Battle Cry (33 page)

“You do right well, lad.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Patty tells me you were a woodsman?”

“Yes sir.”

“Were you now? Come with me, lad. I want to show you something.” He placed the pliers and hammer in his pocket and slipped between two strands of the fence. Andy put a hand on a post and sprang over.

“Timmy used to do that,” he said softly. “Coming, Patty girl?”

“No, I’ll help Mama with tea,” she answered, mounting Ariki and reaching for Tony’s bridle. “I’ll take him back in, Andy.” She rode off.

“Mite touchy about this,” Enoch said. “Can’t say as I blame the poor girl after what she’s been through. But she loves the land as all us Rogers do, that I know. This running away to Wellington proves nothing to the contrary.”

They walked alongside the fence for a half mile, then down a steep bank to a shallow swift creek. The ancient plank that forded it groaned under their weight. On the other side they came to a small wood of three or four acres. Beyond it lay a grassy knoll, and they climbed it.

From here they could see the quiet land below for many miles.

“This land was bought for my son Timmy,” Enoch said, lighting his pipe. “I suppose it belongs to Patty now. I even have some prize rams and ewes and a full rig of tools put away.”

Andy was awestruck. From the edge of the knoll he looked up to the sky. A mass of crazy-shaped clouds floated past. Then he had the feeling, as a man does when he stands on the side of a hill and looks up, that the very earth was rushing up to heaven, that nothing was wrong and nothing could ever be wrong. As if in a sweet dream, he let Enoch lead him down to the edge of the trees.

Sunken into a small oak, he saw a rusted axe. It was covered with moss. Enoch looked at it and spoke softly. “My son planted that axe before he went away. He told me that one day he’d return and clear this land.”

Andy reached for the handle in the automatic motion of a lumberjack.

“I’m afraid it’s frozen, Andy.”

He wrapped his large hands about the handle and pulled; it grunted, then gave. Enoch stepped back as Andy ran his fingers over the blade, spat on his hands and swung on the tree. Smooth, powerful strokes and the bite of his axe rang out through the hills, and echoed back like the music he had heard so often in the north woods.

The oak groaned and Andy put his weight behind him and sent it crashing to the ground. He straightened up and wiped the sweat with the sleeve of his dungaree.

“You’ve got a good pair of hands, lad…it’s a man like you that will be clearing this land someday.”

Andy sunk the axe into the stump and turned and headed back to the farmhouse.

Mrs. Rogers put the platter, brimming full of fried chicken, before Andy. “Patty told me you were fond of chicken fixed this way, and I suppose you boys are a wee bit tired of our mutton.”

“Gosh, Mrs. Rogers, you shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble,” he said, grabbing a drumstick.

“I hope it turned out all right. I’ve never made it before. Goodness, I had to phone at least five people to get a recipe.”

“Mrs. Rogers,” said Enoch, “be getting us some beer, if you please.”

“Mr. Rogers,” said Mrs. Rogers, “I’ll not be going near that closet. Was only this morning that another bottle exploded. It’s not safe for body or soul.”

“Ach, woman,” he grunted, getting up from the table.

The door burst open and six persons entered. A man, unmistakably of the Rogers clan, his rolypoly wife and their four rolypoly children.

“Uncle Ben!” cried Pat.

“Patty, darling, it’s been a bloomin’ long time since we’ve seen you, lass.”

Mrs. Rogers leaned closed to Andy. “Brace yourself, lad, there’s to be a real onslaught tonight.”

“Now, where is the Yank Marine you’re hiding, Patty?”

Mrs. Rogers rocked back and forth in her aged, creaky chair. Enoch lifted the large ale mug to his lips, shifted his pipe and gazed into the fire. Andy rested on a soft overstuffed chair, Pat curled on the wool rug at his feet. The dancing flames from the open hearth cast flickering shadows about the snug little room. Beamed ceilings, paneling rising from the floor to six feet, then a shelf around the entire room, lined with big pewter mugs, wrought brassware, an occasional oval framed tintype picture of one of the clan. On the rugged stone fireplace, a framed needlepoint picture:
God Bless Our Home.
And mounted heads of the wild pigs that dared endanger his flock. It was sturdy, like Enoch and like his land. He drained his mug and belched.

“
Mister
Rogers!”

“Good Lord, woman, can’t a man belch in his own house? As I said, Andy, it’s a simple life, not much like your America.”

