Gordon Liddy is my muse, in the tunnel of love, a tale of the Cold War,

Black Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Holmes Payne on the case.

Tip, the croquet player.

Four.

Bunyan had to leave me the next morning for an officer's call at 8th Division, HQ, back at Frankfurt.

He was apologetic about my having to spend the weekend alone, but this was monthly duty.

Well, the brass-like city explained, we sit at long tables, and then there's dancing.

I think they're trying to be like the British.

You know, a spree.

Those regimental messes, pass the brandy with expensive cigars. We don't do it very well. We like beer and rock and hardly anybody smokes.

I packed him off and went for breakfast in town. I was content to wander around, send cards

to mom and dad and my other brothers, maybe take in Hollywood off George. Also, there was Frau Yodrell at Nuremberg.

That sunny easy day and clean quaint Schoenford led to a grim but incomplete discovery about the tunnel of love.

Tip had forgotten until Bunyan mumbled it on our driving tour

that Sch Feinford, pigs crossing, was where the Third Reichs ball-bearing factories had been, that the Allied Air Forces

had pounded it flat once upon a time.

I thought nothing more of ball-bearing until I wandered into a beautiful bookstore after lunch.

I spotted several glossy volumes with B-17 pin-ups on their dust jackets.

Schreineford, I read quickly, had suffered a black weekday once already.

It's still called Black Tuesday, hereabouts.

Summer, 1943, when our flying fortresses came in a v ves and did murder.

You might recall that black weekday if you've ever seen Clark Gable,

...