"Yacht, is what the brother says," Esposito said. "And the rich broad who lets him drive her LaSalle convertible."
"One thing at a time… Christ, what do you guys do, spend all your time gossiping about your officers like a bunch of fucking women?"
Esposito gave Zimmerman a dirty look, but didn't say anything.
"First of all," Zimmerman went on, "the LaSalle is McCoy's. He come home from China with a bunch of money-"
"Where'd he get it?"
"He's a goddamned good poker player," Zimmerman said. "And on top of that, he was lucky, real lucky, a couple of times."
Esposito nodded his acceptance of that. "So he bought the LaSalle; that's his," Zimmerman said. "And so we both wound up here. And like I said, we were buddies. But he's now an officer, so he can't come in here, and I can't go to the officers' club. So he has a girl friend. A real nice girl, Esposito, you understand? I personally don't like it when you say 'shack job.' And she lives on a boat, not a yacht, a boat. And McCoy tells her about me and his kid brother, and she says bring us to dinner. So we go. And that's it. We had dinner and drank some beer, and then McCoy drove us back out here."
"I figured it was probably something like that," Esposito said. "His brother's got a real big mouth." "I saw that myself," Zimmerman agreed. "And he's a mean sonofabitch, too," Esposito said. "I told you; he really beat the shit out of a couple of my kids." "I don't want to put my nose in where it ain't welcome,"
Zimmerman said. "But, maybe, if you would like, I could talk to the brother."
"I don't know," Esposito said, doubtfully. "You think he'd listen to you? He sure as shit don't listen to me when I try to talk to him."
"You start beating up on him, you're liable to lose your stripes," Zimmerman said.
"Well, shit, Zimmerman, if you think you could do any good," Esposito said.
"It couldn't hurt none to try," Zimmerman said.
"What the hell," Esposito said. "Why not? And what about the Thompson?"
"You take the old one to the armory, tomorrow," Zimmerman said. "And tell the armorer I said to swap it for you."
"You want to split another pitcher of beer?'
"Naw, hell, I got to get up in the wee hours. But thanks anyway."
Ten minutes later, Gunnery Sergeant Ernst Zimmerman was outside the enlisted beer hall, known as the Slop Chute.
There was a cedar pole ten feet from the entrance. Seventy-five or so knives were stuck into it. Zimmerman had heard about the cedar pole, but it was the first time he had seen it. There was a regulation that the Raiders could not enter the Slop Chute with their knives. So rather than going to his barrack or tent to leave his knife there, some ferocious Raider had stuck it in the cedar pole and reclaimed it when he left the Slop Chute. The idea had quickly caught on.
"Dodge fucking City," Zimmerman muttered under his breath, disgustedly.
He pushed the door open and walked inside, grimacing at the smell of sour beer, a dense cloud of cigarette smoke, and the acrid fumes of beer-laden urine.
"Hey, Mac, no knives," a voice behind him said. Zimmerman turned and saw there was a corporal on duty at the entrance. Zimmerman didn't reply. Finally, the corporal recognized him. "Sorry, Gunny," the corporal added. "Didn't recognize you at first."
Zimmerman looked around the crowded room until he spotted PFC Thomas McCoy, who was sitting with half a dozen others at a crude table drinking beer out of a canteen cup.
He walked across the room to him.
"Hey, whaddasay, Gunny!" one of the others greeted him, cheerfully. "You want a beer?"
"I want to see McCoy for a minute, thanks anyway," Zimmerman said.
"What the hell for?" PFC McCoy replied. He was a little drunk, Zimmerman saw.
Zimmerman, on the edge of snapping, "Because I said so, asshole! On your feet!", stopped himself in time and smiled. "Colonel Carlson's got a little problem he wants you to solve for him."
The others laughed, and a faint smile appeared on McCoy's face. He got to his feet.
"This going to take long?" he asked.
"I don't think so," Zimmerman said.
He motioned for McCoy to go ahead of him, and then followed him across the room and out of the building. McCoy went to the cedar post, jerked one of the knives from it, and slipped it into the sheath on his belt.
"Where we going?" he asked.
"Right over this way," Zimmerman said, "it's not far."
Behind the Slop Chute building was a mixed collection of other buildings, some frame with tar-paper roofs, some Quonsets, and some tents. Here and there a dim bulb provided a little light.
Zimmerman went to the door of one of the small frame buildings, took off his dungaree jacket and his hat, and hung them on the doorknob.
"What's this, Gunny?" McCoy asked, suspiciously.
"You know what it means, you fucking brig bunny," Zimmerman said. "It means that right now you can call me 'Zimmerman,' 'cause right now, I ain't a gunny. I just hung my chevrons on the doorknob."
"What the hell is wrong with you?" McCoy asked.
"Nothing's wrong with me," Zimmerman said. "What's wrong is wrong with you, asshole."
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Gunny, but if you think I'm going to get in it with you and wind up back in the brig, you have another think coming."
"You're not going back to the brig," Zimmerman said, moving close to him. "Having his brother in the brig would embarrass Lieutenant McCoy, and you've embarrassed him enough already, brig bunny."
"I wish I believed that," McCoy said. "I would like nothing better than to shove your teeth down your throat."
