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Slapping the older boy’s hand away before Mitchell could react, “Listen, Scorp,” Frank said, “we didn’t come here to get your permission for Mitch’n’me to be pals! An’ I don’t like no one callin’ my pal a Jew or kike, or anything like that.” Smiling at Mitchell, “Only I can do that! Ain’t that right, Mitch?”

Seizing Frank by the shirt, Skorupski pulled him to within an inch of his face. “Ya smart-ass dago, son-of’a…” Grabbing hold of the younger boy’s hand, “…bitch!” Skorupski’s voice rose two octaves because, hanging loosely within his boxer shorts, making them easy to grab, “’ey, Frankie, le’go my balls!”

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Evansville, Wisconsin

January 14, 1944

Of average size for his age, Frank Rizzo had tightly curled black hair, an immaculate dark complexion and pleasing features.

Coming from a tough, south-side neighborhood in Chicago, he’d learned to defend himself, usually by putting up a tough front, and when that didn’t work, as he’d once told Mitchell: “I’d kick ’em here,” pointing to his crotch, “an’ run like hell.”

Here, at Baylor, most of the older boys admired his guts and left him alone.

Six months older than Mitchell, Frank had a genuine fondness for the younger boy. Besides being his best friend here, Frank had also become his defender and mentor, often forcing him to put extra effort into his schoolwork. It was due to Frank’s prompting that Mitchell made the extra effort that resulted in his promotion to corporal.

Releasing Skorupski’s testicles, backing up a foot, Frank held both fists at the ready, just in case.

Backing away, too, sitting on the edge of his bed, taking a deep breath, Skorupski closed his eyes for the moments it took for the wave of nausea to pass. “Okay,” he said crossly, “wha’d’ya little shits want?”

“Look, Skorp, we didn’t come ’ere, to fight with you.”

“Yeah?” Rubbing his crotch, “I’d’a never guessed. So what the hell you want, Rizzo?”

“Mitch’n’me want to talk to you ’cause you’re older an’ we figured you’d know more ’bout it then the other guys.”

“Yeah,” Mitchell cut in, “we wann’a know ’bout girls an’, uh, their pissers an’ stuff.”

Flattered, “You guys came so’s I can learn ya ’bout girls, eh?” Leaning forward, putting his elbows on his knees, folding his hands, resting his chin on the balls of his thumbs, “Close the door.”

Closing the door, about to sit…

“No, not on Ed’s bed.” He pointed, “There!”

Their backs resting on Ed’s bed, they sat on the floor.

“I wann’a tell ya guys that ya came to the right guy to learn ya ’bout girls ’cause I know all ’bout ’em! Wha’d’ya wanna know?”

“Their pissers,” Frank said anxiously. “Tell us ’bout girl’s pissers.”

“Yeah,” Skorupski said reverently, “girl’s pissers.” Girl’s pissers being a subject he had obviously thought about… a lot! “Only on girls it ain’t called a pisser,” he said. “On girls, what they pee out’a’s called a cunt.”

Cunt? Mitchell thought. What an ugly word. “What’s it look like?” he asked. Using his childhood word, “like a sisser, only smaller?”

“Sometimes that’s what he calls his pisser, a sisser.”

“Sisser?” Skorupski looked at Frank. “Jesus Christ! Sisser? Sisser! Jesus, the two’a’ya are a couple’a babies an’ the two’a’ya stupid shits make me sick! It’s…” pointing to his crotch, “called a prick! What guys piss out’a’s called a prick, an’ what girls piss out’a’s called a cunt! Jesus, how the hell ya two stupid shits ’spect to know what it’s all about if ya don’t even know what a prick’n’cunt’s called? Jesus H. K-rist!”

“Okay, Scorp, what’s a… cunt, look like?”

“What’s it look like, Rizzo? A cunt looks like, uh….” Really, having little more of an idea than they, “Tell ya what,” he said, “I’ll show ya. Only ya gotta promise not t’tell no-one ’bout nothin’, an’ ya gotta cross your hearts an’ hope t’die.”

“Yeah, sure!” Frank said.

Making the sign of the cross above their hearts, “I promise not to tell nothin’ to no-one, an’ hope to die if I do,” both said—though Mitchell knew that, being Jewish, crossing his heart didn’t count on him.

Looking from boy to boy, “Okay,” assured that they’ll say ‘nothin’ t’no-one’, Skorupski went to his dresser, reached beneath his stacked, but not so well-folded underwear, slammed the drawer shut, as he had done when the boys had knocked on his door, and returned to his bed. Handing something to Frank, “Okay, you guys, here.”

Two sets of eyes opened wide. The frayed, yellowing, French postcard showed the frontal view of a nude man and woman. She was holding the man’s erect penis in the palm of her hand. The man’s penis and pubic hair were easily visible; so were the woman’s large breasts and dark nipples, which both boys stared at, but the woman had a shaved vulva, which on the now-crinkled postcard, with years of handling, had faded… showing nothing.

