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“Despite its name and distinguished heritage, Bonehead, Charley Company today has nothing to do with destroying tanks,” Dunwiddie said.
“What it does these days is guard two classified installations we run in Bavaria,” Cronley said.
“And also supervises Company ‘A,’ 7002nd Provisional Security Organization, which is a quasi-military organization whose members are almost entirely Polish displaced persons, which also guards these two classified installations,” Dunwiddie furnished. “Would you be interested in assuming that responsibility?”
“You said ‘company.’ Companies are commanded by captains.”
“Not always. In olden times, when I was a second lieutenant, I had the honor of commanding Charley Company,” Cronley said.
“If you’re not pulling my leg about this, Jimmy, Colonel Fishburn would never let me go. We’re short of officers as it is.”
“Well, then,” Dunwiddie said, “let me rephrase: Presuming Colonel Fishburn would let you go, would you like to command two hundred thirty–odd Black American soldiers and a like number of Polish DPs?” Dunwiddie asked.
“Sir, I just told you, Colonel Fishburn wouldn’t let me go.”
“You call him ‘sir’ and refer to me by my nickname? Outrageous!”
“Answer the question, Lieutenant,” Dunwiddie said.
Bonehead considered the question a moment, then asked, “Is there a good hospital in Munich?”
“That’s a question, not an answer, Bonehead,” Cronley said. “Why is a hospital important to— Oh.”
“The 98th General Hospital in Munich, Lieutenant,” Tiny said, “is one of the best in the U.S. Army. Apropos of nothing whatever, its obstetrical services are about the best to be found in Europe.”
“No shit?” Bonehead asked.
“Bruce, you’re not really thinking of going along with Jimmy, are you?”
“No shit, Bonehead,” Cronley said. “It’s a great hospital.”
“Sweetheart . . .”
“The colonel would be furious if he even thought you’re thinking of asking for a transfer.”
“Then the both of you better be prepared to act really surprised when his orders come down,” Cronley said.
“You’re not going to ask Colonel Fishburn?” Ginger asked, but before Cronley could reply, she looked at Dunwiddie and asked, “Can he do that, Captain Tiny?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dunwiddie said. “He can.”
“How soon?”
“Well, what we’re here for shouldn’t take more than three days. A couple of days to finish what we’ve started here. Say a week.”
Presuming, of course, that I’m not strapped to a chair in an NKGB jail cell by then watching them pull my toenails out with pliers.
Or pushing up daisies in an unmarked Thuringian grave.
Or a blackened corpse sitting in the burned-out fuselage of a crashed or shot-down Storch.
“You seem very confident about this, Jimmy,” Ginger said.
“Ginger, that’s why my men call me ‘Captain Confidence.’ Isn’t that so, Captain Dunwiddie?”
Dunwiddie shook his head.
“Why don’t we go to the O Club?” he suggested. “I saw a sign in the headquarters saying tonight is steak night.”
