Whistle (40 page)

Lunch was what they both called it now. After so much going to town on day passes, Landers had dropped the Army meal designations of dinner and supper, and had gone back to lunch and dinner. Strange had followed his example, almost unconsciously.

But sometimes Strange wondered what Linda Sue called her midday meal, now. Had she stayed with the old, family and country names of dinner and supper? Or had she gone on to lunch and dinner, like her “aeronautical genius” from Long Island must call them?

Linda had not telephoned Strange since he left Cincinnati with the money. And certainly Strange had not called her. Strange wondered sometimes if she was perhaps waiting for him to call, first? If she was, that was tough shit. He wasn’t that interested. He was much more interested in Frances Highsmith.

But repeatedly, day after day, the only news Landers brought about Frances was that she had disappeared. Nobody had seen her in any of the places where the men of the two suites hung out. Neither in the low-down bars, nor the high-class. She had not shown up at any Navy suite parties. He and Strange discussed this, but could come up with no answer of what to do.

Another of the things they discussed at great length was the frequency with which Landers was getting into fights.

Since the day of the breaking of Frances’ nose, Landers had averaged a fight a day with somebody. It seemed to Strange, as Landers said it had to him, that the first fight with the two Navy chiefs and their bunch in the Peabody bar presaged a period of fighting for them both. Landers felt that Strange’s hitting Frances and breaking her nose was part of the same syndrome. Landers said he had felt it, though he hadn’t done it, as far back as his furlough home when he had become enraged at the Air Force sgt on the train.

Strange was inclined to agree. Though he had no answer as to why, any more than Landers had. Strange pointed out one thing, which was that they were both in better physical shape now, more nearly healed, and so were able to fight. At least he himself had been, until his new operation. Landers nodded at this, and accepted it. Landers pointed out that also they were both much closer to going back to duty and combat, probably in Europe, with their accurate foreknowledge of what that implied. Maybe that affected them.

Landers said that he himself did not like to fight and did not want to, but that he was constantly becoming enraged. Landers had never been much of a fistfighter or brawler, and had not wanted to be, though he had learned a little boxing. But he used to go out of his way to avoid a fight, walk around it. Now, the slightest thing, and Landers was not only ready to fight. A fight was just about guaranteed. All they had to do was show the slightest lack of respect for himself, or for any of his overseas buddies, or for his old outfit, or for his branch of service even. And Landers didn’t even care that much, about the Army. Nevertheless, a kind of intense, awful rage that tinged everything in sight with red would leap out from some unknown place in Landers and demand retribution. Landers did not know where it came from, or what was causing it.

One day, for example, Landers had gone alone across the street to the little hashhouse restaurant opposite the Peabody. The suite upstairs had been empty and Landers had wanted something to eat in the presence of other people, without bothering with the goddamned room service. A quick little quiet bite. Standing in the line to go through the cafeteria counter, he had had three soldiers come in behind him.

The leader of the three was a small, muscular man with a cocky, cruel face. Landers had disliked him immediately and turned away. But the small man marched right up to him, and tapped him condescendingly on the shoulder, twice.

“Looks like a GI messhall, don’t it, Mack?” he demanded in a truculent voice.

“Don’t put your hands on me, Mack,” Landers said. His voice had hardened instantly, and down deep inside him he felt the red tickle begin to grow. He swung half around. He hadn’t yet picked up a plate.

“Don’t call me Mack, Mack,” the small man snarled, and leaned his head forward with a sort of eager, mean, fighting smile. “I don’t let people call me Mack.”

Landers hadn’t answered. There didn’t seem to be any point. He completed his swing around, bringing his right hand around in a sort of tight, rising right hook that hit the man perfectly on his thrust-out jaw.

The man went down. Landers immediately went on top of him, the peculiar red tide rising in his ears with the noise of an ocean breaker, and tingeing everything that peculiar red. He had hit the man six or eight times in the face and sides of the head before one of the man’s buddies and some stranger soldier pulled him off. The little man was hardly conscious. His face was bleeding, his nose was broken, three of his teeth were out, and one ear was torn loose where a punch had grazed it.

