“Well, when we get to our room, Mommy will wash your ears,” Caroline said. “Or anything else you think needs it.”
“I told you to knock off that ‘Mommy’ shit,” Charley said, coldly. “I don’t think it’s funny.”
Caroline did not respond with a dirty word of her own. She was wrong, and she knew it.
Why did I say that? I know it angers him. There’s probably something Freudian in that Mommy shit. Obviously. We both know I’m thirty-three and he’s twenty-five. There is probably a hint somewhere in there of perversion, too. Charley can’t understand why I stayed married to Jack for so long after I learned that he was homosexual. First she was married to a fairy, he thinks, and now she’s shacked up with a Marine eight years younger than she is and doesn’t give a damn who knows it. Obviously, there is something strange about that dame. Strange is not all that far from perverse.
Charley pulled off the highway and stopped.
“I won’t say that again, Baby,” Caroline said.
And now he will take affront at ‘Baby’! Why did I say that? What the hell is the matter with me?
“Forget it,” Charley said, and smiled at her. “My bag will be the one on the bottom, right?”
“Probably,” she smiled. “Would you like me to drive? I know where the Andrew Foster is.”
“Go ahead,” he said.
He got in the back and she slid behind the wheel.
There were four men behind the marble reception desk of the Andrew Foster Hotel, flagship of the forty-one-hotel Foster chain, atop San Francisco’s Nob Hill. Three wore formal morning clothes, wing collars and tailed coats. The fourth man, older than the others, wore a double-breasted gray coat and striped trousers and had a rose-bud pinned to his lapel.
“Madam, I’m terribly sorry,” one of the men in formal clothing said to Caroline McNamara. “I just don’t seem to be able to find any record of your reservation.”
“Well, as long as you can put us up, I suppose no harm is done,” Caroline said.
“That, Madam, I’m afraid, is going to pose a problem,” the desk clerk said. “The house, I’m afraid, is absolutely full. I’ll call around and see if we can’t find something for you ...”
“Excuse me,” the older man said to the desk clerk. “There has been a cancellation.” He handed the clerk a key. “Why don’t you put this officer and his lady in 901?”
“Yes, of course,” the desk clerk said and snapped his fingers for a bellman.
“Thank you,” Caroline said.
“I’m sorry about the mix-up with your reservation,” the older man said. He nodded at her, and then at Charley, and disappeared through a door in the paneled wall behind the counter.
Nine oh one turned out to be a corner suite consisting of a sitting room, a bedroom, and a butler’s pantry.
As soon as Caroline tipped the bellman and he was gone, Charley said, “Jesus, what do you suppose this is going to cost us?”
“What you are supposed to say, Darling, is ‘I was wrong and you were right, and I’m sorry I doubted you.’ ”
“Consider it said,” Charley said. “And what do you think it’s going to cost?”
“Do you really care?” Caroline asked. “And anyway, I’ve got a bunch of traveler’s checks.”
“No. What the hell,” Charley said. “Why not?”
“Why not, indeed?”
“I’m going to take a shower,” Charley said, and headed for the bathroom. In a moment, he was back. “Hey, look at this, they even give you a bathrobe!”
He held a thick, terry cloth robe in his hands, embroidered with the logotype, “ANDREW FOSTER HOTEL San Francisco.”
“Between the hotel and me, Darling, you’ll have everything your heart desires,” Caroline said.
As soon as I hear the shower running, I’m going to get in there with him. Surprise, surprise!
She looked around the room, hoping that there would be something to drink—preferably something romantic or erotic, like cognac. She was disappointed, but not surprised, to find a liquor cabinet full of glasses, but no booze. She considered calling room service, but decided that getting in the shower with him was the highest priority. She could call room service later.
She found the bottle of scotch they’d bought in Nevada and set it on the bar. Then she changed her mind and took it and two glasses to the bedside table. And then, after taking Charley’s clothes from where he had tossed them on the bed and throwing them onto the floor, she took off her clothes, added them to the pile, and went into the bathroom.
When she opened the glass door, she found him shaving. He told her he’d learned how to do that in boot camp at Parris Island when he had first joined the Corps. She found it delightfully masculine.
She wrapped her arms around him from the back.
“I’ll wash yours if you wash mine,” she said.
“Mine’s already clean,” he said.
“Bastard!”
He turned and put his arms around her.
“Christ,” he said. “This is like a dream.”
“If it is, I don’t want to ever wake up.”
“We have fifty-six hours,” Charley said, “before I have to report to Mare Island.”
“Say, ‘Caroline, you were right about driving straight through so that we would have some time in San Francisco.’ ”
“You were right, Baby,” he said.
“Fifty-six hours?” Caroline said. “However are we going to pass all that time?”
“Well, for openers, I’m clean enough,” he said, and turned the shower off. “How about a quick game of Hide the Salami?”
“And then what?” she said, dropping her hand to his midsection.
“And then another game of Hide the Salami,” Charley said. “The second time we’ll start keeping score.”
“You’re on,” she said.
There came the sound of chimes.
“What the hell is that?” Charley asked.
