Once an Eagle (46 page)

“What about me?” Conte protested. “Where do you think I'd be?”

“Oh-oh,” Torrey muttered. “Here comes old Hangfire,” and the talk died away.

Captain Townsend came up to them. His hat had been knocked off his head and he was carrying it in one hand. Something had bumped him in the nose—probably his field glasses, when he fell or threw himself flat—and one nostril was bleeding lightly, the blood soaking into his mustache. “Lieutenant Damon,” he said, and cleared his throat.

“Yes?”

“We—the exercise is concluded.” He gazed at the wrecked bridge, dabbing at the nostril with his little finger. “You may march the detail back to barracks.”

“Whatever you say.” He hadn't felt such loathing for a man since he'd seen Benoît-Guesclin at the review at Bombon.

“Damon … you are not to consider yourself in arrest. You are not confined to quarters.”

The Lieutenant took a cigarette out of his pocket and lighted it, watching Townsend narrowly. “May I ask why, Captain?”

“Because I have rescinded that order, that is why.” And the thin, distant smile crept back into the Captain's face.

“Many thanks, Captain, but I'd prefer it to ride as it stands.”

Townsend made no answer; he turned to the group. “Men!” he said sharply. “This has been an exercise, a problem in demolitions like any other, and you will so regard it.” He ran his eyes over the detail; he could see the hatred and contempt in their massed gaze, and perhaps a few minutes ago, shaken by the blast, he would have been vulnerable to it. But he had armed himself again in his supercilious British manner and his animosity, and he was determined to have his way. “You are advised to overlook what you may or may not have overheard here this afternoon. The problem is completed, and the incident is closed. That is all.” He walked away quickly, patting a clean white handkerchief to his nose.

“The son of a bitch,” Sergeant Torrey muttered. “The sneaky, underhanded, chicken-shit son of a bitch.”

“Don't let me hear you using language like that about a commissioned officer,” Damon said; he smiled. “I can't hear you.”

“The bastard didn't even apologize …”

“Why should he? No future in that.”

He ordered the detail to fall in and they started back to the South Gate. Torrey gave them route step and dropped back to Damon.

“What the hell, Lieutenant,” he muttered. “Maybe it's all for the best.”

“Maybe.” He smiled wearily, following the Sergeant's thought. “But what about Conte? Why should I take the rap for not having my men properly under cover?—especially when it isn't even true? Should a murdering son of a bitch like Hangfire”—he knew Torrey's sobriquet would stick now, no matter what came of it—“feel free to pull something like this any afternoon he feels the urge?”

“Sure, Lieutenant—but if you insist on standing charges and demand a court there'll be a stink that'll blow all the way to the AG's office in DC. And where'll it get you? They'll back each other up and all you'll have is a lot of trouble in your 201 file.” He was silent for a moment. “I hope I'm not sticking my neck out too far, sir.”

Damon shook his head. “No, that's the way my mind was running.” He felt sore and defeated; the garrulous release following the blast had receded, leaving him beached on the shoals of despondency. Torrey was right: after the hangfire Townsend had realized that his plan to provoke him had failed; now he wanted it all dropped and forgotten. If he, Damon, were to force it to a court-martial it would set the post in an uproar—and it wouldn't stop there, either. And the rank would probably look out for their own, and he would pick himself up a fistful of trouble; he'd be known as a trouble maker, an agitator …

But did you let something like this roll on by? What about the next officer Townsend took a savage dislike to, and the next? In France he would have laid the son of a bitch out, and welcomed the consequences; had his wound, the reduction in rank, the months here at Hardee sapped his capacity for acting clearly and vigorously, doing what he thought was right? or was acquiescence the wiser course? Of course, nothing much
had
happened, Conte's injury was slight—maybe Townsend's hatred for him was a unique and isolated thing … He sighed, and watched the detail stomping along in the dust.

“Lieutenant,” Torrey said.

“Yes?”

“Whatever you decide to do, I want you to know I'll go right down the line for you. All the way. And so will every man here.”

He glanced at the Sergeant gratefully. “Thanks, Torrey,” he said. “I'll remember that.” He sighed again, kicking at a clod of earth. “Maybe it's just as well to let the whole lousy business blow over.”

