Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

“I revise my opinion,” said Olson.

They walked disconsolately and heavily back toward their tent.

Olson spoke only once before they got there. “These raincoats,” he said, patting his. “Most ingenious invention of the war. Highest saturation point of any modern fabric. Collect more water per square inch, and hold it, than any material known to man. All hail the quartermaster!”

Welch was waiting at the entrance of their tent. He was standing there peering excitedly and short-sightedly out at the rain through his glasses, looking angry and tough, like a big-city hack-driver, individual and incorruptible even in the ten-million colored uniform. Every time Seeger came upon Welch unexpectedly, he couldn’t help smiling at the belligerent stance, the harsh stare through the steel-rimmed GI glasses, which had nothing at all to do with the way Welch really was. “It’s a family inheritance,” Welch had once explained. “My whole family stands as though we were getting ready to rap a drunk with a beer glass. Even my old lady.” Welch had six brothers, all devout, according to Welch, and Seeger from time to time idly pictured them standing in a row, on Sunday mornings in church, seemingly on the verge of general violence, amid the hushed Latin and Sabbath millinery.

“How much?” Welch asked loudly.

“Don’t make us laugh,” Olson said, pushing past him into the tent.

“What do you think I could get from the French for my combat jacket?” Seeger said. He went into the tent and lay down on his cot.

Welch followed them in and stood between the two of them, a superior smile on his face. “Boys,” he said, “on a man’s errand.”

“I can just see us now,” Olson murmured, lying on his cot with his hands clasped behind his head, “painting Montmartre red. Please bring on the naked dancing girls. Four bucks worth.”

“I am not worried,” Welch announced.

“Get out of here.” Olson turned over on his stomach.

“I know where we can put our hands on sixty-five bucks.” Welch looked triumphantly first at Olson, then at Seeger.

Olson turned over slowly and sat up. “I’ll kill you,” he said, “if you’re kidding.”

“While you guys are wasting your time,” Welch said, “fooling around with the infantry, I used my head. I went into Reems and used my head.”

“Rance,” Olson said automatically. He had had two years of French in college and he felt, now that the war was over, that he had to introduce his friends to some of his culture.

“I got to talking to a captain in the air force,” Welch said eagerly. “A little fat old paddle-footed captain that never got higher off the ground than the second floor of Com Z headquarters, and he told me that what he would admire to do more than anything else is take home a nice shiny German Luger pistol with him to show to the boys back in Pacific Grove, California.”

Silence fell on the tent and Welch and Olson looked tentatively at Seeger.

“Sixty-five bucks for a Luger, these days,” Olson said, “is a very good figure.”

“They’ve been sellin’ for as low as thirty-five,” said Welch hesitantly. “I’ll bet,” he said to Seeger, “you could sell yours now and buy another one back when you get some dough, and make a clear twenty-five on the deal.”

Seeger didn’t say anything. He had killed the owner of the Luger, an enormous SS major, in Coblenz, behind some paper bales in a warehouse, and the major had fired at Seeger three times with it, once knicking his helmet, before Seeger hit him in the face at twenty feet. Seeger had kept the Luger, a long, heavy, well-balanced gun, very carefully since then, lugging it with him, hiding it at the bottom of his bedroll, oiling it three times a week, avoiding all opportunities of selling it, although he had been offered as much as a hundred dollars for it and several times eighty and ninety, while the war was still on, before German weapons became a glut on the market.

“Well,” said Welch, “there’s no hurry. I told the captain I’d see him tonight around 8 o’clock in front of the Lion D’Or Hotel. You got five hours to make up your mind. Plenty of time.”

“Me,” said Olson, after a pause. “I won’t say anything.”

Seeger looked reflectively at his feet and the other two men avoided looking at him. Welch dug in his pocket. “I forgot,” he said. “I picked up a letter for you.” He handed it to Seeger.

“Thanks,” Seeger said. He opened it absently, thinking about the Luger.

“Me,” said Olson, “I won’t say a bloody word. I’m just going to lie here and think about that nice fat air force captain.”

Seeger grinned a little at him and went to the tent opening to read the letter in the light. The letter was from his father, and even from one glance at the handwriting, scrawly and hurried and spotted, so different from his father’s usual steady, handsome, professorial script, he knew that something was wrong.

“Dear Norman,” it read, “sometime in the future, you must forgive me for writing this letter. But I have been holding this in so long, and there is no one here I can talk to, and because of your brother’s condition I must pretend to be cheerful and optimistic all the time at home, both with him and your mother, who has never been the same since Leonard was killed. You’re the oldest now, and although I know we’ve never talked very seriously about anything before, you have been through a great deal by now, and I imagine you must have matured considerably, and you’ve seen so many different places and people.… Norman, I need help. While the war was on and you were fighting, I kept this to myself. It wouldn’t have been fair to burden you with this. But now the war is over, and I no longer feel I can stand up under this alone. And you will have to face it some time when you get home, if you haven’t faced it already, and perhaps we can help each other by facing it together.…”

“I’m redeployable,” Olson was singing softly, on his cot. “It’s so enjoyable, In the Pelilu mud, With the tropical crud …” He fell silent after his burst of song.

Seeger blinked his eyes, at the entrance of the tent, in the wan rainy light, and went on reading his father’s letter, on the stiff white stationery with the University letterhead in polite engraving at the top of each page.

“I’ve been feeling this coming on for a long time,” the letter continued, “but it wasn’t until last Sunday morning that something happened to make me feel it in its full force. I don’t know how much you’ve guessed about the reason for Jacob’s discharge from the army. It’s true he was pretty badly wounded in the leg at Metz, but I’ve asked around, and I know that men with worse wounds were returned to duty after hospitalization. Jacob got a medical discharge, but I don’t think it was from the shrapnel wound in his thigh. He is suffering now from what I suppose you call combat fatigue, and he is subject to fits of depression and hallucinations. Your mother and I thought that as time went by and the war and the army receded, he would grow better. Instead, he is growing worse. Last Sunday morning when I came down into the living room from upstairs he was crouched in his old uniform, next to the window, peering out …”

“What the hell,” Olson was saying, “if we don’t get the sixty-five bucks we can always go to the Louvre. I understand the Mona Lisa is back.”

“I asked Jacob what he was doing,” the letter went on. “He didn’t turn around. ‘I’m observing,’ he said. ‘V-1s and V-2s. Buzz-bombs and rockets. They’re coming in by the hundreds.’ I tried to reason with him and he told me to crouch and save myself from flying glass. To humor him I got down on the floor beside him and tried to tell him the war was over, that we were in Ohio, 4,000 miles away from the nearest spot where bombs had fallen, that America had never been touched. He wouldn’t listen. These’re the new rocket bombs,’ he said, ‘for the Jews.’”