Hanging on

eggs, beer shampoos, standing on his head, prayer. Nothing worked. Now, Sergeant Coombs had mentioned the mud treatment, and Major Kelly was trying that.
        He was desperate. Ever since they'd been dropped behind German lines, his hair had been falling out faster than it usually did, and his widow's peak was widening and deepening. In fact, he now had a widow's promontory, flanked by two enormous bays of baldness. If he didn't stop the erosion soon, he'd have a widow's island, encircled by gleaming skin, and then no one would love him any more. No one loved a bald man. Was Mussolini loved?
        Ever since General Blade had called on the wireless more than a day ago and Major Kelly had learned of the possibility of the Panzer division moving his way, his hair had been falling out at an unprecedented and alarming rate of speed, like snow or autumn leaves. It fell out in clumps, in several twisted strands at a time, fell out when he combed his hair, when he scratched his scalp, when he turned his head too fast, when he nodded. He was even afraid to think, for fear his hair would fall out.
        Major Kelly couldn't tolerate the prospect of baldness. He had known too many bald men-his Uncle Milton, a grade school teacher named Coolidge, a high school chemistry teacher, Father Boyle, and Sergeant Masterson in basic training-and he knew how cruel well-haired men could be when they talked about the baldies behind their backs. Chrome dome, skinhead, glass bean, bone head… The nasty names were limitless. Major Kelly refused to be known as Chrome Dome or anything similar. He'd rather die first.
        Of course, he might. The odds on his living through this were damn slight, after all. If that Panzer division, complete with supply trucks and ack-ack guns and infantrymen, moved toward the bridge and stayed by it overnight, then Major Kelly wouldn't live long enough to have to endure any cruel nicknames. And that was exactly why his hair was falling out. He was worrying too much about the Panzer division, and his hair was falling out-and it was all a vicious circle.
        He put more mud on his head. It stank.
        He was still putting mud on his head ten minutes later when Nurse Pullit wobbled into his quarters wearing Lily Kain's high-heeled white pumps. Nurse Pullit was also wearing what was intended to be a beatific smile-which didn't look as good on the nurse as the pumps did. In fact, Major Kelly thought the smile was a leer, and he was immediately defensive.
        "You've got to come to the hospital!" Pullit squealed. Pullit's red bandanna had slipped back, revealing a still predominately male hairline. "It's a real miracle! A real miracle!"
        "What is?" Major Kelly asked, peering into his shaving mirror to see how stupid he looked with mud all over his head. He looked very stupid.
        "Kowalski!" Nurse Pullit said, oblivious of the mud.
        "Is he dead?" Kelly asked.
        Pullit frowned, looking at Kelly's face in the mirror. "I said it was a real miracle!"
        "Then he is dead?"
        "No," Pullit said. "He's come around, and he's talking!"
        Major Kelly looked up from the mirror, turned, and stared at Nurse Pullit. "Your bandanna's askew."
        Pullit reached up and tugged it into place and smiled sweetly. Pullit could look exceptionally sweet, at times. "What about Kowalski?"
        "He's talking, is he? What's he saying?"
        Nurse Pullit pulled on a bee-stung lip. "We're not exactly sure about that. It's-it's strange. Tooley says you ought to come and hear it right away."
        "He does, huh?"
        "Yes, sir. He sent me to fetch you."
        Reluctantly, Kelly got to his feet. A drop of warm mud slid down his forehead, down the length of his nose and hung there like a decoration. He followed Nurse Pullit to the hospital bunker, across the dried grass and dusty clearing, staying ten paces behind where he could admire the excellent slimness of the nurse's legs. The white pumps had done well by those legs. All that could improve on them now was a pair of stockings. Perhaps he could bribe the pilot of the supply plane and have some nylons flown in for the nurse. Pullit would appreciate…
        He suddenly remembered who Nurse Pullit was: Private Pullit. He decided that, if in a moment of weakness he ever ordered and received those nylons, the best thing to do would be to use a pair of them to strangle himself.
        In the hospital