Torrey grinned his slow, contained grin. “For the good of the service.”

“Yeah. For the good of the service.”

The dust blew away from their feet in a sun-drenched ocher cloud.

2

She heard his
steps on the back stoop, the thump of the screen door, then silence. Another day, another dollar. She lay motionless, unsmiling, on the narrow issue cot; her body felt thick and alien and vaguely repellent. The heat pressed against her like a hand; the army blankets she'd hung up sopping wet in the windows at noon were already dry, their corners flicking idly.

Usually he would call out something jocular, like “Hello, countess!” or “View halloo, sugar-doll!” and then the door of the icebox would bump somberly as he got himself a bottle of root beer, which he loved. But today she heard none of these sounds, and it disturbed her: it mingled with the peeling paint, the gaunt, bleak absurdity of the ammunition boxes and crates and issue chairs. They had moved down the row, to a dwelling as dilapidated as the first: this one had been policed and the floors were better, but the plumbing was worse and there was something wrong with the wiring—the naked overhead bulbs would flicker, or go out abruptly and come on again with a sickly apricot glow. Sam fiddled endlessly with the wall switches, without success; it was somewhere in the walls, a faulty connection or crossed wire, maybe; something was wrong. This time there was no wild dismay, but neither was there the angry determination that had carried her through the weeks of scraping and mending. They moved in the curtains and furniture they had made, and for a while she tried fitfully to repair and restore; but the fire had gone out of her. Where was the incentive, when any moment that crocodile of a post adjutant could say three words and they'd be ranked out again? Sam assured her it wouldn't happen, but she was never certain. The weeks crawled their dreary way into months, the winter slipped bleakly by, and in the spring she'd become pregnant.

There were still none of the familiar sounds. He was probably sitting in the living room on a serape-draped ammo box, hunched over, elbows on his knees: a pose she'd once told him was distressingly proletarian. He'd grinned at her and adopted a simpering, effeminate attitude, one knee over the other, elbow in palm, fingers curled delicately—“This more what you had in mind? Oscar Wilde?”—but he hadn't changed his way of sitting, except when they were paying or receiving calls … He was sitting there, his brow creased, now and then rubbing his jaw with his knuckles. Something had gone wrong: the thought sank into her soul like a bar of iron descending through water, fathoms on fathoms down. I must be a good wife to him, a dutiful wife, she told herself with virtuous rigor; give him the affection and support he needs … But the thought lay on the surface of her mind, oil on glass. Now, in this second sweltering summer at Fort Hardee, she could only put her hands on her swelling belly and knead it gently, this sack that had been grafted on her by some malicious sorcery; lie there sweating in her slip, feeling gross and unattractive and slightly sick, bereft of energy …

She closed her eyes, in derelict fancy dreamed of soft green riverbanks, of sheltered coves bordered with stands of cedar, of a large white house, gabled and porticoed, that gave on smooth flagstone terraces under the shaded rustle of the maple trees, and sweeping green lawns, and the carefree laughter of old friends. She was swimming in the cove, she was rolling indolently in the damp, furry grass, she was talking animatedly to three handsome men in blazers and white flannels who had just returned from Taormina, Damascus and Algiers (she was going there herself in a few months or so), they were all of them sipping at Tom Collinses, tart and ice cold under the shimmering celadon canopy of the leaves; and later there would be—

Sam came into the bedroom: that quick, lively stride, without even the trace of a limp now. He had overcome it completely, performing the exercises Doc Terwilliger had given him, doubling and redoubling them with a conscientious rigor she'd found she resented almost as much as she admired. Of all the wounded men he was the Tweaker's star pupil, a glowing object lesson to the wayward and dilatory saddled with adhesions and cramps and poor articulation … the way I'd have been, she thought, if I'd been wounded: lazy—full of self-pity.

“Hello,” she murmured, to let him know she was awake.

“Hello, sugar.”

