Part 9
X, however intimate they were--in fact, the more intimate, the better. It was his custom,
after each reading, to ask X to plot out or pad out the letter of reply, or to insert a few
impressive words in French or German.
"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 newhigher-
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, however intimate they were--in fact, the more intimate, the better. It was his custom,
after each reading, to ask X to plot out or pad out the letter of reply, or to insert a few
impressive words in French or German.
"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 newhigher-
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?"
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