Battle Cry (23 page)

“You’ve met Rae, Mac,” he said.

“Rae is a lady, she has class—and she loves you.”

“Remember that night at the airstrip?” I nodded. Marion took a letter from his pocket. It was from the magazine that had accepted the story called
Mr. Branshly’s Retreat
and wanted more of the same.

“I don’t know how it started, Mac. Just a few words at first. She came on the boat tired and we’d talk, mostly about me and writing…and then all of the things I’ve had inside me seemed to come out. I could talk to her without being afraid…I could say things I’ve never been able to say before, and she’d close her eyes and listen to my ideas and we’d talk them over. It was easy…she seemed to understand that I was trying to reach for something.”

“I think I understand.”

“And Mac, I read to her…sometimes all night.”

I peered outside. The rain was beginning to let up.

“Rae’s more than a woman to me. She isn’t really bad—I know it. She’s wonderful and kind and gentle. I couldn’t write without her.”

“Haven’t you answered your own questions, Marion?”

He forced a little smile. “I don’t guess anything else matters, Mac.”

“Why don’t you do me a favor, Marion? Start running your network the way you’re supposed to.”

“I’ll be all right now—and thanks, Mac.”

A loud chorus of ten drunken Marines boomed from the bar.

“As we go marching,

And the band begins to PLAY,

You can hear them shouting,

The raggedy assed Marines are on parade.”

McQuade and Burnside finally fell on the deck, the duel ending in another draw.

Corporal Hodgkiss ran up the gangplank on the dot of twelve-thirty. He grabbed her and held her so tight she almost broke in half. She clung to him, trembling like a scared little puppy.

“Marion, Marion, don’t leave me again.”

“I love you, Rae.”

“Look,” she said, opening her purse, “I’ve got a present for you.” She handed him a pair of socks. “I knitted them myself. Not very good, the first pair. I didn’t know your foot size or anything.”

Later, Rae entered her apartment first. He followed her slowly. Rae flicked on the light, closed the door, and threw her coat across the divan. He stood there, his back against the door, fumbling his barracks cap awkwardly.

“What’s the matter, Marion?”

“I…I’ve never been like this, with a girl…before.” She smiled, patted his cheek and turned away.

“Take off your blouse and make yourself comfortable. I’ll put on some coffee.”

He relaxed in a big chair and reached for a book; it was
Sonnets from the Portuguese.
She sat on the chair’s arm. “I was hoping you’d come back,” she said. “I wanted you to read it to me.” She kissed his forehead and disappeared into the kitchen. His eyes followed her from the room.

Rae left San Diego the next morning for Marion’s home.

Dearest Rae,

I’m happy that you like the folks. They wrote and they adore you just as much as I do. I’m glad we decided for you to leave quickly, it is better this way. One of the fellows brought his wife to San Diego and now that we are expecting to leave the States, their life is one climax after another. She is half crazy by the time he gets home each night. Anyhow, we have a wonderful memory to keep us going. I can’t yet realize that you are mine.

I’m doing a lot of writing. All the spare time I get. One of these days we’ll have a lot of wonderful things to do and see a lot of wonderful places together…we are going to be so happy.

Darling Rae, what you said in your last letter…don’t think about it any more. It doesn’t matter. The past is the past and only tomorrow counts. You are my girl and I love you.

Marion

CHAPTER 5

WE
had dispensed with field day and inspection because of an overnight field problem in the brush outside the main barracks area. All night we crawled, practicing infiltration to sharpen ears and eyes in darkness. The squad had a rough time. It was imperative that we send our messages short and fast because the noise of the generator could arouse the dead in such stillness. We had to move quickly after each transmission, lest the “enemy” capture us. After stumbling around in the night for eight hours we returned to barracks dead tired.

“I’m dundee,” L.Q. Jones sighed. “Here I got a weekend ashore, that broad all lined up in El Cajon, and I can’t get off the sack.”

“You know what they call that in the Russian Marines—toughi shitski,” his pal Lighttower prodded.

“Yeah, write him out a T.S. chit for the chaplain.”

“She’s picking me up at the gate, dammit, how about going down and telling her I’m in the brig or something, Injun?”

