An MP car, horn and siren and lights all going, approaches. Reluctantly, Purfle and Bladdery do relax, and, sighing out of puffed cheeks, part. Bodine, ten feet away, tosses over the heads of the awakening crowd a fat packet of scrip which the Commando catches, riffle-splits, and gives half of to Purfle, who’s already on route to the gangplank of his gray mother the John E. Badass, where the quarterdeck watch are looking more lively, and even a card game in the ship’s laundry breaking up so everybody can go watch the big bust. Drunkards ashore begin to mill, sluggish and with no sense of direction. From beyond the pale of electric light comes a rush of girls, shivering, aroused, beruffled, to witch St. John Bladdery away under cover of pretty-pastel synthetics and amorous squeals. Bodine and Krypton, hipwriggling and cursing their way through the crowd, stumbling over wakers and sleepers, stop by the dumpster to collect Slothrop, who rises from a pile of eggshells, beer cans, horrible chicken parts in yellow gravy, coffee grounds and waste paper spilling or clattering off of him, raises his mask, and smiles howdy at Bodine.

“Rocketman, holy shit, it really is. What’s happening, ol’ buddy?”

“Been double-crossed, need a ride to Putzi’s.” Lorries have been showing up, into whose canvas shadows MPs are beginning to load everybody slower-moving than they are. Now two civilians, one with a beard, come charging down the pier, hollering, “A pig suit, a pig suit, there, look,” and, “You—Slothrop—stay where you are.”

Not about to, Slothrop with a great clank and crunch rolls out of the garbage and at a dead run follows Bodine and Krypton, chickenfat flowing away, eggshells flying off behind him. A Red Cross Clubmobile or canteen truck is parked down at the next nest of destroyers, its light spilling neatly square on the asphalt, a pretty girl with a Deanna Durbin hairdo framed inside against stacks of candy bars, cigarettes, chock-shaped sandwiches in waxed paper.

“Coffee, boys?” she smiles, “how about some sandwiches? We’re sold out of everything tonight but ham,” then seeing Slothrop, “oh, dear, I’m sorry… .”

“Keys to the truck,” Bodine coming up with a Cagney sneer and nickel-plated handgun, “c’mon,” cocking the hammer.

Tough frown, shoulderpadded shrug. “In the ignition, Jackson.” Albert Krypton climbs in the back to keep her company while Slothrop and Bodine jump in front and get under way in a tight, screeching U-turn just as the two civilians come running up.

“Now who th’ hell’s zat,” Slothrop looking back out the window at their shouting shapes diminishing, “did you check that one bird with the ace of spades on his cheek?”

Bodine swerves past the disturbance around the John E. Badass and gives everybody the obligatory finger. Slothrop slouches back in the seat, putting the pig mask up like a knight’s beaver, reaching over to pry a pack of cigarettes out of Bodine’s jumper pocket, lighting one up, weary, wishing he could just sleep… . In back of him suddenly the Red Cross girl shrieks, “My God, what’s that?”