A large arrow pointed the way to the “Snack Bar.” It was a long walk, but it was worth it. The shop was as well stocked as any Post Exchange (PX). They bought a hamburger and a hotdog respectively, Snickers bars and coffee, and then joined a bunch of other pilots sitting around tables at the back of the room.
At first, they devoted themselves to their food and just listened in on the flying talk. After he’d finished his hotdog, however, Jimmy spoke up, “We’re new here. How do we know when to go back to our plane?”
The others laughed. Then someone explained, “Let’s put it this way. The staff really gets pissed off if a plane is ready and the crew is nowhere to be found, so it’s better to just be there as soon as you can.”
“Yeah,” another took up the theme. “If they have to page you,” he put his fist in front of his mouth and imitated a PA system, “‘will the pilots of Big Willi 123 report immediately to their aircraft. It is blocking traffic!’ You are in big trouble.”
A third pilot took over the narrative. “The tower will cable your home base with the aircraft number, and there will be a reception committee waiting for you. When that happens, you’ll wish you’d never come.”
“I wish that already!” Jimmy responded, harvesting a chorus of approving laughs.
“That can only be because you haven’t encountered any of the frauleins yet,” one of the younger lieutenants declared, wriggling his hips unambiguously.
Guffaws of laughter greeted him.
“Can’t go anywhere in this country without them practically assaulting you!” another agreed, shaking his head in mock disgust.
“They’ll do it for a pack of cigarettes,” a sergeant who looked younger than J.B.’s little brother Stan explained knowingly.
“A whole pack? You got cheated, bud. I had a fraulein give me a dozy of a lay for just a couple of ciggies. She was so desperate that she hardly gave me time to get my pants off.”
“Yeah, they’re all pretty desperate, if you ask me. Just slam, bang and hand over the cigs! It doesn’t mean anything to any of them.”
“Yeah, well I heard the girls here in Berlin were all screwed by the Reds for months before we got here. Even the old grandmothers and the kids. So, you know, to them an American is a real treat. At least we’re clean and we pay. The problem is that the brass doesn’t let us hang around here longer than it takes to offload the damn plane!”
“I’m gonna go out and get some fresh air,” J.B. announced.
“How will I find you?” Jimmy protested.
“I’ll wait at the aircraft,” J.B. answered. As he left, the volleys of laughter continued.
He retraced his steps down the long hall, wondering if something was wrong with him. He supposed so, but he couldn’t reconcile this talk with that man who had shaken his hand and thanked him for flying in a load of coal.
J.B. stepped back out onto the apron and paused to light up a cigarette, cupping his hand around the match so it wouldn’t blow out in the wind. As he inhaled, he noted that whenever an aircraft landed, a bunch of men standing beside the runway dashed out to straighten the PSP plates. Some carried shovels and scraped dirt this way and that, and others stamped on everything as quickly as possible — before diving for safety as the next aircraft settled down towards the earth. He shook his head. This was crazy.
His thoughts returned to the conversation in the snack bar. It reminded him of the way some of the guys had talked about the British girls during the war. He’d told his copilot that if he spent his entire leave cruising downtown London waiting for a Piccadilly Commando to hit him up, then he was only going to meet whores. To meet nice British girls, he had to go elsewhere, but his copilot didn’t really want that. He’d returned to the States swearing that the only “nice” girls in the world were those at home in Kansas.
It was easier that way, J.B. supposed. If all the girls here were whores, then you could treat them like shit and feel justified about it. No need to be a gentleman. No need to be careful. No need to even be nice. Just screw ‘em and ditch ‘em. So easy, so convenient, and Kansas — or Detroit — was so far away that no one at home would ever learn what an asshole you were.
He didn’t think he could be like that. He didn’t think he could make love to Patty if he screwed around here before going home.
Looking out towards their C-54, he saw the truck start to pull away. They had finished unloading already. Jimmy and Wells were nowhere in sight. He considered going to fetch them but opted to climb aboard and start the checks instead.
Because he hadn’t finished his cigarette, he dropped it and stepped on it to put the embers out. From opposite directions, two German loaders darted towards the discarded butt. One leapt over the side of a truck, snatched it up and pocketed it as if it were gold. J.B. heard the voice in his head saying girls would put out for two cigarettes and it hit him: they were gold here. It was a sobering realisation.
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