The Man with the Iron Heart

XXIII

Lou Weissberg’s mother had talked about how good it felt not to have to wear a corset when they fell out of fashion after World War I. Lou always nodded. What were you supposed to do when your mother went on about something that wouldn’t matter to you in a million years?

Except now it did. He’d escaped his own canvas-and-metal contraption not long before. His leg didn’t bother him too much, either. He was…no, not quite good as new, but getting there, anyway. On this second anniversary of V-E Day, that wasn’t so bad.

It was a bright spring morning. Sunshine. Puffy white clouds drifting across the sky. Vibrant greens. Songbirds chirping their heads off. Storks nesting on chimneytops wherever chimneys still stood. And the stink of undiscovered bodies buried in rubble, the stink that never seemed to disappear from Nuremberg but did fade in the chilly wintertime.

Howard Frank snorted when Lou remarked on it. “Yeah, well, those are the krauts we don’t have to worry about,” Frank said.

“Ha!” Lou said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs and hash browns. “Don’t I wish that was funny!”

“I know, I know.” Major Frank lit a cigarette. “At ten o’clock we get to listen to General Clay telling us how wonderful everything’s going.”

“Oh, boy.” Lou had no trouble restraining his enthusiasm. General Eisenhower’d gone back to the States at the end of the year before. Staying any longer would have tarnished his reputation as the man who’d won the war in Europe…assuming the war in Europe had been won. Germany was Lucius Clay’s baby now, and a damned ugly baby to find on your doorstep it was, too.

“Next interesting question is whether the fanatics mortar us while we’re listening to Clay tell us how wonderful everything is,” Frank said.

“You’re chipper today, aren’t you?” Lou said. In lieu of answering, his superior smoked his Chesterfield down to a tiny butt, stubbed it out, and lit another one.

German cops on street corners stiffened to attention as the two American officers went to listen to General Clay. The policemen wore their black-dyed American uniforms. Some of them had on American helmets, too. Others wore what had been firemen’s helmets, with an aluminum crest to change the outline of what otherwise looked the same as the standard German Stahlhelm. And, with shortages everywhere, some of the cops did wear the Wehrmacht-issue steel helmet.

Pointing to one of those guys-who also carried a U.S.-made submachine gun-Lou said, “That still gives me the willies, y’know?”

Howard Frank didn’t need to ask what in particular was eating him. The major only nodded. “Yeah, me, too,” he agreed. “But what are you gonna do? They may see action, and it’s a damn good helmet. When we switched from the limey-style tin hat to the one we use now, first scheme was to make Stahlhelms and just paint ’em a different color.”

“Fuck. I’m glad we didn’t. That thing screams Nazi! at me.” Since the Kaiser’s engineers had devised the shape in the last war, Lou knew that wasn’t completely rational. He didn’t care. Hitler’s bastards had been trying to kill him, not the Kaiser’s-except for some retreads, no doubt. He gave the next German cop he saw a fishy stare. “Other thing is, how many of these bastards are ratting on us to Heydrich?”

“Bound to be some. Hopefully, not too many.” Howard Frank sounded somewhere between cynical and resigned.

A couple of other guys in dyed-black U.S. uniform came by. They weren’t German police; they had on armbands that said DP. They sure as hell were displaced persons. They talked to each other in some Slavic language-Russian? Polish? Ukrainian? Czech? Serbo-Croatian? Bulgarian? — full of consonants and y’s. One of them carried a grease gun like the cop’s; the other wore a Luger on his belt.

At least they don’t have German helmets, Lou thought. With more and more American soldiers heading home, DPs were doing a hell of a lot of the cooking and cleaning and fetching and carrying. The way things were going, the occupation would probably fall apart without them. On the Eastern Front, the Germans had used Russian POWs-Hiwis, they called them, a contraction from their term for “volunteer assistants”-the same way, and for the same reason: to stretch their combat manpower. Now they were getting it done to them instead. Serves ’em right, too.

Better not to inquire about what happened to any Hiwis who fell into Soviet hands. Lou might want to work more closely with the Russians against the Heydrichites. That didn’t mean he thought they were nice people. But they weren’t on the Nazis’ side, which also counted.

