Mark Frost - The Second Objective

“And wear what? We’re supposed to be soldiers.”

“That’s the beauty of it, Brooklyn. Her gentleman caller was a GI. His uniform’s in the closet. Freshly laundered by his little French whore. A sergeant in the quartermaster corps.”

He held up a khaki dress cap and twirled it on his index finger, looking at the sergeant’s insignia.

“Not overly ambitious, was she?” said Von Leinsdorf. “For a camp follower. No doubt she shacked up with some of our boys before the Yanks showed up with better cigarettes.”

“Maybe she saw you as a promotion.”

“Frankly, it wasn’t a face for an officer’s pay grade. I’ll fix us something else to eat. I paid for those groceries after all. Finish your tea.”

Von Leinsdorf moved toward the kitchen. Bernie stared down at an issue of Life magazine on the table beside him. General de Gaulle was on the cover, posed heroically, staring into the distance at some idealized future for France, or at least for de Gaulle. Bernie heard a clock ticking somewhere, far louder than it should have sounded. An alarming sense of dislocation swept through his chest; his heart skipped a beat; his body flushed with heat. He banged the teacup down on the table and staggered to his feet. De Gaulle’s face began to wobble. The lines of every object in the room swam in front of his eyes; the air turned rubbery. Von Leinsdorf was beside him in a moment, taking his arm.

“Don’t fight it, Brooklyn,” he said, his voice distorting. “I put something in the tea. You’ll sleep a few hours. Can’t have you running off while I’m at the cinema. I’ll come back with the others, if they’re there. That’s a good fellow. After all, you could use the rest.”

Von Leinsdorf eased him back down onto the sofa. Bernie was out by the time his head hit the cushions.

The first show ended at eight-thirty, a wave of GIs spreading out from the theater into the surrounding bars and restaurants. The rain had passed through, and the night air warmed slightly under a lowering cover of clouds. Curls of fog spun in off the river, obscuring the square. Carlson and the rest of the men stationed on the ground scanned the faces of the exiting soldiers as they moved toward their evening’s pleasures, while Grannit watched from his observation post. No one spotted his “Lieutenant Miller.”

A brief lull in street traffic followed before uniforms began to trickle into the square again, lining up for the nine o’clock show. Grannit poured himself another cup of coffee. Ole and the five supervising MP sergeants returned to the apartment for a final briefing.

“Keep your men out of sight until the crowd builds in again,” said Grannit. “Stay outside, watch the street. When they’re about to start the show, button it up, put a hat on every exit, inside and out. Five minutes into the picture we kill the projector, bring up the house lights, announce we’ve got a security situation. Then we’ll do it by the numbers. Bring ’em out row by row to the lobby, check IDs one at a time.”

“What if anybody bolts?”

“Take ’em down,” said Grannit. “If they draw a weapon, shoot ’em.”

Grannit followed them downstairs. The fog had grown so thick he could no longer make out any faces from the window.

The American deserter William Sharper had spotted the MPs at a border post, abandoned the jeep, and led his squad into France the previous night on foot. After spending the night in a barn, they hitched a ride that morning with a middle-aged French farmer, who seemed thrilled to lend a hand to the American war effort. Before they reached the main highway, Sharper strangled the man and dumped his body in a field. Sharper put on the farmer’s clothes, took his wallet and agricultural road pass, and drove his load of chickens into Reims. His other three men hid in the back with the birds. Sharper knew the city well enough to get them to the farmer’s market, where they abandoned the truck and blended into the city.

By mid-day, Sharper had found the cinema that he’d suggested for their rallying point. Taking his men to a nearby brothel, he instructed them to play the part of randy soldiers on leave from the front, their easiest assignment yet. He paid for eight hours’ time with the four girls in the house and the squad spent the rest of the day upstairs, getting laid, resting, and sleeping. Sharper put so much American cash on the table the madam agreed to wash their uniforms while they relaxed. She thought it odd that the Americans didn’t ask for any wine or liquor, but dollars had a way of easing her curiosity.

At eight-thirty, Sharper and his men set out for the cinema, less than three blocks away, in their freshly laundered uniforms.

Reims

DECEMBER 19, 8:40 P.M.

Von Leinsdorf walked slowly to the middle of the square outside the theater, on the edge of the gathering crowd. He took out a cigarette and scanned ahead for any unusual police presence. The fog thickened near the waterfront as soldiers lined up in front of the theater box office. Two MPs stood near the entrance to the lobby, but didn’t look out of place. An American soldier materialized out of the fog, suddenly standing next to him, and offered a light for his smoke.

“Another Judy Garland picture,” the man said, nodding toward the theater. “Louis B. Mayer’s working her like a sled dog. You know she’s not even five feet tall?”

“I might have read it somewhere.”

“Just my size. A hot little number, if you like a babe with no waist and the ass of a ten-year-old boy. She do anything for you, Sarge?”

“She’s no Marlene Dietrich,” said Von Leinsdorf.

“Are you kidding me? Marlene Dietrich’d eat her like a chicken leg, spit out the bone.”

Von Leinsdorf moved forward, trying to shake the man, but he fell into step alongside, holding out a hand. Short and fidgety, the man wore a corporal’s stripes and pounded a wad of gum while he smoked.

“Eddie Bennings, Corporal Eddie Bennings, how you doing to night?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“A free night in France, fresh air, no bullets in the forecast, what could be so bad? I see you’re with the quartermaster corps.”

“That’s right.”

Looking ahead through the fog, Von Leinsdorf spotted William Sharper leading his three men into the theater lobby past the MP at the door.

“My line, too. Came in today from Belgium. Makes you appreciate the peace and quiet down here,” said Bennings. Then, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial level: “My battalion does a lot of business with the quartermaster corps.”

“Is that a fact?”

“And we’re always looking for a good man to do business with-you going in to see the picture?”

“Yes.”

“Let me spring for the tickets, my treat-you shouldn’t have to stand on line, Sarge.”

The persistent little man was starting to attract Von Leinsdorf’s interest. “What sort of business?”

“I’ll get the tickets, we’ll have a chat. See if you’re interested. Meet you in two shakes.”

Von Leinsdorf moved on to the front lobby doors and waited as Bennings jumped the ticket line.

Bernie opened his eyes to a cat rubbing its face on his chin and purring. When he started awake, the animal vaulted off his chest into the kitchen. The room spun violently when he tried to stand. He lurched forward, tumbling over a table and vomiting as he hit the floor. Rolling onto his back, he took deep breaths, opening and closing his eyes, waiting for the ceiling to stabilize. As his fractured thoughts reassembled and he remembered where he was, he raised his watch into view and waited for the hands to float into position. 8:40.

“Shit.”

He pulled himself to his feet, made his way into the kitchen, stuck his head under the faucet in the sink, and ran cold water over his neck until his head began to clear. Taking a quick look around the apartment, he spotted Von Leinsdorf’s GI field greens lying in a heap on the bedroom floor. The khaki dress uniform that had been hanging in the woman’s closet was gone.