'Durn!' he said. 'I've lost my pencil,' The third American private was now out of the car. He was a Negro, of a complete and unre-lieved black. He emerged with a sort of ballet-dancer elegance, not mincing, not foppish, not maidenly but rather at once masculine and girlish or perhaps better, epicene, and stood not quite studied while the lowan spun and feinted this time through all three of Thursday Night them-Buchwald, the policeman, and the Negro-and carrying his now rapidly disintegrating map plunged his upper body back into the car, saying to the policeman: 'Lend me your flashlight. I must have dropped it on the floor,'
'Sweet crap,' Buchwald said. 'Come on,'
'It's my pencil,' the lowan said. 'I had it at that last big town we passed-what was the name of it?'
'I can call a sergeant,' the policeman said. 'Am I going to have to?'
'Nah,' Buchwald said. He said to the lowan: 'Come on. They've probably got a pencil inside. They can read and write here too,' The lowan backed out of the car and stood up. He began to refold his map. The policeman leading, they crossed to the areaway and descended into it, the lowan following with his eyes the building's soaring upward swoop.
'Yes,' he said. 'It sure does,' They descended steps, through a door; they were in a narrow stone passage; the policeman opened a door and they entered an anteroom; the policeman closed the door behind them. The room contained a cot, a desk, a telephone, a chair. The lowan went to the desk and began to shift the papers on it.
Tou can remember you were here without having to check it off, can't you?' Buchwald said.
'It aint for me,' the lowan said, tumbling the papers through. 'If s for the girl I'm engaged to. I promised her-'
'Does she like pigs too?' Buchwald said.
'-what?' the lowan said. He stopped and turned his head; still half stooped over the desk, he gave Buchwald his mild open reliant and alarmless look. 'Why not?' he said. 'What's wrong with pigs?'
'Okay,' Buchwald said. 'So you promised her,'
'That's right,' the lowan said. 'When we found out I was coming to France I promised to take a map and mark off on it all the places I went to, especially the ones you always hear about, like Paris. I got Blois, and Brest, and I'll get Paris for volunteering for this, and now I'm even going to have Chaulnesmont, the Grand Headquar- ters of the whole shebang as soon as I can find a pencil,' He began to search the desk again.
' What you going to do with it?' Buchwald said. 'The map. When you get it back home?'
'Frame it and hang it on the wall,' the lowan said. 'What did you think was going to do with it?'
'Are you sure you're going to want this one marked on it?' Buch-wald said.
'What?' the lowan said. Then he said, 'Why?'
'Dont you know what you volunteered for?' Buchwald said.
'Sure,' the lowan said. 'For a chance to visit Chaulnesmont,'
'I mean, didn't anybody tell you what you were going to do here?' Buchwald said.
'You haven't been in the army very long, have you?' the lowan said, 'In the army, you dont ask what you are going to do: you just do it. In fact, the way to get along in any army is never even to wonder why they want something done or what they are going to do with it after it's finished, but just do it and then get out of sight so that they cant just happen to see you by accident and then think up something for you to do, but instead they will have to have thought up something to be done, and then hunt for somebody to do it. Durn it. I dont believe they have a pencil here either,'
'Maybe Sambo's got one,' Buchwald said. He looked at the Negro. 'What did you volunteer for this for besides a three-day Paris pass? To see Chaulnesmont too?'
'What did you call me?' the Negro said.
'Sambo,' Buchwald said. 'You no like?'
'My name's Philip Manigault Beauchamp,' the Negro said.
'Go on,' Buchwald said.
'It's spelled Manigault but you pronounce it Mannygo,' the Negro said.
'Oh hush,' Buchwald said.
'You got a pencil, buddy?' the lowan said to the Negro.
'No,' the Negro said. He didn't even look at the lowan. He was still looking at Buchwald. 'You want to make something of it?'
'Me?' Buchwald said. 'What part of Texas you from?'
'Texas,' the Negro said with a sort of bemused contempt. He glanced at the nails of his right hand, then rubbed them briskly against his flank. 'Mississippi. Going to live in Chicago soon as this crap's over. Be an undertaker, if you're interested,'
'An undertaker?' Buchwald said. Tou like dead people, huh?'
'Hasn't anybody in this whole durn war got a pencil?' the lowan said.
'Yes,' the Negro said. He stood, tall, slender, not studied: just poised; suddenly he gave Buchwald a look feminine and defiant. 'I like the work. So what?'
'So you know what you volunteered for, do you?'
'Maybe I do and maybe I dont,' the Negro said. 'Why did you volunteer for it? Besides a three-day pass in Paris?'
'Because I love Wilson,' Buchwald said.
'Wilson?' the lowan said. 'Do you know Sergeant Wilson? He's the best sergeant in the army.'
Then I dont know him,' Buchwald said without looking at the lowan. 'All the N. C. O.'s I know are sons of bitches.' He said to the Negro. 'Did they tell you, or didn't they?' Now the lowan had begun to look from one to the other of them.
'What is going on here?' he said. The door opened. It was an American sergeant-major. He entered rapidly and looked rapidly at them. He was carrying an attach^ case.
'Who's in charge?' he said. He looked at Buchwald. 'You.' He opened the attache case and took something from it which he ex-tended to Buchwald. It was a pistol.
'That's a German pistol,' the lowan said. Buchwald took it. The sergeant-major reached into the attach?case again; this time it was a key, a door key; he extended it to Buchwald.
'Why?' Buchwald said.
Take it,' the sergeant-major said. 'You dont want privacy to last forever, do you?' Buchwald took the key and put it and the pistol into his pocket.
'Why in hell didn't you bastards do it yourselves?' he said.
'So we had to send all the way to Blois to find somebody for a midnight argument,' the sergeant-major said. 'Come on,' he said. 'Get it over with,' He started to turn. This time the lowan spoke quite loudly: 'Look here,' he said. 'What is this?' The sergeant-major paused and looked at the lowan, then the Negro. He said to Buchwald: 'So they're already going coy on you.'
'Oh, coy,' Buchwald said. 'Dont let that worry you. The smoke cant help it, being coy is a part of what you might say is one of his habits or customs or pastimes. The other one dont even know what coy means yet.'
'Okay,' the sergeant-major said. 'It's your monkey. You ready?'
'Wait,' Buchwald said. He didn't look back to where the other two stood near the desk, watching him and the sergeant-major. 'What is it?'
'I thought they told you,' the sergeant-major said.
'Let's hear your angle,' Buchwald said.
'They had a little trouble with him,' the sergeant-major said. 'It's got to be done from in front, for his own sake, let alone everybody else's. But they cant seem to make him see it. He's got to be killed from in front, by a kraut bullet-see? You get it now? He was killed in that attack Monday morning; they're giving him all the benefit: out there that morning where he had no business being-a major general, safe for the rest of his life to stay behind and say Give 'em hell, men. But no. He was out there himself, leading the whole business to victory for France and fatherland. They're even going to give him a new medal, but he still wont see it,'