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earl had dismissed most of his staff. They were heavyhearted, having to find odd jobs around Ramsbury or being vacuumed up by conscription. Duber had met the out-of-work wine keeper at a pub, bought him somebitter, and learned of his unhappiness. A carton of Lucky Strikes was enough for him to divulge the location of milord's brandy trove—buried under hay in one of the manor barns. With that information, Duber said, the heist would be “easy as spitting.”
    Persuaded, Joe stood watch at twilight as a jeep coasted down to the barn. Four men piled out. Their silhouettes scampered between barn and jeep, careful to suppress clinking of bottles. Three men packed hay to cushion the glass, then climbed aboard to surround and protect the load. Duber quietly started the jeep and rolled away at a walking speed.
    There was no immediate outcry. The earl, now living outside Wiltshire County, raised it at a high echelon, several removes from the concern of Wolverton, who had implemented two unwritten rules: (1) do your major drinking on pass to larger towns like Swindon; and (2) while in Ramsbury behave as if at home—that is, with your parents watching.
    Wiltshiremen appreciated Wolverton's policy, and there was never much trouble, though there wasn't much to eat or drink either because both food and alcohol were far more tightly rationed than in the States. Petrol was even more precious, so that horse carts far outnumbered cars on lanes, called roads, which were designed for scenery rather than speed. Though GIs chuckled, locals thought it not funny at all for British officers in uniform and businessmen in suits to decorously ride bicycles.
    GIs were not the only strangers in town. Three years earlier, ruthless bombing of English cities had forced evacuation of tens of thousands of the aged and underaged. Over a hundred were quartered in Ramsbury, along with young women placed by the Ministry of Labour to do farmwork, previously the occupation of Wiltshiremen now overseas. Additionally there were uniformed women doing administrative jobs for the Auxiliary Territorial Service, a factotum wartime agency. They came from every class and social background less welcomed by the natives than were the Americans, whose presence had resulted in a famous British saying abouttheir GI tenants that they were “overpaid, oversexed, and over here.” To which there was a less well known American retort: “You're underpaid, undersexed, and under Eisenhower.”
    What cultural friction the Blues experienced was more within the U.S. Army. Though large-scale maneuvers took them farther and for longer periods away from Wiltshire County, they had made necessary adjustments with then-hosts, which were not disrupted before regrettable incidents occurred when the 28th Infantry Division of the Pennsylvania National Guard moved in near Ramsbury. Their scarlet shoulder patch—to become known as “the bucket of blood” after horrific combat—was the icon of Pennsylvania, a keystone, so Duber labeled them Keystone Kops. They probably would have been tolerated had they not hustled girls whom Blues considered proprietary. Competition immediately flourished, and the legs turned out to be as clever as they were presumptuous.
    While Third Battalion was participating in an invasion rehearsal, measles broke out among the female population of Wiltshire County. British authorities requested assistance from nearby 28th Division medics, who obliged and, with all professional gravity, concluded that because most local lasses had had contact with Blues, it would be prudent for a quarantine to be imposed between the two. Wolverton was in the field, so the medical recommendation went up to Sink, who, in probably his most unpopular command decision, acquiesced to a thirty-day quarantine.
    This struck Jack Bray hard. He took his pleasure quietly, assuredly. There was a Swindon girl with the same tastes, and they had melded with none of the abruptness of a wartime romance. Now