A perimeter of barbed wire, concrete barriers, and machine-gun nests protected the Americans gathering to hear General Clay from German kamikazes driving trucks full of TNT. Mortars…Lou shook his head. He’d already worried about mortars once. If they started coming in, he’d hit the dirt, that was all.

Even as Clay stepped up to the microphone, several enlisted men bawled, “We want to go home!”

Clay looked at them. He had bushy dark eyebrows that told what he was thinking without his saying a word. If he wasn’t thinking stockade right this minute, Lou’d never seen anybody who was.

He had a raspy voice that spoke of a million cigarettes, or maybe a million and one. “I want to go home, too,” he said. “We all want to go home. I don’t know of a single soldier in Uncle Sam’s army who wants to stay in Germany. But we’ve got what they used to call a job of work to do, and we’re going to do it.”

When he paused, some of the soldiers yelled, “We want to go home!” again. They didn’t give a damn about a general or anybody else. They were draftees. They sure didn’t give a damn about winning the war before they left, the way earlier crops of dogfaces had. After all, the war in Europe had been over for two years-hadn’t it? If it hadn’t, why were they all standing around on this nice May morning? Why weren’t they out trying to pick up German broads with chocolate bars?

But if the war in Europe had been over for two years, why all the tank barriers and machine-gun positions and barbed wire? Yeah. Why? Lou wondered, his own thoughts pretty barbed, too.

General Clay charged into that question head-on: “We beat the German army. We walloped the Waffen-SS, too. You know it, boys. Some of you helped do it. And some of you saw what the Nazis did while they were on top. You know why we had to lick them. If we hadn’t, one of these days before too long they would have done that stuff to our friends and neighbors and families.”

“Damn straight,” Howard Frank muttered beside Lou. Lou nodded. As far as he was concerned, Lucius Clay was preaching to the choir. He’d never yet heard of a Jewish soldier who went around shouting We want to go home! Jews understood in their kishkas what this war was all about.

But there weren’t enough Jews to go around, goddammit.

“And they still want to,” Clay went on. “That’s the funny thing about this whole business. Plenty of people back home march around and wave signs and bang drums and yell and scream and shout that we ought to pack up and get the devil out of Germany. But not one of them says the Germans are good guys all of a sudden. Not one of them says the Nazis won’t take over again if we do run away.”

Lou craned his neck. He didn’t see any of the German policemen in their black GI uniforms inside the American perimeter. How hard would they fight the fanatics after the Americans went home? Some of them had spent time in concentration camps under the Third Reich. Those guys would give Heydrich’s goons a smack in the teeth if they could. The rest? Well, who could say?

And, even if the new kraut cops were willing to mix it up with the Nazis, would they stay that way after a sniper picked off their wife or mother or two-year-old? That was already starting to happen. Or suppose a truck full of explosives blew up a police barracks in the middle of the night. That had already happened more than once, too. What would it do to the cops’ morale?

Lost in those gloomy reflections, Lou realized he’d missed some of what General Clay was saying. “-thinks we need to be here,” Clay declared. Then he said, “The President is the commander-in-chief of the armed forces of the United States,” so Lou figured out what was going on. “As long as the commander-in-chief thinks we need to stay in this country, we will. The sooner our friends and our foes understand that, the better.”

It sounded good. It would have sounded even better if one of the fed-up GIs hadn’t hollered, “Not if Congress doesn’t give him the cash!”

As if on cue, several other men called, “We want to go home!” again.

“Congress will do whatever Congress does. The President will do whatever he feels he has to do. And we will do whatever the President and our superiors tell us to do.” Clay stuck out his chin. “And so will I, and so will every one of you, too.”

He stepped away from the microphone. Some of the soldiers assembled to listen to him applauded. Lou and Major Frank both made sure they did-but then, they had their reasons. Lou assumed MPs had kept an eye on the hecklers and would give them what-for afterwards. He hoped so, anyway.

Even if they did, though, so what? The mouthy draftees might spend some time in the stockade for disrespect, or whatever other charges had a chance of sticking. While they were there, they’d still have plenty to eat and somewhere soft and dry to sleep. Heydrich’s thugs wouldn’t be trying to bump them off, either. If all you wanted to do was come home in one piece, the stockade didn’t look half bad.