He reached down and gave his dog a comfortable stroke. “A good piece of land, a good woman, and a good dog. A man has his work cut out for him. We Rogers can’t understand city folk, we never will. All the rushing and tomfoolery of it. Here, in the hills, is the only way to live.”

“I suppose you may find us dull, Andy,” Mrs. Rogers said. “I’m sorry that you had to have the whole family barge in on us, but Patty’s been gone for such a long time, and sometimes life here is slow and we need a good reason to get together. The women like to talk and the men to have a drink.”

“They are nice people. I hope they liked me.”

“Ho! The bloomin’ lot of them had to take a look at the bloke Patty hooked herself.”

“Papa!”

“And an American Marine at that.”

“Hold your tongue, Mr. Rogers. You’ll be embarrassing the poor lad to tears.”

“Nothing of the sort, Mrs. Rogers. When I told Dugger and Ben how this boy fells a tree, they took notice, they did.”

The flame fell lower and lower.

“It’s not a happy lot for us, Andy. So many of our boys gone, never to come back, and others getting a look at the fast living in London and the likes. They’ll not be wanting to come back and castrate the sheep. And some married to them bloomin’ Greek girls. Ah yes, we’ll be needing new blood out here.”

Mrs. Rogers’ chair stopped. Enoch stood up, the dog quickly taking to heel beside him. He walked to his wife and gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “Come on with you, old woman, we’d best turn in and give the young folks a turn before the log dies out.” They walked to the door and said good night.

“Poor Andy,” Pat said. “You did fine. I told you you’d be in for a rough go.”

“They’re wonderful people, Pat. You’re very lucky. I hope they thought I was O.K.”

“They like you well enough as long as you can knock a tree down and drink beer with them. You mustn’t pay attention to Papa and Mama. They’re trying to marry me off before I become an old spinster for good.”

He slipped from his chair to the floor beside her and put his arm about her shoulder. She sleepily cuddled in to him. “I never knew there was a place like this or people so nice, like your family.” He touched her cheek and lifted her face to his. “Pat…Pat, honey, could I?” Her arms tightened about his neck and their lips met.

“Darling,” she whispered.

“Pat, honey.”

She tugged away, he released her. “We mustn’t, we mustn’t,” she said.

He arose and helped her up.

“Don’t be angry with me, Andy.”

“It’s all right. I understand…. Good night, Pat.”

I walked over to Andy’s sack and jabbed him in the ribs. “Hey, stupid, step outside into my office,” I said.

Andy slipped into his boondockers and followed me from the tent. The field music blew recall as we walked down the catwalk to the radio shack and entered. I flipped the light on and sat down on the bench beside the practice key. Almost instinctively Andy placed his finger on the key and tapped out code: .—. .—.-.——…-…. I watched his hand spell out
Pat Rogers.

“What’s the scoop?” Andy asked.

“You fouled up the field problem, like a Chinese firedrill.”

“That’s a crock of crap.”

“And you fouled up the one last week. The Gunner has the red ass and I’m p.o.’d myself.”

“Aw, lay off, Mac.”

“Lay off, hell. You haven’t been right since that seventy-two over Thanksgiving. What’s on your mind?”

“I’ve already been to the chaplain. I’ll be O.K.”

“Like hell you been to the chaplain. I checked.”

Andy sputtered and fumed. I stood fast by the door. I was determined to get him squared away. He wasn’t the best operator in the world, but he was reliable.

“I got a broad,” he finally croaked.

“So what, we all got broads.”

“This is different.”

“I know, they’re all different.”

“What the hell’s the use of talking!”

“What’s eating you, Andy?”

“You…you won’t let this get around?”

“You know me better than that.”

“Mac…I’m nuts about her. I thought I had more damned sense, but I can’t get my mind off her.”

“Tell me something, Andy, what’s your beef against women?”

He got up and walked to the window and slowly lit a cigarette. “It’s a long story and it ain’t interesting.”

“Maybe if you got it off your chest, you’d be able to see things in a clearer light.”

He sat again and fiddled with the key, arguing with himself whether he was going to tell me or not.

“My old man died when I was three,” he finally whispered. “Got killed trying to blow a log jam.” He clenched his teeth and looked away from me. “The welfare people took me away from my old lady when I was four. They found me and my kid brother in a skid row hotel…we’d been locked up for two days…we hadn’t eaten…my brother’s diaper hadn’t been changed…they found her, drunk…. My old lady was laying every lumberjack in the north woods….”

