Battle Cry (24 page)

“Two bits.”

“Nothing and nothing…trey’s boss.”

“Check.”

“Two bits.”

“Raise you two bits.”

“Right back at you.”

“Call…what you got you’re proud of?”

“Deuces and sixes.”

“Threetreys…had them wired.”

“Talk about craphouse luck…well that cleans me. Lend me a finsky till payday.”

“O.K.”

Sister Mary and the Feathermerchant kibitzed in for a moment.

“We got an open seat, gentlemen.”

“No thanks,” Marion said, “I don’t indulge.”

“Not for me. One more pay call and I’ll have her out here, boys,” Ski said.

“They got a USO show and a dance…anybody want to come?”

“Naw, I feel sorry for them damned USO troupes. They feel so sorry for themselves because they feel sorry for us. Besides, most of that crap is pretty old.”

“Aw, they’re just trying to build your morale.”

“Yeah, cousin, my morale’s shot. Why don’t they go to a dogface camp? They feel sorry for themselves, too.”

“Why, the last time I seen a USO show I plumb cried myself to sleep.”

“Give me a weed.”

“Butts on that cigarette.”

“Deal.”

“Seven-card stud.”

“Every time you get the deal you pull that crap. Next time it will be all red cards wild.”

“You know what they call it in the Mexican Marines—el tougho shito.”

“A bullet, another bullet, six, whore, jack…first bullet bets.”

“One thin dime.”

“Once, just once.”

“They got a dance after the show. Any of you guys going?”

“Can’t stand them bitches they haul in.”

“Yeah, stick around them long enough and they’ll have you going to church.”

“The part that makes me scream is when they look at you with them baby blue eyes and tell you how much they give up to do this horrible hard work—anything for our boys in uniform.”

“‘Momma doesn’t usually let me go out with Marines and sailors.’”

“Yeah, anything for the war effort…ace jack bets.”

“Fifteen centavos.”

“Yeah, they act like a bunch of goddam martyrs. Back home they’d be dying on the vine.”

“Deal, cousin, and you won’t have so many cards.”

“Where you figure we’re going, Mac? They must have something special picked out for the Sixth.”

“Scuttlebutt says Wake Island.”

“I’d sure like to hit Wake.”

“Holcomb was in the Sixth in the last war.”

“You mean the BIG war?”

“Yeah, the commandant is keeping his eye out for the Sixth.”

“Two bits.”

“Call.”

“One card down.”

“Chicken crap, huh, a little straight.”

“Beats my two pairs.”

“A little progressive poker, gentlemen, dime ante. Somebody’s light…Seabags.”

“Pawdon.”

“Jacks or better to open.”

“I sure hope Ski gets that woman out here. I offered him a sawbuck last pay call but he turned me down cold.”

“Proud little bastard. Works around the clock. I don’t think he’s been ashore since we’ve hit Eliot.”

“Yeah, I try to give him a couple odd jobs to throw a couple of bucks his way.”

Andy Hookans threw his cards in and stood up. “I’m going down to the slop shute. Lend me a couple bucks, Mac.”

I pushed a deuce over to him.

“I hope Ski doesn’t get it broken off in him. He’s too nice a kid. He oughta lay off them goddam broads.” Andy stomped from the barrack.

“What’s biting his ass?”

“I think he’s just got it in for all broads in general.”

“Got an open seat, men?” Sergeant Barry, of the telephone squad, slipped in between the sacks and purchased some matchsticks.

“Cost you twenty cents to get in, Barry. Progressive. Whores or better to open.”

“Cut them deep and weep, cut them thin and win.”

“Goon, deal…you couldn’t stack crap with a shovel.”

It was near 2400 hours when I got back to the barrack. I had cut the beer bout short as there was another Huxley Special coming up the next day. I left McQuade and Burnside to battle it out.

I entered and walked to the head. As I came into the room I spotted Ski standing at the far end of the long row of sinks. I moved towards him and Ski turned his back. Ski had begged off running the obstacle course that day to take sick call. The Feathermerchant was no sick-bay soldier by a long shot. What he lacked in size, he more than made up with plain old piss and vinegar. I figured he was upset because he hadn’t heard from his girl. Nothing tears a guy down so fast as no news or bad news from home. So, I had let him have the day off and didn’t press him about it.

Ski shied away from me. I thought he was acting a little strange. “You O.K., Ski?” I asked.

