The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (53 page)

 

 

"We'll do our best," Yale heard O'Hara saying. "You realize, Colonel,
this office disburses over a half a million dollars a month. It will
take me time to verify the account."

 

 

Trafford smiled and said sarcastically, "Lieutenant Marratt will give
you his full cooperation, I'm sure." Trafford was obviously a little
disappointed that Yale had shown no overt anger. "Lieutenant Marratt,
Captain Baker is having your orders cut now. You are to stay with
Captain O'Hara until your departure. I've made arrangements with Captain
Johnson for O'Hara to take over your room. Very comfortable quarters,
O'Hara. Lieutenant Marratt has the feel of the land. These natives would
do anything for him. You can have his bearer, Chatterji." Trafford smirked
at Yale. "I'm sorry to say that his personal whore doesn't go with the
deal . . . which is too bad because she looks like the coolest piece of
ass ever to find its way into these parts." Delighted, Trafford noted
that Yale was clenching his fist and breathing heavily. "Don't do it,
Marratt. She's not worth it. No woman is. Not a dishonorable discharge
and the jug." He re-lighted his cigar. "Okay, get the hell out of here.
I got work to do."

 

 

As they left the office he thrust his final knife into Yale's back. "Just
in case you think you can go shed tears on Mrs. Wilson's voluptuous tits,
let me advise you that she, Harold Tuttle, and Jane Belcher have taken
a staff car and gone to Shillong for a week to the rest camp." The last
words Yale heard Trafford say were, "Never saw anyone so eager in my
life as that Tuttle, amazing how easily we men are led around by a little
hairy pussy." Trafford's laughter followed them across the courtyards.

 

 

Mat Chilling wasn't aware until two days later that Yale had been
transferred. When he heard the news he sought out Colonel Trafford.

 

 

Trafford beamed at him. "Preacher, if I hadn't known that you left
early from that little shindig last week you'd be on your way to parts
unknown right now." He stared at Mat. "What in hell do you think I'm
running here? A country club?" he guffawed. "That's good! A 'cuntry'
club. Get it, Captain? Well, for your information this is a supply base
to Kai-shek forces in China. The Germans are just about washed up, but
the way it looks now we may be fighting Japs for another ten years, and
I mean to do my part in shortening this affair just as much as possible.
I ain't got a thing against a man getting a little nookie, but when he
usurps one of the three or four white women around here and starts this
Romeo and Juliet crap, it's damned right debilitating for base morale.
I did the only thing that could be done. What's more, I'm not showing any
partiality. I've contacted Red Cross headquarters. Mrs. Wilson is going
down to Calcutta in a couple of weeks. When I clean up a mess I do it
thoroughly. I don't want her mooning around the base getting all the
rest of the women up in arms against me for being a first class prick."

 

 

Mat realized that it was useless for him to comment. He knew that in
a subtle way Trafford was right. Yale and Anne . . . particularly Yale
. . . had once again deviated too sharply from the patterns that men lived
by. Listening to Trafford, Mat was aware that Yale was fighting over again
the same battle he had waged in Midhaven. Colonel Trafford was simply a
crude version of Pat Marratt; both had the identical commissar mentality.

 

 

Mat remembered prophesying in college that the most important single
fact of the twentieth century would be the end of intellectual man;
the balanced intellectual, who had sufficient knowledge of man and
the learning man had so arduously accumulated, that he would be able to
interrelate not only knowledge itself but the hopes and aspirations of all
mankind. When that kind of man disappeared from the earth, civilization
would crumble with him. There was no room in a world of specialists,
in a world that was delightedly cultivating mediocrity, for men like
Yale who dared to challenge their gods, their morals, and their ethics.

 

 

Would he himself have the courage to revive the "Seek the True Love"
venture? He was beginning to doubt it. Too many of his most enthusiastic
supporters were faddists, who at the end had tried to usurp his ideas and
combine them with their own screwball notions. He had played the game of
"popularizing" an idea. Putting it across to the people in such simple
terms that they couldn't fail to understand it. In the end his idea
of man saving himself by a deeper understanding of the act of love had
been corrupted by his own closest followers who had begun to interpret
his theories as a carte blanche for sexual license, rather than as an
approach to God.