She raised her head and opened her eyes and smiled at him, thinking, I wish we hadn't quarreled last night, that was silly, it was my fault as much as his—probably more. But his back was turned toward her now; he was taking off his shirt, which looked black with sweat in the olive gloom cast by the blankets. The tan line ran along his collar cleanly; then there was another one, even sharper, a meniscus above his shoulder blades made by his undershirt. He hung his belt up on one of the hooks on the side of the closet. You could read his life from the clothes and equipment on the hooks and pegs: the inspections, the close-order drill, the field problems and OD duty, the practice with the company ball team after hours, the infrequent post hops. And yet it was hard to imagine, too—that curious, blunt, inarticulated language of men.

Guiltily, a little defiantly, she watched him remove his leather puttees. He absolutely refused to wear riding boots, and once when she'd remarked on it she'd been surprised at the vehemence of his answer.

“Because it's a rotten symbol of caste, that's why. Like this damn Sam Browne belt. They're as obsolete and silly as a halberd. Their only function is to set the officers and enlisted men still farther apart.”

She'd grinned mischievously. “Poppa wears them.”

But he refused to joke about it. “He didn't in the line, I can tell you that. Besides, your father's an inveterate rider. He's seen cavalry duty, and he was brought up in the old school.”

“Oh, you're so stubborn, Sam,” she'd protested. “Can't you see?—boots look so much more—so much more comme il faut.”

“Dashing, you mean.”

“All right then, dashing! What's wrong with that? What's wrong with trying to enliven the old penal colony a bit? Should I wear a blanky-fluking Mother Hubbard because poor Mrs. Schooner wears one over on Soapsuds Row?”

“When they become articles of issue to the enlisted men I'll wear them,” he'd replied firmly. “And not until.” They'd had two subsequent discussions on the subject but he would not give in; he kept his good pair shined to a terrifying luster; but they were still puttees buckled over shoes …

He was standing on his head, his feet braced against the wall; while she watched, thrilled and irritated, he lowered himself onto his neck, his legs flexed—then with a sudden, powerful thrust snapped himself up onto his feet.

“—God, you're so
energetic,
” she groaned.

“No, I'm not.” He was doing bicycles now, chin doubled against his chest, legs in the air churning soundlessly. “I'm tired as all get-out.”

“Then what do you
do
it all for, then?”

“Only way to keep in shape. Eternal diligence—is the price—of agility …”

She sighed crossly, and flopped over on her side. There were times when his eternal diligence was enough to drive her out of her mind. He made her chafe with remorse. She ought to be up and about, demure and enticing in a blouse and skirt, offering a cooling drink, a motor trip, her love—what on earth was the matter with her? She was bound here, a lump of swollen flesh, on this sagging, dreary cot. Why couldn't the Army give its married couples a double bed? was that too damned much to ask?

He was watching her with concern now; he came over and sat on the edge of her cot. “How are you feeling, honey?”

“Oh—thick and greasy and thoroughly unappealing.” She smiled wryly. “I can't bear the sight of food, I guess it's the heat. And then I'm swept with visions of coquilles St. Jacques—remember the coquilles St. Jacques at Chez Félix?—or water chestnuts or truite aux amandes or caviar or God knows what loony delicacies I have or haven't eaten. And then next minute I feel revolted at the very thought of it. I ought to have been born a satrap or a padishah or something, and then I could have a horde of little Nubians offering me things and I could kick them or kiss them, depending on my mood …” She broke off; she sounded like a hysterical spinster—one of those fierce, narrow women, popeyed and with corded throats, she had feared all through her childhood. She'd better get herself in hand. “I'm sorry about last night,” she murmured. “I really am, darling.”

“So am I,” he said. “I ought to have had more sense.”

“No, it was my fault, I know it was. I can't seem to get
caught up
with myself …”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know.” She chafed her neck. “I keep feeling if I could have two weeks—just two weeks in which nothing at all was going to happen—I could get rested up and ahead of the house and feeling chipper again. But instead it's the other way round, time's going faster than I am—and pretty soon I'll be a month behind, and then two … Silly, isn't it?”

“Poor honey-lamb.” His rough hand passed over her forehead and back through her hair. “It's no fun at all, is it?”

“No. It's no fun … I guess I thought it would be. You know—the way they put it in the soupy junk impressionable romantic young girls always read:
and with the magic passage of the months her tread grew heavier, her eyes soft with the tender thrill of promise.
Baloney. You want to yerk all morning long and your feet hurt and you feel like a damn penguin.”