“I think it’s the doorbell.”
“One of the characters in the fancy costumes is out there, and he’s about to tell us they’ve made a mistake and we’ll have to get our asses out of here.”
“We’re going to have to see what it is,” Caroline said.
“Yeah,” Charley said.
He turned her loose and stepped out of the shower, put one of the terry cloth robes on, and went out of the bathroom.
Caroline got out of the shower, quickly towelled herself, and pulled on a robe. She wiped the steam from the mirror and looked at herself.
I can’t go out there looking like this!
But, of course, she had to. Charley was ill-equipped to deal with people who managed a world-class hotel like the Andrew Foster.
She went out of the bathroom.
There were three people in the sitting room. Two bellmen, one of whom was stocking the liquor cabinet with liquor, and the other in the act of taking the cellophane from a large basket of fruit. Caroline also saw a bottle of champagne in a cooler.
“I’m so sorry to disturb you, Madam,” the third man announced; he was the older man who had announced the reservation cancellation downstairs. “But when I checked, I found that the bar wasn’t stocked, and I thought I’d better remedy that.”
“Thank you,” Caroline said.
“And I wanted to make sure you understood that because of our mix-up about your reservation, your bill will be for the room you reserved; I mean to say there will be no increase in price.”
“Oh, hell,” Charley said. “I can’t let you do that.”
“It’s the pleasure of the Andrew Foster,” the old man said.
“No,” Charley said. “That would be stealing. I mean, we didn’t really have a reservation. I don’t mind talking you out of a room, but I couldn’t cheat you out of any money that way.”
I can’t believe, Caroline thought, that he just said that!
“Your husband, Madam, is obviously an officer and a gentleman,” the old man said.
>
Charley is really a gentleman, Caroline thought. And touchingly, innocently honest. And not of course, my husband.
“My husband is on his way to the Pacific,” Caroline said. “I wanted to spend our last night, our last two nights, in this hotel. I didn’t much care what I had to do to arrange that.”
“The Andrew Foster is honored, Madam. And so you shall. As guests of the inn.”
“We want to pay our way,” Charley said.
“I would be very pleased if you would be guests of the inn,” the old man said.
“Why would you want to do that?” Caroline asked.
“How could you fix it with the hotel?” Charley asked.
“I noticed your wings, Captain. I gather you’re an aviator?”
“Yes, Sir, I am.”
“Are you familiar with the F4F Wildcat?”
“Yes, Sir, I am.”
“Charley’s on his way to take command of an F4F squadron,” Caroline blurted.
My God, don’t you sound like a proud wife!
“My grandson, my only grandchild, is training to be an F4F pilot,” the old man said. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever run into a second lieutenant named Malcolm Pickering, have you? They call him ‘Pick.’”
“He’s a Marine?” Charley asked.
“Yes. He’s at Pensacola right now.”
“No, Sir, I don’t know him,” Charley said. “Sorry.”
“Nice boy. His father was a Marine in the first war, so of course, he had to go into the Marines, too.”
“Yes, Sir,” Charley said. “That’s understandable.”
“I don’t know anything about the sort of training they give young men like that, or about the F4F,” the old man said. “I don’t want to know anything I shouldn’t know, classified information, I think they call it, but I really would like to know whatever you could tell me.”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll be happy to tell you anything you’d like to know.”
“Perhaps at dinner,” the old man said. “If you did that, I’d consider it a fair swap for you being guests of the inn so long as you’re here.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Charley said. “And, how the hell could you square that with the hotel?”
“I can do pretty much what I want to around here, Captain Galloway,” the old man said, with a chuckle. “My name is Andrew Foster.”
“I’ll be goddamned!” Charley said.
“I live upstairs,” Andrew Foster said. “Just tell the elevator man the penthouse. My daughter, Pick’s mother, lives here in San Francisco. I’d like her to join us, if that would be all right with you.”
“Certainly,” Caroline said.
“Eight o‘clock?” Andrew Foster asked.
“Fine,” Caroline said, softly.
“My daughter, of course, knows as little about what Pick is doing as I do, and my son-in-law hasn’t been much help.”
“I’m sorry?” Caroline asked.
“My son-in-law, who is old enough to know better, and had more than enough to keep him busy here, couldn’t wait to rush to the colors.”
“He went back in the Corps?” Charley asked.
“The Marine Corps wouldn’t have him back,” Andrew Foster said. “So he went in the Navy. The last we heard, he’s in Australia.”
VII
(One)
UNION STATION
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
1625 HOURS 24 JUNE 1942
“The Lark,” as the train from Los Angeles to San Diego was called, was probably one hell of a money maker, Sergeant John Marston Moore thought; it probably should have been called “The Pigeon Roost.”
There was not an empty seat on it; and the aisles and even the vestibules between the cars were jammed with people standing or, if they could, sitting on their luggage. At least half of the passengers were in uniform; and there was something about most of the civilian women that told Moore they had some kind of a service connection. They were either wives or girlfriends of servicemen.