 

 

The Sunday after his talk with Trafford, Mat preached a conventional
sermon in the base chapel. He was listened to by a few dozen soldiers
who had sacrificed their sleep for the spiritual solace. He saw Anne,
by herself, following his words with an attention they scarcely warranted.
From behind the pulpit he felt the impact of her proud, lonely beauty.
For a second he lost the thread of his theological argument as, in a
kind of telepathy, he not only sensed her loneliness and need of Yale,
but felt a deep sorrow for all men in a world where hatred, anger, fear,
and sadism were such popular emotions.

 

 

After the service Anne remained in her seat while Mat talked briefly
with a few of the soldiers. When they had gone he came over and took
her arm. "Come on, Anne. I've been waiting to talk with you. We have to
get out of here. Father Harris has an eleven-thirty Mass. Do you want
to walk out to the village?"

 

 

Anne shook her head. Mat could see that she was close to tears. "I could
never go back there, Mat." He saw her shiver with the intensity of her
emotion. "Oh. God, why did it have to end this way?"

 

 

"It hasn't ended, Anne. The war will be over, you'll be together again."

 

 

Mat took one of the jeeps assigned to the chaplains. Sitting beside him
as he drove away from the base, Anne told Mat what had happened. "Colonel
Trafford certainly left no stone unturned in getting his revenge," she
said bitterly. "Howard Tuttle told us Wednesday night that Jane Belcher
and I had to be in Shillong on Thursday. It was a real cock-and-bull
story about a new club opening at the rest camp. Tony Martin and a
lot of Hollywood celebrities were to be there. I tried to get out of
going. I was supposed to meet Yale in the village but Howard laid the law
down. Trafford had obviously told him all about Yale and me. Howard tried
to imply that because I was in love with Yale I wasn't doing my duty. Can
you imagine that? The truth is that because I am in love with Yale, and,
perhaps, because I felt guilty at being so happy, I have been working
longer hours and planning more projects for the fellows than any of the
other girls."

 

 

Mat stopped the jeep in a small clearing at the edge of the road that
led into a green bamboo forest. The shade and a cool breeze that blew
on them from deep within the forest was such a sudden change from the
searing heat of the day that Anne shivered.

 

 

Mat had the peculiar sensation of having lived the moment before, and
then realized in one sense he had. As he had been with Cynthia the day
she lost Yale, so he was with Anne. Again he had a vivid image of Joe
Trafford and Pat Marratt as symbols of the strong forces of a new order
in the world. The new leaders who loved mankind but hated men; especially
they hated the men who refused to conform to what they conceived to be
"the greatest good for the greatest number."

 

 

"I found the truth a few hours after we arrived in Shillong," Anne said.
"Howard told me that he had no choice; that I was a disgrace to the Red
Cross, that if he had followed Colonel Trafford's recommendation I would
be on my way back to the States now." Her hands shaking, Anne lighted a
cigarette. "Oh, God, Mat, I guess I just wanted to die. When the world
itself has gone mad, why do individuals have to be so full of cruelty
and hatred?"

 

 

Mat shook his head sadly. "Believe me, Anne, I feel badly for you and Yale."

 

 

She looked at him dazedly, her blue eyes large with tears. "You don't
understand, Mat. You just don't understand. I've lost Yale just as surely
as I lost my husband, Ricky. I don't know where Yale has gone. Colonel
Trafford won't tell me. I went to his quarters last night and begged
him. He just sat there with that hateful grin he has and offered me his
services." She shuddered. "He was disgusting. How do men like him ever
get to be leaders?"

 

 

"I guess without the cruel ones," Mat said softly, "we'd have little
chance of winning this war." He gripped Anne's shoulder. "We'll find
Yale. My sergeant knows one of the men in the adjutant's office. I'll
get a copy of his orders."

 

 

Anne opened her pocketbook and handed him a piece of paper. "There's his
orders, Mat," she said bitterly. "Proceed to Hastings Mill, Calcutta,
for re-assignment from there. Yale probably already has another set of
orders. At Headquarters they could send him anywhere. Don't you see,
Mat? Trafford has made very certain that I can't find where Yale has
been sent."