“Yes,” he whispered, still with his back turned, and quickly slipped a little bottle into his trouser pocket.

“Sure you aren’t sick?”

“Leave me alone, will ya?” Ski’s voice was shaky and cracked. I moved over to him.

“What you got in that bottle?”

“Leave me alone.”

“I said what have you got in that bottle?”

“Mind your own goddam business,” he hissed and brushed past me. I caught him by the shoulders and spun him around. Before I could utter another word he pounced on me like a wildcat. I was loaded with beer, and he caught me one in the guts. I went to the deck. As he turned to go I put a flying tackle on him and brought him down.

I didn’t want to lower the boom on him, but Ski was clouting me all over the joint. I tried holding him off, but he was like crazy. I let a right fly and landed square on his mouth, but he kept coming, kicking and winging in from all angles. He hooked me against the bulkhead and brought one up from the boondockers…. I felt numb…my head cracked against the wall. Finally I clutched him and spun him into a corner and went to work on his guts. Two…three…four…five…six…square in the belly, with all I had. Finally, Ski started to buckle. Then I let him have it in the nose…another one in the chops. He started bleeding like a stuck pig. He gritted his teeth and came at me again…but I wouldn’t let him out of the corner.

“Cut it!” I yelled, busting him in his smeared face. “For Chrisake cut it!”

Ski grabbed my blouse, dazed, but still tried to pound his fists into me. “Quit!” I begged, hitting his jaw. He spun and sagged to his hands and knees, shaking his head. I jumped him and pinned his arm behind him, and as he tried to struggle loose reached into his pocket. “Stay still or I’ll bust your arm off,” I warned. Ski stiffened for one more try; then as I found the bottle he grew limp. I let him go. He fell against the bulkhead and buried his hands in his bloody face and sobbed.

“Where did you get this stuff?”

Andy came into the head. “Christ on a crutch, what’s the matter with you, Mac? You’ll get busted for this.”

“The little sonofabitch tried to kill himself.” I panted for breath. My stomach felt all floppy. “Get Danny and Marion in here, on the double. And be quiet—don’t wake up the barracks.”

They raced back in their skivvies, followed by Andy.

“Guard that door, Marion. Don’t let anybody in. Give me your skivvy shirt, Forrester.” Danny peeled it off and I went to a sink and soaked it with cold water. I grabbed the crying boy by the hair and lifted his face and swabbed off the blood as easily as I could.

“He had a bottle of sleeping pills. Must have lifted them from sick bay.”

“Oh, God,” Danny whispered.

“Wring this goddam thing out and put more cold water on it. I didn’t mean to hit him so hard, the little bastard went berserk.”

We slowly brought Ski to his senses. His eyes were glassy and his head hung limp. He stared blankly at the deck. Danny knelt beside him.

“It’s me, Danny—your buddy. Can you hear me?”

Ski nodded.

“What did you try to kill yourself for?”

He lifted his head slowly and looked at us. His eyes filled with tears and he tried to open his mouth to speak. His lips quivered, a groan came out. He dropped his head again and shook it slowly.

“Was it Susan?”

He nodded.

“Did you get a letter?”

He nodded again.

Danny frisked his pocket and came up with an envelope. He stood up and moved under a light. His hand trembled and a deathly hush came over us. All we could hear was the uneven breathing of the slumped boy. Danny bit his lip and closed his eyes and stared down at Ski.

“What is it?” Andy asked, at last.

“She’s going to have a baby, another guy’s. They’re going to be married…the rest of it is just…apologies…”

We were too shaken to move. There wasn’t much anybody could say now.

“A Dear John letter,” Andy hissed. “Them goddam women, them dirty no good bitches!”

“Pipe down, Andy.”

“He needed a break, dammit. What’s he got now.”

“That won’t help, Andy,” I said, kneeling by the Feathermerchant. “Ski, we’re your buddies, you know that.”

“Yeah…”

“If we turn you in, they’ll send you to the psycho ward. You want to stay with us, don’t you?”

He nodded.

“We’ll take care of you, Ski,” Danny pleaded.

“You won’t try this again—promise?”

“No,” he croaked. “I won’t try it no more.”

“Try to get some sleep.” I aided him to his feet. “I’m sorry I had to work you over.”

“It ain’t your fault, Mac,” he mumbled, walking slowly into the barrack.

“We’d better keep an eye on him,” Andy said. “I’ll take a two-hour watch.” He followed Ski out.

“I’ll stand the next one,” Marion said.

