Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

“National defense,” the bartender said. The bartender was a pale little man in a vest and apron, with pale, hairy arms and a long, nervous nose. “Everybody has to make certain sacrifices.”

“The trouble with this country,” Lubback said loudly, “is there are too goddamn many patriots walking the streets.”

“Don’t say anything against patriotism,” said the man nearest Lubbock. “Not in my presence.”

Lubbock looked consideringly at him. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Dominic di Calco,” the man said clearly, showing that he was not to be bullied. “I don’t see anything wrong with being a patriot.”

“He doesn’t see anything wrong with being a patriot,” Lubbock said. “An Italian patriot.”

“They need you,” said Sweeney, the man on the other side of Lubbock. “They need you bad—in Greece.”

The others laughed. Sweeney looked around him proudly, his little creased red face beery and complacent.

“I’m an American citizen,” Di Calco shouted. “After you boys get through laughing.”

“You know what I’d like to see?” Sweeney waved his arms, laughing. “I’d like to see the Italian army try to invade Red Hook.”

“I’m not in favor of Mussolini,” Di Calco shouted. “But keep yer trap shut about the Italian army!”

“Three Irishmen,” Sweeney said. “It would take three Irishmen about a half hour. The Italians’re wonderful when they fight other Italians.”

“Would you like to step outside, whatever yer name is?” Di Calco asked quietly.

“Boys!” the bartender spread his hands pacifically. “Remember, we’re in America.”

“Remember,” Di Calco said, “I offered you satisfaction, whatever yer name is.”

“My name is Sweeney!” Sweeney shouted. “I got two cousins in the Royal Air Force!”

“That’s a hot one,” Lubbock said. “A man by the name of Sweeney with two cousins in the English army. Yuh can just about imagine”—Lubbock spoke reasonably to the bartender—“what type of Irishman yuh could get to fight in the English army.”

“What do you want?” the bartender asked. “You want to disagree with every patron of this saloon?”

“That must be some family, the Sweeneys.” Lubbock went over and clapped Sweeney on the back.

“They’re fightin’ for you and me,” Sweeney said coldly. “They’re fightin’ to preserve our way of life.”

“I agree,” said Di Calco.

“Yeah,” said the bartender.

Lubbock turned on the bartender. “What’s your name?”

“Cody,” said the bartender. “William Cody.”

Lubbock glared at him. “You kidding me?”

“I swear to God,” said the bartender.

“They got a statue in Wyoming. Buffalo Bill. Any relation?” Lubbock asked.

“It’s a pure coincidence,” the bartender said.

“Beer, Buffalo Bill,” Lubbock said. He watched the bartender draw the beer and place it before him. “From the very hand,” Lubbock marveled. “A man with a statue in Wyoming. No wonder you’re so patriotic. If I had a statue in Wyoming, I’d be patriotic too.”

“Pure coincidence,” protested the bartender.

Lubbock drank half his glass of beer, leaned back, spoke quietly and reflectively. “I just love to think of two Sweeneys in England protecting my way of life. I just love it. I feel safer already.” He smacked the bar savagely. “Tents! We’ll be sitting in tents in the middle of winter!”

“What do you want?” Di Calco said. “You want Hitler to come over here and clean up?”

“I hate him; I hate the bastard,” Lubbock said. “I’m a Dutchman myself, but I hate the Germans.”

“Give the Dutchman a beer,” Sweeney said. “On me.”

“I hate the Germans,” Lubbock went on, “and I hate the English and I hate the French and I hate the Americans …”

“Who do you like?” the bartender asked.

“The Italians. You can’t get them to fight. They’re civilized human beings. A man comes up to them with a gun, they run like antelopes. I admire that.”

Di Calco tapped warningly on the bar. “I’m not going to stand here and have the Italian army insulted.”

Lubbock ignored him. “The whole world should be full of Italians. That’s my program. My name is Lubbock, boys. I come from a long line of Dutchmen, but I hate them all. If the British’re defending my way of life, they can stop right now. My way of life stinks.”

“Boys,” the bartender said. “Talk about something else, boys.”

“The truth is,” Sweeney said, “I wouldn’t mind if there was a war. I make eleven dollars a week. Any change would be an improvement.”

“This is the war of the Hotel Pee-yeah,” Lubbock said.

“What do you mean by that?” Di Calco looked at him suspiciously, sensing a new insult to the Italian army.

“On Fifth Avenue and Sixtieth Street. They tea-dance.” Lubbock scowled. “They tea-dance for the Empiuh.”

“What’s objectionable about that? ” the bartender asked.

“Yuh ever see the people that go into the Hotel Pee-yeah?” Lubbock leaned over the bar and scowled at the bartender. “The little fat rabbits in the mink coats?”

“The best people,” the bartender said defiantly.

“Yeah,” Lubbock smiled mirthlessly. “If they’re for anything, it must be wrong.”

“I’m speaking carefully,” Di Calco said in measured tones. “I don’t want to be misconstrued, but to a neutral ear you sound like a Communist.”

Lubbock laughed, drained his beer. “I hate the Communists,” he said. “They are busy slitting their own throats seven days a week. Another beer, Buffalo Bill.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me Buffalo Bill.” The bartender filled Lubbock’s glass. “You start something like that, you can wind up making life intolerable.” He flipped the head off the glass and pushed it in front of Lubbock.

“A statue in Wyoming …” Lubbock shook his head wonderingly. “Today they tea-dance for the Empiuh, tomorrow we get shot for the Empiuh.”

“It don’t necessarily follow.” Sweeney moved closer, earnestly.

“Mr. Sweeney, of the flying Sweeneys.” Lubbock patted him gently on the wrist. “The reader of the New York Times . I’ll put a lily on yer grave in the Balkans.”

“It may be necessary,” Di Calco said. “It may be necessary to supply soldiers; it may be necessary for Sweeney to get shot.”

“Don’t make it so personal,” Sweeney said angrily.

“Before we get through, Mr. Sweeney,” Lubbock put his arm confidentially around him, “this war is going to be very personal to you and me. It will not be very personal to the rabbits from the Hotel Pee-yeah.”

“Why can’t you leave the Hotel Pierre out of this discussion?” the bartender complained.

“The snow will fall,” Lubbock shouted, “and we’ll be sitting in tents!” He turned on Di Calco. “The Italian patriot. I’d like to ask yuh a question.”

“Always remember,” Di Calco said coldly, “that I’m an American citizen.”

“How will you feel, George Washington, sitting behind a machine gun with Wops running at you?”

“I’ll do my duty,” Di Calco said doggedly. “And don’t use the term ‘Wop.’”

“What do you mean running at him?” Sweeney roared. “The Italian army don’t run at anything but the rear.”

“Remember,” Di Calco shouted at Sweeney, “I have a standing invitation to meet you outside.”

“Boys,” the bartender cried. “Talk about other matters. Please …”

“One war after another,” Lubbock marveled. “One after another, and they get poor sons of bitches like you into tents in the wintertime, and yuh never catch on.”