Hanging on

find out, if you had let him go?"
        "She has connections, sources," Slade said, looking down at himself. "You'd be surprised at my mother's sources." He tugged at the hem of his jacket. "I shouldn't have had to wear this silly uniform. Look at my hips. My hips look ridiculous in this uniform." He looked at the dead German in the middle of the road, a black lump in a wreath of gray smoke. "His uniform fit him well enough."

----

    13
        
        The sentry's corpse was startlingly white. It lay on its back by the edge of the river, one hand on the middle of its chest as if it were feeling for its own heartbeat. The skin was snowy, unnaturally white, almost phosphorescent. The body hair was too light to be seen. The dead man looked like a big, molded doll, all of painted rubber: long rubber legs, rubber arms, a thick rubber penis now horribly limp and curled over two rubber, felt-furred testicles. In the light of Kelly's torch, there were only two spots of color -the incredible blue eyes, and the red-black blood on the upper torso which had poured out when Coombs had slit the sentry's throat.
        That could be me, Kelly thought. Someday, it will be.
        He turned away, shifting the beam of his torch, and came upon Danny Dew who was standing directly under the bridge. Leaving the corpse behind, trying to forget it, he went over to the Negro. "That was amazing," he said.
        "What?" Danny Dew asked. He was stripping out of the German uniform. His powerful black body gleamed with perspiration; droplets of sweat clung to the tightly curled black hairs on his chest, like jewels sewn into his skin. He looked like an oiled harem guard. Except that he wasn't a eunuch.
        "That none of the Germans noticed you weren't- weren't Aryan," Kelly said. "That was fantastic."
        Danny Dew laughed, showing lots of white teeth. Were they really white, Major Kelly wondered, or were they only bright by comparison with Dew's dark face? That was one of the great mysteries that had haunted white Americans for as long as Major Kelly could remember. His mother had always said their teeth were not clean and white, but only appeared to be, because the rest of them was "painted so dark." Major Kelly remembered hours spent in discussions of Negro dental conditions, the family gathered around the kitchen table like a group of psychic gypsies discussing the netherworld. Even this near, even though Danny Dew was a close companion and had been for months, Major Kelly could not be sure about his teeth.
        Danny Dew said, "I pretended I was white."
        "Pretended?"
        "Well, I was the only one down here big enough to look good in that uniform, so I had to do something, didn't I? So I directed myself at those Jerrys, and I thought white."
        "But you still looked colored."
        "To you. I wasn't directing myself at you. Anyway, looks don't matter. It's all in how you think."
        "Even if you were thinking white, you looked colored," Kelly insisted.
        "If you can't accept it, forget it," Danny Dew said, tossing off the last of the German uniform and picking up his own pants. "But it's all in the head, Massah Kelly, all in de ole head."
        Kelly leaned back against the hard edge of a bridge support and said, "I can't accept that, no. If all a man had to do to become someone different was to think himself different, there wouldn't be a war. Each of us could be a German, Japanese, Britisher… No one would want to fight anyone else any longer."
        Danny Dew buckled his belt and pulled up his fly, struggled into his shirt which stuck to his sweat-slicked chest. "That's why I wish other people would start using their heads, like me," he told Kelly. "If everyone just pretended more, we could get out of this crappy place."

----

    14
        
        At four in the morning, only a few of the men in the camp were asleep. Six enlisted men were sitting in the woods immediately south of the camp, drinking cheap whiskey out of tin cups and singing songs over the graves of the two dead Germans. They weren't really mourning the dead men. But they couldn't just throw them in the ground and walk away. If the tables were turned, they would want someone to drink and sing over their graves, at the very least. They got very drunk, and they ran out of songs to sing.
        In the shabby rec room of the HQ building, about twenty men sat on the benches and in the cafe chairs Maurice had