When Lou said as much, Major Frank answered, “Sure, if that’s all you want. But it goes on your record, too. It won’t look so good when you’re trying to land a job once you get home.”

“How many of these guys give a damn?” Lou said. “How many of ’em think that far ahead?”

Howard Frank looked as if he’d put down several too many a while ago and his head was banging like Buddy Rich’s drums. “Mazeltov,” he said sourly.

“For what?” Lou asked.

“For nailing the USA down tight in two goddamn questions, that’s for what,” Frank answered.

Neither one of them had much else to say on the way back to their offices.

As far as Bernie Cobb was concerned, the krauts knew way more about tanks and machine guns and beer than anybody in the United States had ever imagined. The Panzer IVs and Panthers and Tigers (Lions and tigers and bears! Oh, my!) were out of business, thank God. You still had to look out for fanatics with MG42s, but not right this minute, also thank God. As for the beer…

Bernie had a big old stein of it in front of him. He’d already emptied the mug several times. He expected to empty it several more before the day or the night or whatever the hell was through. A bunch of GIs packed the tavern in the Alpine village with the unpronounceable name. As he’d discovered, there were a lot of Alpine villages with unpronounceable names. This one was more unpronounceable than most, which was-or would have been-saying something.

“Thank you kindly.” Toby Benton had taken on a considerable alcoholic cargo, too. The sergeant sounded mushmouthed any old time-that was what coming from Oklahoma did to you. When he was also drunk, you could hardly understand him at all.

“Goin’ home.” Bernie didn’t sound like anybody from the speech and debate team, either. “Man alive…You are a man alive.”

“Sure am.” The demolitions expert nodded. “Sure as hell am. Didn’t know if I was gonna make it through, ’specially with the way they went an’ kept stretchin’ our hitches an’ stretchin’ ’em an’….”

Every guy in the joint growled profane agreement with that, even the fellows who hadn’t been over here since before the shooting was supposed to be over. “Way my points added up, I figured I’d make it back in November or December of ’45,” Bernie said. “I’m still here a year and a half later. God only knows when they’ll turn me loose.”

“Long as you don’t go home in a box, that’s the only thing that matters,” another GI said. He raised his voice a little: “Anybody here not know somebody who got it after fucking V-E Day?”

No one claimed to, not even a couple of kids who’d been here only a few weeks. “It’s a bastard, all right,” Sergeant Benton said. “Ain’t we lucky we won the war?”

“Some luck.” Bernie Cobb peered lugubriously into the bottom of his seidel. “I don’t even have any beer left.”

“You can do something about that, you know,” the dogface sitting next to him said.

“Oh, yeah.” Bernie needed reminding. He waved to the barmaid. “Hey, sweetheart!”

He wouldn’t have called her sweetheart anywhere else, and not without a few under her belt, either. She was somewhere in her mid-thirties. She wasn’t ugly-she wasn’t half bad, in fact, and she had a shape like a Coke bottle. Even drunk, though, he wasn’t tempted to put a move on her. She looked tough, was what she looked. He wondered if she’d been through a denazifying trial. If somebody told him she’d been one of the nasty female guards at a German camp, he would have believed it.

Which didn’t keep her from filling up his beer mug again. She had serious muscles in her forearms, from hauling around so many steins and pitchers. He gave her a dime. “Ja,” she said softly as she made the small silver coin disappear. Would the old man with the gray mustache behind the bar see any of that? Bernie shrugged. It wasn’t his worry.

“Gonna get me a job where the most explosive thing I gotta mess with is the carburetor off an old Ford,” Benton was saying. “Gonna forget all the shit they learned me. Ain’t gonna study war no more, like it says in the Good Book.”

“Wow,” two or three GIs said together, longing in their voices. The Americans in the tavern amassed an impressive amount of lethal hardware. Nobody went anywhere unarmed these days. You might as well tie a bull’s-eye and a SHOOT ME! sign to your back.

“You know what, Sarge?” a soldier said. “Pretty soon we’ll all be coming home, regardless of points or whether the Army likes it or any of that crap. Congress’ll figure we wasted enough time fucking around over here, and that’ll be that.”

