Battle Cry (45 page)

The fishing season was drawing to a close so there were few guests present. The deerstalking parties and gamebird hunters worked out of camps and used Mr. Portly’s lodge as their base. A nearby unit of home guard cavalry patronized the bar nightly. The pub in the wilderness was well stocked with Scotch and aged whiskies and brews not available in the crowded cities. This was of no consequence to Marion who did his toasting in sarsaparilla anyway.

A few miles from the lodge, Hale Hendrickson, a combination farmer, hunter, and pioneer, had carved a small farm from the wilds. His wife, daughter, and small son held forth and awaited the return of the elder son from the Middle East. Two other sons had died in battle. To his new Marine friends Hendrickson made three of his horses available for riding. A man of good tastes, he also loaned Marion his large collection of classical records and some volumes from his well-stocked library.

One evening Danny lay sunken in the deep mattress, reading. Marion adjusted his glasses and crouched over the writing desk. A big stack of papers was scattered over it. The record on the phonograph ended. Marion snapped it off.

“That’s a pretty tune. What was it?” Danny asked.

“It’s from
The Pearl Fishers
by Bizet.”

“What is
The Pearl Fishers?
”

“An opera.”

“I thought
Carmen
was the only thing Bizet wrote.”

“On the contrary,” Marion said, “he wrote suites, symphonies—quite a lot of other music.”

“I’ve got to learn about music someday.”

“It was nice of Mr. Hendrickson to lend these records to us. Incidentally, we all have a dinner date at their place tonight.”

“Righto, old bean.”

“Better be on guard, Danny. I think his daughter has an eye out for you.”

“Bully…how’s the story coming?”

“Fair. I’ll let you read the first draft in a few minutes.” Marion shuffled through the stack of records.

“Put on that Grieg concerto. I like that. Seems to blend in with the scenery.”

“Okay.”

“Funny,” Danny mused as the first stirring chords came through, “I used to think that Glenn Miller and T. Dorsey were the only musicians in the world. When I was in high school Glenn Miller came over the radio three times a week on the Supper Club. It was like a ritual, listening to him. We’d go mad when he played ‘Volga Boatman’ and the ‘Anvil Chorus.’”

“I’m fond of Miller, too,” Marion said.

“I wonder if I can jitterbug any more. Seems like that was all we lived for, dancing and bowling and stuff like that. Kathy likes classical music. She used to give me a bad time because I’d never get interested in it. I kidded her about it a lot….”

Marion swung his chair around and faced Danny. “Seems like a long time ago, doesn’t it?”

“I’ve had the G.I. blues bad the last couple of weeks. Guess this has been the first time we’ve had a couple minutes to think about home.”

Marion rose and walked to the fireplace. He ripped some paper and laid kindling on top of it. He struck a match and the paper burst into flame, throwing a mass of dancing shadows on the wall. He poked the crackling wood and put on a heavy log, then stood and brushed his hands, and stared into the flames.

“Marion?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever try to stop and figure out what we are doing here? I mean, halfway around the world.”

“Many times.”

“I know I’m a Marine and there’s a war. But just killing—it isn’t right, Marion.”

“Seems rather pointless when you say it that way, doesn’t it?”

“I only hope I’m fighting for the right thing, Marion.”

“You have to feel that way, Danny, or you can’t fight.”

“I supposed so…anyhow, it’s too deep for corporals. I wonder if they’ll send us home after the next campaign?”

“Things are looking better. Army moving up the Solomons and New Guinea. I suppose the First and Third Marine Divisions will be ready to go soon.”

“So many damned islands, so many damned islands out there.”

L.Q. stomped into the room and threw himself on a bed, bouncing several times in the deep fluffy down. “Goddammit to hell. That’s the last time I ride a horse.”

“What happened?”

“I just did it to make time with that Hendrickson broad, I’m scared to death of horses. That damned farmer hasn’t got nothing but big dumb plough horses, they’re cannibals, I tell you. I got thrown six times. God, I’m sore all over.”

Marion and Danny laughed. “Faint heart ne’er won fair lady,” Marion said.

“Fair lady, my Aunt Lizzy’s butt. These damned broads are like Amazons. Anyhow she’s got her meathooks out for you, Danny. What’s the matter with me? I got B.O. or something? Hard Luck Jones, that’s what…all the time I run into crackpots.”

“Come on, L.Q., you’d better take a nice cold shower.”

