The Predators (17 page)

Jean Pierre and Brad were having dinner at the Mayflower Hotel several months after they had met. Jean Pierre looked at Brad. “I want you to move in with me.”

Brad laughed. “That would be wonderful,” Brad said. “I would love it; however, if the army ever found out about our relationship, I would be court-martialed, thrown in an army prison for at least three years, and given a dishonorable discharge.”

“Why would anyone else have to know?” Jean Pierre asked. “We won’t be here forever. And after the war you can come to France with me to live. Our life will be heaven in France.”

“What kind of work would I do in France? I don’t know the language that well. Jean Pierre, it takes money to live,” Brad answered.

“Money is not important.” Jean Pierre laughed.

“What? You have enough money to live like that?” Brad asked.

“I have enough money to even live in America without working. The important thing is I love you! I want us to be together,” Jean Pierre said.

Brad looked at him and then lifted his glass and held it up to Jean Pierre. “I love you, too!”

They both drank from their wineglasses. Jean Pierre spoke first. “To our troth!” Under the table Jean Pierre placed his hand inside Brad’s thigh. He could feel Brad’s hardening phallus.

PART TWO

TWO FRANCS A LITER

1

Jerry in the Army and Out

Friday the thirteenth is always an unlucky day for me. It was a frozen day in February 1942. I was standing bare-assed naked in Grand Central taking my medical checkup for the army. There were at least twenty doctors who I had to see, and they looked into every hole in my body, from my ass to my nose and ears. Finally, it was over. I dressed and was seated at a small table across from a fifty-year-old doctor who had my medical history report in his hand.

He read it carefully and every few minutes looked at me over the top of his glasses. Finally he spoke. “You’re Jewish?”

“Yes, Doctor,” I answered.

“I’m Jewish, too,” he said.

I nodded silently.

He got out of his chair and then took a small black instrument with a light on the front and peered into each of my ears. Then he went back to his chair and sat down.

The doctor continued reading my report. Then he opened a heavy medical encyclopedia and began studying it. I looked behind me to see if anyone was waiting to see the doctor. All I could see was the line of draftees standing in another line. They looked like cattle in a Clark Gable movie being taken to the slaughter. The doctors were impersonal; they didn’t give a damn about the draftees. They would pass them or reject them. They didn’t care which way.

But I thought I was in good shape. I turned back and watched the doctor. I began to tap my fingers. He finally looked up at me. “Do you have any problem hearing?”

“No, sir,” I answered.

He took a deep breath. “Jerry,” he asked, “when did you have your mastoidectomy?”

I thought for a moment. “I don’t remember, Doctor,” I answered. “I was very young.”

“You must have been,” he replied. “The perforation in the eardrum is almost completely closed. You’re lucky you didn’t have to have an operation on the other ear. You might have been deaf by now.”

“What does all of this mean?” I asked.

“Nothing really,” he said. “If you had had an operation on the other ear you would be four-F.”

“But, Doctor, I heard if you have a perforated eardrum and can’t hear as well as others you could get your head blown off,” I said.

The doctor chuckled. “You’ll only be classified one-B. Noncombat.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Maybe cooking, or mechanical work, maybe a clerk,” he answered. “I really don’t know what they will do with you.”

“I know what I would like for them to do with me, Doctor,” I said. “I would like them to let me stay home.”

“You have no patriotism, Jerry. You should want to kill Adolf Hitler,” the doctor said.

“I’m Jewish, Doctor,” I said. “Not a hero.”

The doctor filled out a new form and handed it to me. “This is a notice that will put you into a noncombatant class. You’re not one-A, nor are you four-F. You will be one-B and you will need to come back tomorrow morning and take a few tests. I have recommended you for automobile mechanic repairs in the Quartermaster Corps.”

I looked at the doctor. I then read the form for a moment, and then I realized what a wonderful kindness he had done for me. I turned back to him. “Thank you, Doctor. I’m really very grateful. Thank you very much.”

He smiled at me and patted me on the shoulder. “You remind me of my own son. He’s still in medical school and I only pray that this lousy war is over before he has to go in.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” I said again. “And I hope that everything is good for your son.”

