Battle Cry (51 page)

“I said I just don’t like Jews. We make it plenty damned rough for them in Texas.”

“You’re not in Texas,” Danny said. “Levin’s a nice guy.”

“If you don’t like Jews,” Seabags said, “that’s your business. I don’t feel one way or the other about it personally. But the guy does a good job and he’s an O.K. boy. We got enough hard times without two guys in the squad snapping asses all the time.”

“For Chrisake, what is this?” Speedy stammered.

“You don’t like Levin because he’s Jewish. You don’t like Pedro because he’s Mexican. You don’t like New Zealanders because they talk funny. You don’t like colored people—who
do
you like, Speedy?”

“He likes Texans, just Texans.”

“What the hell are you guys. A bunch of nigger lovers?” Speedy fumed. “He ain’t nothing but a kike draftee.”

“What are you acting so goddam important about? You haven’t cleaned a head, turned a generator, dug a ditch, or done mess duty since he’s been in the outfit. He’s done every crap detail for us.”

“Let me tell you guys something. They’re all yellow. If Levin wasn’t yellow then why’re you fighting his battle? He’s yellow.”

I had been trying to keep out of the argument. I didn’t feel it right to pull rank in this type of beef. I went over to Speedy, who was enraged. “What you going to do, Mac, order me to love him?”

“No,” I said, “I want to try to set you straight.”

“You’re the one that needs to be set straight. If he had guts then why is he always limping around camp like he was a cripple?”

“Because he has bad feet.”

“Sure, he sits in the goddam TCS for a week. Did the Injun get to sit in it? They was both on the same problem. How about sending him to gunfire school….”

“Calm down,” I said. “When they asked for Spanish Joe for the Division boxing team, they wanted Levin, too. He was Golden Gloves welterweight champ of New York for two years.”

Speedy’s mouth fell open.

“But…but he don’t look like no fighter. Why don’t he go on the team?” Speedy said.

“Sure. They’re living at the Windsor and touring the country and living like kings. But he wanted to stay for the same reason that Marion turned down the public relations offer. He wants to stick with the outfit. He figures that too many of us got malaria and there’s too much work to do. Because he wants to be a Marine like the rest of us.”

“If it was me,” Danny said, “I’d of clouted you a long time ago, Speedy.”

“That’s easy for a fighter to do,” I said. “It takes guts to take what he’s been taking. He hits like a mule. You’re lucky, Speedy.”

The Texan stomped from the tent followed by his buddy Seabags.

“Seabags,” I called.

“What?”

“Let him sit on it a while. And I don’t want you guys taking it out on him. Leave him alone and let him find his own way.”

Burnside was slick at beating the ration imposed by the club on nightly beer. He’d first load up at the Staff NCO Club and then tour on to Headquarters Club. Burnside carried it well and I knew he wouldn’t make trouble so I never mentioned it to the committee. Burnside pulled in one night under a heavy load. He guzzled his ration down in a few quick swoops.

“Gawd, I could piss a quart,” he said.

Pedro was standing next to him. “My good friend, that is impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible for Burnside and beer,” I said.

“I say it is impossible. The human body cannot hold that much urine. The medical book says so.”

“Bullcrap, Pedro. I done it many times,” Burnside said.

“You only think you have.”

“I know I have.”

“It is medically impossible.”

“I still say I can.”

“You can’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

“I don’t bet when I’m looking down your throat.”

“Chicken to bet?”

“No.”

“Then bet.”

“If you insist.”

“How much?”

“Name it.”

“Hokay, but you will lose.”

“Can I have another glass first?”

“Drink till you bust. I’ll still win. I’ll get a measure from sick bay.”

He left and returned.

“Ready?”

“Any more takers?”

More money showed on the bar.

Burnside won in a walk.

We all held our breath as the night of the company dance approached. Many other outfits in the division had thrown dances but they always seemed to end in a brawl. It seemed that a hundred or more Marines and a load of beer always brought on fireworks. A committee, headed by L.Q., rented the Majestic Cabaret, the finest and only night club in Wellington, with surplus club funds. What funds were lacking for the venture were made up by an assessment and a contribution from the officers. L.Q. did it up right. He hired the club’s orchestra, stacked in a hundred cases of beer and coke and set up a free lunch counter of eats prepared by our cooks. He got corsages for the gals and arranged with several cameramen from public relations for mementoes. It was a wonderful evening. Everyone, even Spanish Joe, behaved.