“Wouldn’t bother me none,” Benton answered. “Nobody likes the damn Nazis, but nobody wants to get his dick shot off, neither.”

“We want to go home!” several men chorused. Then they started laughing fit to bust. Discipline here was still pretty good-not great, but pretty good. From what Bernie heard, some places hardly anybody obeyed orders he didn’t happen to like.

Toby Benton called for more beer. “One bad thing about goin’ home,” he said, “is I’ll have to drink the horse piss they put in bottles back in the States.” Bernie wasn’t the only guy who nodded-not even close. The stuff they brewed over here had been a revelation to him. Beer didn’t just get you blasted after you poured down enough of it. It could taste good, too. Who would’ve thunk it?

The barmaid came over and filled up Benton’s stein. He gave her a K-ration can and a pack of Luckies. “Ja!” she said, as she had after Bernie handed her the dime, only she sounded a lot happier this time. In a cautious, experimental way, as if he were defusing a mine, Sergeant Benton patted her on the ass.

All the Americans in the tavern tensed. The other half-sloshed GIs must’ve thought the same thing Bernie did: if you messed with this babe, she’d knock your block off. Which only went to show you never could tell. The barmaid plopped herself down in the demolitions expert’s lap, threw her arms around his neck, and gave him the kind of kiss the Hays Office wouldn’t let you film. Bernie wondered if she’d screw him right there where he sat, but she didn’t-quite.

“Hot damn!” Benton said when he finally came up for air. “I’ll miss the easy nookie they got over here, too. Sure as hell can’t get an American girl to put out for beef stew and a pack of smokes.”

“Our side didn’t lose the war,” Bernie said.

“Who says theirs did?” Sergeant Benton regretfully untangled himself from the barmaid. She didn’t seem anywhere near so tough any more.

“You know what I mean,” Bernie persisted. “Other thing is, girls back home don’t know what all we’ve been through.”

“And every goddamn bit of it the past coupla years-all the bombs, all the rockets, all the snipers, all the crap-it’s been nothin’ but a waste of time,” Benton said. “You fuckin’ wait an’ see. We’re gonna chuck it in over here. We’re gonna go home an’ let the Jerries do whatever they want.”

“We’re gonna pay the price for it down the line if we do,” Bernie said.

Benton shrugged-and almost fell off his chair. Yeah, he’d taken on a lot of beer. “It’ll be somebody else’s headache then,” he said. “Long as it ain’t chewing on the guys who’re in right now, they won’t care.”

Whether Benton was drunk or not, that seemed like a pretty good bet to Bernie Cobb. And, now that the ice had been broken, so did the barmaid.

Harry Truman looked hopping mad. Since coming back to Washington, Tom Schmidt had seen the President angry plenty of times. Truman delighted in sticking out such chin as he had and telling the world where to go and how to get there. He could be funny at the same time. He made Tom laugh, and Tom got paid for writing unkind things about him. But today he just looked ticked off.

Overhead lights flashed off his spectacle lenses as he glared out at the assembled reporters. “I called a press conference this afternoon so I could tell the American people why I’m vetoing this joke of a budget bill that has landed on my desk. I warned the Republicans who head up this new Congress-and I warned the Democratic leadership, too-that I would veto any bill that looks like this. They sent me one anyway, and I am sending it back-air-mail, special delivery.”

“Nice of him to get his own party mad at him, too,” Schmidt whispered to the guy sitting next to him.

The other fellow barely had time to nod before Truman went on, “I’m especially unhappy with the so-called Democratic leaders in the Senate.” No, he didn’t care if he antagonized them. “They told me this was the best they could do-a bill that cuts off funds for our boys in Germany at the end of the year instead of right away. If this is the best they can do, I’m here to tell them it isn’t good enough.”

“Why not?” a reporter called.

“I’ll take questions when I’m done with my statement,” the President said. “But since I was coming to why not anyway, it’ll look like I’m answering this one. Congress has got no business tying American foreign policy by the purse strings. Can you imagine what would have happened after Pearl Harbor if Congress told President Roosevelt, ‘You’ve got to win the war by the end of 1943, or we won’t give you any more money to fight it’? Can you imagine?” He quivered with indignation. “If Congress did something that stupid, why, Hitler would be holding a press conference here in the White House right now, for heaven’s sake!”