“You guys all better hit the sack,” Danny said. “I don’t think I can sleep anyhow.”

Before evening chow the next day, First Sergeant Pucchi called me into the company office.

“Hey, what’s up, Mac? The Feathermerchant just came in and took out all the money he had riding on the books. Finally getting that broad out here?”

“What!”

“Yeah, almost three hundred bucks. Say, what did he do, run into a tank? His face is sure chopped up.”

“He got a Dear John letter yesterday, Pucchi.”

“That’s too bad, nice kid. Can’t predict them women. Well, just thought I’d ask. It seemed kind of funny. He picked up a liberty pass. Think that’s the first time he ever asked for one.”

“He’s going into Dago with that load,” I said. “He’ll get sharp-shooted for sure. Pucchi, you got to give me a pass tonight.”

“You got more crap than a Christmas turkey. I can’t give you a pass, you had one last night.”

“Listen, Pucchi, he’s going to get his ass in a sling with all that dough.”

“That’s a problem for Chaplain Peterson.”

“Be a buddy.”

“Christ, Mac, the way that Bryce watches me, I’d be up crap creek without a paddle if I gave you a pass, no dice.”

“Thanks, Pucchi,” I said, “that’s a real buddy. Somehow, I remember a time in Reykjavik when you beat the hell out of that Limey captain, and the Iceland police force and half the Limey army was closing in on you. You didn’t mind a favor from me then. I still got a scar on my scalp where I was hit with a beer bottle.”

“How many favors you going to ask for one little brawl? You been riding on that one for a year.”

“When did I ask you for a favor?”

“Aw, look, Mac, don’t be a wedgeass.”

“What would you do, Pucchi, if it was one of your boys?”

Pucchi reached in the drawer, pulled out a card and swung around to his typewriter. “Don’t forget this, you no good bastard. And for Chrisake don’t get picked up by the shore patrol or we’ll both be on cake and wine for a month.”

“While you’re at it,” I added, “you’d better make out passes for Sister Mary, Andy, and Danny, too. I might need help.”

We followed the Feathermerchant out of the main gate. Three buses lined up to take the first rush of liberty-bound Marines into Dago. Ski boarded the first one, we got into the second.

We landed in Dago forty-five minutes later, dropping anchor in front of the YMCA on Broadway. He lit out for the first slop shute he could find. We stayed a distance behind him. He was turned down at the door of the first three bars when they asked for his I.D. card. He was still under age and they refused him admittance.

He crossed the main drag to a side street. We held our breath as he headed straight for the Dragon’s Den. It was the worst clip joint in a city of clip joints. He had wised up; he passed a bill to the door checker and was granted admittance.

I called the boys about me for a quick conference.

“We’ll slip in there and take a booth,” I said.

“We won’t be able to get in,” Marion offered. “We’re all under twenty-one.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Well, I’ll go in and you guys stand fast. Keep a sharp eye, this joint has two or three exits.”

“Check, Mac.”

I crossed the street and entered the Dragon’s Den. It was a rowdy, smoke-filled bar, jammed with tough waterfront characters and stronger elements of the armed forces. There was a three-piece Negro combo slapping out cloud sixteen jazz on the bandstand at one end. I cut through the fog of smoke and saw Ski draped on a bar stool with a twenty-dollar bill laying on the counter in front of him. I edged into a seat at a table so I was partly turned away from Ski.

“Line ’em up as I squeeze them off, and when this twenty runs out, just whistle like a bird. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

The bartender, a wiry man with a scarred cheek, eyed him carefully, then looked at the door checker, who gave him the high sign that the little Marine was loaded.

“Sure, Marine,” he answered, putting a shot glass on the counter with a thud, “Drink up.”

I looked up a little to see what he was pouring. It was O.K. so far, just bar whisky.

The Feathermerchant was no drinker. If he ever was, he had been too long out of practice to last. I ordered a beer and nursed it as Ski downed three quick ones, shook his head and coughed. He slammed his fist on the counter for a survey. It was dished up quickly.

A drunken sailor fell across my table. I was about to push him to the deck when I thought better of it. I didn’t want to start anything then. I picked up my glass and moved to another table.

“Hey, bartender, come here!” Ski said.

He poured another shot, which Ski downed. It was his fifth fast one. He was out to bury himself quick-like. I saw beads of perspiration form on his brow. He loosened his battle pin and his field scarf, panting for air. Another shot went down.