“Ain’t you got that broad, yet, L.Q.?”

“The way I figure, tonight’s the night. Her old man has this here ranch and I’m in for the weekend, but this lil ole fat boy is plumb tuckered out…I don’t think I got the energy.” He dragged to his feet. “Recktum I’ve got to keep up the morale on the home front.” He trudged to the head to clean up.

“Is that the same broad that sang over the radio on that church hour,” Danny asked Lighttower, “the night he loaded his Reising gun and made us all listen and write letters to the radio station?”

“Yeah, same squaw.”

“Hasn’t he got none of that yet?”

“Naw, she’s giving him the business. I told L.Q. to watch that woman, she’s foxy. And she’s so damned homely that if she doesn’t get herself a husband with twenty thousand gyrenes around, she’ll be prune picking on that ranch for the rest of her life. That set up in El Cajon is a trap….”

L.Q. was held up at the main gate and made to enter the guard shack to shine his shoes. He entered the parked convertible amid wolf calls from the Marines heading for liberty. Ninety per cent of the catcalls were for the convertible with white sidewalk, and very few for poor Nancy East, who slid over as L.Q. took the wheel and whisked away.

L.Q. Jones, by the time they reached El Cajon, was a very tired young man. The night problem had left him limp with exhaustion. However, this appeared to be the opportune moment in the cat and mouse game he had been playing with Nancy East. On each succeeding liberty he had made a slight gain toward his objective.

Nancy, on the other hand, granted each gain managing to wheedle a further verbal confession from L.Q. He was armed with a weekend pass, poppa away on business and the blue chips were down.

The homely little girl was well aware of L.Q.’s physical condition. She planned a man-killing itinerary, with teasing promise of better things to come with the night. In this way, she reasoned, she could weaken his mental and physical state to a point where further resistance would be futile. With the aid of her mother, she could pounce in for the kill and thus gain herself a husband. It was dirty poker.

L.Q. had no more than peeled off his greens in exchange for khakis before Nancy slapped a tennis racquet in his hand and rushed him to the courts. She needled him as she trounced him the first set. Now, it is O.K. to kid a guy about his listless game when he is tired and doesn’t feel like playing. But to insist that this exemplifies the entire character of the Marine Corps is unfair. L.Q. became very angry. Calling on the reserve that all good Marines carry, he became a one-man tornado and smashed himself to victory in the next two sets—thus preserving the honor of the Corps.

However, before he could reward himself with a well-earned rest he found himself in the saddle of a fierce-looking beast who bounced him across hills and fields for the next two hours. L.Q. hated horses.

Starvation set in. Nancy had the romantic idea of a picnic lunch in a spot about four miles from the ranch. The rugged rancher’s daughter hiked him briskly, he under the load of a large basket and thermos jug. Springtime being springtime, Nancy insisted that her lover chase her through the woods as all lovers must, in the woods, in springtime. Now, L.Q. wasn’t what one would call a track star. He never caught her. He never had a fighting chance.

Before dinner the young Amazon rounded out a perfect day by challenging him to a game of handball and a quick swim. L.Q. for once thanked God he was fat and could float easily, or he would have surely sunk at this stage.

He collapsed into a chair at the table. Before him Nancy and her mother paraded some fifteen courses, ranging from two-inch-thick steaks covered with mushrooms to a topper of apple pie and Monterey Jack cheese. The meal was a gourmet’s dream and L.Q. was the boy who could do justice to it. And Nancy East appeared to have whipped it up with her own little hands in an idle moment. It never occurred to L.Q. that she hadn’t had an idle moment since he arrived.

After the feast, the fattened hog was primed for slaughter. He was too stuffed with the epicurean delights to budge. He just sat. And listened to Mrs. East babble and babble and babble. Then, the whole plot dawned on him. T
RAPPED
! The door, he thought. No, I’ll never make it alive, I can’t move!

Mrs. East rarely stopped talking. She and her homely daughter seemed to L.Q. to be looking at him with catlike smiles, as if they were licking their chops at the thought of the tasty plump little mouse they had cornered.

