Paper Doll (15 page)

“We always went back,” Snowberry said, “even when the ropes were frayed, even when the wood seat split.”

During the next few days they were favored with an unexpected guaranteed shutdown—so much for Stormy's highs and lows, at least for the time being—and Snowberry had somehow obtained authorization for a base party for the village children. Naturally, the children would need to be accompanied, perhaps by unattached village girls. Knowing it was a squadron tradition, Snowberry had suggested a Christmas party. When reminded that it was nearly August, he let on that he knew, but that they needed cheering up.

They'd been able to contact Jean and Robin on the base phone, a lonely and listing booth near the picket post, and both had agreed to come, their voices reflecting first their hesitancy as to how they were to get there and then their amazement at how quickly things happened with Americans. They were running trucks into the surrounding villages, Bryant explained, so it was really just a matter of being there when the trucks showed up and hopping on board. He suggested, at Piacenti's urging from behind him in line at the booth, that she bring friends as well.

After the empty trucks had rolled out to cheers and hoots, the squadron gathered for the pre-mission briefing in one of the huts. The men sat and squatted in rows. Snowberry had pinned a blanket up on the board and had tied rope running away from it in a parody of the red mission yarn and mission board. The rope ran off the board, down the floor, and partially up another wall. Lewis, as the CO, told them with exaggerated sobriety that they had a long one today, and then swayed a bit, slopping something out of a sawed-off can. It spattered on his shoes to much applause. Snowberry played the intelligence officer, and he unveiled maps of a dance floor and the female body. He diagramed the mission route to whoops and concerted foot stamping, and outlined the expected resistance. There would be losses, he assured them. He wasn't going to stand up there and lie. But some of the men would get through.

The men roared. Eddy, who had been drinking since the announcement of guaranteed stand-down, curled forward out of his chair with a crash, and passed out.

“What about flak?” someone called.

The flak was supposed to be very heavy, Snowberry told them. The clap was supposed to be light.

“Remember, men, when you're protecting yourself, you're protecting your country,” Lewis said. He slurped from his can.

Snowberry was waiting for attention. “You gunners,” he was saying. “We need to stress again our desire for accuracy and efficiency.” With a flourish he pulled a canvas from the blackboard and revealed a large male organ he'd painstakingly drawn in chalk. Bean cupped his forehead with his hand and Bryant couldn't help laughing. “Now, to illustrate,” Snowberry said, “I've diagramed my own situation, much reduced in scale, of course …”

“Jeez,” Bean said, when the room had calmed down, “I thought this party was supposed to be for the kids.”

“Aw it is,” Piacenti said from behind them. He jabbed a thumb toward the front of the room. “They're having fun, aren't they?”

Lewis was sitting on the floor with his legs spread, banging his can between them. “He's squiffed,” Piacenti said. “Bosto. Plastered.” Lewis acknowledged the diagnosis and waved.

They laid in large wooden cases of soda in tall unlabeled bottles and piled up a stash of everyone's candy rations, for the kids to take home with them at the end. The party briefing had broken up at 1400 hours with Lewis and Eddy and three quarters of the crew of
I'se a Muggin'
incapacitated. Snowberry had been fine after throwing up, and was helping with the setups, subdued by the time the first trucks loaded with silent and excited children came rolling in. He had even managed to dig up the Wing's Santa Claus suit, and was wearing it when the first of the children filed into the main hangar they were using for the party.

One of the youngest boys gaped at the five foot, five inch skinny Santa. “Father Christmas?” he asked dubiously.

“You got it right on the noggin, kid,” Snowberry said, bustling by with two stacked cases of soda. “Ho ho ho.”

Bryant helped Hirsch and another guy with the doughnuts and sandwiches the mess had sent over. “We oughta give out the powdered eggs at these things,” the other guy said. “The Alliance'd be over tomorrow.”

Two little girls in identical gray cotton blouses with rounded collars flanked Bean, who was reading to them from a picture book. “Go slow, Bean,” Piacenti called. “And let them help with the big words.”

There was a small pile of fruit on the table as well, and a tech sergeant from
Seraphim
was holding a tiny boy up so he could see, the boy reaching in wonder for the pile. Bryant set another doughnut tray on the table. “He's never seen an orange,” the sergeant said. “Imagine that?” He had handed the undersized fruit to the boy, who was turning it over in his hands.

