Denver Is Missing

by D. F. Jones

  “Okay, Mitch, if you want it that way, but—”

  “I do.”

  “Very well, we’ll do it your way.” I could have wished he had been a fraction less casual about this decisive moment in my life. He stared glumly into the night. “Wish to hell I could go…. Now, how about a drink?”

  It was late when I walked cautiously back to the rest-house. Bette and Bill were leaning on the rail. With a view like that, even by starlight, I could see that this could easily become a habit.

  “ ’Evening, Mitch. Had a good time?” Bill looked very cheerful.

  “And how!” I glanced around. “Where’s Karen?”

  “She’s turned in,” said Bette. “Darling, I’ve hardly seen—”

  I pretended to be a little drunker than I was. “A sw—-swell idea.” I pushed our door open, not looking at them. “Well, ’night, folks!”

  Before I had my pants off, Bill came in, bright and cheery. “Yes, a very good evening. The commander said that if we’d like to get at it first thing, he’ll have Mayfly up on the slip by afternoon and make a permanent repair to that hole.” He pulled his shirt off, murmuring, “Splendid types, hospitable, hospitable.”

  “Fine!” I was very tired. Nothing mattered except sleep, but a stray thought had enough energy to cross my mind. “Wonder what little Sandra is up to?”

  Bill frowned. Mayfly was a much more congenial subject. “Probably on her back somewhere, working hard for Anglo-American unity! As long as she’s not on mine, I really don’t much care.”

  Morning was ushered in by a tall glass of chilled orange juice, and did I want two or three eggs? The steward looked tired; then my mind started working.

  “How’s Miss Bates this morning?”

  “She’s just fine, Doctor,” the steward said with ill-concealed satisfaction.

  The all-American breakfast over, Bill was impatient to get going. The girls still hadn’t arrived for the meal, and he wasn’t going to wait for them. He explained as he led me firmly off that there were a lot of other boats needing repair, he had accepted the offer, and it was up to us not to be late.

  We had to strip that bunk down once more, and I said I would like to set all my gear ashore for a big washday. Bill suspected nothing; in fact, he packed a case himself to reduce the amount of stuff that would be loose in the saloon. By midday we had the cabin cleared, and Mayfly round by the slip; and I had all my baggage in my room.

  The girls by some primitive bush telegraph, had discovered that the base barber knew something about women’s hair and they were out of my way and in his, doubtlessly causing a riot among his clients. The steward also informed me that Miss Bates was being interviewed by the commander about the cruise liner, and I wished him all the luck in the world.

  So, with Bill immersed in Mayfly, I was at loose ends. I wandered around until I found the exec.’s office. He confirmed that the flying boat was due in the next morning, and was scheduled to leave again at three that afternoon.

  I spent part of the afternoon writing letters and tearing them up; then I gave myself a nice walk along the shore of the lagoon, the granddaddy of the one that had saved us. I hardly notice a thing, and was so depressed I could have burst out crying at the slightest provocation. Later, after a shower and a change, I walked over to the officer’s club for a drink and some company, both of which I needed. It was early. Except for the steward, the place was empty. I got a drink, noted that all the papers and magazines were of the pre-SARAH era, and got down to that last resort of the lone visitor in a club, the notice board. Half an hour and two drinks later Sandra arrived, by which time I was an authority on local social activities, and prepared to talk, even to her. Chance would have been a fine thing, but a junior lieutenant arrived, clearly by appointment, ten seconds after her.

  For all my intense dislike of the girl, I could not help but admire the way she grappled with her problems, and found answers. I wished I had some of her drive. It was all two hundred percent selfish, but it was positive. She was absolutely nothing to look at, but she had a vivacity which got her through. I watched her, perched on a barstool, ribbing the young officer and the bartender, pricking them gently with that sharp tongue of hers, and they were lapping it up. Somewhere along the line she had got a new dress which fitted her slight figure, and a bunch of cheap bangles adorned one thin wrist.

