“This is some bullshit. I didn’t come all the way here to mop floors. Punk-ass Sarge just wants to keep a brother underneath his foot.” Ozzie’s hands were dry from bleach, and the small of his back throbbed from bending over the bucket.
“Come on out with us tonight, Philips. Blow off some of that steam.”
“I need to brush up on my German.”
“That’s what Monday nights are for. Come on, it’s Friday night, Square Pants. And it’s blues night, which means we won’t have no trouble with them white boys. They’ll all be on the other side of town at one of those Billy clubs, listening to that country crap.”
They had just received their month’s pay. Ozzie had earned eighty dollars. He had wired thirty-five dollars to his mother and decided to live off ten dollars a week for the next month and put five dollars in the American Express for a rainy day.
“Sure.”
“Okay, we walk over at twenty-one hundred.”
The Federal Eagle Club was just east of the Benjamin Franklin Village, the new barracks still under construction. According to Morgan, the club was known for good music and great bratwurst, and hospitably welcomed Negro soldiers on blues and jazz nights. The best part was that it was located within walking distance of the barracks, since none of the men owned cars.
As they made their way to the entrance, Morgan passed out peppermints to Ozzie and the three others who had joined them. “Don’t want your foul breath offending the ladies,” he said, chuckling.
“Once I pull my harmonica out and play three notes, it’s all over, turkeys,” said a guy named Satchel. He was tall and reedy and never without his harmonica pressed against his front shirt pocket.
Inside, the lights were dimmed, and the sultry sounds of the blues immediately relaxed Ozzie.
Satchel clapped his hands together. “Philips, what’s your poison?”
Ozzie opened his mouth to say club soda, but the thought crossed his mind that a beer wouldn’t hurt him. After what he’d been through this week with his first sergeant and the mess hall, he deserved that much. He’d just stay away from the hard stuff.
Satchel brought over mugs of pils, a light golden beer that Ozzie had seen men drinking in Kitzingen. He tipped the glass to his lips and drank as the men exchanged gripes about work.
“I’m sick of these crackers thinking I work for them.”
“Didn’t they get the memo? Slavery is over.”
“And with Truman’s executive order to desegregate, you’d think these clowns would change.”
“Things ain’t changing. Least not for me. I had this one corporal-ass redneck ask me if I wouldn’t mind polishing his boots. I looked at him like he was crazy, then walked away like I didn’t even hear him.”
“What’s worse, they’ve taught the Germans to be afraid of us. They can’t stand to see us with these women. That’s why I’m about to get me one of these honeys tonight.” Satchel stood, patted his pocket for his harmonica, and walked toward two women sitting at the bar.
“The system is pure bullshit.”
“An abomination,” Ozzie offered.
“You always trying to kill us with those big words.”
“Right, you see why I told you he was like a damn professor. You know this fool wanted to stay in and practice his German tonight,” Morgan teased, and the men at the table roared.
“Okay, okay.” Ozzie toasted his mug to Morgan’s. “I’m here now. You were right. Glad you got me out.”
“You smell that perfume? That’s my cue.” One of the guys got up and the others followed, leaving Ozzie at the table alone. He drankwhile he watched Morgan show one of the German girls how to do the jitterbug.
A thin waitress dressed in a black short-sleeved dress walked by with a tray of shots.
Ozzie touched her arm. “Hey, I’ll take one.”
She spun around. “It is cheaper to buy the bottle.”
Ozzie didn’t like her tone. It reminded him of First Sergeant Petty talking down to him. In an instant, his good mood was gone. He’d had enough of white people telling him what to do.
“I didn’t ask you all of that,” he spat. “Mind your business and give me what I asked for.”