Bryant felt a tugging at his sleeve and turned to find Colin and another young boy. Colin was wearing a brown jacket with wide lapels and a dark blue tie. The other boy had no tie and a worn and spotless shirt buttoned with such zeal it appeared to be actively choking him.

“Hello, Sergeant,” Colin said. “Have we surprised you?”

“No,” Bryant said. “This whole thing was just so you could visit.” They stood with each other for a moment while Bryant wondered what to do to amuse two little boys. “Have you had anything?” he asked. “We have soda and doughnuts.”

The boys thanked him and Colin indicated they'd get something soon.

Bryant had an inspiration. He led the two of them to the end of the hangar where canvas had been slung over four engines waiting to be overhauled. A small squad of boys and girls followed, but the crew chief in charge hustled over, puffing and shaking his head, before they could get too close, and said, “No soap, kids. Can't touch. Leave the tools alone.”

The children seemed unfazed, awestruck simply by the huge canvas shapes. Enough had gathered to make it appear that Bryant was preparing to give a speech.

“Jack-a-mighty, forget security here,” the crew chief said within earshot, perhaps even directing the comment at him. “Back in the States we used to say even the lice had to show ID.”

Robin was beside him, smiling, and nodded that he should go on with what he was doing. She always touched him that way, lightly, on the shoulder, as if to indicate a subtle favoring of him. He gave her a hug, her skin cool and smooth against his cheek. Colin looked on without approval or disapproval.

“God,” he said. “You look great.”

“Thank you,” she said. She was wearing an enormous red floral scarf and a white blouse. “I hope it's sufficiently in the spirit of Christmas.”

“It's great to see you,” he went on, searching for something useful to say. “Did you come with Jean?”

She nodded. Jean was with Snowberry at the other end of the hangar, leaning down with her hands on her thighs to talk with a little girl. Snowberry was providing the entertainment, having segued from “The White Cliffs of Dover” to “White Christmas.”

“I must say Jean's a bit puzzled by this passion Gordon has concerning Bing Crosby,” Robin said. “She says he'll just break into song, at any moment.”

“He thinks he sings like Bing,” Bryant explained. “We tell him he sings like Hope.”

They gathered into the rough semicircle surrounding Snowberry. He was up on a canvas-covered crate festooned with smallish branches painted red and olive green. “But it isn't Christmastime,” one small boy blurted. Snowberry winked and swung into the second chorus and began affecting Crosby's sleepy eyes.

Lewis walked by and nodded, wincing as if in constant pain.

“You remember Sergeant Peeters,” Bryant said.

Lewis placed a finger to his lips and extended a hand to Robin. “Lewis,” he said.

“Oh yes,” Robin said apprehensively. “Hello, Lewis.”

“Hope you're enjoying the show.”

“I am.” Robin lifted her hand from his. “Thank you.”

“Well, he sounds more like Crosby than Kate Smith,” Lewis conceded. “I'm not big on the Groaner. If they ever change the color of Christmas, he's through. Who's the kid?” he added. “Looks like Ned Sparks.”

Colin was back. “Hello, Sergeant,” he said.

“How you doin', kid,” Lewis said.

“Are you a bombardier?” Colin stood straight, arms at his sides.

“Kids.” Lewis pressed his fingertips to the sides of his head. “Uncle Lewis has a hangover. We don't want to scream at Uncle Lewis.”

“I'm very sorry,” Colin said.

“Uncle Lewis was stinkeroo a few hours ago,” Bryant explained.

“I'm sorry,” Colin said again. “I'm sorry you've been stinkeroo.”

Lewis winced, rubbing slowly in tiny circles. “The kid's great,” he said.

Snowberry finished his program with a spirited whistling rendition of Al Jolson's “Toot Toot Tootsie,” and the children and village girls applauded enthusiastically.

An Irish staff sergeant from
Geezil II
stood up and started on the “Indian Love Call.”

“What is this, Talent Night?” Snowberry said. “Siddown.”

He announced the conclusion of the cultural part of the program—on quite a high note, he felt compelled to add—and set about accepting entries for what he called the Derby, pulling a blackboard over and starting two columns, Rider and Mount. He began the Mount column with his own name, and climbed off the crate to circulate among the children in search of a rider.

