by Anton Myrer
He looked at her somberly. “Habit, I guess …”
Out on the verandah the wind whistled shrilly against the screens; the bamboo awnings clashed and clattered like warriors beating their swords against their shields. Tommy leaned into the wind, breathing deeply. Sad Sam Damon. He had bewitched them all: he was a cause of friction and division even when he was two thousand miles away … Before her the bay lay in a deep, black void below the lights on Cavite neck and Sangley Point, which sparkled and danced like pinpoints of fire. There were no stars. Above her the acacias swept their great feathered branches up and down, and the odor of the Islands—dense in the warm, damp air—assailed her senses. She spun around in revulsion. What were they doing here, these members of the strong right arm?
“Damn you, Dewey,” she muttered, “why didn’t you run aground out there in Boca Grande? Why couldn’t you have lost the battle of Manila Bay?” Then her father would never have had to meet the Sultan of Palamangao, and she wouldn’t be wandering forlornly now along this endless verandah, the unattached female in this Great Big Happy Family; for that matter, she probably wouldn’t have been walking along the colonnade at the Casino in Cannes, watching that AEF officer come toward her and say, “Pardon, Madame, mais—”
There was another titanic crash, and the gardens below the verandah leaped into visibility—a shutter-flash, jittering and silvered. The lights in the club went out. There was a murmur of surprise from the salon and then a woman’s shriek of laughter. Tommy hurried back into the club, bumped into something, almost fell—she had the sensation, moving in the pitch darkness, of falling forward through space. She laughed soundlessly, her arms extended before her like a child. The lights came on and promptly went out again. The wind raged against the shutters and something fell to the floor in a shivery tinkle of glass. A voice called, and there were several answering shouts. One of the Filipino boys came running from the kitchen carrying a hurricane lamp, its flame flaring red against his white jacket, and shadows darted against the walls like savage dancers. It was really very funny. She paused in the returning rush of darkness, swaying on her feet. She was drunk, there was no doubt about that. She was drunk, it was late and she couldn’t find her way back to the others. Or didn’t want to. Yes. The murky substance of things; what Court had said. Why was that? She would have difficulty getting home now if she wasn’t careful. Or maybe even if she was. Yes: especially if she was. There was no knowing. With this storm. A door swung shut with a crash. The rainy season was coming, with a clap of doom. Good, good! To hell with being careful. Or circumspect. Where did it get you? or anybody? The Japanese were coming ashore at Lingayen Gulf; or they weren’t. Somewhere Chink was playing a frantic boogie-woogie tune and she leaped into a frenzied little dance all by herself, humming, staring wide-eyed in the dark.
“Head like a ’gator, nose like a yam
But when she wants to boog-it, ooh! ooh! hot damn!
Hey, boogie! Wiggle-waggle all the time …”
A door bumped behind her; there was the sound of a step, another. She turned, saw nothing. “Who goes there?” she demanded. “Advance! —and give the boogie-woogie countersign …” There was no answer. She felt the flesh crawl on her shoulders and skull—and then heard herself laughing. So much the better, so much the worse. She went on dancing. She would—she would do something outrageous, something unthinkable: she decided she was going to shock the pants off that odious stuffed shirt Thompson. For talking to dear, crazy, cantankerous old Benjy that way. What would it be? Something fitting and proper for this asinine collection of toy soldiers on pa—
She gasped. A hand had seized her, then another. A huge body pressed against her. There was the sudden stench of sweat and oil and liquor—her hands encountered vast areas of flesh, slithered in an expanse of greasy muscle. Jarreyl. His face pressed against her cheek, her neck, his hands pulled at her gown, yanking and tearing.
“Come on, baby. Let’s you me play. Right here, right now.”
“—Oh!” she groaned. “Let me—go!”
“Sure, baby …”
She writhed in a spasm of revulsion. His arms were like iron; he had one hand between her legs now, the fingers pinching and grinding.
