Jim Shepard - Paper Doll

Eddy shrugged, uninterested. He looked over his shoulder as if hoping someone more intriguing might show. “Not much,” he finally said. “Doesn’t say much. From Chicago, I think.”

“Who’s he friends with?”

“Who knows?” Eddy was ready for a change of topic. “I don’t know much about Jewish guys. I guess, you know, they keep to themselves, we keep to ourselves.”

“What ‘themselves’?” Bryant asked. “He’s one guy.”

“Look, whaddaya want from me?” Eddy said. “I don’t know anything about him.”

“He’s kinda quiet,” Bean offered. “He seems like an okay guy to me.”

The three of them shifted for a better look and pondered the back of his head.

“Let’s go sit with him,” Bryant said. He hoped it didn’t sound too virtuous.

Eddy rolled his eyes.

Bryant and Bean moved up a few rows. Hirsch acknowledged them and returned his attention to the day’s instructor, who was pinning up some charts. They involved black silhouettes of aircraft from various angles, with large single letters beneath them.

“How you doin’,” Bryant said.

Hirsch nodded. “How you doin’.” He nodded at Bean.

The instructor introduced himself to guffaws as Lieutenant Mipson. He called for general quiet. Someone in the back sang the first bars of “My Old Kentucky Home.”

“I don’t see much of you around,” Bryant said.

“I don’t see much of anyone around,” Hirsch said.

Lieutenant Mipson sat, apparently relying on his dignity to provoke a general hush.

“Well, you should come along when we do things,” Bryant said. “They’re a pretty good bunch of guys.”

Hirsch looked at him, and nodded.

A staff sergeant helped pull the screen down in front. It slid back up, and there was scattered laughter and applause.

“I’ve never known any Jewish guys,” Bryant remarked, and wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. “I grew up in Rhode Island, and I didn’t meet any.”

Hirsch didn’t respond.

“I hear there’s a big one coming up, maybe, when the weather clears,” Bryant said. “Maybe even Berlin.” When the conversation flagged, rumors were a help. No one knew anything.

“I’m a Jew,” Hirsch said. “We don’t fight. We sit in the rear, going ‘Here’s five hundred. Keep attacking.’”

Bryant laughed. The lights went out. The screen to their right lit up for a second or two, flashing an aircraft silhouette, and went dark.

“Right. Any ideas?” Lieutenant Mipson called.

“An Me-110,” someone called out.

“An Me-210,” someone else said.

“A Bristol Beaufighter,” a third voice called.

“I didn’t even see it,” Bryant whispered.

“An Me-110,” Lieutenant Mipson said. The men hooted and laughed, delighted with the lilt in his voice. All officers and desk warriors were continuously watched for any signs of cowardice, hypocrisy, or effeminacy. “This?” he said, and a plane flashed for what seemed less than a second. Bryant had no idea.

There was a short silence. “Gene Tierney,” someone said. Everyone laughed. It was Lewis.

“Try it again.” He flashed it once more, for a bit longer.

There was some coughing. “I was better off when I wasn’t looking,” Bryant whispered.

“A Heinkel?” someone offered.

“What sort of Heinkel?” Mipson said into the darkness.

“An obscure one,” Snowberry said from somewhere behind him.

“A 189,” Mipson said.

“ That ’s a 189?” Bryant asked.

“You, Sergeant.” Mipson pointed to Bean. “What’s this?”

Bean gazed at the screen, his eyes like a rabbit’s caught in the headlights. “Sir?” he said. “A Dornier?”

“A Mosquito,” Mipson said. “About as wrong as you can be, Sergeant.”

From the back someone made the sound effects of skidding tires, smashing glass.

Lieutenant Mipson announced a spot quiz, with some weariness. “Ten planes for two seconds apiece,” he said. “Take out papers and number them from one to ten.”

The lights came back on, and it was noisy out of all proportion to the task supposedly being performed. They numbered their papers, and waited. Bryant’s column of numbers strode off to the left as it descended. The lights went off again. Men made kissing noises.

“One,” Mipson said. A Focke Wulf 190 appeared on the screen.

There were boos and hisses. “Gene Tierney,” Lewis called from the back.

“Quiet,” Mipson scolded.

Another went up. A Dornier something, Bryant knew. 217? He glanced at Hirsch’s page in the gloom.

Another. An Me-109. The men cheered the most familiar silhouette in the Luftwaffe.

Seven more went by. Bryant figured he’d gotten five. They were gone so fast. The lights were back on, and they were stretching and trying to look at each other’s papers.

“Now the chart,” Mipson said. He went from A to Q with his pointer. Then they did lookalikes from confusing angles. Bryant mistook a Spitfire for a Messerschmitt.

They filed out peeved at their ignorance and angry with this kind of desk fighting anyway. Beside the door was a morale poster, a drawing of a Focke Wulf 190, probably the best of the German interceptors, with its broad snout comically exaggerated, its squared wings shortened and absurd. The caption read Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wulf? Beneath it someone had written, We are. Following that was a row of signatures, running off the paper and a good ways down the wall. Lewis Peeters was the first name on the list. He’d also drawn in, in some detail, the Focke Wulf’s underwing cannon.

After the afternoon session Bryant and Hirsch waited for Snowberry and Lewis to file out. Hirsch seemed reluctant to wait. Bryant called the two of them over when they emerged, but when they arrived he discovered he had no real idea of what to say. They stood in a foursome awkwardly. Hirsch was an officer, a second looey himself, which made things more difficult. They were tech sergeants.

Lewis tested and worried a loop of string, the movement of his hands relaxed and intricate. Snowberry regarded the process, then Hirsch, with interest. Lewis said, “Lieutenant, maybe you can answer a question Strawberry here is having trouble with. You’ve seen us in action as a crew. Think we have a chance of getting through the doors of the mess without hurting ourselves? What do you think of what we got here? A wop at one of the waist guns, this Long Islander in the top turret, and Strawberry, who should be thirteen next April, in the belly.”

“Rhode Island,” Bryant said.

Hirsch gave the matter some thought. “Seems an all right group,” he said. He sounded wary.

“And then the lieutenant here,” Lewis said.

Hirsch gave him a tight smile. “I have to go,” he said.

Bryant watched him leave. “What’d you do that for?” he asked.

Lewis said, “Bryant, sometimes you are so rock stupid that it makes us want to sit down and cry for the Army.”

“What? What’d I do?” Bryant asked.

Lewis repeated his question, adding a little more whine. The effect was not flattering. He said to Bryant, “Remember you said you wanted advice before, from an old hand? Well, here’s the advice: Don’t make plans.” He repocketed his string and left with Snowberry without issuing an invitation to follow. Bryant straightened his belt and tried to appear as though he had a reason for standing alone where he was, feeling like someone just in from overseas, without a buddy in the world.

He sulked the balance of the afternoon. He sat near the hedges on the perimeter, under the overhang of a small house which served as an information booth and guard hut. The mist glazed his boots and the dry area beneath the overhang resembled a small beach. He had more mail, from Robin, so the sulking was easier to pull off. As far as he could make out, though, he was unnoticed where he was, and his irritation in all likelihood remained unrecorded. Half the squadron was up practicing assembly and cooperation with escort fighters, and the rumble above the cloud cover was constant and exciting.