“What is it?” Robin asked.

“We race on our hands and knees with the kids on our backs,” Bryant said. “And if I know Gordon, he'll lay out a doozy of a track.”

The children milled around chaotically and pairs of names were going up on the board. “How about it, Colin?” Bryant said. “Ready to bring home the Cup?”

“No thank you, Sergeant,” Colin said. “But my friend Keir might enjoy it.”

Bryant smiled down at the little boy. “Any gum, chum?” he asked. When Keir didn't respond, he added doubtfully, “Is Keir old enough?” He visualized trying to explain a fall to a mother who had never liked Yanks in the first place.

Once the question registered, Keir nodded.

Snowberry laid out the route and they lined up twelve abreast. A wide lane was cleared of everything but grease and oil spots, some of which were clearly considerable enough to play a role. They were to race down to the Wright Cyclones under the canvas and back. To minimize trampling, when riders fell they were out of the race. Bryant instructed Keir to hold on around his neck and lie low and the boy took his advice with ferocious concentration, digging eager fingers into Bryant's windpipe. He was sandwiched between Snowberry, still in the Santa suit, and Hirsch. Piacenti, also representing
Paper Doll
, was at the other end of the line.

Lewis had volunteered to call the start. Snowberry whinnied and snorted impatiently, and his rider giggled with delight. After several intentional false starts Lewis cried “Bang!” and they were off in a tumbling rush, Bryant feeling the shocks in his arms as he jounced forward. There was a good deal of shouldering and the riders shrieked happily as the mounts falling behind grabbed the feet or calves of those ahead and were kicked in retaliation. Snowberry elbowed Bryant and took a big lead heading into the wide curve around the engines, splaying maniacally through the turn like a crab. Bryant accelerated on skinned knees and palms and lowered a shoulder into the turning Snowberry and caught him broadside, both riders screaming and laughing, and Snowberry crashed into the gallery lining the racetrack and only kept his balance by knocking over two girls and a gunner drinking soda who'd been facing the other way. The boy flew off his back but kept hold on his neck, and Snowberry came after him furiously, pawing the ground and gobbling distance while the boy clung to his neck like an absurd version of a weight handicap and tried desperately to regain his footing and climb back on.

Bryant called No fair! No fair! He's off! but Snowberry was covering ground like Man O' War, the boy by now more or less back in the saddle. Ahead of them Hirsch hit a grease slick with both palms and skidded flat out on his chest before tumbling his rider off to the side, and someone ahead of him crossed the finish line. With Snowberry almost on top of him, Bryant gave it a last burst of acceleration looking for Place or Show, but Snowberry dove in frustration and caught him around the thighs, spilling the four of them like colliding skaters short of the finish line.

Robin and Jean helped collect the wounded and dispense Cokes.

“You were marvelous, darling,” Jean said, helping Snowberry brush off his Santa suit. His knees were black with grease. She wore her red hair swept up on both sides and her skin seemed thick, like rind. “I thought the way you stood up to this bully was simply wonderful.”

Snowberry brushed his chin with the back of his hand and scowled in Hollywood pain. “The story you've just seen,” he said, “and the characters in it, are fictional. But acts of courage such as these are occurring day after day, in Europe and the Pacific, as Allied fighting men and women stand tall against aggression wherever it's found and refuse to say Uncle. Or even meet Uncle. Without their noble inspiration, something somewhere would have been impossible—”

“Such a cynic,” Robin scolded. “And hardly old enough to know the meaning of the word.”

“I know what it means, Mrs. Weisenheimer,” he said. “It means someone who can tell the future.”

Audie was cruising the food tables and thumping into the legs consistently, unaccustomed to the new arrangement. She was pulling in a great deal of attention and very little food from the children. She sat and begged from Lewis until Lewis found an egg of unknown antiquity in the bottom of the box sent over from the mess and cracked it over the dog's head. Audie sat unaffected at first, her cloudy eyes like the portraits of Lee or Stonewall Jackson, while the albumen slid mercury-like from the crown of her head. The children loved it. Bryant always found the dog's foolish and inappropriate dignity heartening.