“You—beast,” she panted. “Drunken—dirty—beast! I’ll kill you…”
“Sure you will.” He was grinning, she could tell. She jabbed her fingers into his eyes; he grunted, gripped one of her breasts so hard it hurt. In a paroxysm she drove her knee into his groin, scratching and slashing at his eyes with her nails. A chair went over in a crash: it seemed hundreds of feet away, like something falling in a tunnel. But she was alive now, filled with energy and inventive rage—she was quite ready to die fighting this vicious monster. How I hate him! she thought; how I hate and despise him! It’s good to hate, good to fight with hate …
He reached down between her legs again and she raked him twice more across the eyes, broke away and staggered into a table, hurting her hip. He was on her again, had seized her by the hair this time. There was a high, flat tearing of fabric, and she thought with boundless rage: My costume, that I slaved over for five whole days—and hit him across the bridge of the nose with the edge of her hand. Her head snapped back with a crack that felt as though her neck were broken; he had pinned one of her arms against her side and was muttering, “All right, you’ve had your fun, now let’s go—”
“—Swine!” she shouted; but it was only a whisper. He had caught her free arm now, was twisting it behind her. She tried to knee him again; her arm was driven out and down with a wrench so violent she gasped with pain—but now her left arm was freed, and she kept raking and scratching at his eyes.
All at once he was gone—flung away violently: no hands were hurting her. She realized her eyes had been tightly shut. She opened them. The club lights were flickering dully, a burned orange. She saw Jarreyl go stumbling backward in a staggering fall across the room, his slick yellow body tumbling through the tables and chairs. Courtney Massengale was standing in front of her saying:
“All right now, that’s enough!”
The lights dimmed still more, rose again, flickering. Jarreyl came up through the collapsed bridge tables and chairs, his hands slapping against the wood, got to his feet and started toward them in a crouching rush. She heard a click—a neat, metallic sound over the roar of wind and rain; Jarreyl stopped, blinking. Court had a long, thin knife in his hand; he was holding it easily, at the level of his belt, his palm up, the point toward Jarreyl.
“All right,” he repeated. “Now get out of here.”
For a second she thought the stockade officer was going to fight. Then he straightened, swaying slightly, wiping his face with the back of one hand. Blood was streaking his nose and cheeks where she’d scratched him. I gave him a bloody nose, she thought. Good. If I could only have put out an eye—just one of his eyes—
“Maybe you’d like to put that knife away, Massengale,” Jarreyl was saying thickly.
Court smiled. “For a fair fight?” His voice was full of sarcasm. “Don’t be a God damn fool.”
Jarreyl looked around him quickly in the gloom. “All right,” he snarled, “assault with a deadly weapon—mandatory paragraph for courts-martial—”
“That’s right.” Court laughed softly. “And drunk and disorderly, felonious assault on the wife of a superior officer? What paragraph do you think that is?”
Jarreyl watched him sullenly, dabbing at his bleeding nose and eyelid.
“Maybe I should have worn that bolo after all.”
“Maybe you should.” All at once Court said with cold savagery: “Now get out of here, you filthy rummy!”
The rain was lashing the verandah behind them with a high roar. Jarreyl paused a moment longer, uncertainly; pointed to the knife. “I’ll remember that,” he muttered.
“So will I. Now make yourself scarce.”
Jarreyl moved out of the room, padding on his bare feet, his shoulders rolling.
“Thomas?”
Court was saying. “Are you all right?”
She had sunk back against a table. Her gown was torn open nearly to her knees; her neck hurt, and her arm. The lights flared up, and then went out again, but now from various rooms there was a soft yellow glow from the lamps.
“Thanks, Court,” she breathed. “Oh, thank you. He crept up on me—”
“He’s an animal. He ought to be put in a cage and sent to Zamboanga to scare the natives. Are you really all right?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know—I’m all undone …”
His arm was around her, steadying her, holding her erect. “Come on. Let’s get out of this. Do you have a wrap?”
“A what? No. No, I don’t.”
“All right.” He unsnapped the catch around his throat and handed her the hussar’s jacket. “Here. Put this over your head.”
“My head?”