“Nuts!” L.Q. said. “I can’t stay around this hole another minute. It’s too quiet. I’m getting the creeps.”

“I thought you wanted peace and quiet.”

“Yeah, but not death. Hunting and fishing, the agent said. I ripped my last pair of khakis with fishhooks. One of those homeguard guys told me that a town down the Line, Pahiata, is a factory town and loaded with broads…and no Marines there.”

“I thought you got fixed up in Wellington with Speedy and Seabags.”

“Know what happened? I’ll tell you what happened. That Meg liked that Injun so much she wouldn’t look at me. What did I wind up with…an apple eater. Honest to God, she ate apples in bed.”

“So you should be thankful. The other three are in the clap shack at Silverstream Hospital doing G.O. time.”

L.Q. hastily loaded his pack. “Can’t stand this,” he mumbled. “Danny, old buddy buddy, you got to do me a favor. I got a three-pound deposit on this room. I’ll act like I got a case of the bug and maybe Mr. Portly will give me my dough back.”

Marion turned his head and smiled as Danny shrugged and opened the door.

“Wait a minute, Danny. I’ll put some water on my face so it will look like I been sweating.”

Danny took L.Q. by the arm and led him into the lobby where Mr. Portly, semi-reclined in an overstuffed chair, was reading the
Free Lance.
He glanced up and saw Danny shaking his head sadly.

“What’s up, diggers?” Mr. Portly asked.

“Poor ole L.Q., poor ole L.Q.”

“Eh, what’s the matter with your cobber, Danny?”

“Got the bug, Mr. Portly.”

At those words L.Q. commenced to shake as violently as a man on a D.T. binge faced with a row of full bottles.

“Bug…wot bug?”

“Malaria, Mr. Portly.” L.Q. chattered his teeth together, setting up a racket that Marion could hear all the way back in their room.

“Goodness!” exclaimed Mr. Portly.

“Guadalcanal,” whispered Danny, tenderly patting the pathetic-looking L.Q.

“Poor bloke.”

“He’d better get back to Wellington before…before…”

“Before wot?”

“Before he…” Danny leaned close to Mr. Portly and pointed to his head.

The Hendrickson family laughed heartily when Danny told the story of L.Q.’s fake attack of malaria and his hasty departure from the lodge. After dinner the family and their two guests retired to the living room and soon Marion and Mr. Hendrickson were hotly arguing about James Joyce. Danny sat politely as the discussion became more and more involved. It was a welcome break when Nonie Hendrickson beckoned him to step outside for a breath of air.

She threw a knitted shawl over her shoulders and the two walked through the quiet night along the fence which ran from the house to the barn. “Father doesn’t get a chance to talk about books and music too much. You must forgive him.”

“One of these days I hope to be able to argue with him.”

“Poor L.Q. It’s a pity he had to run off.”

“Maybe if you’d been a little nicer to him he’d have stayed around.”

“He’s not my cup of tea,” Nonie answered.

Danny stopped, put a foot on the split-rail fence, and leaned against it. For many moments he studied the raw, wonderful beauty of the farm in the wilderness.

“It must have been a rough go for you lads on Guadalcanal.”

“No worse than for your fellows in Crete.”

“Did you lose any pals?”

“One real good one.” He lit a cigarette and thought of Ski. “It sure is peaceful around here. I’m glad we found this place.”

Nonie laughed. “So peaceful it sometimes drives you mad.”

He turned and studied the girl, who leaned her back against a post. She was very light and fair and straight as a ramrod. High and full bosomed, even a little hefty. A woman had to be strong for this vigorous life. Her face, her dress, were simple. It wasn’t hard to scratch beneath the sturdy surface and see that she was a bored and lonely girl. Maybe she felt as though she were being robbed. She didn’t know how lucky she was, Danny thought.

Their eyes met.

“Well,” she whispered softly and invitingly.

“I’m married,” Danny said.

“I’m engaged. I’ve been engaged for three years. He’s a prisoner of war.”

He turned away from her.

“I’m not very pretty, am I?” she said.

“You’ll do.”

“But I’m not pretty like American girls. I used to get the magazines all the time before the war. But they have so much….”

“Some people don’t know when they’re well off, Nonie. They get funny ideas. There are a lot of girls who would change places with you.”

He felt her hand on his arm and the warmth of her breath on his neck. He stiffened.

