were alone on duty and he came back red-faced mad.

“I told some boys in there to keep quiet and they’re still making noise. I told them twice. I always give a man two chances. Not three. You come with me and I’m going back there and arrest them.”

“Well, let me give them a third chance,” I said. “I’ll talk to them.”

“No, sir, I never gave a man more than two chances.” I sighed. Here we go. We went to the offending room, and Sledge opened the door and told everybody to file out. It was embarrassing. Every single one of us was blushing. This is the story of America. Everybody’s doing what they think they’re supposed to do. So what if a bunch of men talk in loud voices and drink the night? But Sledge wanted to prove something. He made sure to bring me along in case they jumped him. They might have. They were all brothers, all from Alabama. We strolled back to the station, Sledge in front and me in back.

One of the boys said to me, “Tell that crotch-eared mean-ass to take it easy on us. We might get fired for this and never get to Okinawa.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

In the station I told Sledge to forget it. He said, for everybody to hear, and blushing, “I don’t give anybody no more than two chances.”

“What the hail,” said the Alabaman, “what difference does it make? We might lose our jobs.” Sledge said nothing and filled out the arrest forms. He arrested only one of them; he called the prowl car in town. They came and took him away. The other brothers walked off sullenly. “What’s Ma going to say?” they said. One of them came back to me. “You tell that Tex-ass sonofabitch if my brother ain’t out of jail tomorrow night he’s going to get his ass fixed.” I told Sledge, in a neutral way, and he said nothing. The brother was let off easy and nothing happened. The contingent shipped out; a new wild bunch came in. If it hadn’t been for Remi Boncœur I wouldn’t have stayed at this job two hours.

But Remi Boncœur and I were on duty alone many a night, and that’s when everything jumped. We made our first round of the evening in a leisurely way, Remi trying all the doors to see if they were locked and hoping to find one unlocked. He’d say, “For years I’ve an idea to develop a dog into a superthief who’d go into these guys’ rooms and take dollars out of their pockets. I’d train him to take nothing but green money; I’d make him smell it all day long. If there was any humanly possible way, I’d train him to take only twenties.” Remi was full of mad schemes; he talked about that dog for weeks. Only once he found an unlocked door. I didn’t like the idea, so I sauntered on down the hall. Remi stealthily opened it up. He came face to face with the barracks supervisor. Remi hated that man’s face. He asked me, “What’s the name of that Russian author you’re always talking about—the one who put the newspapers in his shoe and walked around in a stovepipe hat he found in a garbage pail?” This was an exaggeration of what I’d told Remi of Dostoevski. “Ah, that’s it—that’s it—Dostioffski. A man with a face like that supervisor can only have one name—it’s Dostioffski.” The only unlocked door he ever found belonged to Dostioffski. D. was asleep when he heard someone fiddling with his doorknob. He got up in his pajamas. He came to the door looking twice as ugly as usual. When Remi opened it he saw a haggard face suppurated with hatred and dull fury.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“I was only trying this door. I thought this was the—ah—mop room. I was looking for a mop.”

“What do you mean you were looking for a mop?”

“Well—ah.”

And I stepped up and said, “One of the men puked in the hall upstairs. We have to mop it up.”

“This is not the mop room. This is my room. Another incident like this and I’ll have you fellows investigated and thrown out! Do you understand me clearly?”

“A fellow puked upstairs,” I said again.

“The mop room is down the hall. Down there.” And he pointed, and waited for us to go and get a mop, which we did, and foolishly carried it upstairs.

I said, “Goddammit, Remi, you’re always getting us