  Bette and Karen came in with older, but equally purposeful escorts. I got a wave and a bright smile from Bette. Suddenly the whole thing went very sour on me; I felt angry, out of things. I left, and ate a solitary supper, the meal served for watchkeeping officers ahead of the main dinner. As the dining officers and their guests trooped in, flushed and talking loudly, I slipped away, half-hoping someone would stop me, but no one did.

  A friendly petty officer found me heaving rocks into the ocean, and insisted on taking me along to the CPO and PO’s club which was practically identical with the officer’s club, except that the drinks tended to be shorter and tougher. They were a good crowd. I told my story again, and when the edges had worn off with a few drinks, they told me about Sandra. Already, it seemed, she was something of a legend in the Navy base. Astonishingly, she was very popular, and not just because she was willing, although by all accounts she was already well into double figures. She had a ruthless directness of approach that fascinated them. One of them said, “After a coupla minutes fooling around, she says, ‘Okay, sailor, you want it and I want it, but I take the chances and I’m broke. You don’t haveta pay—after a week in that crummy boat I want it as much as you do—but five bucks guarantees we both have a good time.’ Gee, I never heard a line like that before!”

  Again it was late when I got to bed. Bill was already fast asleep. I had drunk more than enough, yet felt sober, and for a while I sat on my bed and stared at him. Noise, laughter, and music drifted in from the officer’s club. No US citizen had much at that time to laugh over, but these men, cut off from their homeland, were no less concerned for what was happening back home because they could ease off for a while, and the presence of Bette and Karen gave them a chance to relax. And there was Bill, in a land that was, after our experience, near Paradise, and he took no more interest than politeness demanded. With his story, he could have been dining out with the island big shots or the Governor; but he preferred to work on his boat. My admiration grew. Life for him was simple and uncomplicated, governed by an inanimate object, his yacht—or was it?

  I gave up and went to bed.

  I was late for breakfast, and had a genuine excuse. My head was twice its normal size, the top of my skull was loose, and something nasty had happened to my optic nerves. The steward, who knew everything, gave me a prairie oyster, black coffee, and no chat about eggs. Bill had already left for Mayfly. Bette reproached me for sliding off the previous evening, but I didn’t imagine she felt very strongly about it. Both she and Karen were different girls; the tension of the past weeks had slipped away, and they were full of zip. Was I going on the picnic arranged by the commander? I told them about my headache and they told me they were sorry, which would have been more convincing if they hadn’t been smiling at the time. Sandra was also not going, whether by accident or design, I did not find out.

  I watched the party leave, Bette in fresh, clean KD, looking exactly as she had when we were back drilling on the east Pacific Ridge. Karen, dressed in the same style by courtesy of the USN, was gay, laughing, her moodiness gone—or in abeyance. I watched for some time after the jeep had disappeared….

  Now I really had to get down to that letter. Despite my earlier tries, it still took me the better part of the morning to come up with this:

  Dear Bill and Bette,

  This is a very hard letter to write. Maybe I should have said it, but I could not, so you must accept this, and guess the bits I haven’t been able to put in.

  I know how it is with you two, and while I cannot say it makes me happy, I know the best man has, as they say, won. As honestly as I can, I wish you both all the luck
in the world. I owe a lot to you both.

  I am going back to Calif, where maybe they can use a geologist. I don’t suppose Suffren is alive, but this he would want me to do. So there you are. Sorry I cannot put it any better. I feel a bit mean, leaving Karen out on a limb, but really she was there all the time, whatever I did. I wish her and you both good luck for the future.

  Yours,

  Mitch

  It would have to do, for I did not have the time to do it again. The giant Convair Tradewind had arrived; stores and mail were being unloaded. I saw my baggage off to the jetty and managed to eat my lunch without meeting Bill. But not everything was rolling my way; my pal the exec, gave me the news.

  “Mitch—you’ve got company on your flight.”

  I didn’t care for the way he said that. “Yeah? Who?”

  “Your orphan of the storm. Sandra Bates.”

