The Hunting Trip by III William E. Butterworth Page A

me?”
    â€œYou’re unfamiliar with the protagonist of J. D. Salinger’s opus
Catcher in the Rye
?”
    He spoke with what Phil thought sounded like a Harvard accent, that is, as if through his nose with his teeth clenched.
    â€œI’ve read it. What’s that got to do with me?”
    â€œLet me put it to you this way, Holden. If I were producing a motion picture of Mr. Salinger’s novel, and had asked one of the better casting agencies to send me someone for the lead role, and they sent me you, I would think the Lord God himself was beaming on my project.”
    The young man put out his hand.
    â€œI am Administrator G. Lincoln Rutherford, Holden. In addition to having to share the bathroom with you for God only knows how EXPLETIVE DELETED!! long, I will be your guide through the ROTPIP program. You may call me ‘G. Lincoln’ and you already know what I’m going to call you.”
    â€œI don’t think I like the idea of being called ‘Holden.’ My name is Phil.”
    â€œWell, as we sergeants are permitted to say to corporals, too EXPLETIVE DELETED!! bad. That’s the way your EXPLETIVE DELETED!! ball has bounced.”
    â€œI understand.”
    â€œGood. Now give me a few minutes to shower, Holden, and to dress, and we will begin your ROTPIP training by dining, at your expense . . . You have some money, presumably?”
    Phil nodded.
    â€œ. . . At the agency mess. They do a very nice steak tartare.”
    â€œWhat’s the agency?”
    â€œHolden, the depth of your ignorance is amazing,” G. Lincoln said, and went back into their shared bath.
    [ THREE ]
    F ifteen minutes later, G. Lincoln reappeared dressed much like Phil, in a white button-down-collar shirt, a striped necktie, a tweed jacket, gray trousers, and loafers. Phil’s father had an identical necktie, which identified him to other alumni of Harvard College, and Phil wondered again if G. Lincoln was similarly connected with Harvard College.
    G. Lincoln loaded him into one of the Volkswagens—this one pale green and carrying a license plate with the
US of AMERICA
legend—and drove him out of the compound onto Beerenstrasse.
    After winding their way through the streets of Zehlendorf for perhaps ten minutes, they turned off the street and were stopped by a policeman at a striped pole barrier. Phil saw a sign:
    German-American Gospel Tract Foundation
    Bringing in the Sheep
    Praise the Lord!
    What the hell?
Phil wondered, and then corrected himself:
What the heck?
    The striped pole barrier was raised and G. Lincoln drove past it. They came to a large two-story building before which were parked a number of automobiles on which were mounted the same variety of license plates there had been on the fleet of Volkswagens at the CIC barracks.
    But only one of the automobiles parked there before a sign reading Automobiles Only! was a Volkswagen. The other vehicles were BMWs (two), Mercedes-Benzes (four), Chevrolet Suburban Carryalls (two), and a Fiat, a Buick, and a Harley-Davidson motorcycle with sidecar.
    Phil wondered if the latter could be properly classified as an automobile, but then from his studies of Latin, recalled the word came from the ancient Greek word
autós
, meaning self, and the Latin
mobilis
, meaning movable, and thus meant a vehicle that moves itself. A motorcycle, Phil decided, thus did qualify as an automobile.
    â€œLet’s go, Holden,” G. Lincoln said, “and, once inside, speak only when spoken to and don’t ask any questions.”
    Then he took Phil’s arm and led him into the building, down a corridor therein, and ultimately through a door.
    Phil found himself in a room that anywhere but in a building dedicated to the purposes of a Gospel Tract Foundation would have been called a “bar” or “saloon.” There was a wooden bar behind which was arrayed an impressive selection of bottled intoxicants, and in