Several reporters laughed then. Newsreel cameras ground away. One day soon, people all across the country would see him when they went to the movies. “Is it really the same thing, Mr. President?” Tom called.

“You’d better believe it is,” Truman snapped-so much for taking questions after his statement. “We will do what we need to do. It may take longer than we expect right now. It may cost more. We will do it anyway.”

Since he’d got one answer, Schmidt tried for another: “But if you think we need to do this, sir, and Congress and most of the American people think we need to do that-?”

“I’m the President,” Truman said. “I didn’t want the job. I wish Franklin Roosevelt, God love him, were still here to do it. Just by the way, I believe he’d do it the same way I am. But that’s neither here nor there. For as long as I am President, I’m going to do things the best way I know how. And that includes keeping American soldiers in Germany to hold down the Nazis and hold back the Russians.”

“If you do that, you won’t stay President long,” said another member of the White House press corps.

“Chance I take,” Truman answered calmly. “If I leave, I’ll leave knowing I did the right thing. And if whoever the Republicans pick does something else, he’ll prove pretty darn quick how right I was.”

He didn’t lack for confidence. By all accounts, he never had. How much good did that do when he was so out of step with the rest of the country? Herbert Hoover had been confident, too, and look how much good it did him. You could be confident you knew a road, but all the confidence in the world wouldn’t help you if you drove off a cliff. You’d go smash at the bottom any which way-and so would all the other people you were driving.

“And let me tell you boys-and you ladies-something else.” Truman wagged a finger at the reporters. “You think you know what America thinks. Well, I’ve got news for you. There are a devil of a lot of Americans who don’t march around with placards on their shoulders. They keep their mouths shut and go to work every day and pay their taxes-oh, they don’t like paying them (who does?), but they do it. And even though they don’t kick up a fuss and get their photographs in the newspapers, they have the sense to know that we are doing the right thing in Germany and that we need to stay the course there. I wouldn’t be surprised-no, sir, I wouldn’t be one bit surprised-if there were more of them than there are of the noisy kind.”

Tom Schmidt’s shorthand scribbles barely kept up with the angry President. As Truman finally paused to draw breath, Tom wrote his own comment under the other man’s words. Silent majority? Good luck! Then he eyed the phrase and nodded to himself. It wouldn’t make a bad lead-might even do for a headline.

After that deep breath, Truman returned at last to his prepared remarks. He lambasted the Republican Congress for everything except violating the Mann Act. If you listened to him, everything was Congress’ fault. He hadn’t made a single mistake himself-not one, not in all his born days.

If you listened to him. How likely were the American people to do that? Looking at the folks they’d sent to Congress, maybe not very.

Truman finally got around to taking the questions he’d planned to take all along. “Does being an accidental President hinder you?” a reporter asked. “Is it harder to do your job knowing nobody elected you to do it?”

“Not even a little bit,” Truman said. “People elected Roosevelt President four different times. This last time, he and the Democratic Party chose me as his running mate. There is always the chance that a President of the United States will die in office. In 1944, it was an open secret that President Roosevelt was not a well man. Whoever ran with him might have to succeed him. I wish that hadn’t happened-I wish it with all my heart. But it did, and I’m just as much President as if I’d been elected unanimously. So I have to do my best, like I say, and that is what I am doing.”

No red meat there, Tom judged. Anybody in the same spot would say the same thing. Too bad.

“Why do you think it’s so important to stay in Germany when everybody else is sick of being there?” another reporter asked.

“I told you before, not everybody is,” Harry Truman said. Tom underlined Silent majority. Truman went on, “Anybody who wants to risk seeing the Nazis come back to power needs to have his head examined too.”

Tom’s hand flew up. After a pause, Truman nodded his way. “How dangerous can they be in a country that got stepped on?” he asked. “I was over there till-”

“Till you got thrown out, and for good reason, too,” Truman broke in.

“I don’t think believing in freedom of the press is a good reason to expel a man, sir,” Tom said with dignity.