He lifted his head and prayed silently. Then, with the blood pounding through his veins, and renewed strength, such as a man fighting for freedom often finds, he uttered his first words of the evening: “Let’s make some fudge.”

He and Nancy went to the kitchen. Away, at last, from the singsong rhythm of her mother’s endless chatter.

As she stood there by the stove, pot in hand, he moved in and spun her about and kissed her.

“Not here, silly,” she giggled. He held her close and over his shoulder he saw her mother peeking through the doorway. There was no alternative. They returned to the living room with a plate of fudge. Mrs. East laid down her knitting, reached for a piece of the candy, saying she really shouldn’t, and smacked her lips.

“You know,” she purred, “Mr. East and I were married during the last war. He was a captain…but,” she added quickly, “a private makes almost as much as a captain did then.” She nodded sweetly at L.Q., who had a look of terror in his eyes.

The hours weighed heavily upon the young Marine. After many more had passed in pleasant conversation, with Mrs. East doing all the conversing, she excused herself and went to bed. He and Nancy had more fudge, and then followed her example.

L.Q. dropped like a dead man to his bed. In the split second between being awake and asleep, a soft rap came on his chamber door. Nancy East entered, clad only in a thin and lacy gown. L.Q. scanned the walls and ceilings for hidden microphones, alarms, and booby traps. On second thought, she didn’t look so bad, in the half-dark at least. This was it!

“I brought you an extra blanket,” she said, “it gets cold.” She seated herself gently on the edge of his bed. The scent of Chanel No. 5 drifted into his nostrils. What can a man do? He brought her down beside him and kissed her.

“No, I must get back.”

“Stay a minute,” he pleaded.

She kissed him sweetly and suddenly pulled away.

“What is it?”

“You’re just like the rest of the Marines. You are all alike.”

“Me? Like a Marine? Why baby, I’m maaad for you.”

She kissed him again, once more withdrew. L.Q. wheezed very hard. “Tell me you love me, L.Q.”

“For Chrisake, I love you,” he panted.

“Can’t you say it sweeter?”

“I’m maaad for you.”

“How much?”

(Chin up boy, she’s moving in.)

“Very much,” he parried and drew her down beside him and held her tightly.

“No! I’m afraid you’re just like the rest of them.”

There was a long, long silence. She snuggled into his arms. He did not stir. There were times when a man has to be firm.

At last Nancy East gave in. “I’m yours, L.Q.,” she said. L.Q. Jones answered her with a long, loud snore. He was fast asleep.

“Mail Call!” The men flocked about the duty NCO. As he shouted the names on the envelopes you could see a smile light up on a face. You could see the anxious strain of those waiting for the sound of their names. The Feathermerchant stood on the fringe as Corporal Banks passed the mail from hand to hand. Then it was over, always too soon. And those with word from home drifted to their bunks smiling in eager anticipation. Ski walked away quickly, hands in pockets. There was no letter for him, again.

“Don’t talk so much and deal.” We were playing poker in the barrack.

“The name of this game, gentlemen, is five-card-draw. Ante up a dime, jacks or better to open.”

“How do you like that Bryce, what an asshole.”

“Ninety-day blunder if I ever seen one.”

“Openers?”

“Beats the hell out of me.”

“Up to you, Andy.”

“Open for two bits.”

“I’ll call that bluff.”

“Cards for the gamblers?”

“Holding a kicker, Andy?”

“Maybe.”

“Two bits.”

“Call and raise you a half.”

“What you got you’re so proud of? Call you.”

“Three whores.”

“Talk about craphouse luck, here’s my openers.”

“How about a little studhorse, gentlemen?”

“What about Bryce, Mac, ain’t he a pisscutter?”

“I’m not supposed to give my views on the elite,” I parried.

“Sonofabitch better stop with that Stanford stuff and talk like we was people.”

“Pair of treys is boss.”

“The price of poker goes up…fifteen cents.”

“I fold.”

“Bastard is going to end up with a hole in his back, him and his big education.”

“Trey’s still boss.”

“Two bits.”

“Beats me.”

“Seven…pair of deuces…trey’s still boss.”

“Check.”