Danny slowed the D-7 as they passed a group of men who were working diligently on another house, one of the many nuns' residences. All of the buildings — aside from the rectory and the church — would be built with more speed than craft on bare wooden platforms. They would have no insides at all. Walking into one would be like walking from one side of a stage setting to the other. In an exceptionally high wind, some of these hollow, flimsy structures might move around like sailing ships on water. With that disasterous prospect in mind, Major Kelly had ordered that nearly all the platform houses would be one story high, which made the village look odd but only slightly out of character.
“You think Hagendorf did it right?” Danny shouted.
“It looks that way,” Kelly said. “But we haven't heard the last of Emil. He's still a troublemaker.”
As they turned off the bridge road into the service road by the woods, heading back for the southern end of camp, Lieutenant Slade ran in front of them, waving his arms like a railroad signalman. Danny shifted down, braked, the tread clattering and squealing. The dozer stopped five feet in front of The Snot.
“I've seen enough for now!” Kelly shouted. “I'll get off here and see what Slade wants!”
What Slade wanted, Kelly soon discovered, was to complain. “I want to complain,” he said as soon as the dozer was far enough away to make conversation possible.
“Well, well,” Kelly said. He did not enjoy listening to his men's complaints, though that was one of his functions as commanding officer. He must listen, sympathize, advise… It was unfair. He had no one to whom he could deliver his complaints. This was the worst thing about the war: his helplessness. “Well, well,” he repeated, wishing Slade would drop dead.
“Nobody's filled out my traitor questionnaire,” Slade said. More than ever, he looked like a wicked choirboy. “You didn't even answer it. It's the worst thing that's ever happened to me.” He seemed caught between rage and tears. So he just sulked.
Kelly slapped his clothes, brushing off the chalky dust that made him look a bit like Boris Karloff as The Mummy. “That must be an exaggeration. This—”
“Is the worst thing that's ever happened to me,” Slade insisted, his mouth drawn so far down at the corners that his lips seemed in danger of catching under his chin. “It's proof the men don't respect me.”
Major Kelly was surprised by Slade's tone. It was full of human anguish, suffering, and sensitivity which Kelly had thought a pig like Slade would be incapable of. Incredibly, he felt a surge of compassion for the lieutenant. “Nonsense, Slade. The men do respect you.”
“No, they don't.”
“Sure, they do.”
“No,” Slade said. “Behind my back, they call me The Snot.” Shining tears hung at the corners of Slade's eyes.
“Nobody calls you that.”
“Sure, they do.”
“Well, maybe they do,” Kelly said. “But they mean it affectionately.”
“You're lying,” Slade said, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “If they cared about me, respected me, they would have returned their questionnaires.”
Kelly suddenly realized that he knew nothing about the lieutenant. Though they had been together in Britain before D-Day, had surely exchanged past histories, the major could remember none of that. All he could remember about Slade was what he had discovered after they were dropped behind German lines… Furthermore, this eerie gap in his memory was not precipitated by his loathing of the man. Indeed, he realized he could not remember anything basic and personal about any of his men. Why? Why should he have forgotten all that was good to know about them — while retaining only the knowledge of their foibles and insanities? But he knew… It was not good to be intimate with war buddies. You could not afford to make friends. Making friends, you lost them… You had to know their foibles and neuroses, because you had to know how to protect yourself from them. Judging from the behavior of the men since the unit had been parachuted in here weeks ago, they too had come to understand the joys and benefits of friendlessness. They had escaped from the responsibilities of friendship, escaped into drinking, gambling, insanity.
“What will I tell General Blade?” Slade asked, snuffling. “I'll be humiliated!”
The trickle of compassion Kelly had begun to feel when Slade cried now swelled into a torrent. He put his arm around Slade's shoulder and began to walk with him along the service road, in the shadows of the pines and sycamores. “I'll talk to the men, Richard.” It was wise to have no friends to lose to the war, but Kelly now saw there was a point where isolation and distrust were more damaging than valuable. “I'll make sure they fill out their forms.”
“Would you?” Slade asked, nearly quivering with pleasure.
Kelly smiled. “Richard, we have got to be more open with each other. Any time you have a complaint, you come right to me with it. Don't let it fester.” They went past a group of workers who were taking a twenty-minute lunch break, and Kelly gave them the thumbs-up sign. They looked at him as if he were an institutional case, but he failed to notice. He was brimming with camaraderie and compassion. “It's time we tried to know each other, Richard.”
“I do have another complaint,” Slade admitted. “You want to hear it?”
“Of course! Don't let it fester!”
They left the service road and walked down the street that was parallel to the bridge road. Workmen were erecting several skinny outhouses and laying the platforms for nunneries and for a deaf-mute school.
“Well,” Slade said, “I think we should stop trying to hide from the Germans.”
“Oh?”
“We should stand and fight,” Slade said. He was encouraged by Kelly's attitude, by the major's arm around his shoulders. “It's cowardly to hide.” Maybe Kelly had come to his senses and would act like an adult. Maybe there was no longer any need to kill him and assume command. “We should fortify the clearing and blast the hell out of those krauts. We have handguns. Maurice could supply a mortar or two.”
“A mortar or two.”
“I'm aware we'd all be killed,” Slade said. “But think of the history we'll make! They'll know all about us back in the States! We'll be heroes!”
Kelly stopped walking and dropped his arm from Slade's shoulder.
Slade stopped a couple of paces ahead of the major. “Right, sir? Isn't it sick and cowardly to hide? Shouldn't we fight like men? Don't you agree?”
Kelly sucked in a deep breath. “You're an asshole, Slade,” he shouted, his voice growing louder by the word. “You're an idotic, simpleminded emotional and mental wreck!” He could not imagine how he could have forgotten 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!”