The dancing was soft and smooth and numbers were played on request…a nice feed, nice talk, and dancing in the slow, easy atmosphere. The officers made their appearance and took tables we had set aside for them. Generally, at affairs of this nature, the officers and their escorts made only token appearances. However, this particular night was so free of the usual drunks and noise and the dance so pleasant that they decided to squat.

L.Q. had cleaned up several of his skits and put acceptable lyrics to old songs in deference to the ladies. He ran a swell show for an hour while the orchestra grabbed a cup of tea or two. He led some community singing and everyone joined in with the gusto of people nice and tight and enjoying themselves.

Me and my date shared a table with L.Q. and Gale Bond, who was visiting Wellington from Palmerston North, and Pat and Andy. They jumped to their feet as Colonel Huxley approached the table.

“Sit down, please. Mind if I join you?” He pulled up a chair.

We were honored at being singled out for a visit. We introduced our dates and poured a long drink for him. “I want to thank you for doing such a splendid job, L.Q. I’m proud of the way the boys are conducting themselves.” Everyone agreed that it was delightful and that they were all proud. “It really is swell,” Huxley said. “I hope you don’t mind the brass hanging around.”

“Not at all, sir,” I said. “After all, they kicked in their quid.”

Huxley smiled. The orchestra began playing. “Er,” the skipper stammered, “do you suppose I might have your permission for a dance with Mrs. Rogers, Andy?”

The Swede beamed. “Yes, sir.”

He looked at Pat. “I’d be delighted, Colonel,” she said, wrinkling the corners of her mouth with a smile. We arose as Huxley gallantly took Pat by the arm and led her to the dance floor. Huxley obviously knew his way around a dance floor. They glided smoothly to the strains of “When the Lights Go On Again All Over the World.”

“You dance delightfully, Mrs. Rogers.”

“Do call me Pat, Colonel. I’m not in uniform, you know, and I won’t whisper it to a soul.”

“All right, Pat.” Huxley smiled at her friendliness and at being put at ease by her. “I must admit,” Huxley said, “I have ulterior motives in asking for this dance. I wanted to meet Andy’s girl. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Don’t tell me you bother yourself with the love affairs of nine hundred men.”

“The happiness of every one of my boys concerns me, Pat.”

“You know them all, I suppose?”

“Yes, every one of them.”

“You are an amazing man.”

“I like Andy. He’s top stuff.”

“And he adores you, Colonel. All your men do.”

“Oh, come now, Pat. There is little in the battalion I don’t hear.”

“Then you must have heard wrong. I don’t think any of them would change to another outfit, except…”

“Except that Highpockets works them too hard,” he said, feeling completely comfortable in her presence. She was clever and had loosened his tongue and he enjoyed the exchange of amenities as they danced. “Don’t look so surprised. I don’t mind being called Highpockets—just so they don’t call me the old man.”

“I’d be very angry if they called you the old man.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Rogers.”

“That is quite all right, Colonel.”

The other couples kept a respectful distance from Huxley and his partner.

“I’ll wager,” she said, “that old Mac put you up to this.”

“I’ll wager you are right.”

“Do I pass the acid test?”

“I don’t know how that lumberjack ran into such a streak of luck.”

The music stopped. Pat had an intuition that he wanted to say more to her. “Could I interest you in buying me a coke?” she said, taking his hand and leading him toward the bar.

“But…”

“Don’t worry, Colonel. I’ll handle Andy.”

“We’ll start tongues wagging, Pat, they’re starting already.”

“Come on, you sissy.”

She lifted her glass to his. “To that hardhearted brute with a heart of pure gold,” she toasted.

“Here’s to the next man that—here’s a go.” They clinked glasses. Huxley lit a cigarette. “I suppose,” he said softly, “they hate me sometimes, Pat. Sometimes I hate myself.”

“It isn’t too hard when they can see their skipper at the head of the column. I know what you are striving for and it is right. They must be fit or they’ll die.”

