🎧 280: Lorna did go . . .

LORNA DID go to work in the suspender fitting section. It doesn’t seem likely to me that she actually feared Luther’s spilling the beans about her erotica work if she didn’t do what he wanted. She must have known that their standoff was stable. It’s more likely that she took a place on the main floor, where an American flag was mounted on each of the machines, at each of the benches and tables, because she knew that more hands were always needed and because she would have missed the company of the other women. At her cutting machine, she worked among women who gave their work only the necessary effort. She made herself work in the same manner, letting her hands perform while her mind wandered. More and more often her thoughts were of Herb.

HERB HAD BEEN assigned to a prisoner-of-war camp, where he and other recuperating men supervised German prisoners who were put to the task of fabricating cup handle repair kits. The men who ran the camp were a mixed lot, thrown together from among the wounded of many divisions. They were a group that represented the whole fabric of American society, including men from the warp and men from the woof, the only truly integrated group of soldiers in the American Expeditionary Forces.
     About three weeks after the Armistice was signed, a tremor of excitement rippled through the camp. Herb was stretched out on his bunk, writing a letter, when Ezio Corelli, a wisecracking, curly-haired pastry chef from Brooklyn, burst in with startling news.
     “Hey, Piper!” he shouted, “you better polish your fucking shoes and practice your fucking salute — they’re gonna make a fucking hero out of you.”
     “What?” said Herb. He grinned at Corelli, anticipating the gag that was sure to come.
     “Yes, Herbie, that’s right,” said Jo Jo Washington, a serious-minded cornetist from Chicago. “That certainly is right. No jokes this time, Herbie. They are going to recognize you. That’s the truth.”
     “What is this?” asked Herb, his amusement and caution growing.
     “Herb! Herb!” called Anton “Boom-Boom” Delacroix, a big-hearted fisherman from New Orleans. He burst into the bunkroom, lumbered to Herb’s bunk, and lifted Herb to his feet. “You are one damn lucky son-of-a-bitch, you,” Boom-Boom boomed.
     “What on earth are you talking about?” asked Herb, wriggling in Boom-Boom’s bear hug.
     “Herbert!” called Izzy Moskowitz, a devil-may-care dental student from South Bend, “I certainly hope you are prepared for this. This is going to be one of the most memorable moments of your life.” He stood in front of Herb, regarding him with evident pride, as a brother might.
     Herb put his hands on his hips. “All right, all right,” he said. “What are you—”
     From the doorway, Seamus O’Brien, a freckle-faced barkeep from Alabama, cried, “Tennnnnnshun!” and in a moment, without other fanfare, Black Jack Pershing himself strode into the bunkhouse.
     “Which one of you figured out how to fix the coffee cups?” asked the General.
    “Here, sir,” said Herb. For the first and only time since it had healed, his leg gave him some trouble. A queer flutter ran through it, and he was afraid it would fold under him.
     “Herb Piper,” said Pershing, “it’s a pleasure.” He saluted Herb and then held out his hand. For a moment, Herb thought that Pershing wanted to shake hands with him. Then, pointing, with the other hand, to a spot on the extended hand, Pershing said, “See this scar?” Everyone craned his neck to see. “A damned cup of coffee did that. Before you came along.” He paused, stared at his hand, and said reflectively, “You know, it’s a funny thing how life doesn’t really change much in a war — how the little things are still annoying.” He took a deep breath and frowned at the bitter mysteries of war. “I’ve seen a man with one leg gone—torn away—prop himself up so he could keep firing, and I’ve seen men just as brave scream in pain and lose all their will to fight when they were burned by one of those damned collapsing coffee cups.” He put a hand on Herb’s shoulder. “Piper, you’ve done more for the morale of our men than taking Quelquepart-sur-Marne did.” Grinning, he reached into his pocket. “Now, what you did,” he said, “isn’t the sort of thing I can give you a medal for, you understand, but you ought to get something, so—”
     He extended his hand, and Herb cupped his under it.
     “—here’s something for what you’ve done.”
     Into Herb’s hand he dropped a pornographic shirt button.
     “Sew that on your shirt, Piper,” said Pershing, “and if anybody complains, tell ’em I gave it to you.”
     Herb did what Pershing told him to do. He sewed the button onto his shirt, and he wore it with some pride while he was still in France. On the way home, however, he tore the button off. It embarrassed him and it frightened him. He couldn’t help feeling, though he knew that the feeling didn’t make sense, that the button would somehow give him away. When asked, he claimed to have lost it, and he even suggested that it might have fallen overboard somewhere in the Atlantic. In the next forty years, he showed it to only one person, his uncle Benjamin, who said when he saw it, “Will you look at the workmanship on that!”

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