He checks out this plush or velvet rig, finds it to be a pig costume complete with mask, considers slyly that no MP would bother an innocent funseeking pig. As humorless limey voices move closer through the rooms of Putzi’s, he rips frantically at silk lining and straw padding to make room for his own fat. And, struggled at last inside, whew, zipped up, mask hiding face, safe, clownish-anonymous, pushes out through bead curtains, then upstairs to the bar, only to run spang into a full division of the red-hatted ’suckers coming his way, all in step, swear to God.

“Here’s our elusive swine, gentlemen,” pocked face, blunt and ragged mustache, pointing a pistol right at his head, others moving up quickly. A civilian comes pushing through, spade-shape blazing dark on his smooth cheek.

“Right. Dr. Muffage is outside with the ambulance, and we’d like two of your chaps for a moment, sergeant, till we’re all secure.”

“Certainly, sir.” Wrists weak from steam and comfort gathered skillfully behind his back before he can even get mad enough to start yelling at them—cold steel, ratcheting like a phone number being dialed late at night, with no hope in hell of any answer ever… .

“Goddamn,” he finally gets out, mask muffling his voice, giving it an echo that hurts his ears, “what’n thee hell’s wrong with you, boy?

Don’t you know who I am?”

But oh-oh, waitaminute—if they’ve found the uniform, Marvy ID and cocaine in the same set of pockets, maybe it isn’t such a hot idea to tell them his name just yet… .

“Leftenant Slothrop, we presume. Come along, now.”

He keeps silent. Slothrop, O.K., we’ll just wait, see what the score is, square the dope thing later, play dumb, say it must’ve been planted. Maybe even find him a Jewish lawyer good enough to nail the ’suckers for false arrest.

He’s escorted out the door and into the idling ambulance. The bearded driver gives him only a quick over-the-shoulder glance, then lets in the clutch. Before he can think to struggle, the other civilian and the MPs have quickly strapped Marvy at knees and chest to a stretcher.

A pause by an Army lorry to let the MPs off again. Then they continue on. Toward Cuxhaven. Marvy thinks. Nothing but night, moon-softened blackness out the window. Can’t tell… .

“Sedation now?” Ace of Spades crouches beside him, shining a pocket flashlight over ampoules in his kit, rattling syringes and points.

“Mm. Yes, we’re almost there.”

“I don’t see why they couldn’t have given us hospital space for this.”

The driver laughs. “Oh yes, I can just see that.”

Filling the hypodermic slowly, “Well we are under orders… I mean there’s nothing—”

“Dear chap, it’s not the most respectable operation.”

“Hey,” Major Marvy tries to raise his head. “Operation? What’s this, boy?”

“Ssh,” ripping away part of one pigsuit sleeve, baring Marvy’s arm.

“I don’t want no needle—” but it’s already in the vein and discharging as the other man seeks to calm him. “I mean you really got the wrong fella, you know?”