 

 

"Yale will write you here, Anne. Trafford can't stop that. Then you'll
know where he is. You'll be able to write to each other."

 

 

"It's too late, Mat." Anne tried to stop her tears with a handkerchief.
"I'm leaving Talibazar tonight. Oh, our friend Trafford did a thorough
job. I have been reassigned to the European Theater." She shrugged and
said hopelessly, "It doesn't make much difference, I guess. I'll never
get to Europe. Very soon, now, I'm going to have to walk into the office
of some field director, and enjoy his shocked expression when I tell
him that I'm pregnant."

 

 

She saw Mat's surprised look. She wondered what he would think if he
really knew her thoughts. How she had been unable to tell Yale, because
she wasn't sure whether he loved her or not. How she had hoped that the
hundred-and-fifty-mile ride from Shillong, occurring as it had right
at the time of her second period, might have caused a miscarriage. How
she had examined herself so carefully for traces of blood. How she had
looked at her body this morning, after Chris Powers had left, examining
the shape of her breasts and stomach and finding only slight traces of
change. A vein on her left breast closer to the surface of her skin. Her
nipples just a shade browner. How she had touched herself lightly,
pretending it was Yale, and feeling a desire so strong for him that it
wracked her body as she released it in pent-up sobs of despair.

 

 

"No, Yale doesn't know," she said, answering Mat's question. "Don't you
understand, Mat? I can't hold him that way! Our Hindu marriage was so
beautiful. I think sometimes he loves me. Other times I'm not so sure. He
seems far away. Lost in memories. Do you know what I think sometimes?"

 

 

Mat nodded and said slowly, "You think he is still in love with Cynthia."

 

 

"I know he is, Mat, and for that reason I can't tell him I'm pregnant.
We've been pals. We both needed each other's physical love. I'm to blame
for being pregnant. Unless I dissuaded him he was always very careful."

 

 

Mat took her hand, noticing Anne's long tapered fingers. He was silent,
remembering Cynthia's hands, thinking unaccountably of the beauty of the
human hand, and wondering why artists and photographers hadn't related the
loveliness of the female face and body with the hands of a woman; hands
so capable of expression and beauty in themselves that they equalled any
other aspect of the feminine body, as an incarnation of God in man.
"I think you undervalue Yale's love for you, Anne. Even if he still cared
for Cynthia, I think he would want to assume his responsibility. When you
go back to the States you can contact his family in Midhaven. He will have
written them."

 

 

Anne withdrew her hand. "That's not worthy of you, Mat," she said, a
playful smile suddenly on her face. "It's almost as cliché-ridden
as your sermon this morning. I have heard enough about Patrick Marratt
not to walk into his house and expect to be greeted as a long lost
daughter-in-law."

 

 

Mat caught at her return of humor. "You might be surprised. Pat Marratt
would appreciate your blonde grace. Anne, I am sure that Yale will do
everything he can to contact you. I'll have the mail sergeant watch
for his letters and will personally forward them to you. And," Mat said
firmly, "you've got to do more than accept this with a Hindu fatalism.
You've got to approach it in a Christian belief that you and Yale were
meant for each other. . . ."

 

 

"And all's for the best in this best of all possible worlds," Anne said
quietly. "Really, Mat, either the things you preach for the general public
conflict in your own mind, or you don't understand the implications of
your 'Seek the True Love.'

 

 

Mat sighed. "I do speak with a forked tongue. Blame it on the Army. I know
what you mean, though. You're trying to say that if the ultimate can be
found in the male-female relationship as Sundari preaches, then it cannot
be particularized; that any woman or any man who have opened their minds
to each other, can take the final step and blend their bodies. . . ."

 

 

"And . . . marriage in a Christian or Judaistic one-for-one conception,"
Anne interrupted, "inadvertently perpetuates the myth of the separateness.
From this inevitability come the seeds of hatred, building the divisive
factor in human life." Anne smiled. She smoked her cigarette thoughtfully.
"Have you ever discussed these things with Cynthia?"