The Eleventh Man - Ivan Doig [147]
Ben made up for lost time with a hasty introduction of Maurice, Moxie sizing him up from the brim of his tommy helmet to the shiny RAF blue trousers. He barked a laugh. "Overby, hey? So I finally get to meet the devil with the red pencil—the intelligence briefers about piss their pants when they talk about 'Baldy the censor.'"
Letting that sail by, Maurice said: "Ah, HQ's ignorance branch, also known as the intelligence branch. We do have our differences on occasion." He smiled at Moxie in a reserved way. "Better to be bald on the outside than on the in, I remind myself."
Moxie scowled. Ben jumped in with: "Before we all get carried away with teatime manners—do you know about Jake?"
The expression on Moxie darkened some more. "You start off that way, it doesn't sound like the Iceman is in good health."
"His plane—" When Ben finished the telling, Moxie turned away a step or two and gazed into the gray distance.
"Damn it all," he said over his shoulder. "Who would've thought the whole smear of us would end up you and me? I hope you're carrying a good luck piece, Rhine King. Because," he swung around to Ben, the gaze hardening, "you have more balls than brains for hauling yourself over here into this."
Thanks all to hell, Moxie. Remind me to try to save your life-okay, mine along with it—again sometime. Caught flat-footed by Moxie's accusing glower, he tried to read what was behind it and was not coming up with anything. What, you don't get it that we're each other's ticket out of the war?
Patient as pudding, Maurice had stood aside during all this, but now moved in before Ben could say anything. "Captain Stamper, I believe you're being beckoned."
A gunnery sergeant was poking his head out of the pit. "One incoming, Cap," he called out. "Five minutes."
Moxie took charge before the words were out of the air. "Acknowledged, Smitty. Get on the horn to fire control and the spotters"—Ben could not help but hear come into the voice the snap of cadence used for good effect in football huddles—"tell them smoke break and grab-ass is over. And chew out the loaders on Charlie gun while you're at it, yesterday they were slower than a three-legged race." He glanced at Ben and Maurice as though they were an afterthought. "It's time to shoot something down. If I was you two, I'd get my butt in back of those sandbags over there."
The pair of them hustled behind the head-high stack between gun pits, Ben asking: "They can track the things that far out?"
"Radar, yes, but it's not so much that," Maurice replied, checking his wristwatch. "When the Germans are at this, they launch one every quarter of an hour. They're quite Teutonic about that habit, in the worst sense. Oh, right, that prods the old memory box. Here," he dug in a flap pocket of his uniform for something, "as a healthy measure, carry this with you when you're out and about."
Ben looked in bafflement at what he had been handed. It appeared to be a pocket watch, but with only one hand and no crystal.
"It's a cocotte clock, in case you're wondering," the explanation was diplomatically put. "A chef's timer, actually, but French prostitutes use these to keep track of the various phases of their services. I have done the necessary research." Maurice paused dreamily. "Ah, Paris. What was that term you used—passion pit?" His brow cleared and he returned to the business at hand. "Set it for ten minutes after each buzz bomb. Gives you five to look around for shelter before the next one arrives."
"Swell, Maurice. I'll see if I can get used to kissing myself good-bye on short notice." Ben sagged against the sandbags to wait, and took stock. In the same opalescent Belgian sky that had looked down on the foot soldiers of Napoleon and the Duke of Wellington, a robot bomb was on its way. After it blindly fell