Story 5

It was half past two on a blazing August afternoon, and my men were draped across our shabby furniture in Barracks 2. Klink had sent us inside after warning me he had no desire to fill out Red Cross reports on POWs with sunstroke.

Inside, the guys stripped down to undershirts and boxers. Newkirk was splayed limply over the edge of his bunk, melting. Carter lay on the floor on the principle that heat rises. Kinch slumped over the table.

I couldn't follow suit—I was the CO, after all—but I rolled up my sleeves and sat beside Kinch, groaning, "It's too damn hot." As soon as I said it, I was annoyed with myself. I was starting to sound like Newkirk.

LeBeau took a break from fanning himself with the door of his locker to check the thermometer that was tacked up by the barracks door. "Mon Dieu, it's 35 degrees," he grumbled.

"What's that in real numbers?" Newkirk drawled.

"Thirty-five is a real number, Newkirk," Carter said helpfully. "But to figure the temperature in Fahrenheit, you multiply by 1.8 and add 32, and you get, um…" He tapped his lip, then did math in the air with his index finger.

"Well, 54 plus 9 is 63, add 32… it's 95 degrees," Newkirk calculated. He had a baffling knack for mental arithmetic.

The room went quiet as the oppressive heat sent our minds drifting like paper boats on a pond. Eventually, Kinch lifted his head and shared a random thought that was worthy of Carter.

"Packard made a car with air-conditioning," Kinch said. "Shipped 2,000 of them from Detroit in 1939. Trouble was, the evaporator and blower system took half the trunk and plumbing lines snaked all over. Plus they were expensive, so they discontinued the model in '41." He grunted and dropped his head back down.

"A car with air-conditioning… like that'll ever catch on," I snorted. I was growing more irritable as I dripped.

Just then, we heard a distant rumble. The guys' ears all rotated like a dog's as the front gates swung open and a vehicle rolled through. LeBeau grabbed the periscope; we crowded around him.

"What is it? What do you see?" I demanded.

"It's the ice-man," LeBeau replied. "Just the regular delivery. No, wait. It's more ice than normal, several big blocks."

"Where are they taking it?"

"The usual locations, mon Colonel. The kitchen, the Kommandant's quarters, the ice house," LeBeau shrugged. Big blocks would keep for at least a week.

The men scattered, disappointed. A mission might have snapped us all out of our doldrums, but this was just ice. Kinch, LeBeau and Newkirk flopped listlessly at the table while Carter resumed his prone position on the floor.

But now I had ice on the brain as I took up the periscope for myself. I gazed out longingly, but said nothing.

Count on Kinch to hear my gears turning. "What are you thinking, Sir?"

"I want a block of ice. Now," I said.

Newkirk lifted his head. "Whatever for, Gov?"

I was in no mood for giving for explanations.

Carter's voice wafted up from the floor. "How do you swipe a block of ice, Colonel? It'll slip all over the place."

"Sheepskin and tongs," Newkirk yawned as he fanned himself with a girlie magazine.

"'Sheepskin? Tongs?' Are those actual English words, or are you making this up?" LeBeau groaned.

Newkirk rolled his eyes, ignoring the insult. "The tongs are for lifting. The sheepskin keeps your shoulder from freezing." I was encouraged, but the rest of the men shot him skeptical looks. "What? I've seen it done," he said.

That's my thief, I beamed.

"I want that ice, Newkirk. Get it for me." Still holding the periscope, I could actually hear myself perspiring.

Newkirk waved his hand airily, shut his eyes, and said nothing. Apparently it was literally too hot for words. But a moment later my hot breath was on his neck. He turned his head and I guess he was startled to see me.

"Now?" he squeaked.

"Now. That's an order, Corporal," I said. My voice was getting shrill, but I didn't care.

"All right, I'll go," Newkirk said, hands in surrender. "Let me suit up first. Blimey, the things I do for you."

I watched him as he slid out of the barracks. Luckily the few guards who were on duty in their woolen uniforms were torpid with heat prostration. They sagged against buildings, waving hands, helmets, or handkerchiefs in front of their faces. They didn't notice a devious Englishman tiptoeing toward the ice house, nor did they notice him slogging his way back and shoving a 20-pound block of ice through the barracks window.

"What are we doing with it, Sir?" Kinch was saying as Newkirk sauntered through the door. Sneaking about always lifted his mood.

"Snow cones," Carter said dreamily.

"Old Fashioneds," Olsen said. Brows wrinkled, so he elaborated: "Bourbon, sugar syrup and bitters on the rocks."

"Gelato," Garlotti put in.

"No, no, and no," I said. "Carter, unscrew the motor from the gramophone. LeBeau, cut up that Red Cross parcel into seven five-inch long paddles. Kinch, rig up a battery and a switch. Garlotti and Olsen, stand that ice up here on the table. I'll find wire."

Good men. They did as they were told. We set up our new fan behind the block of ice and switched it on.

A cool breeze rose up as the fan blew on the ice. I sat in front of it with my eyes closed until Carter tapped me on the shoulder to ask for a turn.

"You can have my spot on the floor, Sir."

I took it. I lay there and I grinned at the sight of my men gathering around the block of ice and the electric fan, smiles crossing their weary faces for the first time all day.

Barracks 2: The first air-conditioned barracks in all of Germany. It could catch on.