“You don’t have to finish.”

“It was your idea, Mac. I ran away from my foster home to the lumber camps. I was twelve then. I swabbed decks, cleaned bunkhouses, waited on tables. I was a twelve-year-old punk listening to those guys cuss and talk dirty about women. When I was sixteen I was topping tall timber and going into town once a month and drinking and shacking up with whores—whores like my old lady.”

And then the venom, pent up for years, spat out.

“They’d act like they was having a big time and all they was thinking was how they could roll you and get the dough you beat your brains out for. They’d lay back and tell you what a swell guy you was and groan…the phoneys!” he cried. Then he simmered down a bit. “My kid brother wasn’t so lucky. He was a skinny kid and had to stay at the foster home…but Christ, Mac, that kid had a brain in his head, like Sister Mary. Smart, he was—liked to read and learn new things all the time. You should see what he could do with a motor. I saved a pile of dough so’s I could send him to college.”

Andy’s shoulders sagged and he looked very tired. His voice trembled. “He was a good kid, kept his nose clean. I saw to that, best I could. Then he got mixed up with this broad—a real slut. Somebody knocked her up and she pinned it on him. He had to marry her. And a kid like that with a brain like he’s got. Living with her, working for thirty bucks a week in a drygoods store. He’s only eighteen, Mac….”

It wasn’t a pretty story. I could understand how he felt now. “So what’s the payoff?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Mac, I just can’t put it together.”

“Andy, who the hell you think you are—God? You just can’t go barreling through life thinking every woman who walks is a pig.”

“I don’t, I don’t,” he cut in quickly. “Not about her. She ain’t like that, Mac.” He looked away bashfully. “I tried making out with her but she cut me down. And I keep coming back for more.”

“Nothing I say is going to wipe clean all the things you’ve got stored up, but if you love this girl you’re going to have to lay your cards on the table. Go all the way or pull out.”

“I want to tell her what I feel for her, honest. But something inside me won’t let me.”

“What is it, for Chrisake?”

“I don’t want to get hurt, that’s what! Ski had a nice girl, didn’t he? She loved him, didn’t she? Mac, honest to God I want to love her…it means more than getting into bed with her. But things like that just don’t keep, not for years, they don’t. It will end up the same way as all of them.”

“Do you think you could sell your story to Danny or Marion? Trusting their women is part of their life. A guy don’t go around with a rotten mind. You’ve got to have trust to live, Andy. Deep down you know she isn’t going to hurt you, but you’re going to have to find out the hard way.”

“I’m scared, Mac.”

“What about Pat?”

“How’d you know her name?”

“I read code.”

“Aw, I dunno. She’s kind of beat out. She’s lost a husband and a brother in the war. She’s scared like I am, in another way. Mac, did you ever feel this way?”

“No,” I said, “not exactly. I’ve met lots of nice girls. But I guess an old salt like me is married to the Corps. Every once in a while I get a big yen for the pipe and slippers routine…Maybe when I finish my thirty years, or when the war is over…”

Andy’s voice drifted, like he was in another world. “Her dad has a farm up past Masterton. You never met people like them. Funny, Mac, when I walked into the gate from the highway, it seemed like I’d known the place all my life. Like I knew every tree and building…. He showed me a piece of land that belonged to Pat’s brother…I was standing there on a knoll, looking down into the valley…. It seemed like I heard a voice saying to me, ‘Where have you been, Andy, we’ve been waiting for you….’”

CHAPTER 4

AS OUR DAYS
before combat grew closer, we sharpened our hand-to-hand combat training tenfold. Several hours each day were spent practicing the quickest way to kill with a rifle, a pistol, a knife or bayonet—or a stick or rock if necessary. All field problems included sneak attacks on sentries to sharpen our reflexes and keep us on the alert at all times. Then a picked squad was chosen to roam the battalion and attack us at any time. In the chow line, in the heads, in our sacks at night, they sprang on us.

The use of the flat of your hand, elbow smashes, knees, use of the forehead to butt—nothing was overlooked. We’d get in a circle and face inward and were blindfolded. One man would rove around the edge of the circle and throw a stranglehold on one of us and we had to break it or get half choked.