Hanging on

PART TWO Worsening Conditions July 15/July 17,1944

1

Sitting at the desk in his office in the HQ building, Major Kelly dipped his fingers into a tin bowl full of mud, smeared the thick slop on his head. It was cool and soft, but it stank. He massaged the gunk into his scalp in lazy circles, then scooped more of it from the bowl and repeated the process until his head was capped in a hardening layer of wet, black soil.

Major Kelly had been plagued by a widow's peak ever since he was a teen-ager and he had never once thought that it was in any way becoming to him. His mother said it was becoming to him and that it made him look sophisticated. So far as Major Kelly was concerned, it only made him look old and bald. He didn't want to be old or bald, and so he was always anxious to find some medication or process which would restore the hair around his widow's peak and make him look young again. He had tried massages and salves, greases and tonics, internal and external vitamins, less sex, more sex, less sleep, more sleep, sleeping with a bed cap, sleeping without a bed cap, washing his hair every day, washing it only twice a month, eating lots of carrots, eating lots of eggs, beer shampoos, standing on his head, prayer. Nothing worked. Now, Sergeant Coombs had mentioned the mud treatment, and Major Kelly was trying that.

He was desperate. Ever since they'd been dropped behind German lines, his hair had been falling out faster than it usually did, and his widow's peak was widening and deepening. In fact, he now had a widow's promontory, flanked by two enormous bays of baldness. If he didn't stop the erosion soon, he'd have a widow's island, encircled by gleaming skin, and then no one would love him any more. No one loved a bald man. Was Mussolini loved?

Ever since General Blade had called on the wireless more than a day ago and Major Kelly had learned of the possibility of the Panzer division moving his way, his hair had been falling out at an unprecedented and alarming rate of speed, like snow or autumn leaves. It fell out in clumps, in several twisted strands at a time, fell out when he combed his hair, when he scratched his scalp, when he turned his head too fast, when he nodded. He was even afraid to think, for fear his hair would fall out.

Major Kelly couldn't tolerate the prospect of baldness. He had known too many bald men — his Uncle Milton, a grade school teacher named Coolidge, a high school chemistry teacher, Father Boyle, and Sergeant Masterson in basic training — and he knew how cruel well-haired men could be when they talked about the baldies behind their backs. Chrome dome, skinhead, glass bean, bone head… The nasty names were limitless. Major Kelly refused to be known as Chrome Dome or anything similar. He'd rather die first.

Of course, he might. The odds on his living through this were damn slight, after all. If that Panzer division, complete with supply trucks and ack-ack guns and infantrymen, moved toward the bridge and stayed by it overnight, then Major Kelly wouldn't live long enough to have to endure any cruel nicknames. And that was exactly why his hair was falling out. He was worrying too much about the Panzer division, and his hair was falling out — and it was all a vicious circle.

He put more mud on his head. It stank.

He was still putting mud on his head ten minutes later when Nurse Pullit wobbled into his quarters wearing Lily Kain's high-heeled white pumps. Nurse Pullit was also wearing what was intended to be a beatific smile — which didn't look as good on the nurse as the pumps did. In fact, Major Kelly thought the smile was a leer, and he was immediately defensive.

“You've got to come to the hospital!” Pullit squealed. Pullit's red bandanna had slipped back, revealing a still predominately male hairline. “It's a real miracle! A real miracle!”

“What is?” Major Kelly asked, peering into his shaving mirror to see how stupid he looked with mud all over his head. He looked very stupid.

“Kowalski!” Nurse Pullit said, oblivious of the mud.

“Is he dead?” Kelly asked.

Pullit frowned, looking at Kelly's face in the mirror. “I said it was a real miracle!”

“Then he is dead?”

“No,” Pullit said. “He's come around, and he's talking!”

Major Kelly looked up from the mirror, turned, and stared at Nurse Pullit. “Your bandanna's askew.”

Pullit reached up and tugged it into place and smiled sweetly. Pullit could look exceptionally sweet, at times. “What about Kowalski?”

“He's talking, is he? What's he saying?”

Nurse Pullit pulled on a bee-stung lip. “We're not exactly sure about that. It's — it's strange. Tooley says you ought to come and hear it right away.”

“He does, huh?”

“Yes, sir. He sent me to fetch you.”

Reluctantly, Kelly got to his feet. A drop of warm mud slid down his forehead, down the length of his nose and hung there like a decoration. He followed Nurse Pullit to the hospital bunker, across the dried grass and dusty clearing, staying ten paces behind where he could admire the excellent slimness of the nurse's legs. The white pumps had done well by those legs. All that could improve on them now was a pair of stockings. Perhaps he could bribe the pilot of the supply plane and have some nylons flown in for the nurse. Pullit would appreciate…

He suddenly remembered who Nurse Pullit was: Private Pullit. He decided that, if in a moment of weakness he ever ordered and received those nylons, the best thing to do would be to use a pair of them to strangle himself.

In the hospital bunker where the three dim bulbs cast eerie shadows on the rough plaster walls, where the centipedes ran and water dripped steadily in the black corners, Kowalski was sitting up in bed, his eyes opened wide, his mouth loose. Liverwright, currently the only other patient in the bunker, was standing at the foot of the mad Pole's bed, holding his swollen hip, having temporarily forgotten his own pain, engrossed in the miracle of Kowalski. Lily Kain and Private Tooley flanked the Pole, bent towards him as if he were a wise man whose every word was priceless.

“Sir,” Tooley said, looking sideways at Kelly, “you've got mud all over your head.”

“I know,” Kelly said. “I know.” He looked down at the Pole. “What's this bag of shit been saying?” As he spoke, he scanned the ceiling for any nearby centipedes. He did not know why he feared centipedes so much, but he did. Maybe he was afraid that, if they fell on his head, they would kick around and tear out even more of his hair.

Obligingly, though he only addressed the air, Kowalski began to speak. Spittle collected at the corners or his mouth, dribbled down his chin. His lips were like two large, inflated rubber tubes glistening with oil. “Stuka bomber… in darkness… a power glide… concealed approach… people on the bridge… many people… bridge… ”

Then Kowalski was silent once more. No one else dared speak, and when the silence was thick enough to cut, Kowalski cut it with a fart.

Lily looked up, lips puckered. Her freckles stood out like flecks of cinnamon on the soft golden tissue of a fresh-baked roll. Kelly wanted to eat her up. “What does he mean?” she asked.

“It almost sounds like a. warning,” Tooley said. “As if he were just looking into the future, as if he wants to warn us.”

“He's raving,” Kelly said. “It's nothing more than that.” He felt a new trickle of mud run down his nose, and he wiped it away as inconspicuously as possible.

“But if he's really—”

“First of all, no one ever goes out on the bridge,” Kelly said. “You know that. So there couldn't be, as he said, many people on the bridge. The reason no one ever goes out on the bridge is because everyone's afraid of getting bombed.” As Tooley tried to speak, the major waved him down and went on: “And the Stukas wouldn't make a special night mission of it. They always come in the daylight.”

“If you're sure,” Tooley said.