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“One of them, for example, was caught smuggling in a camera so that he could get a picture of him with Hermann Göring. I was with Lieutenant Anderson when Sergeant Jenkins dragged him in. He asked him—Lieutenant Anderson did—why he wanted a picture of him and Göring. He said he did it because Göring was famous and he wanted the picture to send to his mother. Lieutenant Anderson asked him if he knew why Göring is famous, and he didn’t have a clue.”
“What’s going to happen to him?” Ziegler said. “Court-martial? Company punishment?”
“Company punishment. Busted to PFC and thirty days’ restriction to the barracks. Plus ‘Jenkins punishment,’” Casey said, chuckling.
“And what is that?” Cronley asked
“He has to shine the boots of everybody in his squad as long as he’s on restriction.”
“That’s clever,” Cronley said. “And this guy Anderson, who has to know about that, also knows enough to look the other way. Where’d he come from?”
Wagner looked at Dunwiddie.
“Norwich,” Dunwiddie said.
“Now I’m sorry I asked,” Cronley said. “You knew him there?”
“Yes.”
“Casey, how did they catch this guy smuggling a camera in?” Ziegler asked.
“To keep people from smuggling things, all the pockets on our uniforms are sewed up, except one shirt pocket. That’s for a handkerchief.”
“That’s clever. Who thought that up?” Ostrowski asked.
“It was Sergeant Jenkins’s idea. He took it to Lieutenant Anderson, who took it to Colonel Rasberry, who got the quartermaster to issue the guards two more sets of ODs. With sewn-up pockets.”
“I hate to say this,” Cronley said, “but for a Norwich graduate, Lieutenant Anderson seems very competent. He probably can even read and write.”
Dunwiddie gave Cronley the finger.
“Go on, Casey,” Ostrowski said.
“So when we go on duty, or come off, the sergeants pat us down. The only way to smuggle anything in or out would be to put it in your jockey shorts. Then you would move whatever’s in there between your legs. The sergeants usually don’t pat you down around your private parts.”
“So they could smuggle practically anything small enough to hide under their balls in and out. Very interesting,” Cronley said. “You went to Norwich with Anderson, Captain Dunwiddie. Tell him to tell his sergeants to start checking their men under their balls.”
“I’ll do that, Captain, sir,” Dunwiddie said.
“What else have you learned about your fellow guards, Casey?” Ostrowski asked. “Including the sergeants.”
“About half the sergeants are married. Off-duty, I guess they go to their quarters. The unmarried non-coms mostly do their drinking at the 26th NCO Club. And the corporals and PFCs go to the 26th EM Club.”
“What about fräuleins?”
“Just about all of the unmarried sergeants have one,” Casey replied. “And maybe half of the others.”
“They have rooms someplace?”
“Yeah.”
“And how do they pay for the rooms?”
“With their PX rations and packages from home.”
“Containing coffee and cigarettes, et cetera?”
“What I hear is that the APO guys—or the CID, whoever is checking packages for black market stuff—don’t check small packages very much. They’re looking for twenty pounds of coffee, twenty cartons of cigarettes, not a couple of pounds of coffee or a couple of cartons of Lucky Strikes.”
