Hanging on

Frog's here!" the sergeant shouted again.
        "I heard, I heard!" Major Kelly said, scrambling up the ravine, dust rising in clouds behind him, stones kicking out from under his feet and falling down on top of Beame who tried to keep up with him.
        "I am not a frog," Maurice said, stepping into sight a dozen paces from Coombs. "People are not animals-except, perhaps, to the Nazis. One should never refer to human beings with the names of animals. It is degrading. I refrain, after all, from calling Sergeant Coombs a pig."
        Sergeant Coombs colored a pink, hamlike shade, and turned and stomped back to the corrugated shed where he tended the construction machines that he loved. He didn't salute Major Kelly or request his commanding officer's leave. He did, however, say, "Bullshit."
        Major Kelly shook Maurice's hand, marveling as always at the inordinate greasiness of Maurice's complexion. The man's round chin was like a large, oiled bearing. His cheeks were slick. His nose was beaded with oil in the creases and shined overall. His hair was combed straight back, pasted to his round head by a heavy coat of clear lubrication. Fortunately, Major Kelly thought, Sergeant Coombs had not yet called Maurice a greasy frog.
        "What brings you here today, Maurice?" Kelly asked. But he knew what brought Maurice there: the possibility of a profit. The possibility of a profit motivated Maurice like food or sex or liquor or success motivated other men.
        Quite to the point, Maurice said, "I would like to have your backhoe. The Cat, you know which I mean?" He wiped his greasy hands on his baggy trousers and looked past the major at the heavy, camouflage-painted piece of equipment.
        Major Kelly shook his head sadly. "You know we can't permit Army property to be used for a civilian project."
        "You misunderstand, Major!" Maurice said. "I do not wish to borrow the backhoe. Au contraire! I wish to own it."
        "You want to buy the backhoe?"
        "No, no, no."
        "You want me to give it to you? Just give you The Cat?"
        "That's right, Major."
        Major Kelly wished that Maurice didn't speak English so well, that the channels of communication between them were severely limited. It was dangerous to be able to communicate with the old son of a bitch. Just past the turn of the century, when he was seventeen, Maurice had immigrated to America where he'd remained until just after the First World War. He had returned to France because, as he told the major, there was a greater chance of his making a fortune there. He had not done badly in the States, and he hoped to use his capital to invest, cheaply, in the shattered motherland and then grow along with her as she was restored. He'd done well, though not so well as he had thought he would. In France again, he found that his countrymen were not enamored of Americans, not in the least, and that they distrusted any Frenchman who had once gone to live with the Yanks. Still, he had made and lost and remade and relost fortunes. Right now, he was trying to make a fortune by screwing Major Kelly to the wall. He tried this about once a week. He hadn't failed yet to get what he wanted.
        "I suppose," Major Kelly said, "that there's a good reason why I should just give you the machine."
        "An excellent reason," Maurice agreed, wiping a hand over his white, greasy hair. His fingers were greasy too.
        "Information to sell?"
        Maurice nodded. "Information that will save your lives," he said, grandly. Maurice could be grand, when he wanted. Even with his hair all slicked back and his face greasy, he could be grand.
        "You exaggerate, surely."
        "Never."
        "What's the nature of this information?"
        Maurice looked meaningfully at the backhoe and arched one bushy eyebrow.
        "You can't expect me to give you the machine without knowing what I'm getting in return," Major Kelly said. "That's not nice, not nice at all. I am always nice to my men and nice to you-so why is everyone nasty with me?"
        Maurice nodded sadly, sympathizing with the major, but he would still not say what the information was that he had to sell.
        Major Kelly turned and pointed at the camouflaged backhoe which sat on the edge of the riverbank, by the bridge entrance, digging-claw up and bent, mud crusted on its teeth. "Do you know what that piece of equipment costs? Do you realize how