on the way back to the depot. When they got there, one of the drivers said, “You guys are gonna have to help me out of the cab. They got me in the knee.”
“Jesus, Gordie, how come you ain’t screamin’ your head off?” another driver asked. “How the hell’d you make it back?”
Gordie started laughing to beat the band. “On account of I lost that leg in 1915,” he answered. “Fuckers ruined the joint in my artificial one, but that’s about it.”
“How’d you work the clutch without your knee joint?” Cincinnatus asked.
“Grabbed the leg with my hand and mashed down on the sucker,” Gordie said. “Wasn’t pretty. Don’t figure I did my gear train any good. But who gives a damn? I made it back. ’Course, the leg’s just a piece of junk without that joint. Better find me a wheelchair or some crutches—I ain’t goin’ anywhere without ’em.”
Cincinnatus had a lot of parts that didn’t work as well as they should have. He wasn’t out-and-out missing any, though, and he never would have imagined that losing a leg could prove lucky for anybody. If they’d already got you there once, they couldn’t do it again.
The supply dump stocked both wheelchairs and crutches. That didn’t surprise Cincinnatus, although it saddened him. Maimed men were a by-product of war. The powers that be understood as much.
Gordie’s leg went out for repairs. Technicians who dealt with such things were also necessary. When it came back, the amputee was full of praise. “Feels like I just got new spark plugs on my Ford,” he said. “Joint’s smoother and easier to work than it ever was before, I think. Quieter, too.” He still walked with a rolling gait like a drunken sailor’s, but so did anybody who’d lost a leg above the knee. The roll locked the joint till the next step. Cincinnatus also thought the artificial leg was quieter now than it had been.
Except for harassing fire as he drove his routes, everything seemed pretty quiet. He’d drifted into a backwater of the war. Part of him wanted to be doing more. The rest—the larger portion—thought that part was out of its tree.
III
G eorge Enos, Jr., liked being back on the East Coast. When the
Josephus Daniels
came in to the Boston Navy Yard for refit or resupply—or even to deliver a package—he had a chance for liberty, a chance to see his wife and kids. Unlike a lot of sailors, he preferred getting it at home to laying down money in some sleazy whorehouse and lying down with a girl who was probably more interested in the current crossword puzzle than in him.
That didn’t stop him from lying down with a whore every once in a while. It did leave him feeling guilty whenever he did. That, in turn, meant he drank more on liberty than he would have otherwise. He couldn’t get drunk enough to stop feeling guilty, which didn’t keep him from trying.
When he came into Boston, he didn’t have to worry about it. He could go to bed with Connie with a clear conscience. And, being away so much, he felt like a newlywed whenever he did. Most of his married buddies weren’t lucky enough to have caught a warm, willing, pretty redhead, either.
“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” she said, clinging to him with arms and legs the night before he was due back aboard his ship. When she kissed him, he tasted tears on her lipstick.
“Wish I didn’t have to go, too,” he answered. “But it’d be the Shore Patrol and then the brig if I tried to duck out. They’d bust me down to seaman third, too. You fight the Navy, you’re fighting out of your weight.”
“I know,” she said. “But—” She didn’t go on, or need to.
But
covered bombs and torpedoes and mines and everything else that could mean this was the last liberty George ever got. She clung to him tighter than ever.
He found himself rising to the occasion once more, which told how long it had been since his last liberty. In his thirties, he didn’t do that as automatically as he had once
“Jesus, Gordie, how come you ain’t screamin’ your head off?” another driver asked. “How the hell’d you make it back?”
Gordie started laughing to beat the band. “On account of I lost that leg in 1915,” he answered. “Fuckers ruined the joint in my artificial one, but that’s about it.”
“How’d you work the clutch without your knee joint?” Cincinnatus asked.
“Grabbed the leg with my hand and mashed down on the sucker,” Gordie said. “Wasn’t pretty. Don’t figure I did my gear train any good. But who gives a damn? I made it back. ’Course, the leg’s just a piece of junk without that joint. Better find me a wheelchair or some crutches—I ain’t goin’ anywhere without ’em.”
Cincinnatus had a lot of parts that didn’t work as well as they should have. He wasn’t out-and-out missing any, though, and he never would have imagined that losing a leg could prove lucky for anybody. If they’d already got you there once, they couldn’t do it again.
The supply dump stocked both wheelchairs and crutches. That didn’t surprise Cincinnatus, although it saddened him. Maimed men were a by-product of war. The powers that be understood as much.
Gordie’s leg went out for repairs. Technicians who dealt with such things were also necessary. When it came back, the amputee was full of praise. “Feels like I just got new spark plugs on my Ford,” he said. “Joint’s smoother and easier to work than it ever was before, I think. Quieter, too.” He still walked with a rolling gait like a drunken sailor’s, but so did anybody who’d lost a leg above the knee. The roll locked the joint till the next step. Cincinnatus also thought the artificial leg was quieter now than it had been.
Except for harassing fire as he drove his routes, everything seemed pretty quiet. He’d drifted into a backwater of the war. Part of him wanted to be doing more. The rest—the larger portion—thought that part was out of its tree.
III
G eorge Enos, Jr., liked being back on the East Coast. When the
Josephus Daniels
came in to the Boston Navy Yard for refit or resupply—or even to deliver a package—he had a chance for liberty, a chance to see his wife and kids. Unlike a lot of sailors, he preferred getting it at home to laying down money in some sleazy whorehouse and lying down with a girl who was probably more interested in the current crossword puzzle than in him.
That didn’t stop him from lying down with a whore every once in a while. It did leave him feeling guilty whenever he did. That, in turn, meant he drank more on liberty than he would have otherwise. He couldn’t get drunk enough to stop feeling guilty, which didn’t keep him from trying.
When he came into Boston, he didn’t have to worry about it. He could go to bed with Connie with a clear conscience. And, being away so much, he felt like a newlywed whenever he did. Most of his married buddies weren’t lucky enough to have caught a warm, willing, pretty redhead, either.
“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” she said, clinging to him with arms and legs the night before he was due back aboard his ship. When she kissed him, he tasted tears on her lipstick.
“Wish I didn’t have to go, too,” he answered. “But it’d be the Shore Patrol and then the brig if I tried to duck out. They’d bust me down to seaman third, too. You fight the Navy, you’re fighting out of your weight.”
“I know,” she said. “But—” She didn’t go on, or need to.
But
covered bombs and torpedoes and mines and everything else that could mean this was the last liberty George ever got. She clung to him tighter than ever.
He found himself rising to the occasion once more, which told how long it had been since his last liberty. In his thirties, he didn’t do that as automatically as he had once
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