Cryptonomicon

Hott and his uniform were both dry when the heart attack happened, so thank god the fabric is not frozen onto the skin. Shaftoe is able to cut most of it off with several long strokes of his exquisitely sharpened V-44 "Gung Ho" knife. But the V-44's machetelike nine-and-a-half-inch blade is completely inappropriate for close infighting--viz., the denuding of the armpits and groin--and he was told to be careful about inflicting scratches, so there he has to break out the USMC Marine Raider stiletto, whose slender double-edged seven-and-a-quarter-inch blade might have been designed for exactly this sort of procedure, though the fish-shaped handle, which is made of solid metal, begins freezing to the sweaty palm of Shaftoe's hand after a while.

Lieutenant Ethridge is hovering outside the locker's tomblike door. Shaftoe barges past him and heads straight for the building's exit, ignoring Ethridge's queries: "Shaftoe? How 'bout it?"

He does not stop until he is out of the shade of the building. The North African sunshine breaks over his body like a washtub of morphine. He closes his eyes and turns his face into it, holds his frozen hands up to cup the warmth and let it trickle down his forearms, drip from his elbows.

"How 'bout it?" Ethridge says again.

Shaftoe opens his eyes and looks around.

The harbor's a blue crescent with miles of sere jetties snaking around each other like diagrams of dance steps. One of them's covered with worn stumps of ancient bastions and next to it a French battleship lies half-sunk, still piping smoke and steam into the air. All around it, the ships of Operation Torch are unloading shit faster than you can believe. Cargo nets rise from the holds of the transports and splat onto the quays like giant loogies. Longshoremen haul, trucks carry, troops march, French girls smoke Yankee cigarettes, Algerians propose joint ventures.

Between those ships, and the Army's meat operation, up here on this rock, is what Bobby Shaftoe takes to be the City of Algiers. To his discriminating Wisconsinan eye it does not appear to have been builtso much as swept up on the hillside by a tidal wave. A lot of acreage has been devoted to keeping the fucking sun off, so from above, it has a shuttered-up look about it--lots of red tile, decorated with flowers and Arabs. Looks like a few modern concrete structures (e.g. this meat locker) have been thrown up by the French in the wake of some kind of vigorous slum-clearing offensive. Still, there's a lot of slums left to be cleared--target number one being this human beehive or anthill just off to Shaftoe's left, the Casbah, they call it. Maybe it's a neighborhood. Maybe it's a single poorly organized building. Has to be seen to be believed. Arabs packed into the place like fraternity pledges into a telephone booth.

Shaftoe turns around and looks again at the meat locker, which is dangerously exposed to enemy air attack here, but no one gives a fuck because who cares if the Krauts blow up a bunch of meat?

Lieutenant Ethridge, almost as desperately sunburned as Bobby Shaftoe, squints.

"Blond," Shaftoe says.

"Okay."

"Blue-eyed."

"Good."

"Anteater--not mushroom."

"Huh?"

"He's not circumcised, sir!"

"Excellent! How 'bout the other thing?"

"One tattoo, sir!"

Shaftoe is enjoying the slow buildup of tension in Ethridge's voice:

"Describe the tattoo, Sergeant!"

"Sir! It is a commonly seen military design, sir! Consisting of a heart with a female's name in it."

"What is that name, Sergeant?" Ethridge is on the verge of pissing his pants.

"Sir! The name inscribed on the tattoo is the following name: Griselda. Sir!"

"Aaaah!" Lieutenant Ethridge lets loose deep from the diaphragm. Veiled women turn and look. Over in that Casbah, starved-looking, shave-needing ragheads lean out of spindly towers yodeling out of key.

Ethridge shuts up and contents himself with clenching his fists until they go white. When he speaks again, his voice is hushed with emotion. "Battles have hinged on lesser strokes of luck than this one, Sergeant!"

"You're telling me!?" Shaftoe says. "When I was on Guadalcanal, sir, we got trapped in this little cove and pinned down--"

"I don't want to hear the lizard story, Sergeant!"

"Sir! Yes, sir!"

***

Once when Bobby Shaftoe was still in Oconomowoc, he had to help his brother move a mattress up a stairway and learned new respect for the difficulty of manipulating heavy but floppy objects. Hott, may God have mercy on his soul, is a heavy S.O.B., and so it is excellent luck that he is frozen solid. After the Mediterranean sun has its way with him, he is sure enough going to be floppy. And then some.