“Yes. It’s raining guns.”
She went out on the verandah and down the steps in a turmoil. She felt headless and stunned; her body was like a riptide in a channel, rushing back and forth, seeking outlet. She was conscious of shockingly cold air, of rain beating on her face and arms in stinging needle waves, and the plunging branches of the acacias. Then they were in his car, with the gale thundering on the roof, and sliding through the teeming spikes of rain, the wipers were going, and across the boulevard lightning flashes revealed the bay as a slate platter now, scored with a thousand silver scrolls. She realized that he was breathing heavily; his face looked harsh and agitated. Catching her eye he said sharply, “There’s blood over your left eyebrow.”
Numbly she wet her handkerchief with her tongue and rubbed at it, felt the faint sting of the cut. “Court?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s—your wife?”
“She went home,” he said in a suddenly shaking voice. “You know perfectly well she went home a light-year ago …”
“Yes.”
Then he was looking at her directly, his face white and magisterial and wild in the flashes. “My wife is no wife at all. To me. As you know.”
She stared at him. “—I didn’t,” she stammered.
“What?”
“That is, I suspected—”
“Of course you did—why shouldn’t you—!” he almost shouted.
“Look out,” she warned, “—you’re driving too fast …”
He glared at her again. “Do you care? Do you, really?”
“—No,” she answered, “no, I don’t in the least. Drive just as fast as you like.” His morose, contained fury excited her. All her senses aroused from the battle with Jarreyl, the naked sexual force of it, and the taut, strange duel between him and Court, she thought, All right: I’m ready now. I’m ready for anything at all. The lashing rain, the straining featherheaded palms and booming wind had sealed them off together, gliding through the tropic darkness. When he stopped in the little grove behind her quarters and shut off the motor she thought, Maybe he’ll beat me now; maybe he’ll—
“Poor little grand little girl,” he was saying. “Poor Andromeda. Chained to all the sad, hopeless, romantic dreams.” His face was very near hers, as it had been in the club, but his expression was different—it was stamped with a fervor that shook her. “It has nothing to do with you. Nothing at all. You don’t want this …” He flicked the hand resting on the wheel’s rim toward the massed bougainvillea, the palms, the naked, storm-whipped bay. “All this obeisance and servitude … You want to change the shape of things, have them at your feet. A world at your feet.”
“Yes,” she said tensely, “that’s what I want …”
“I knew it!” His voice was exultant and fierce. “Oh, we two, together—do you realize what we could have accomplished? Why, we could have swept the stars into a basket … ”
“It’s true.” She came against him, then. She wanted it—she wanted to be possessed by him, dominated and devoured and overwhelmed. She knew she desired it with all her might. She could no more stop herself now than a man falling from a cliff into the sea.
“—not only that,” he was saying, “but you have fire, and delicacy, and balance … Let’s make a pact, you and I. A pact of—”
“Take me,” she breathed. “Please. Take me now.”
“What?”
“Now. I don’t care. Right now.” She reached up for him, curving toward him, adrift on a sea of yielding.
“No—wait,” he said. His eyes were white with anxiety: he looked like a man faced all at once with an unexpected and fearsome choice. She gazed at him in wordless consternation. He had withdrawn a little, stiffly—he was saying: “You don’t understand—it’s not that at all, that’s no answer—” The corner of his mouth twitched faintly once. “You don’t understand at all …”
Staring at him, watching his eyes, she began to understand. She was flooded with rage, with mortification and disgust.
“—You bastard!” she cried.
“No, now wait—” He raised the hand resting on the wheel, as though to ward off her anger. His eyes were full of fear now; she could see it clear as day. “You’ve misconstrued what I’ve been saying …”
“—I’ve misconstrued nothing! Not a damned thing! … ” If she’d had a weapon in her hands at that instant she would have tried to kill him. “I understand—all too well!” She was still trembling; her eyes filled in spite of herself. “Oh yes, I understand—don’t you think I don’t!” It was all clear to her now, what no one—not Fahrquahrson or MacArthur or the AG’s office or the Chief of Staff—knew about Courtney Massengale. She knew: but the cost, the cost of knowing—!