I felt pretty good as I found my way to the exit. Then I heard a voice behind me that I recognized. It was Buddy. I crossed the aisle to him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

It was the first time I had ever seen him look unhappy. “I’ve been drafted.”

“Did you get your physical yet?” I asked.

He lit a cigarette and inhaled. The smoke came out from his broad nostrils. “I’m perfect,” he said. “One-A.” He looked at me. “How about you?”

“One-B,” I said.

“What the hell is that?” he asked. “I never heard of it.”

“Neither did I,” I answered. “But I’m not complaining. I’ve got a pretty safe job. The doctor recommended me for the auto mechanic corps.”

“What the hell do you know about being a mechanic? You don’t even know how to drive!”

I stared at him. “Let’s get out of here,” I said to him. “I’ve got an idea!”

We left Grand Central and walked to the corner of Lexington Avenue, where there was a cafeteria. We grabbed a couple of coffees and sat down at an empty table.

Buddy tasted his coffee. “It’s hot as hell.”

“Give it time to cool off,” I said. Then I showed him the form the doctor had given me.

He read it and looked at me. “What good is this going to do me? I got nothing like that.” He pulled out a slip from his pocket and waved it in the air. “My doctor gave me a one-A.”

“What’s happened to you, Buddy? What happened to the smart hustler I’ve always known? What did that examination do to you? Scare the shit out of you?” I asked.

“What the hell can I do?” he asked.

“Don’t you remember about that old black man that forged things that you introduced me to? Remember when he made licenses for Eddie to make the seltzer and also the license for him to drive the truck and sell the bottles?” I asked.

“Yeah, I know him.”

“Is he still in business?” I asked. “You told me that he made Social Security cards, driver’s licenses, and sixteen-year-old birthday records for fourteen-year-olds so they could get a job.”

“So?” Buddy asked, deep in his misery.

“So let’s go see him in Harlem. You said he was an artist,” I said, waving the 1-B paper in his face. “Let’s let the artist copy this and make you an auto mechanic like me. And we’ll be in the army together.”

“You’re forgetting one detail,” Buddy said.

“What’s that?”

“You’re white. I’m black.”

“Your skin’s almost as light as mine. If anybody asks we’ll say you’re Cuban.”

Buddy was silent for a full minute. Then he smiled for the first time that day. “I must be crazy,” he said. He stood up and took out his money clip. “Let’s go. I got money for a cab. The sooner I’m one-B and white, the better.”

2

We both passed the tests the next day and by that evening we were on the bus to Fort Dix in New Jersey.

We passed a lot of pig farms and five hours later we arrived at the entrance gate of the army base. By now it had begun to rain and sleet. The temperature was dropping rapidly.

There were about twenty draftees who stepped out of the bus in the miserable and freezing weather. There was a big sergeant, who thought he was a general, who greeted us. He was a nasty bastard. He didn’t give a damn that we were all soaking wet, cold, and tired. First he made us line up, and then he made us reline up again according to our height. This put me in the middle at about five feet eight, and Buddy ended up at the end of the line at six feet two.

Then the sergeant had us face him and he called out from the list of names. As we answered, he filled out our names on another form in his three-ring black notebook. Then once again he called out our names and we had to place an X next to our name in the black book. Finally, he took us to a long table where we received our uniforms. After that he took us to a small barracks, where it was as cold as the outside. He assigned each of us a bed. Behind our beds was a shelf holding two books, and below the shelf was a small cabinet with two doors on the front.

“The books will give you all the information about your dress code and other information you will need about the army. I will leave now and I will see you at reveille, which is at oh five hundred hours, at which time you should be completely dressed. Good night.”

One of the draftees called to him. “Sergeant!” He saluted when he spoke.

The sergeant snapped at him almost before the word was out of his mouth. “Draftee, you do not salute noncommissioned officers. Only officers of lieutenant and up.”

“I am sorry, Sergeant,” said the draftee, quickly dropping his hand. “I wanted to ask when we might be having dinner?”

The sergeant laughed at him. “You’re out of luck. All of the dinners are served at eighteen hundred hours. But you will be able to have breakfast in the morning.”