Around them the civilian customers had scrambled out of the way, looking horrified and talking about soldiers. Landers stuffed in his khaki shirttail and blew out his cheeks. But the red rage in him had not receded. It wanted more.

“You want some of it?” he said to the other two.

But fortunately neither of them was as truculent as their leader. They backed away holding up their friend, one of them carefully picking up his three teeth, and left.

Landers did not know why he had done it. Telling it to Strange, he said it seemed stupid to give the other guy the first shot. Then thinking deeply, Landers added that the guy was obviously a mean, cruel, petty guy. Used to bullying people. But Landers was sorry about the teeth.

Another time, at the Plantation Roof on top the hotel Landers had, personally and all alone, beaten up three warrant officer pilots from the Army Ferry Command. It was the same stupid kind of a story.

Landers had gone up there alone, mainly to get away from the crowd and noise in the suite. He hadn’t taken a woman, but had taken a bottle. In the customary brown sack. The huge place was crowded but by now Landers knew the headwaiter, who knew Landers tipped well and gave him an empty four table with a “reserved” on it. It was about then Landers noticed the three young warrant officer pilots, sitting at a table nearby and watching him. Perhaps because he had an expensive table all to himself.

The table was a good one down near the dance floor and Landers sat at it alone watching the dancers and getting steadily more drunk, and feeling lost, and lonely, and blue. With a kind of irascible self-pity, as he later said to Strange. There was one of those huge revolving mirror balls, with tiny minors that flashed spectrum lights in his eyes.

It was no time to have a woman with you, and Landers was glad he had not brought one. But he enjoyed watching the dancing couples, as they moved through the colored lights spraying the floor. It was near to closing, and the band as was customary was playing a set of sentimental numbers. Songs like “As Time Goes By,” and like “Red Sails in the Sunset,” and “Harbor Lights,” and like “We’ll Meet Again.”

Landers found them all so in keeping with his mood that it was unbelievable. At that moment there wasn’t anything in the world Landers hated, or detested. Everybody suffered. That was one thing you could count on. Stray, wispy shreds of thought ran through his head before he could catch their tails. About honor, and death, and tragedy, and love. Misguided honor, searched-for death, tragedy that was embraced, love that was hopefully lost. Everybody died; some younger, a part of his mind said, as Landers later told Strange, and someday all of us would look back on these lovely sweet darling times and remember all these songs. Yeah. Yeah, the other part of Landers’ mind said, as he explained to Strange, those of us who survived would. But at least he wasn’t mad at anybody.

At closing, which was one o’clock, they played “The Star-Spangled Banner,” as they always did. Landers did not get up. It was almost force of habit by now, since so many of the wounded out at the hospital did the same thing. The general, if perhaps irreverent, joke out at the hospital was that the wounded did not need to stand for the national anthem. There had been talk of fights over it, but Landers had not seen any. But Landers had always been with a group when he did it.

Almost before the music ended, as the place was beginning to clear out, the biggest and apparently highest ranking of the three w/os appeared at his table.

“I think you had better learn to stand up for the national anthem, soldier,” he said.

Landers glanced up at him, and then down. The red tickle was beginning to burn in him. “Fuck off, bud,” he said.

“Okay. I want your name, rank, and organization,” the w/o said, “and that’s an order, soldier.” He pulled out a pencil and notebook.

Inside, Landers was beginning to chortle. Down deep underneath, the red ocean breaker was swelling and growing in his ears. This time, he looked up and didn’t drop his gaze. “How would you like my fist in your face, instead?”

Without a word, the young pilot put away his notebook, turned on his heel, went back to his table, and sat down. He began to argue with his buddies. One was on his side, and one apparently wasn’t. Landers sat and grinned at them.

By this time their two tables were the only two still with occupants. At the entry, the two elevators were swiftly siphoning off the crowd. Behind Landers, the civilian headwaiter was hovering nervously. “Who are them bums?” he asked. He had a New Yorkese accent.