She pushed open the door, and her right arm and shoulder were immediately drenched. He reached toward her, saying, “Thomas, look, you don’t—”
“No!”
“Tommy—”
“No! I said no! No more!” She yanked the hussar’s jacket off her head and shoulders and flung it in his face. “You dirty—oh God, oh God, you—coward! … ” His hand caught at her shoulder now, but she twisted away from him and leaped out into the rain, caught her heel on the running board and felt it snap off. She turned, frantic with confusion and despair. Rain was streaming in her eyes, pelting her—a chill, aqueous burden. He was staring out at her, motionless, his face drawn and hard, his eyes narrowed to slits. His mouth curved down at one corner, she could see it in the faint emerald glow from the dashboard. To do this to someone!—someone you’d known and liked, seen from day to day—
She whirled around. Holding her torn gown together, coolly sobbing, limping on the heelless shoe, she ran through the rain.
10
The cargo net rippled and swayed, the forty-foot launch far below lifted and yawed away, straining against its lines. The men descended gingerly, crablike, their rifle butts now and then catching in the rope strands. Someone below him swore and looking down, Damon saw Tellerman gripping a fist and glaring upward.
“Vertical strands,” he called, “grip the verticals. You know better than that.” Well, cargo nets were not the answer—their six-sided weave was no good for this. What they needed was a perfectly square webbing, so no one would be tempted to grab the cross strands and get a boot on his fingers. Below him, nearer now, the launch lifted and sank rhythmically, and he watched it through his knees, timing the surge. He caught up to Millis, who, his head craned, was looking nervously down.
“Your belt, Millis,” he said.
“What?”
“Your belt should be open.”
“Oh—I forgot, Major.”
“So I see.” The boy glanced at him in distress, not wanting to let go with either hand, and Damon said crisply: “Never mind it now. You’re holding up the show. Come on and get in the boat.”
He timed the launch, caught it on the top of the rise and jumped; the fall made his feet sting. Lieutenant Feltner was saying, “Come on, you people, move up now, give ’em room,” and Damon followed the general movement toward the bows. The lift and fall of the launch against the ship’s i
ron side was mesmeric. It certainly looked like more than a three-foot rise. Down here, low over the water, the breeze was fresher; clear and cold.
“Just breathe that ocean air,” a voice crowed beside him. Jackson, thin as a rail, his handsome, lantern-jawed face creased in delight.
“All set, Jackson?” Damon asked him.
“Just straining at the barrier, Major.”
“That’s the pitch.”
Boretz was watching both of them distastefully. His face was rigid and the knuckles of his hand clutching the gunwale were white. This was stupid: every man ought to know how to swim and swim well. The marines insisted on it and they were right. If you fell overboard you still might drown before you got rid of your pack and rifle, but you might not; and at least you’d have some confidence about saving yourself.
They cast off, easing away from the bulging gray wall of the ship’s side, and the swells caught them unfairly, rocking the boat like a big, ungainly cradle. Millis, three men behind him, was swallowing, the tip of his tongue protruding from his mouth. Off to the east a row of oil tanks squatted like totems to a new mechanical race of gods, and beyond them the dunes, where they were to land, rolled and broke in low saffron hillocks. Damon looked at his watch. Eight seventeen. Men were still creeping down the nets and dropping into the boats; clumsy, shaggy birds falling out of a tipped nest. The white cloth bands on their helmets made them look bizarre, like some medical detachment.
“We going to reach the line of departure on schedule, sir?” Lieutenant Feltner asked; he was a slight man with the face of a harassed clerk, and the complexities surrounding this enterprise overawed him.
“Not a chance in a million, Ray,” Damon answered cheerfully.
Sergeant Bowcher, overhearing them, snorted. An old regular who had served nearly everywhere, he turned his flat, brick-red face toward the ship in disapproval. “Ought to be wider nets. Then the launches could come alongside in series—five, six of ’em.”