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a lumbar support when seated at his desk. He was short and, despite paratrooper fitness, appeared more fit for logistical staff than leading men into combat. He returned Joe's salute, gestured for him to sit down, then nodded to a civilian seated next to him. Joe suspected he was a local constable, but he spoke American English.
    “I hear you're called Jumpin' Joe,” he said as an icebreaker. “Why do you like to jump?”
    “Fifty bucks, sir.” That was the monthly premium for enlisted paratroopers.
    “What else?”
    That would take a long explanation, and Joe was never long on words. Neither was Wolverton, but he provided an answer. “There's nothing like the blast, is there, Beyrle? The opening shock, the coming down.” He shoved Joe's brief military resume over to the civilian for his next question.
    “I see here you had a classified jump. What was that about?”
    “Sir, I was in a squad-size drop into Panama to test the range of walkie-talkies in the jungle.”
    “Fun?”
    “No, sir. The bugs ate us alive.”
    “Glad you're in the ETO instead of the Pacific?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “How many jumps have you had?”
    The official number was right in Joe's file, so the question seemed to lead to his unauthorized proxy jumps. Joe did not try to dissemble. “About forty, sir. Maybe fifty, counting balloon drops.” Among real paratroopers, the latter was considered sissy because there was no opening shock.
    “Quite a few more than average,” the civilian noted. Wolverton nodded. “Would you be interested in another one? Sort of like Panama.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “You'd be going to where
brandy
comes from. You know where that is?”
    “France, sir.”
    “That's right. And you'd be going solo. Think it over.”
    He didn't need to. “I volunteer, sir.”
    “Currahee,” said Wolverton—high praise from him— “there's a jeep outside. It'll take you to division G-2.” Joe rose to salute. “You know where I remember you from, Beyrle?”
    “At the end of the march, sir?”
    “No, after that, at Camp Mackall. “Assembly—
ta-ta-te-da”
Joe grinned. “Ever see Ross?”
    “I think he's carrying a mortar in G Company, sir.”
    “I'll see you again, trooper. Don't worry about anything while you're gone.”
    That was reassuring. Whatever Wolverton said, he meant, and he never promised what he couldn't personally deliver. But how could he this time, Joe wondered as he began his second jeep ride of the day. His destination was division headquarters about fifty miles away at Greenham Common, near Newbury. There Joe saw more officers than the total number he'd seen so far in the army. At Greenham Common, captains were like privates, majors like sergeants, and lieutenant colonels like Wolverton scurried around like somewhat important clerks. Joe even got a glimpse of the division artillery commander, Brigadier General Anthony McAuliffe.
    In the G-2 (intelligence) office no one knew why Joe had been sent for; eventually a major appeared to ask about his background, as if Joe were being considered for a securityclearance. This was the pretense for a sizing-up, a checking-out for general steadiness. Joe had it; he spoke slowly while keeping eye contact. Now, what about his German name? How close were his ties to Germany? The question offended: both sides of his family were devoutly Catholic and American. There had been a Berlin, Michigan, but during World War I German-Americans, like the Beyrles and Schmidts, had changed the name to Marne.
    Joe's interview was interrupted by a phone call, then quickly ended. A lieutenant from G-2 drove him back at top speed to Ramsbury, telling him to pick up just overnight stuff as if for a weekend pass. I Company was out in the field as usual, so Joe didn't have to do any explaining. At even higher speed honking most of the way, the lieutenant drove him to the Hungerford railway station. The jeep sped off, then hit the brakes. The driver had forgotten to give something to Joe,