He had recently become convinced that air travel was not only the wave of the future, but the only way to travel. Having a good-looking, solicitous stewardess serving your meals and asking if you would like another cup of coffee was far superior to this rolling tenement, where if you were lucky you could sometimes buy a soggy paper cup of coffee and a dry sandwich from a man who made his way with great difficulty down the crowded aisle.
When nature called, he waited half an hour for his turn in the small, foul-smelling cubicle at the end of the car; and then when he made his way back to his seat, he found a sailor in it, reluctant to give it up.
The ride wasn’t smooth enough, nor his seat comfortable enough, for him to sleep during the trip; but he cushioned his head with his fore-and-aft cap against the window and dozed, floating in memories of the time he and Barbara spent together. Aware that it was ludicrous to dream of his return from the war before he had actually gone overseas, he nevertheless did just that.
By then, certainly, the temporarily delayed commission would have come through. He would be Lieutenant Moore, possibly even Captain Moore. In any case, an officer. That would certainly tend to diminish the unfortunate differences in their ages. One simply could not treat a Marine lieutenant, or a Marine captain, like a boy. He even considered growing a mustache—once the commission came along, of course.
But most of the images he dwelt on concerned the scene that would take place once he and Barbara went behind a closed and locked door somewhere, either in the apartment on Rittenhouse Square, or preferably, in some very nice hotel suite.
The astonishing truth was that physical intimacy—he did not like to think of it simply and crudely as “sex,” because all that he and Barbara had done together was much more beautiful than that—between people who were in love with each other was everything—and more—than people said it was.
Such images were pleasant. But the ride was long, and the seat uncomfortable, and he was glad to hear the conductor announce their imminent arrival in San Diego. Somewhat smugly, he did not join in the frenzied activity to reclaim seabags and luggage and get off The Lark. When all these people left the train, the station was going to be as crowded as the train had been. If he just sat and looked out the window and waited, by the time he got to the station, much of the crowd would be dispersed.
Finally, he jerked his seabag from the overhead rack, carried it out of the car with his arms wrapped around it, hoisted it to his shoulder in the vestibule, and went down the stairs to the platform.
A hundred feet down the platform toward the station, he was surprised to see a Marine with corporal’s stripes painted on his utility jacket sleeves holding up what looked like the side of a cardboard box. Written on that in grease pencil was, SGT. J. M. MOORE.
He walked up to him.
“My name is Moore.”
“I was beginning to think you missed the fucking train,” the corporal said. “Come on, the Gunny’s outside in the truck.”
He tossed the sign under the train and started down the platform. Outside the main door was a Chevrolet pickup truck, painted in Marine green. A short, muscular Gunnery Sergeant, a cigar butt in his mouth, was sitting on the fender.
“You Moore?” he asked as he pushed himself off the fender.
“Right.”
“I was beginning to think you either couldn’t read or missed the fucking train,” the Gunny said. “My name is Zimmerman. The Lieutenant, Lieutenant McCoy, sent me to meet you. Throw your gear in the back and get in.”
“Right,” Moore said. “Where are we going?”
“Would you believe the San Diego Yacht Club?”
Moore smiled uneasily. Obviously, he was not supposed to ask where he was going, otherwise he would not have been given a sarcastic reply.
“Sorry,” he said.
Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman grunted and got behind the wheel, Moore got in the other side, and the corporal got in beside him, next to the window.
As they drove awa
y from the station, Zimmerman said, “I checked out how those fuckers at Outshipment work, the way they handle people like you with priorities like yours.”
“Oh?”
“What they do when you report in is send you over to the transient barracks, and then get you put on some kind of detail. Then, when they’re making up the manifest for the flight, they see who else is on it with rank and no priority, or not so high a priority. If there ain’t anybody, then they call you back from the transient barracks and you get on the plane. But if there is some commander or some colonel who’s going to give them trouble about being bumped by a sergeant, they ‘can’t find you’ on your detail, you miss the flight, the commander or the colonel gets on it, they don’t get no trouble, and everybody’s happy.”
“I see.”
“So I told the Lieutenant, and he said ‘fuck ’em, stash him until thirty minutes before the plane leaves and then take him right to operations. Then they can’t lose him, he’ll be there.‘ ”
“I understand,” Moore said, although he wasn’t absolutely sure he did.
“So I asks the Lieutenant where he wants you stashed, and he says take you over to the boat, he’ll call Miss Ernie and tell her you’re coming.”
“The boat?”
“I told you, we’re going to the Yacht Club,” Gunny Zimmerman said, impatiently.
“How’d you know when I was arriving?”
“You ask a lot of fucking questions about things that are none of your fucking business, don’t you?” the Gunny replied.
“Sorry,” Moore said.
The corporal beside him snorted in amusement.
“Miss Ernie”? “The Yacht Club”? Am I being a snob because I suspect that the yacht club he’s referring to is not what usually pops into my mind when I hear the words “yacht club”? Odds are that this yacht club is going to turn out to be a Marine bar somewhere, with a picture of a naked lady and the standard Marine Corps emblems hanging above the bar, and whose proprietress, Miss Ernie, will bear a strong resemblance to Miss Sadie Thompson?
Battleground Page 17