Whiling away the hours before darkness, we threw snowball grenades at imaginary enemy forces hiding in the trees, fancying ourselves soon to be overrun but heroic in resistance.  “Why we almost had a disaster in Korea,” he says,  “we relaxed after winning the big war. Nobody thought we could be challenged.” “And we paid the price, sure enough. MacArthur pulled his last big one out of the hat, at Inchon, then overextended. He thought he was a god. Truman fired him. That took some balls.” “I’m not doing C-rations,” Schwarz says. “The farmer’s place gotta have better than that.” “Yeah,” I said, “maybe we can trade for beer. C-rations might be OK for the livestock. You have marks though, right?” “Hell, yes. And you?” “Some,” I said. “Enough probably. These places can’t be that expensive.” We sat by the tent as dusk came, our helmets boulders on our heads, arms and legs supple as sawn-off logs. No probes came from those in our contingent acting as the bad guys; none overt, or, as far as we knew, covert. These fields got badly torn up by the exercises. The U.S. government paid for damages. How quickly I had no idea. We could see heavy vapors from exhaling oxen a hundred or so yards beyond. It was uninterruptedly quiet until a locomotive hauling freight slowly passed, leaving an elegant black-gray frieze of smoke. He mentioned the new guy in the unit, Jarvis Smitison.  “Hey, you know that guy had a cushy job in headquarters, worked behind a desk, had it made. This chickenshit we endure, ole Jarv never encountered it. No policing the yard. No short-order drill. No cleaning weapons. Footlocker. No nothin.’ ” So, I said, how’d he get sent to us? “Well, maybe you’ll believe this; maybe you won’t. The captain’s driver and Jarvis take the captain’s jeep and head to a wine festival a little ways off the base, couple miles outside town. Jarvis drinks a lot of wine, young wine, which can really sneak up on you. On the way back, he passes out and—unknown to him—shits in the captain’s jeep. The driver takes it to the motor pool and hoses it down. But the stench. It doesn’t go away. “Next day, Captain is about to go somewhere, and he picks up the scent. After a company investigation, Jarvis is told he’s being shipped out, to a line uit. Captain tells him he accepts that this breach of etiquette is unintentional, but it could be interpeted as a sign of disrespect to the company commander. So Jarvis is busted to buck private and banished to the boonies.” How’s he taking it? I said. “Happier here, swears he is. Says he was turning into a sloth at HQ.  Seems to be doing well far as his duties are concerned.” “Jeez! Whaddaya know?” I said, aware that the absurdity of it defied meaningful comment. “C’mon, let’s go,” Schwarz said. We trudged off for the gasthaus, or whatever it was over the hill. When we reached it, after about 20 minutes the place was part barnyard, part local beer hall. Inside, we learned later, a birthday was being celebrated. Loud, plenty of oompah. They looked at us quizzically when we entered grinning and tossing out Wei gehts. We paid for several rounds in dollars. Everyone relaxed; conviviality reigned. All decked out in colorful green Bavarian garb, Lodenhute, the feathered hat, and Kniehosen, or knickers. Some tried to converse. The obvious fact that Schwarz, meaning black in German, was white, provoked laughter. “Weiss? Aber . . . nicht Schwarz. Weiss!” Loud guffaws. That was their notion of humor, the best they came up with. If Carver showed, what would he make of this? I sat contentedly, eating wurst on brotchen and drinking homemade brandy. Schwarz, a short guy, started polkaing with some of the tall buxom fraus, motioning me to join in. I stayed with the brandy, although no longer sober—it was easy to tell because the women were starting to look better. Carver was turning into a no-show. We staggered back in befuddled circles to the campsite, reaching it after about an hour of falling into snowbanks, the tent a rounded mound. The massed snow gave off not much but just enough light. I collapsed outside, and Schwarz went inside to join the machine gun, nicely in place where we’d left it. “Think those krauts were razzing me? Because, you know, because of  . . . because of me being a Jew?” he said as he emerged shaking my sleeping bag before my groggy head. The Sterno was now giving off a blue flame in the tent. “Naah, simple-minded peasants. Dumbkopfs, man, just having their peculiar brand of Bavarian kicks. This country is going to steer clear of the Jewish question for a while.” “You better get inside before you freeze your butt out here,” he said. Mercifully, he threw the bag over me before he himself passed out a moment after returning to the tent. The cold didn’t register. When I got up to pee my arms and legs still functioned. Winter gear must be effective after all, I decided. I zipped up and joined him inside, dragging the bag into the tight space.