'Yeah, I had a letter from her yesterday. Down in my room. Show it to ya later,' Clay said, listlessly. He sat up straight on the edge of the bed, held his breath, and issued a long, resonant belch. Looking just semi-pleased with the achievement, he relaxed again. 'Her goddam brother's gettin' outa the Navy on account of his hip,' he said. 'He's got this hip, the bastard.' He sat up again and tried for another belch, but with below-par results. A jot of alertness came into his face. 'Hey.
Before I forget. We gotta get up at five tomorrow and drive to Hamburg or someplace. Pick up Eisenhower jackets for the whole detachment.'
X, regarding him hostilely, stated that he didn't want an Eisenhower jacket.
Clay looked surprised, almost a trifle hurt. 'Oh, they're good! They look good. How come?'
'No reason. Why do we have to get up at five? The war's over, for God's sake.'
'I don't know--we gotta get back before lunch. They got some new forms in we gotta fill out before lunch.... I asked Bulling how come we couldn't fill 'em out tonight--he's got the goddam forms right on his desk. He don't want to open the envelopes yet, the son of a bitch.'
The two sat quiet for a moment, hating Bulling. Clay suddenly looked at X with new-higher-interest than before. 'Hey,' he said. 'Did you know the goddam side of your face is jumping all over the place?'
X said he knew all about it, and covered his tic with his hand.
Clay stared at him for a moment, then said, rather vividly, as if he were the bearer of exceptionally good news, 'I wrote Loretta you had a nervous breakdown.'
'Oh?'
'Yeah. She's interested as hell in all that stuff. She's majoring in psychology.' Clay stretched himself out on the bed, shoes included. 'You know what she said? She says nobody gets a nervous breakdown just from the war and all. She says you probably were unstable like, your whole goddam life.'
X bridged his hands over his eyes--the light over the bed seemed to be blinding him--and said that Loretta's insight into things was always a joy.
Clay glanced over at him. 'Listen, ya bastard,' he said. 'She knows a goddam sight more psychology than you do.'
'Do you think you can bring yourself to take your stinking feet off my bed?' X asked.
Clay left his feet where they were for a few don't-tell-me-where-to-put-my-feet seconds, then swung them around to the floor and sat up.
'I'm goin' downstairs anyway. They got the radio on in Walker's room.'
He didn't get up from the bed, though. 'Hey. I was just tellin' that new son of a bitch, Bernstein, downstairs. Remember that time I and you drove into Valognes, and we got shelled for about two goddam hours, and that goddam cat I shot that jumped up on the hood of the jeep when we were layin' in that hole? Remember?'
'Yes--don't start that business with that cat again, Clay, God damn it. I don't want to hear about it.'
'No, all I mean is I wrote Loretta about it. She and the whole psychology class discussed it. In class and all. The goddam professor and everybody.'
'That's fine. I don't want to hear about it, Clay.'
'No, you know the reason I took a pot shot at it, Loretta says? She says I was temporarily insane. No kidding. From the shelling and all.'
X threaded his fingers, once, through his dirty hair, then shielded his eyes against the light again. 'You weren't insane. You were simply doing your duty. You killed that pussycat in as manly a way as anybody could've under the circumstances.'
Clay looked at him suspiciously. 'What the hell are you talkin'
about?'
'That cat was a spy. You had to take a pot shot at it. It was a very clever German midget dressed up in a cheap fur coat. So there was absolutely nothing brutal, or cruel, or dirty, or even--'
'God damn it!' Clay said, his lips thinned. 'Can't you ever be sincere?'
X suddenly felt sick, and he swung around in his chair and grabbed the wastebasket--just in time. When he had straightened up and turned toward his guest again, he found him standing, embarrassed, halfway between the bed and the door. X started to apologize, but changed his mind and reached for his cigarettes.
'C'mon down and listen to Hope on the radio, hey,' Clay said, keeping his distance but trying to be friendly over it. 'It'll do ya good. I mean it.'
'You go ahead, Clay. . . . I'll look at my stamp collection.'
'Yeah? You got a stamp collection? I didn't know you--'
'I'm only kidding.'
Clay took a couple of slow steps toward the door. 'I may drive over to Ehstadt later,' he said. 'They got a dance. It'll probably last till around two. Wanna go?'
'No, thanks. . . . I may practice a few steps in the room.'
'O.K. G'night! Take it easy, now, for Chrissake.' The door slammed shut, then instantly opened again. 'Hey. O.K. if I leave a letter to Loretta under your door? I got some German stuff in it. Willya fix it up for me?'
'Yes. Leave me alone now, God damn it.'
'Sure,' said Clay. 'You know what my mother wrote me? She wrote me she's glad you and I were together and all the whole war. In the same jeep and all. She says my letters are a helluva lot more intelligent since we been