“Out-of-towners,” Landers said, “flying through. College boys from the Ferry Command. Don’t worry.” He paid his bill and left the headwaiter his big tip with a wink. He got almost as far as the elevators, before he was hailed by the same w/o.

“Hey, soldier. I want that organization of yours. And your name.”

The three of them were coming toward Landers, all in a resolute row. The biggest one had won the debate apparently.

Landers pushed the elevator button, and then stood, quietly watching them. His mind was totally blank, totally empty. When they were almost at punching range, he drove himself at them like a catapult. Some belated instinct told him to go for the reluctant one first.

From that point on, things happened very fast, though they seemed to be in slow motion. They weren’t expecting a rush and scattered, away from him. A mistake. He hit the reluctant one, who went down, and stayed down. As Landers’d hoped. He swung around, and the big one was rushing him. Landers stepped to meet him, and hit him with everything he had, a left that knocked him sideways back against the elevator doors.

But just as the w/o touched them, his arms flung wide to catch himself, the elevator Landers had summoned arrived, and the doors opened. The w/o stumbled back across the elevator interior, his feet working fast, a look of surprise on his face, and hit the back wall of the elevator with a crash, and started to go down.

Landers was almost as surprised as he was. He stepped after him, hoisted him by his shirt, hit him hard on the jaw, and saw his eyes glaze. He turned, pushed the ground-floor button, and stepped back out before the doors closed.

The third one was rushing him, but looking reluctant now that he was alone. Landers hit him once, twice, three times, four, driving him back across the entry and following him, until he went down, lolling against some antique loveseat.

Landers’ drive was so hard it carried Landers clear on past him. The red roar was in his ears, and inside him the huge, red ocean breaker was topping over. He could hear his own voice shouting something or other.

Then he saw the elevator arrow was rising again and went past the third one who was struggling to get up, kicking him carefully in the side of the head as he passed, and met the elevator as the doors opened. He hit the biggest w/o as he came out, followed, and hit him twice more, then pushed the ground-floor button again, and stepped out.

Everything was silence. The one elevator was still going down. Landers pushed the second elevator button, stepped into the empty elevator when it arrived, got off at the eighth floor, and went back to the suite. He was limping from where he had hurt his bad ankle again, one side of his jaw was sore, and the knuckles of both hands were barked. But the MPs would never find him. He did not tell anybody in the suite what had happened, he said to Strange. And he was sorry that it was over.

Strange had been moved from the semiprivate room back out to the open ward, by this time. Landers told him this particular tale on the fifth day after the operation. Strange sat on his bunk, flexing his weak fingers inside their new plaster cast, and watched Landers’ calm, matter-of-fact face, wondering what was going on in Landers’ head while he told his fight tales so matter-of-factly.

Strange was having trouble knowing what was going on in his own head. Certainly, one part of him wished hungrily that he had been there, and in it. Another part of him devoutly was glad he had not had the chance.

Strange did not know what was happening to himself, either. Any more than he knew what was happening to Landers. Strange only knew he no longer had his old self-control. That frightened him a little. He was unable to judge, for either of them. And that made him a little scared.

Landers did not know it, but Strange had had another version of the fight with the three pilots. Two of the old-company men had slipped away from the suite and gone upstairs to look for Landers, to make sure he was all right. Everybody was a little worried about him, so with the benediction of everyone Corello and Trynor had gone after him. They happened to be standing against the back wall with the headwaiter when it started. Landers had not seen them. It was Trynor who told Strange since, naturally, Corello never told anybody about anything, if he could help it.

“I never seen nothing like it,” Trynor said, with a kind of unwilling, irate protest. “I don’t think nobody could of stopped him. Five men, seven men couldn’t of whipped him. It was like some unbeatable power or force in him. When he went at them, them three fellows didn’t know what hit them. It was like they had grabbed a damn tiger by his tail.”

Trynor cleared his throat. “Do you think maybe he’s losing his mind, Sarge?”

Strange did not answer. He did not trust himself to. He had felt the same power or force in himself.