Truman only sniffed. “Believing in getting a better byline is more like it, if you ask me. But to get back to your question. How dangerous can the Nazis be? Why don’t you ask the English while they clean up London? Why don’t you ask the French after four years of occupation? Why don’t you ask the Russians-the survivors, I should say? The only question is whether they lost twenty million or thirty million in the war. Pennsylvania plus California plus maybe Illinois-gone. Gone to graveyards, when people got buried at all. So how dangerous can the Nazis be?”

“What about the atom bomb?” Tom and three other reporters asked the question at the same time. Two of those others worked for papers that normally favored the administration, which was…interesting, anyhow.

“Yes, we have it,” Truman said. “The first thing the Nazis do will be to try to get it on their own. The radium treatment they gave to innocent civilians in Frankfurt is proof of that. The next thing they’ll do is, they’ll try to find a way to throw it at us. They could reach London with the V-2, though that isn’t strong enough to carry an atom bomb. They had plans on the drawing board for a rocket that could reach our East Coast from Europe. How long do you suppose it will be before they dust off those plans and start building rockets like that?”

A rocket that could reach the East Coast from Europe? It sounded like science fiction, the stuff in the cheap pulp magazines with the lurid covers. Of course, up until August 1945 the atom bomb itself had sounded the same way. So maybe Truman and the German engineers knew what they were talking about. On the other hand, maybe they didn’t.

Another reporter beat Tom to the question he wanted to ask: “How do we know this is true? How do we know this isn’t just you talking, Mr. President, to try to justify the mess in Germany?”

Truman glared at the man. “I am giving you the information I’ve got, Wilbur,” he said. “Sometimes I cannot give you all the information I’ve got, because that might help the enemy. But I am not lying to you. I am not making things up. And if you say I am, you can go-” The phrase he used would not be printed in any family newspaper in the United States.

“Love you, too, Mr. President,” Wilbur said, which got a laugh from the press corps and even a chuckle from Harry Truman. The reporter went on, “After all the stuff the administration has tried to hide about the way things in Germany are going, can you blame us for having our doubts about the things you say?”

“Blame you? Damn right I can blame you,” Truman answered. “You are trying to make me run the country by Gallup poll. I am here to tell you, that does not work. By the nature of things, it can’t work. Sometimes you have to stick it out even when things don’t look so good at the moment and not everybody likes what you’re doing. If nobody pays any attention to what may happen in the long run, you’ve got yourself a problem.”

Truman doesn’t care about democracy, Tom wrote. It wasn’t a completely fair summary of what the President said, but it wasn’t completely unfair, either. If Truman thought he had the right to override the will of the people whenever he felt like it, what were the checks and balances in the Constitution worth? Not even the paper they were printed on.

“What will you do if Congress sends you another appropriations bill like this one?” somebody asked.

“Veto it again,” Truman said promptly.

“What will you do if Congress passes the bill over your veto?” the reporter asked.

“What will I do? I’ll be very surprised, that’s what,” Truman said. “If Congress somehow manages to sabotage our foreign policy in that way, it will be a sad day in the history of the United States.”

I’m the one who’s right. I’m the one with all the answers. That might not be what Truman was saying, but that was what he meant. Tom Schmidt wrote it down. A big part of his job was telling people what he thought the President did mean, regardless of what Truman actually said.

Ed McGraw flipped to the editorial page of the Indianapolis Times. He’d rarely bothered with it before Pat got killed. He grunted. “Here’s a column by your friend Schmidt,” he said, and then, “Let me have some more coffee, willya?”

“Sure.” Diana poised the pot over Ed’s cup and poured. He dumped in sugar and Pet condensed milk. Diana let him take a sip before she asked, “What does Tom say?” She’d never figured she would be on a first-name basis with national reporters, but she was.

Her husband grunted again, to show he noticed how strange that was, too. Then he read out loud: “‘Harry S Truman thinks he knows best. He thinks he can run the country on the basis of what he thinks he knows, regardless of how the American people feel about it. How does that make him any different from Joseph Stalin? For that matter, how does it make him any different from Adolf Hitler?’”

“Wow,” Diana said appreciatively. “That’s strong stuff.” She felt as if she’d poured a slug of brandy into her own morning coffee.

“Wait. There’s more. Let me give you the best part.” Ed paused for a moment, then resumed: “‘Truman claims a silent majority backs the steps he is taking in Germany and his stubborn refusal to cut his losses-our losses-and come home. The reason this so-called majority is silent appears to be that it is not there. Most things that are not there make very little noise.’ How about that, babe?”

