Hanging on

the Slade who had shot that German soldier in the back of the head, or the Slade who thought war was glorious, or the Slade who read the Army field manual for relaxation. “You're insane, Slade! You're a monomaniac, a fiend, a myth-enthralled child, a monster!”

“I thought you wanted to be friendly,” Slade said, his face ashen.

“Fuck friendliness!” Kelly roared.

“You were going to be warm and understanding.”

“Fuck warmth and understanding!” the major screamed, spittle flecking his chin. He stomped his foot as if he had just squashed those virtues under his heel. “I want to be cold, hostile, isolated! I don't want to hear your fucking complaints. You're a creep, Slade. Everybody loathes you!”

“I'll get you for this,” Slade said. “So help me—”

“You're an imbecile, Slade!” Kelly screamed, red in the face now.

Slade turned and ran, arms out in front of him like a comic-book character fleeing a grisly, risen corpse. The workmen stopped working to watch him go.

“And another thing!” Kelly shouted, doubled over as if suffering cramps. “No more messing around with that questionnaire! We don't have time for that shit! We have four days! Four days, and we need every minute of them for serious business!”

Slade scrambled over a slight rise, then down the river-bank, out of sight. He was probably just going to sulk in a patch of cat-o'-nine-tails. Dreamer that he was, Kelly hoped Slade intended to drown himself.

Drained, Kelly turned abruptly and walked into Angelli and Pullit. Without a word of apology, emptied of words now, the major pushed past them. A dozen long strides later he stopped, turned, suddenly conscious of the anomaly he had just seen. Pullit and Angelli were walking hand-in-hand. Kelly remembered what Tooley had said: Angelli was romancing the nurse; he had fallen for her…

“Private Angelli!” he called. When the loving couple turned, Kelly said, “Come here, Private.” He hoped he sounded stern.

Vito and the nurse exchanged a few brief words. He kissed the nurse on the cheek, and Pullit hurried off toward the hospital bunker.

“Yes, sir?” Angelli asked, walking back to the major. He was not wearing a shirt. His slim, brown torso was sweat-slicked — and decorated with what seemed to be a fresh tattoo: two letters, N and P. They were done in blue and red, and they were so fresh that the swelling had not yet gone down.

Kelly looked sideways at Angelli, as if he were ready to turn and run if the private made a wrong move. “Uh… what's this about you and Nurse Pullit being… well… having a — romance?”

“Isn't she perfect?” Angelli asked, grinning winningly.

Kelly winced. “She's not a she. She's a he. Angelli, what is going on here?”

“I think I love her,” Angelli said, as if he had not heard Kelly's news. Or did not believe it.

“Pullit is a him,” Kelly insisted. “Look, this is — sick. Vito, I know that some of the men have gotten strange since the pressure was put on, but this is too much. It's too far. You have to get over this.”

“I'll never get over her,” Angelli said, dreamily, smiling just the way that Beame had smiled when talking about Nathalie Jobert.

“Vito, we have four days or so to build this town. That means we need full and enthusiastic cooperation between us and the French. There are only three people who can generate that cooperation: Maurice, me, and you. I need you to keep the largest French work crew on the ball. And this morning, you weren't with them. You were romancing — Pullit.”

Angelli was hard-muscled, scrappy, not at all in line with Major Kelly's picture of a pervert. Yet he sighed and said, “I wish I could speak French. It's the language of love”

Major Kelly backed up a few feet. “Look here, Vito. I'm ordering you to stay away from Nurse Pullit. You will be severely punished, maybe even court-martialed, if you go near the nurse.”

Angelli's face fell. He touched the swollen letters on his chest. “But I might lose her if I'm not persistent.”

“Good,” Kelly said. “Now, get back to your work crew. For Christ's sake, man, the Germans moved ten miles closer while you two were strolling around, holding hands, mooning over each other! Move your ass!”

The labor strike came at four o'clock that afternoon.

Major Kelly was up in the framing beams of what would soon be the second level of the rectory, inspecting the joists and the angle braces. Most of the men around him were his own, for this job required nearly all skilled labor. He was not, therefore, immediately aware of the cessation of work noises in the rest of the camp.

Lyle Fark brought the news. “Major!” he called from the bridge road in front of the would-be rectory. “Major Kelly!”

Kelly crawled along the grid of wooden beams and looked down at Fark. “What is it, Private?”

The Tennessean was unnaturally agitated. “You've got to come down. That Maurice is losing his mind. He's called a labor strike!”

Kelly just leaned out over the skeleton of the rectory and stared at Fark, unmoving, unable to speak.

“Do you understand, sir?” Fark shuffled his feet. Dust rose around him.

“A strike,” Kelly said. “A work stoppage.”

“Yes, sir. He says his people aren't getting paid enough.”

“My people are not getting paid enough,” Maurice said.

He had gathered all one hundred French workers at the bridge. They were climbing onto the three flatbed German trucks which they now used to shuttle to and from Eisenhower. They were jabbering and laughing.

“They've taken everything we've got. You've milked us dry already!” Kelly said, pulling on a pair of imaginary udders.

“Not at all,” Maurice said. “You still have a great deal which my people could use.” He made a long face. “I have just realized how much you and your men have, and how little you are paying my poor people to save your skins. It seems I must now reopen negotiations if work on the village is to continue.”

“But what can you want?” Kelly asked. He was ready to give up anything, even the clothes on his back. “I'll even save my shit and package it as manure,” he told The Frog. “Anything!” That imaginary thunder of Panzer-tread grew even louder, the thump of marching feet close behind…

“If you can't see what is left for you to pay us with,” Maurice said, scratching his hairy, bloated stomach which peeped out between halves of his shirt, “then perhaps you need some time to think.” He turned toward the trucks, then back to the major. “And there is one other thing. Besides an increase in pay for my people, I want you to obtain for me a written guarantee from this Lieutenant Beame of yours. I want him to swear in writing that he will not attempt to court my daughter.” Maurice hunched his shoulders and balled his fists at his sides. “I will not have my daughter used by a soldier.”

As the last of the Frenchmen got onto the trucks, Kelly said. “This is ridiculous. Look, can't you wait until we can talk—”

Maurice was adamant. “I do not believe you will negotiate in good faith until you realize I am serious about this work stoppage.”

“You're wrong!” Kelly declared, throwing his hands up. “I'll negotiate in the very best of faith. I'll do anything! You can have my teeth for piano keys!”

“I do not want your teeth,” Maurice said. “You have much more to offer.”

“But what?” Kelly asked. “You've got two hundred bucks from each of us. And you're going to get a toll-booth—”

“The very fact that you cannot imagine what to give us is proof that you will not bargain seriously at this time,” The Frog said, turning, walking away, climbing into the cab of the first track.

The three vehicles started up. Smoke plumed from the tail pipes.

As the first track started for the bridge, Nathalie Jobert jumped off the bed of the last one and ran the few steps to Kelly. She grabbed his hands and held them tightly. “Monsieur, please do not hate my people because of my father. Do not even hate him. He is more bluff than fight. He will be back tomorrow, and he will help you build your village if you'll only give him the bulldozer and the shortwave radio. That is all he wants. In fact, he will not even hold put for that written guarantee from David.”

“He can have the shortwave radio,” Kelly said. “But I don't see how I can give him the dozer. That's Danny