213: Halloween Special VI: The ASEs & Guy de Maupassant

Greg Jackson (0:10)

It's an unspecified day, one later described only as not long ago, on September 21st, 1944 We're somewhere on Western Europe's front, with an unidentified American battery, currently getting shelled by the Germans firing their deadly 88s. Now, the Yanks are doing OK, as long as they stay well-entrenched in their gun pit, that is. But it's a miserable, hot, dust-filled experience, one that each man prays will soon come to an end. Finally, the guns fall silent. The Americans stand. They stretch, get a taste of fresh air. Well, most of them do, anyway. As the rest rise, the Colonel glances at one man and finds he's... he's reading a book. What? Ah, but no time to ask the soldier how on earth he's enjoying a good read right now. Not with the Germans' horrid 88s starting another burst of shelling. Again, the Americans get low and do their best to endure the heat, the dust, and the misery.

Again, the shelling lets up. The Colonel seizes the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity. He asks the soldier what he's reading in between, and you know, diving to the ground for dear life. The soldier answers, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. It's a recently published semi-autobiographical novel by Betty Smith, told through the eyes of a young, poverty-stricken, second-generation American girl, Francine Nolan, growing up in the early 20th century slums of Brooklyn. And man, is it engrossing. In fact, there's this crazy part. It's just downright funny. The soldier offers to read it out loud. Out loud from his impressively small paperback, with a short stout spine and pages that are longer in width than in height, each of which contains text that runs in two columns per page. In a word, this copy has been printed and bound specifically so it can fit in a soldier's pocket and survive the vicissitudes of war. This is an Armed Services Edition.

It's a small, offbeat part of the novel, a brief self-contained story about a child named Gussie. Well, perhaps child is too kind of a word for a boy such as this. On the pages, he's described as a tough little hellion, and one with a specific obstinate obsession, an unwillingness to stop drinking his mother's milk. Yes, Gussie will not wean. Even when his mother becomes pregnant, this proves but a nine month gap. One this mere toddler fills not with cow's milk or any other milk, but black coffee. And the moment his little sister is born, oh, Gussie doesn't waste a moment. Through days on end hunger strikes, accompanied by a refusal to use the toilet, and bashing his hat on the ground, he forces his mother to cave, until he can return to his, well, addiction. Indeed, so obstinate and adamant is Gussie that his sickly baby sister is fed by the bottle. That's the only way this poor Brooklyn mother can even attempt to satiate her Hellion son.

The soldiers and officer are all grins, getting a great chuckle at this set up. Then, suddenly, the German guns start up once more. The Americans jump back to their cover. But this time, they do so with their minds utterly distracted in the best of ways. Rather than focusing on the hell they're living through and the possibility of death at any moment, they're wondering where the story of this child who refuses to be weaned and drinks black coffee is going. So, naturally, when the latest round of shelling ends, everyone is eager for the story to continue.

The servicemen are at the edge of their seats. They listen and learn of how the whole neighborhood is gossiping about Gussie, the child, sorry, Hellion, who stands while feeding at the age of three. Then four, the Hellion who has driven his father from his shared bed as the man claims his wife, quote unquote, breeds monsters. And Gussie's poor mother, what can she do?

Finally, a solution comes to mind. Using stove polish and lipstick, she carries out a work of makeup wonder, such that the next time Gussie demands to nurse, he will be met by what appears to be a wide mouthed, fanged monster. The desperate mother heads to the kitchen. She sits in the rocker by the window. That's all it takes to catch Gussie's attention. The growing boy tosses aside his toy, marches up to her, props one elbow on her knee. Then, like a man, impatient for his drink at a bar, looks expectantly at his mother.

Dead silence as the men listen to their fellow, narrating soldier, read on. The mother baits the boy. She asks if he wants milk.

Yup, the salivating child answers. And with that, she quickly opens her dress, instantly and rapidly revealing her makeup-covered, fang-like and monster-esque breast to a monster of a child. The Hellion freezes with fright. Then, finding his legs, he dashes to his room and ducks under his bed, where he stays hidden in his whore for a full 24 hours. Creeping out the next day, Gussie emerges wanting nothing but his old black coffee. Yes, Gussie is weaned. And his word of the mother's horror-induced success spreads across the gossiping neighborhood. Nursing mothers throughout the Brooklyn neighborhood turn to the terror tactic, one that shall forever be known as giving the baby the Gussie.