“Yeah, how about that? I want to applaud,” Diana said.

“‘What is Truman accomplishing in Germany? Anything? Anything at all?’” Ed read. “‘The longer this pointless occupation goes on, the less likely that seems. Thousands of men, dead. Billions of dollars, wasted. Down a rathole. What will happen when the United States finally gives up and comes home? The same thing that would have happened if we’d come home right after V-E Day. Everybody knows it. Even Harry Truman probably knows it by now. The trouble is, he’s too pigheaded to admit it.’”

“That’s about the size of things, all right. Silent majority!” Diana scoffed the idea to scorn. “We’ll have to show Truman where the majority is. And we’ll have to show him how much noise it can make, too.”

“You do that, babe-and I know darn well you will.” Her husband let the paper flop down onto the kitchen table. “Me, I gotta go to work.” He grabbed his lunch bucket, pecked Diana on the cheek, and headed out the door. In the driveway, the Pontiac started up with a whir and a groan. Ed backed out, put it in first, and drove off to the Delco-Remy plant.

Alone in the house, Diana sighed very quietly. Now that she’d met so many hard-driving men, Ed McGraw seemed…well, just a little dull. Or more than just a little. Oh, he made a decent enough living. And he loved her. And he was as reliable as the 1:27 out of Indianapolis. And, while he looked at pretty women, she knew he’d never do more than look.

But…The only way Ed would ever show any spark was if he got struck by lightning. Diana hadn’t known she missed that till she saw it in other men. Aren’t I entitled to a little spark every once in a while? she wondered.

Some women, faced with a question like that, took direct action: they went out and found the spark they thought they were looking for. Some took indirect action: they quietly started emptying the cooking sherry or the brandy or the bourbon or whatever along those lines happened to be handy. If they put out the spark in themselves, they wouldn’t miss it in anyone else.

And some, like Diana, worked harder than ever at what they were already doing. If they stayed too busy to notice the spark wasn’t there, not having it almost didn’t matter. Almost.

She grabbed the newspaper and reread the column Ed had read out loud. It just made her madder the second time around. “Silent majority!” she snorted. Then, because no one else was there to hear her, she added, “My ass!” And then she put down the paper, picked up the telephone, and got cracking.

The McGraw household had a new phone line these days, one paid for with funds from Mothers Against the Madness in Germany. That was the one Diana parked herself in front of. She’d never imagined making so many long-distance phone calls. All the local long-distance operators recognized her voice. One had had a son wounded in Austria, so almost all of them were on her side.

Over and over again, across the country, she summarized Tom Schmidt’s column for the movement leaders who hadn’t seen it yet (several already had, and were just as stirred up about it as Diana was). “Silent majority!” she fleered, again and again. “Do we have time to organize rallies on the Fourth of July? We’ll show Truman where the majority is. We’ll show him it isn’t silent, too. And we’ll show him it isn’t on his side.”

By the time she got hungry enough to think about lunch, she’d made plans to turn the country upside down and inside out. She’d run up the phone bill by God only knew how much, but so what? It wasn’t her money. She still kept careful track of every penny of it-all those years in the PTA had ground that into her-but she didn’t worry about it any more.

She raided the icebox for leftovers and heated them on top of the stove. As she ate, she read the rest of the paper. Two more poor GIs blown up when a roadside artillery shell went off as their jeep drove by-another soldier wounded, too. She shook her head. Such a senseless waste!

She wished she hadn’t had that exact thought. Ed’s face appeared in her mind when she did. That wasn’t fair, and she knew it. They’d had a lot of good years together. They’d raised two good kids. If Pat had come home right after V-E Day, everything would still be fine. Everything still was fine-unless she decided it wasn’t.

Why did Ed have to look so much like a 1933 De Soto with a dented fender and a broken taillight?

“Nothing wrong with Ed. Not a single, solitary thing,” she said, there where nobody else could hear.

But that wasn’t what bothered her. What bothered her was, there wasn’t enough right with Ed.

She got on the phone again. The busier she stayed, the less time she’d have to look at things like that.