  That was all I needed. “Aw, no! Does she haveta go on this plane?”

  The exec, grinned. “The commander thinks so. We’ve only around three hundred men left on this base, and he figures that if she stays much longer, she’ll wear ’em all out.”

  I still don’t know if he was joking.

  Chapter 19

  I took my leave of the hospitable commander and his staff. Like a number of the CPO’s, knowing I was heading for San Diego, he had a message for me to phone, if I could. Mail was still very patchy and uncertain. I was only too glad to oblige, and he was grateful enough to send me out to the flying boat in his launch rather than spend that much more time in the regular cutter with Sandra. He even apologized for putting her on the same plane. He certainly caught on fast. He took my letter for Bette and Bill, and from his expression I got the idea he caught onto that situation as well.

  I have seldom felt as lonely as I did as the launch roared away from the jetty. I struggled to avoid self-pity, which is superficially attractive, and sheer murder when you get down to it. I tried not to think of Bette and concentrated on what Suffren would do in the same position, but in seconds my train of thought was back on the old rails. Ironically, it was Sandra who kept me rolling over that bad, bumpy patch.

  There were only twenty passengers, and in a plane that size we were practically lost. Comfort was not exactly up to Pan Am’s standards, but adequate. Not that I was fiercely interested.

  In minutes we were off, climbing away. Like it or not, I had made the break. Clear of my fellow passengers. I settled down with my eyes closed, wishing I could do the same trick with my brain. Next stop Pearl Harbor; two thousand miles in seven to eight hours—

  “ ’Lo!”

  I opened my eyes. Sandra flopped into the seat beside me, grinning, sharp teeth well to the fore. My expression had no effect whatsoever.

  “Yew’r the crafty one, aren’t yew? Slopin’ orf like this, leaving them orl, spechally your bird. Betcha didn’t let on to her!”

  I did not try to conceal my feelings. “When do you get off?”

  I couldn’t upset Sandra. She grinned again. “Norty! So yew let that ole bastard Bill ’ave ’er! Mind yew, I’d ’ave said yew was well rid of ’er, but there’s no accounting for some people’s tastes.”

  “Look. There’s eighteen other men aboard this plane; why don’t you go find yourself a playmate? After all, seven hours is a long time.”

  The grin kept coming. “Don’t worry, mate, I’m working on it! But seeing ’as ’ow yew’ve packed in wiv your charmin’ Bette, I thought yew’d like ter know I fixed her a nice little surprise before I left!”

  “What d’you mean?”

  The malicious, knowing grin got even bigger. “Yew didn’t think I’d let ’er get away wiv wot she did ter me, did yew? Not bleedin’ likely!” There was real pleasure in her laugh. “A razor blade, a bottla nail varnish, and a tin o’ ’air-setting spray fixed ’er bleedin’ outfit! Fancies ’erself in them kharki shirts an’ trousers-—can’t think why, wiv an arse that size—just as well she likes ’em, she’s got sweet f.a. else to wear! Cor, I’d love ter see ’er face when she sees ‘er undies!”

  “You—you wicked little bitch!”

  She nodded. “That’s me, mate. I look after Number One —an’ Gawd ‘elp anyone ’oo gets in me way!”

  “Get the hell outta here—leave me alone!”

  She had had her bit of fun. “Orlright,” she said calmly. “I’m going. Jus’ thought yew’d like to know.” She got up, paused, her foxy face was hard. “I ’ated the ’ole bleeding lot of yer! Yew were the best of a rotten bunch, and yew’re tew bloody wet for words! Yew threw that bitch away! Yew’re as wet as a bleedin’ scrubber!”

  “Hop it, before I forget myself and knock that grin off your rotten little face!”

  “Like ter see yer do it, mate! Bye-bye! If ever you see any of yer pals, don’t forget ter tell ’em I ’ate the sight of ’em.” She teetered off down the aisle in newly acquired high heels.

  That was where she did me a good turn; I was in a filthy temper for the next two hours, rehearsing, far too late, what I might have said. It kept me from thinking.