The sight of the woman’s breasts reminded Mitchell of Lou Ann and Sal. He remembered how startled he’d been when he had seen them together, naked, and now, as he looked at the picture, Mitchell felt an unknown emotion… an emotion that was making his penis grow—and he didn’t have to urinate.

“I still can’t see it, her, uh, what’ch’ya call, cunt,” Frank commented, “but she sure has big chests.”

“’Chests’?” He looked from boy to boy. “Pissers an’ now chests? I really thought j’ya was smartet’n the Jew-boy here, Rizzo,” glancing at Mitchell. “They’re called ‘tits,’ an’ titties is what guys like best ’bout girls.”

“Yeah,” Frank said. “Why?”

“Why? ’Cause guys like to look at titties an’ touch ’em an’…” making an obscene sucking sound, “…suck on ’em.”

Disbelieving, having at least this much knowledge, “A baby, okay,” Frank said, “but why would a guy, a big guy, ever wanna suck on a, uh, tittie? You ever do it, Scorp? You ever suck on a tittie? What’s it taste like?”

Not quite sure that he wanted to be put into the same category as a baby, but committed to teaching these two, “Yeah, sure I sucked on a tittie, lot’s’a times! An’ I’ll tell ya what it tastes like.” Knowing… thinking everyone knew that milk came from titties, “If you’re a white guy with a white girl it kind’a tastes like, uh, vanilla.” It made sense to him. “An’ if you’re a nigger guy with a nigger girl, it kind’a tastes like chocolate.”

“Come on, Scorp!” Frank looked at Mitchell, then back to Skorupski. “We’re kids, but we ain’t all that stupid!”

“Yeah, Rizzo, it’s the truth!” Speaking with truthful authority, “Guys is always suckin’ on titties ’cause they taste so good!”

Skorupski’s vanilla and chocolate statement was extremely problematic, but conceding the point, at least here and now, “Yeah, sure,” Frank said. “But what about their…?” pointing to his crotch.

“Ah, yeah! That’s the best part’a girls, too. What’ch’ya do is, ya put your prick into it there an jack-off, an’ that’s what’s called fuckin’.”

The thought of it disgusting, “Why?” Mitchell asked incredulously. “Why would you ever do that?”

“Jesus, I can’t believe the two’a you are so dumb! Ya do it ’cause it feels real good! Ya do it till you, uh, kind’a…” the word “ejaculate” not in his vocabulary, having no other word for it, Skorupski said, “pee in her. Only it’s not really pee, it’s called…”

“‘Pee in her’? Pee in a girl! That’s terrible! I wouldn’t ever pee in a girl! Would you, Frank?” Looking at him. “You wouldn’t ever wanna pee in a girl!”

“You nuts? Course I wouldn’t!”

“Rizzo, you dumb shit! That’s what ya do when ya fuck! Ya stick your prick in a girl’s cunt an’ ya jack-off till ya kind’a pee.”

Skorupski’s interpretation of fucking just about as plausible as chocolate and vanilla breast milk, “Okay, if you say so, Scorp,” Frank said, “but I still wanna know what a girl’s, uh, you know, cunt looks like.”

“Yeah,” Mitchell added, “an’ what’s ‘jack-off’ mean?”

Not wanting Skorupski to think him any stupider then he already did, Frank said nothing.

“Ya know how ya do ‘it,’ don’t’j’ya, Rizzo?” Not waiting for an answer, he looked at Mitchell. “It’s when ya get a boner…”

But wanting Skorupski to know he knew something, Frank interjected, “Remember, on the bus yesterday, I told you ’bout gettin’ a boner?”

“Yeah,” nodding his head, “it’s when…” bringing his hand forward, Mitchell’s index finger sprung upward. “Sure I remember.”

“Okay.” Skorupski continued, “When ya get a boner an’ wanna jack-off, ya gotta think ’bout somethin’ dirty.”

Dirty? “Like pigs ’n’mud ’n’slimy stuff?”

“Huh? Jesus! Is he really that stupid? He can’t be that stupid! He’s gotta be makin’ fun’a’me! You makin’ fun’a’me, ya little sheeny cock-sucker?”

Cock-sucker?

“He ain’t makin’ fun’a’you, Skorp! He really don’t know nothin’!”

“He better not be!” Partially placated, glaring at Mitchell, “No! Ya don’t think’a stuff ‘like pigs ’n’mud ’n’slimy stuff’,” he said sarcastically. “Ya think’a stuff like this here picture!” Reaching for the postcard, taking it from Frank, he studied it a moment, then, to the complete amazement of both boys, reaching through the fly of his shorts, pulled his albeit flaccid but adult-sized penis through, closed his fist around it, and …