“They’re here again.”
Private Smith eyed the gate. A dozen German girls twirled their skirts and stared back hopefully.
“C’mon Smitty. Let’s go down there.”
He shrugged. “They don’t wanna meet no ‘nobody’. They’re here to see him.”
Even Johnson couldn’t argue that. Wherever the Third Armored went, throngs of fans followed—but they were no fans of the soldiers. They were fans of Elvis Presley. Meanwhile, Elvis spent next to no time at the base. He was seven kilometers away in Bad Nauheim.
Still, it didn’t stop the girls from showing up. Elvis wasn’t even all that handsome, Smitty thought. He ran a hand over his buzz cut. He’d be handsome too, if he hadn’t had to buzz his hair to the pink of his scalp.
“Let’s go down there anyway,” Johnson said.
There were a lot of girls. “What are we going to say to them?”
“Hallo Schönheit, hallo.”
This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.
This story was inspired by my dad, who was stationed in Germany with Elvis. He never met him, but said he was always surrounded by a crowd.