Winters and Speirs confer about failed night patrols. Nixon enters. "The President is dead," he says. Everyone looks mildly surprised, but not broken, as though they just learned it's meatloaf night in the mess tent. And just like that, we're done with the Roosevelt stuff. Granted, the book glosses over it a bit, too, but this exemplifies part of what I dislike about this episode. Many details feel like useless filler, shoved in to flesh out the hour. This whole scene took thirty seconds. Why bother? Maybe a thirty-second pause in the storyline passes for a sex interlude in Spanks World.
Welsh, Donnie, Nixon, and Speirs enjoy a late-night poker game. At least, one assumes Nixon is having fun -- he's drained another whiskey bottle, so every hand for him has at least ten cards and a whole lot of pairs. But because the booze is gone, Nixon wants out -- he's got an important scouting mission, and must apprehend the runaway amber liquid. They chatter that Eisenhower seems ready to let the Russians drop into Berlin instead of American airborne divisions. "This war's not about fighting anymore," Speirs notes. "It's about who gets what." This from a man who would loot a raisin store if the shopkeep disappeared for thirty seconds. Nixon curses energetically, having searched the rooms for liquor and come up empty-handed. He storms out, barking for the gang to deal him out of the hand.
Rain pounds the pavement as Nixon staggers outside, scanning the streets for anything vaguely resembling a liquor store. The CGI rain is pretty nifty, falling all around Nixon, yet never striking his body and splashing off. He breaks a shop window, rousing the owner, who screams and shouts in German, and whose dogs bark in protest. When Nixon realizes he'll score no whiskey there, he staggers away just as some apparent looters arrive to fill their pockets.
The next morning, Nixon staggers to the post office, a black cloud of withdrawal and hangover lurking above his no-doubt-aching noggin. Aw, muffin. Vest greets him too brightly to have ever so much as fondled the cruel mistress that is whiskey. He hands Nixon a letter, but that's not why the good captain came; Nixon leans across the counter and quietly explains that he's encountered some trouble finding a particular brand of the booze. "Vat 69," grins Vest knowingly. "Gotta be honest, that ain't gonna be easy to find here in Germany. Pickings are slim." Vest conspiratorially whispers that, should he happen to snag some Vat 69, it wouldn't come cheap to Nixon's tumbler. "Well, that won't be a problem," Nixon promises, aware he's being swindled to a degree but appreciating the artistry involved. Janovec, our naked sex officer, charges inside, pauses to salute Nixon, then exposits that 300,000 Germans surrendered. "We're moving out in an hour," he chirps. Nixon is startled, and begins to bolt without his mail; Vest hails him and hands over the envelope. "Keep looking," he says pointedly, pretty sure he'll need alcohol now that Easy's calm respite has momentarily ended.