  Air travel is quick, and that, as far as I am concerned, is about all that can be said for it. In less than eight hours we covered what had taken Mayfly more than three weeks.

  Night and Pearl Harbor. We taxied up to a slip somewhere. One or two were getting out, including Sandra.

  I stayed huddled up in my seat, half asleep, and with a splitting headache. We were not due off for another two hours, but I could not be bothered to move. Thus Sandra had no difficulty in finding me.

  “Jest orf!”

  “Best news I’ve heard in a long, long time!”

  “Glad to see the back of me, eh?”

  “Well, it does have a certain rarity value.”

  “Wotcha mean?”

  “Well, you spend so much time on it—” .

  “Oh yes—I get you!” She was genuinely amused. “Not bad, not bad! Gitting quite sharp in yer old age! Well, I came back to give yer one larst bit. I wanted yew to know that I reckon yew made a right balls, mate!”

  “What does that mean—as if I cared,”

  “Ah—ha! Yew care orl right. Think it out. Give you somethink to chew on for the next few hours.”

  “You malicious whore! You’ll come to a bad end!”

  Her foxy face was suddenly sad. For the last time I saw her mechanically brush back her thin, tow hair.

  “ ’Spect yew’re right, cocker, but ’oo ever ’eard of a good end?” She recovered and laughed. “Me Dad must ha’ left me a tidy pile, and I’m going ter ’ave a. bloody good time on the way! Ta-ta!”

  She was a nasty, ill-natured little tramp, and I disliked her more than anyone I had ever met, yet I could not help but admire her raw, crude courage. She took life in those small, grasping hands, and would wring from it all she wanted. She would meet her end fighting, and when she lost, she would accept it with philosophic fortitude, asking no quarter, and giving none.

  She was right, her words did give me something to mull over as the plane droned on and on eastward. In the end I grew sleepy and gave up, which is the story of my life.

  More dead than alive, I staggered ashore at San Diego. I had no idea of the time, having failed to adjust my watch as we headed east. All I knew for sure was that the sun was going down, and that this was San Diego, because someone said so.

  To me it looked more like pictures of Pearl Harbor on December 8, 1941, with a Midwest cowtown of the pioneer days dumped beside it.

  We had taken on seventy or eighty men at Hawaii; now we were all shepherded across a lunatic giant’s playground of smashed warehouses and unrecognizably twisted metal, along a bulldozed roadway to some very new huts. Outside stood a large notice: “NAT. RECON. CORP—RECRUITS HERE.” Trucks roared past, bound on unimaginable errands, each bearing a windshield sticker, NRC. We shambled past a small group of men working on a pile of rubble. Some were digging, others were spraying the area. All wore dirty white face-masks…. A bittersweet smell, compounded
of burnt rubber, wood, fuel oil, and God knew what else pervaded everything.

  We lined up and waited, silent, overwhelmed. Some had been cheerful in the plane, waiting to get ashore, wisecracking, but not now. This was the incredible reality. Many had seen the damage in Hawaii, but that, bad as it was, was abroad and therefore acceptable. This was the continental United States, and unbelievable.

  Slowly the line moved. I found myself inside, facing two tired, gray-faced USMC officers, who eyed me without much interest.

  “Name, trade?”

  “Grant. Geologist, PhD.”

  “Geologist—rocks, that sort of stuff?”

  I agreed. One officer was flicking through a greasy card index while the other filled out a blank with the sort of dope officials the world over love dearly. He looked up.

  “Rocks! You’ve sure come to the right place! We have plenty of rocks.”

  “I’ve worked in California. I thought maybe—”

  “Don’t make a habit of it, Doc. Just now time is very expensive. Action is what we want. Take this card, and don’t lose it, it’s your license to breathe. Take it to the sergeant over there for registration. When he’s finished with you, report to this address. Next!”

  The sergeant gave me a ration card, a credit card, and an accommodation card. “How are you for shots?”

  “Shots?”