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“Whatever you say, Pop. They run out of scrambled eggs?”
“I wouldn’t know. My breakfast has been delayed.” Pop jerked a thumb at me. “The private here is taking me on an errand for the lieutenant colonel.”
The cartoonist rolled his eyes. “Lucky you. Maybe you’ll get to read one of his novellas.”
“That’s my fear,” Pop said. “And I simply don’t have enough whiskey on hand.” He waved in a never-mind gesture. “But we’ve interrupted your work. Please, carry on.”
The cartoonist turned back to his drawing board. “I always do.”
Pop went to an almost-empty table, shoved a few stacks of paper aside, and stretched out on his back. The stack of paper closest to me had a page on top with some large print that read: HAMMETT HITS HALF-CENTURY—HALF-CENTURY CLAIMS FOUL.
“Have a seat, Private,” Pop said. “Or lie down, if you can find a spot.” He closed his eyes. “God himself has passed gas out there. We may be here awhile.”
I looked around at the hut’s dim interior. The bulb hanging over the drawing board was lit, but the only other illumination was the gray light from the small front windows. Wind noise aside, all was quiet. It was the most peaceful place I had been since joining the Army.
“This is where you make the newspaper?” I asked.
“You should be a detective,” Pop said.
I looked at the two sleeping men. “It sure looks like an easy job.”
Pop managed to scowl without opening his eyes. “Private, have you actually seen The Adakian? I suppose it’s possible you haven’t, since there are over twenty thousand men in camp at the moment, and we can only produce six thousand copies a day.”
“I’ve seen it,” I said. “I saw the one about the European invasion, and maybe a few others.”
Pop made a noise in his throat. “All right, then. When have you seen it?”
“Guys have it at morning chow, mostly.”
Now Pop opened his eyes. “That’s because my staff works all night to put it out before morning chow. Starting at about lunchtime yesterday, they were typing up shortwave reports from our man at the radio station, writing articles and reviews, cutting and pasting, and doing everything else that was necessary to produce and mimeograph six thousand six-page newspapers before sunup. So right now most of them have collapsed into their bunks for a few hours before starting on tomorrow’s edition. I don’t know what these three are still doing here.”
At the drawing board, the Negro cartoonist spoke without looking up. “Those two brought in beer for breakfast, so they didn’t make it back out the door. As for me, I had an idea for tomorrow’s cartoon and decided to draw it before I forgot.”
“What’s the idea?” Pop asked.
“It’s about two guys who have beer for breakfast.”
Pop grunted. “Very topical.”
Then no one spoke. I assumed parade rest and waited. But as soon as I heard the pitch of the wind drop, I opened the door a few inches. The williwaw had diminished to a stiff breeze, no worse than a cow-tipping gust back home in Nebraska.
“We have to go, Boss,” I said.
Pop didn’t budge, but the cartoonist gave a whistle. “Hey, Pop! Wake up, you old Red.”
Pop sat up and blinked. With his now-wild white hair, round eyeglasses, and sharp nose, he looked like an aggravated owl.
“Stop calling me ‘Pop,’ ” he said.
Outside, as Pop and I headed down the hill again, I said, “That’s something I’ve never seen before.”
“What’s that?” Pop asked, raising his voice to be heard over the wind.
“A Negro working an office detail with white soldiers.”
Pop looked at me sidelong. “Does that bother you, Private? It certainly bothers the lieutenant colonel.”
I thought about it. “No, it doesn’t bother me. I just wonder how it happened.”
