V.

"To make you think about a girl. Even if you don't have a girl, it's better somehow if you . . ." He trailed off. Fat Clyde didn't try to keep the subject alive.

From a Phillips Radio store to their left, news broadcasts were going full blast. Little tense knot of civilians stood around, just listening. Nearby at a newspaper kiosk, red scare headlines proclaimed BRITISH INTEND TO MOVE INTO SUEZ. "Parliament," said the newscaster, "after an emergency session, issued a resolution late this afternoon calling for the engagement of airborne troops in the Suez crisis. The paratroopers, based on Cyprus and Malta, are on one-hour alert."

"Oboy, oboy," said Fat Clyde wearily.

"High and dry," said Pappy Hod, "and the only ship in the Sixth Fleet getting liberty." All the others were off in the Eastern Mediterranean, evacuating American nationals from the Egyptian mainland. Abruptly, Pappy cut round a corner to the left. He'd gone about ten steps down the hill when he noticed Fat Clyde wasn't there.

"Where are you going," Fat Clyde yelled from the corner.

"The Gut," said Pappy, "where else."

"Oh." Clyde came stumbling downhill. "I figured maybe we could wander around the main drag a little. "

Pappy grinned: reached out and patted Clyde's beer belly. "Easy there, mother Clyde," he said. "Old Hod is doing all right."

I'm just trying to be helpful, Clyde thought. But: "Yes," he agreed, "I am pregnant with a baby elephant. You want to see its trunk?"

Pappy guffawed and they roistered away down the hill. There is nothing like old jokes. It's a kind of stability about them: familiar ground.

Strait Street - the Gut – was as crowded as Kingsway, but more poorly lit. First familiar face they saw was Leman, the red-headed water-king, who came reeling out the swinging doors of a pub called the Four Aces, minus a white hat. Leman was a bad drunk, so Pappy and Clyde ducked down behind a patted palm in front to watch. Sure enough, Leman started searching in the gutter, bent over at a 90 degree angle. "Rocks," whispered Clyde. "He always looks for rocks." The water-king found a rock and prepared to heave it through the front window of the Four Aces. The U. S. Cavalry, in the form of one Tourneur, the ship's barber, arrived also by way of the swinging doors and grabbed Leman's arm. The two fell to the street and began wrestling around in the dust. A passing band of British Marines looked at them curiously for a moment, then went by, laughing, a little embarrassed.

"See," said Pappy, getting philosophical. "Richest country in the world, and we never learned how to throw a good-bye drunk like the Limeys."

"But it's not good-bye for us." said Clyde.

"Who knows. There's revolutions in Hungary and Poland, fighting in Egypt." Pause. "And Jayne Mansfield is getting married."

"She can't, she can't. She said she'd wait for me."

They entered the Four Aces. It was early yet, and no one but a few low-tolerance drunks like Leman were causing any commotion. They sat at a table. "Guinness stout," said Pappy and the words fell on Clyde like a nostalgic sandbag. He wanted to say, Pappy, it is not the old days, and why didn't you stay on board the Scaffold boat, because a boring liberty is better for me than one that hurts, and this hurts more all the time.

The barmaid who brought their drinks was new: at least Clyde didn't remember her from last cruise. But one across the room, jitterbugging with one of Pappy's strikers, she'd been around. And though Paola's bar had been the Metro, further on down the street, this girl - Elisa? - knew through the barmaids' grapevine that Pappy had married one of her own. If only Clyde could keep him away from the Metropole. If only Elisa didn't spot them.

But the music stopped, she saw them, headed over. Clyde concentrated on his beer. Pappy smiled at Elisa.

"How's your wife?" she asked, of course.

"I hope she's well."

Elisa, bless her heart, dropped it. "You want to dance? Nobody broke your record yet. Twenty-two straight."

Nimble Pappy was on his feet. "Let's set a new one."

Good, thought Clyde: good. After a while, who should come over but LtJG Johnny Contango, the Scaffold's damage-control assistant, in civvies.

"When we going to get the screw fixed, Johnny?"

Johnny because this officer had been a white hat sent to OCS, and having been then faced with the usual two alternatives - to persecute those of his former estate or to keep fraternizing and to hell with the wardroom - had chosen the latter. He had gone possibly overboard on this, at least running afoul of the Book at every turn: stealing a motorcycle in Barcelona, inciting an impromptu mass midnight swim at Fleet Landing in the Piraeus. Somehow - maybe because of Captain Lych's fondness for incorrigibles - he'd escaped court-martial.