“Kiss me, please,” she asked. He felt a surging desire to reach out and take her, but he shook his head.

“I was right,” she said. “You see, this is my very best dress.”

“You’re wrong, Nonie. I want to kiss you very much but I don’t think I’d be able to stop.”

“I don’t care,” she whispered.

“I do.”

A hurt expression came over her face.

“Look, Nonie, it isn’t you. It’s every other girl in the world as far as I’m concerned. I want to keep it that way.”

He realized that she felt cheap. She had been unfaithful to the boy in the prison camp before. She was trying to be again—he didn’t want her.

Milt Norton’s words passed through Danny’s mind, about wars and women.
It doesn’t make any difference what or where they come from…in wartime it’s an old pattern
….

CHAPTER 2

L.Q.
sighed with relief as he stepped to the counter at the railway station and ordered a cup of tea. He looked at the wall clock. The train was due in a few minutes. He glanced over his shoulder and noticed a middle-aged man staring intently at him. The man was neatly attired in a suit of blue with gray pinstripes. His graying temples matched his gray moustache. He wore large horn-rimmed glasses, common in New Zealand, and a squarely placed derby hat. Draped over one arm were a heavy woolen greatcoat and a highly polished cane. L.Q. finally smiled and nodded to the man.

“Evening, Yank,” the man said. “Pardon the intrusion, but I don’t recognize the braid on your arm, there.”

“Called a
fourragère.
The Sixth Marines, my outfit, won it in France in the first war.”

“That so? We don’t see many Americans out my way. Back from Guadalcanal?”

“Yes sir.”

“Bloody awful mess, eh what?”

“Yes sir.”

“Busby’s the name,” he said extending his hand, “Tom Busby, field representative for Dunmore Machinery Company, Limited. We have a new brick-making machine, makes solid or hollow, simple enough for a baby to operate. No tamping, no vibrating.” He jabbed L.Q. in the ribs. “But you wouldn’t be interested in that, what? What the deuce brings you to Waipukurau?”

“On a ten-day leave, sir.”

“Lovely country here, lovely. I didn’t catch your name?”

“Lamont Jones. My friends call me L.Q.”

“L.Q., that’s a good one.” They shook hands. “Suppose you’re heading back to camp now?”

“No, I have almost a week left. My buddies are at Mr. Portly’s Lodge. I’m heading for Pahiatua.”

“Pahiatua? What the devil are you going to do in that place?”

“Just looking for a little fun, sir.”

“Go to the window and change your ticket this minute.”

“What?”

“You’re coming home with me, lad. There’s nothing in Pahiatua.”

“But…but…”

“No nonsense about it, L.Q. Have the man give you a ticket to Palmerston North.”

“But, Mr. Busby, I can’t just bust into your home like this.”

“Tommyrot. What kind of a bloke do you think I’d be, letting an American friend go to Pahiatua? My home is yours, son. Now hop to it.”

“But…”

“Come now, lad, there are plenty of Sheilas in Palmerston North if that’s what you’re worried about—plenty of girls.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Tom is the name, L.Q. Now get a move on before the train comes.”

The conversation on the long ride to Palmerston North was pleasant. Tom Busby stopped talking and listened intently when L.Q. spoke of Los Angeles. As they came into the station, L.Q. looked worried.

“Now, L.Q., my old woman Grace isn’t that bad.”

They were greeted by a small plumpish woman in her early forties and a frail-looking boy of about twelve. Tom and his wife exchanged reserved British kisses and the salesman bussed his son’s hair as the boy took his briefcase to carry.

“Good trip this round, old girl, got a surprise.” He turned to L.Q., who stood awkwardly behind him. “Meet L.Q. Jones, just back from Guadalcanal, that’s what. The lad is on a leave and was going to Pahiatua of all places.”

“A real Yank!” Ronnie Busby cried. “Is he going to stay with us?”

“Er, this was your husband’s idea, Mrs. Busby.”

“Well, he does get a good one now and again. Come, you must be starved. The car is just across the street.”

“Is old Betsy still running? Having a devil of a time with her, L.Q. Shortage of parts, you know.”

“And how do you like New Zealand, L.Q.?” Grace asked.

“Wonderful, Mrs. Busby.”

“Can I carry your gun, L.Q.?”

“Sure, kid.”

They piled into a Ford of 1935 vintage. Grace pushed the starter button. Nothing happened.

“Damned battery again.” Tom Busby sputtered.