“I know … I wish I could get you away somewhere.”

“Wouldn't that be nice? Waikiki, or Como, or maybe I could swim in the Arctic Circle, like that sexy Elise dame. God, I'd like to
shiver
for about ten minutes steady. You know what I did this afternoon?”

“What?”

“I put on that cotton dressing gown of yours and took a cold shower and lay down here wringing wet.”

He looked alarmed and took her hand in both of his. “Honey, you shouldn't have done that—it's dangerous …”

“Nonsense. I was completely dry in twelve minutes. By my watch. Anyway, it amused me for a while.” She took a deep breath and said: “Well. And what kind of a day did
you
have?”

“So-so.” He put his hands together and began to pick at the edge of his thumb, another habit she felt was proletarian although she hadn't told him so. “Actually, we got some unpleasant news.”

“Oh?” She felt bound in a kind of soft panic. What now? she wailed inwardly. What new indignity, imposition, betrayal—what new sacrifice have they decided to ask of us? She forced herself to lie perfectly still.

“There's been another reduction.”

“What do you mean?”

“Congress. They've cut the authorized strength again.” He put a cigarette between his lips and left it there unlighted. “By one hundred twenty thousand men, five hundred officers. All promotions stopped.”

She stared at him. For the merest second she didn't know what to feel—elation or wrath or despair. She studied his face, which didn't seem to tell her anything. “What are you going to do?” she asked after a pause.

“Nothing much I
can
do, sweet. That's what the country wants, I guess: no more foreign entanglements, no more armies, no more taxes—no more nothing but rumble seats and bootleg gin and business as usual.”

“—But you can't
stay in,
” she burst out.

His expression was merely inquiring, mildly surprised. “Why not?”

“Because what's the
sense
in it if there's no future for you here …” She heaved herself to her feet—she had never been able to think clearly lying down—and began tramping around the airless little room, her hands at her belly. “You'll be dropped, won't you?”

“Not unless I resign. Pete Lovewell's going to—he's so mad he won't even talk about it.”

“I should think so. What about the Age-in-Grade bill?”

“I don't know. CO says they'll never pass it.”

“They'll demote you again,” she declared.

“No, they won't.”

“Move you down another thousand files on the list, that's just what they—”

“No, look, honey …”

“No—
you
look!” All at once she was wild with rage. She had promised herself she wouldn't blow off, after last night especially she had sworn she'd hold herself in line. But the heat, the wind and dust and this wretched wooden shack with its low ceilings and ridiculous plumbing and silly sticks of furniture, the seven-foot-high sunflowers along the back line with their swaying idiot eyes, all gripped her like a vise. She was lonely, she was pregnant and helpless and now this latest decision of the elected representatives of the nation struck her as the final, supreme insult. The whole thing was impossible, impossible!

“What has to happen to you, Sam?” she cried. “How much do you have to take? Really? Do they have to bust you to PFC and maroon you for life on Easter Island before you'll see the light?” She clenched her hands at her sides. “They don't
want
us, they don't
care
about us, we simply don't exist for them. Why do you go on beating your head against a wall? The wall's a lot harder, I can tell you that … What are you trying to do—!”

He was gazing at her, troubled, frowning. What in God's name was the matter with him? How could he sit there looking so calm and unmoved and insanely indomitable? Couldn't he see what was in the wind—?

“Tommy,” he was saying quietly, “your Dad wouldn't let—”

“Never mind Poppa—stop invoking Poppa all the time! Do you think he has any more brains than you do? letting them bust him down, and deep-six him with China duty?”

“The Fifteenth—”

“I know all about the Fifteenth—their esprit and their discipline and the beauty of their wives and everything else. What has that got to do with the price of tea? Bitter tea, too. You think I don't know about Army politics just because I'm always knocking the system? It was a sop and a butt detail all in one. What Poppa
ought
to be is a Deputy Chief of Staff, or in Plans—at the very least he ought to be teaching at the War College. But no—those creeps in the Munitions Building hate him because he's got more guts and intelligence, more sheer ability than they'll ever have if they live to be a thousand …”