The military was a last-name world and nicknames doled out during basic training stuck around permanently. Sergeant Preist—“Preist rhymes with Jesus Christ, who has no authority here!”—had no patience with a name like Dziedzice. “You goddamn Poles are letter happy,” he said. “From now on, you’re Dizzy. Fall in.”

Likewise Preist thought the surname Babbiolamente had four syllables too many, and shortened it to Baby. Fragiacomo became Jock, or if the sergeant was in a bad mood, Jockstrap. Losquadro was easy to say, but Sarge liked calling him Squad Car. Friefeld became Free Fall. Two guys in a barracks named Ellis? The shorter one got called Squirt.

“You like that nickname, Squirt?”

“Sir, no, sir.”

“Appreciate the honesty, Squirt.”

The platoon sergeant glanced at the next name on the roster, Fiskare, and barked for Private Fisher to fall in. Kennet didn’t correct him. He was the last F surname on the list and there were none starting with G. Next to fall in was Private Richard Hook.

“Well, isn’t this poetic,” said Preist. “We got a Fish and a Hook. You guys lovers?”

“Sir, no, sir.”

“That’s right, because all the fags are in the Navy. Now listen up, you bunch of cocksucking pansies…”

Kennet’s insignia patches arrived as Fisher and he quietly got them fixed while answering to the new name. Within three days, he was Fish to all. He and Hook stuck together, out of poetry at first, and little by little, out of genuine liking.

They were able to share the bottom berth with little problem. Hook took the space nearest the wall because he liked to turn away and tuck himself into the dark. Kennet gladly took the open side, because not being able to see everything made him uneasy.

Marco Malinda hung his head over the edge of the berth above. “Tell another fish tale, Fish.”

Kennet waved him off. “Snip, snap, snout. My tale’s worn out.”

“Hey guys,” Hook called. “You know there’s a Swedish legend that if you catch a fish, you get three wishes?”

“You have to catch the magic fish,” Kennet said.

“You’ll do,” Hook said. “And my wish is another story. Grant it or you get no sleep.”

Now Malinda hung his ass over the berth’s edge and let a ripe one cut the air. Everyone groaned, coughed, retched and cursed.

“Goddammit, Malinda, you’ve polluted the entire train. You wreck government property and they take it out of your pay, y’know.”

“Light a match,” someone yelled.

“Christ, no, you’ll blow up the damn car.”

“That’ll take a hunk out of your paycheck.”

“Shit, that’s an instant court martial.”

“Tell a fucking story, Fish,” someone called. “Before we either asphyxiate or wind up in the clink.”

I Might Kill Someone Tomorrow

US base camp, somewhere in England

15 Dec 1944

Dear Paps and all the Fish,