“How about the heat in this place, Sergeant?” another draftee said.

“You’re in the army now, son! You better start taking care of yourself. ‘When’s the food? Where’s the heat?’” he mimicked. “I’m going to tell the officers we just got a busload of pussies! Figure it out for yourself!” he shouted, and briskly turned and walked out of the barracks.

After he had left the barracks, we all looked at each other. Buddy shook his head. “The army stinks!” He looked out the window of the barracks. Outside on the far corner was a rack of large garbage cans. While he was looking he saw a soldier in a white cook’s uniform come out carrying one of the cans.

I got up and started trying to find where the heater was installed.

Buddy turned to look at his newfound friends. “If any of you have a few bucks to lay on me, I bet I could bring us all a little dinner.”

It wasn’t long before Buddy was the first corporal in our platoon.

3

It was the first weekend I spent at Fort Dix. In only one day of boot camp, my muscles and entire body were nothing but pain and agony. I bought and used up two bottles of Sloan’s Liniment. No one in the platoon could stand near me because of that smell.

When Sunday arrived, it was supposed to be an easy day. But that was only until noon. Then the usual drill began. It was six o’clock before I could shower and have my dinner. By that time I was wiped out and had stretched out on my bunk for a little rest.

I fell asleep and began dreaming instantly. I began to dream about my last Friday night at home. Kitty had come up to my apartment. I had all of my things packed in my cheap valises that I had bought because Kitty had said she would keep all of my nice things until I returned. And then she began to cry.

I pulled her to me and wiped the tears from her cheeks with a handkerchief.

Then she looked up into my eyes. “I don’t know how I’ll live without you. I’ll think of you every day. I’m so frightened that you will get killed or wounded, Jerry.” She began to cry even more. “What if you lose a leg or an arm? If that happens I’ll take care of you.”

I chuckled, trying to lighten her mood. “You don’t have to worry about anything, except getting my cock shot off.” I grabbed her and put her hand inside my pants. It was hard and she made it even harder. I moaned as she stroked and held my phallus. I reached under her dress and pulled her panties down. The inside of her legs was already wet. I spread the lips of her vagina and probed her with two fingers and gently manipulated her clitoris.

She began to squeeze my balls and then jerk my penis. She repeated this until I couldn’t hold it any longer—my semen shot out like a cannon. I lifted her up and threw her on the bed.

She was tearing her clothes off and I began to smear her breasts with the juices of her vagina. My prick was still dripping and I held it over her enlarged clitoris. As the drops fell she moaned in ecstasy. Suddenly, I was hard again. I fucked her like there was no tomorrow.

I looked at the clock. It was seven o’clock. We were lying on the bed smoking a cigarette. I turned to Kitty. “Aunt Lila is making dinner for us. We are supposed to be there by eight o’clock.”

Kitty said nothing. She leaned over and kissed me and reached for my prick. “Just one more time before we go over to her place.”

“There’s no way I can get it up again,” I said. “I’ll grab a shower and then we can have dinner. I’ll get my strength back and we’ll come home and fuck our brains out.”

She laughed as I started for the shower. “You don’t have to fuck your brains out, honey. All you need is a hard cock and a wet pussy.”

Suddenly, I awoke from the dream. It was real. That had been my last night with Kitty. But it was still just a dream. It was the first time I had a wet dream in the army.

4

The back room of the barracks was filled with smoke. This was the weekly poker game. It was always at night after dinner. At twenty-two hundred hours, army time.

Sergeant Mayer, the head of our platoon, looked across the table. “I’ll raise,” he said, chewing on the butt of his cigar. He threw another quarter into the pot.

Buddy was crazy. He didn’t hesitate. “I’ll meet you and raise you another quarter.”

I looked down at my cards. I had a great hand—ace of spades high—but I had to live with the sergeant for another eight weeks. Mayer was a mean son of a bitch. Poker was his game. He organized the game every week. It was how he picked up extra money. Sergeants didn’t make much money.

I saw the look on Buddy’s face. He was hot. I tried to give him the high sign to lay off. But Buddy didn’t give a damn. I laid my cards facedown on the table. “I fold,” I said.