Huxley blew a stream of smoke. “I’m sorry to get so intimate. I find myself babbling like a schoolboy. I certainly don’t know why. I’ve hardly met you, and yet I feel perfectly at ease. I generally don’t make a habit of this type of thing, Pat.”

“I understand,” she said. “Even a colonel has to get things off his chest once in a while. I suppose you get very homesick, don’t you? Poor dear. It must be wretched not to be able to sit about as the men do and weep your woes. Keeping up a big front and all that.” She spoke as though he were a small lost boy. He opened his wallet and handed it to her. She studied the picture of Jean Huxley.

“She has a wonderful face,” Pat said. “I know how you must miss her.”

“You are a wise and clever girl, Pat. Do you mind if I say something?”

“Please do.”

“Don’t be offended. It’s strange, but when I walked into this room I singled you out immediately, almost as if I had no choice. I wanted very much to be able to dance with you. It has been a long time since I’ve spoken to someone as I have tonight to you and I am grateful. In many ways, you remind me of my wife.”

She smiled warmly at the lonesome man. “It was very nice of you to say that, Colonel Huxley.”

He took her hand between his and squeezed it gently. “I sincerely hope you solve your problem, Pat.”

“Thank you very much,” she whispered.

Huxley looked about the room and winked. “I’d better take you back to your table. The last time I tangled with a Swede I came out a sad second best.”

The alarm went off. Andy lifted himself from the bed, turned on the lamp and dressed. He went to the bathroom and doused his face with cold water and combed his hair and squared away his uniform. He entered the living room. Pat was up and waiting for him. He kissed her.

“Everything is set for Easter. Three days at the farm. I can hardly wait, Pat. I’ll see you Wednesday, honey.”

“Andy,” she said dryly.

“What, honey?”

She paced nervously before him, then took a cigarette from the box on the coffee table. He lit it for her. “Sit down a minute. I’d like to speak to you.”

“I’ll miss the last train.”

“I set the clock up a half hour.” She turned away and puffed quickly on her cigarette, sending a cloud of smoke over the room. She spun and faced him and drew a deep breath. The small lines in her forehead were wrinkled in thought. She tugged at the hair on her shoulder in a nervous gesture. “We aren’t going to the farm.”

“Why? You got to work or something? Won’t they give you time off?”

“You don’t understand. I’m calling it off between us.”

He looked puzzled. “Come again. I don’t think I understand you.”

“It is over,” she said in short measured breaths.

Andy was thunderstruck. He arose. His face was pale and his eyes bore a dazed expression. “What the hell you talking about?”

“I don’t want a scene, Andy, please.”

“Pat, are you nuts? What have I done?”

After the initial shock she caught her bearings. The pounding inside her slowed. “I know what you must think of me. I can’t help that. It’s too late. But I’m just not cut out for this sort of thing. I was horribly mistaken to think I could live like this. Whatever you think, you are right…it doesn’t matter, really it doesn’t, now.”

The big Swede put his hand on his forehead and tried to clear his brain. “I don’t think nothing like that,” he stammered. He lifted his face. His eyes were hurt. “I can’t think nothing like that about you. I’m crazy about you….”

“Please, Andy,” she whispered, “I’m not asking for a showdown. I’m not trying to force anything from you.”

“Chrisake,” he cried. “You think I can stay in this country and know you’re here and not be able to see you? Chrisake!”

“Don’t shout.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t make it harder,” she pleaded. “You are liable to say something now you will always regret. You are shocked and hurt. But we both know it is for the best.”

“I ain’t regretting nothing and I ain’t leaving you.” Andy grasped her and held her tightly in his big arms. “I love you, Pat.”

“Oh, Andy—what did you say?”

“I said, I love you, dammit!”

“You mean, do you really? Darling, you aren’t just saying it for now, are you, Andy?”

“Of course I love you. Any damned fool could tell that.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You know now.”

“A girl likes to be told.”

He released his grip and looked into her misty eyes. He repeated the words, but this time he said them tenderly, the words that had been lying dormant in his bitter heart all his life. “I love you, Pat. An awful lot.”

“Darling,” she cried and they embraced. The room reeled about him.

He held her at arm’s length. “Pat, let’s get married. I know how you feel but, Chrisake, us Swedes are tough. They ain’t made the bullet that can put Andy Hookans away.”