Where the Wild Things Are
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Eighteen year-old Therese Fassbinder was hanging the laundry one afternoon when she heard the distant whooping and hollering of what sounded like several wild men. And they appeared to be getting closer. Peering out from behind a bed sheet, she saw about fifteen young American paratroopers barreling up the hill. Completely, utterly naked. Obviously, stinking drunk.

O Gott,” she uttered, and shrank against the damp sheet in fear.

They tore by, waving and cheerfully calling, “Hey, sweetheart! Guten Tag! Come up and see me sometime!”

When they disappeared over the rise, Therese sighed and shook her head. “Jungen*,” she muttered.



Colonel Bob Sink massaged the bridge of his nose. “I don’t like the idea of this any more than you do, Dick, but we’ve gotta keep these boys from wanderin’ all over Austria like a pack ‘a rowdy, drunken Indians.”

“I’m in complete agreement, sir,” said Winters.

“Good. I hate to do it, but we’ve gotta set up a curfew reinforced by stern discipline.”

Winters mused. “I could put Captain Speirs in charge of corporal punishment, sir.”

“Captain Speirs?” Sink looked up with a horrified face. “Goddamn, son, we don’t need a cannon to go duck-huntin’—have a little mercy!”

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