp.

For a moment he was back in nature camp in Connecticut, with Snowberry sick on Mello Rolls and Bean miserable without his parents. Bean was signing his underwear for prison camp, or as an identification aid (Lewis in talking about antiaircraft casualties had once in his presence made reference to “flak stew”), or because it was a reassuring ritual and maybe he thought the extra bit of caution would help ensure his safety, a gesture of faith in a world that rewarded Preparation and Conscientiousness.

“Maybe you should write your buddy's girl, if you're gonna write her, Bean,” Lewis said. “You know. Tonight.”

Bean held up a pair by the waistband—
GEANT H. BEAN, U.S.A.R.
—Bryant read. Bean's undershorts were strangely oversized and he looked diapered in them. Snowberry called them his Sagbag Underwear. Lewis liked to suggest Bean was hoping he'd grow into them. “I already wrote her,” Bean said. “I had to tell her everything I knew.”

“Must've been humiliating,” Lewis muttered from his bunk.

Snowberry shook Bryant's arm, and leaned close. “I can't sit here,” he said quietly. “Let's get out. Let's go down to The Hoops. Some of the other guys're down there. We'll call the girls.”

“The girls?” Bryant asked. The idea sounded as bizarre as calling his parents. “They won't be able to come down.”

“Willya
try?
” Snowberry said. He was bobbing from foot to foot. “They can try, can't they? We got at least two hours.”

Bryant debated for too long and Snowberry whirled and stalked out, and Bryant got up and followed. At the door he looked back. Piacenti picked up a card and eyed it, tantalizing Ball. Bean folded underwear. Lewis lay with his hands behind his head, eyes on the ceiling. God, he thought as he trotted to catch Snowberry,
Ball.
What do I know about
Ball?

Base preparations over the entire area depressed them further and they were happy to get out onto the lane to the village, away from the activity. Hundreds of Wright-Cyclones were being run up and tuned by ground crews and the result was a wavering roar like an immense child's first tentative attempts at a musical instrument. The sound was cooler and quieter in the lane, a distant racket from another world. As they walked they heard running feet and Colin and his silent friend Keir from the base party caught up to them, and wished them a good evening.

Snowberry quickened his step, and the boys accelerated in little bursts to keep up.

“It's quite busy this evening, isn't it, Sergeant?” Colin said.

“Yes it is,” Bryant answered. Ahead of him Snowberry was pulling away and he tried to modulate his speed to keep the group together.

“We understand you need to keep secret about it,” the boy said.

“I guess we do,” Bryant said. “How have you been?”

“Quite well, thank you. Do you remember Keir?”

“Never forget a face. Or a rider.”

The boys were quiet, Keir embarrassed or shy. “Are you off on a walk?” Colin finally asked.

Snowberry came to a stop and turned on them, so that Bryant almost fell over him. “Look, kid,” he said. “We're on a secret mission. We got a big day tomorrow. We're not running tours. We're not giving interviews. Comprendo?”

“Gordon,” Bryant said.

“Oh for Christ's sake,” Snowberry said. “I'll meet you there.” He left.

Colin stood as if struck. Keir edged away, flushed, unable to look up.

“Colin, Sergeant Snowberry's got a lot on his mind,” Bryant said. He crouched and rubbed his hand in the dirt. It was just his luck that this would have to happen now.

Colin said, “I understand.”

Bryant patted his pockets, but there was no chocolate or gum.

“We don't want anything, Sergeant,” Colin said. “We don't want anything.” Keir had already turned and was attempting to drift away.

“Well, what is it?” Bryant found himself asking with some exasperation. “What is it you want from us?”

Colin pulled further away. “We don't want anything,” he repeated.

Bryant stood, angry with his dirty hands, angry that he was alone and Colin was alone on this lane. “I don't know what you want from me, you know?” he said. “I'm not your father. I'm not a war hero. I don't even know what I'm doing here.”

Colin backed toward Keir, who had already started for home in mortification.

“We don't want anything, Sergeant,” he said. It sounded like a rebuke. “We wanted to wish you luck. We wanted to see you.”

Bryant turned from them and started walking. He turned back. Colin had taken Keir's hand and was looking back at him. “Why are you out at this time of night?” Bryant shouted. “Isn't your mother worried? Why isn't anyone taking care of you?”

The boys remained where they were, holding hands, gazing at him, and were still there when he glanced back once more before the curve of the lane pulled them out of sight behind a hedgerow.

He sat fidgety and uncomfortable at a table near a window in The Hoops while Snowberry drummed tunelessly with his little finger and thumb on the table top. Snowberry had reached Jean, and whatever he had told her, she had agreed to come. Robin was coming as well. Bryant wondered irritably how melodramatic Snowberry had been. Snowberry wasn't smiling or crooning. He was all business. He'd opened one of his condom packages and was snapping it back and forth between his fingers like a rubber band. He'd gotten them each a beer and they were either too nervous to drink or were waiting for the girls.

Snowberry stopped drumming. He rubbed his eyes with his balled fists and Bryant felt as if he was keeping a younger brother up. Snowberry widened his eyes comically to regain focus and said, “Are you thinking of proposing to Robin?”

Bryant stared at him, and shook his head. “This was your idea.”

Snowberry shrugged. “I just figured,” he said.

The girls arrived forty-five minutes later. The beers remained untouched. Bryant had spent his time musing on the convexity of the surface of the beer in the glass. Snowberry had gazed off toward the bar. Their spirits had deteriorated further.