"Have a shot," Zimmerman said. "Look around, there's nobody here. And your brother's an officer. He wouldn't let them put you in the brig on a bum rap."
"Fuck you," McCoy said.
"I thought that you were supposed to be a tough guy," Zimmerman said. "I guess that's only when you're picking on kids, right?"
McCoy balled his fists, but kept them at his side.
"Come on, tough guy," Zimmerman said. "What's the matter, no balls?"
McCoy threw a punch, a right, with all his weight behind it.
Zimmerman deflected the punch with his left arm and kicked McCoy in the crotch.
McCoy made an animal sound, half scream and half moan, and fell to the ground with his hands at his crotch and his knees pulled up.
"You cocksucker," he said indignantly, a moment later. "You kicked me."
Zimmerman kicked him again, in the stomach.
"That's for calling your brother's lady friend a 'shack job,'" Zimmerman said, conversationally. He kicked him again. "And that's for calling me a 'cocksucker.' You got to learn to watch your mouth, brig bunny."
McCoy was writhing around on the ground, gasping for breath, moaning as he held his scrotum.
Zimmerman, his arms folded on his chest, watched silently. After several minutes, McCoy managed to sit up.
"Are you getting the message, tough guy? Or do you want some more?"
"You don't fight fair," McCoy said, righteously indignant. "You kicked me, for Christ's sake!"
"Get up then, Joe Louis," Zimmerman said. "Try it with your fists."
McCoy took several deep breaths, and then got nimbly to his feet, balled his fists, and took up a crouched fighting posture.
"I must have missed," Zimmerman said, almost wonderingly. "Usually when I kick people, they stay down."
"You cocksucker!" McCoy said, and charged him. He threw a punch. Zimmerman caught the arm, spun around, and threw McCoy over his back. McCoy landed flat on his back. The air was knocked out of him.
Zimmerman walked to him and kicked him in the side.
"I told you," he said. "Don't call me a cocksucker."
With a massive effort, McCoy got his wind back and straggled to his knees. And then he heaved himself upright.
Zimmerman slapped him twice with the back of his left hand across the face, and then with the heel of his right hand across th
e throat. The first blow was hard enough to make McCoy reel, and the second sent him flying backward, his hands to his throat, gasping for breath. And then he fell heavily onto his backside.
Zimmerman stepped up to him and kicked him in the side again. McCoy bent double and threw up.
"I hit you with my open hand," Zimmerman said, conversationally. "If I had hit you with the side of it,"-he demonstrated with his left hand-"you would have a broken nose, and you wouldn't be able to talk for a week. If I had hit you hard enough, I would have crushed your Adam's apple and you would choke. The only reason I didn't do that is because your brother is a friend of mine, and he might feel bad about it."
"Jesus Christ!" McCoy said, barely audibly.
"The next time, McCoy, that I hear that you said one fucking word out of line, or that you took a poke at anybody, I'm going to be back and give you a real working over. Tough guy, my ass!"
He walked over to McCoy and raised his foot to kick him again.
McCoy scurried away as best as he could.
Zimmerman lowered his foot and laughed.
"Shit!" he said, contemptuously. And then he walked to the small building, put his dungaree jacket back on, and walked off.
PFC Thomas McCoy waited until he was really sure that he was gone, and then he got to his feet. His balls hurt, and his sides, and inside, and it hurt him to breathe.
He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at the vomitus on his jacket and trousers and boots. Then, gagging, he staggered off toward his barrack.
(Two)
The Foster Peachtree Hotel
Atlanta, Georgia
14 March 1942
Second Lieutenant Richard J. Stecker, USMC, stood with a glass of Dickel's 100-proof twelve-year-old Kentucky sour mash bourbon whiskey in his hand, looking out the window of his bedroom in the General J. E. B. Stuart suite. It was raining-it looked as if it couldn't make up its mind to snow or rain-and the wind had blown the rain against the window-pane. Stecker idly traced a raindrop as it slid down.
He was more than a little pissed with his buddy, Second Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, for a number of reasons, all attributable to Pick's infatuation with the female Stecker thought of alternately as "the Admiral's Daughter" and "the Widow."
Stecker was either sorry for the poor sonofabitch-who really had a bad case of puppy love for Martha Sayre Culhane, or unrequited love, or the hots, or whatever the hell it was-or pissed off with him about it.
At the moment, the latter condition prevailed.
From yesterday at noon until fifteen minutes ago, there had come a ray of hope:
At noon yesterday, using a concrete beam foundation of one of the hangars at Saufley Field for a table, they had been having their lunch (a barbecue sandwich and a pint container of milk) when Pick, out of the blue, spoke up. "How would you like to get laid?"
"Are you seeking to increase your general fund of knowledge, Pickering, or do you have some specific course of action in mind?"
"I was thinking we might drive to Atlanta," Pick said, "and take in the historical sights. They have a panorama of the Battle of Atlanta, which should be fascinating to a professional warrior such as yourself. There are also a number of statues of heroes on horseback, which I'm sure you would find inspirational."
"I thought you said something about getting laid?"
"That, too," Pick said.
"You realize, of course, that if we go to Atlanta, you won't be able to hang around the lobby of the San Carlos panting for a glimpse of the fair Martha?"
"Fuck fair Martha," Pick said, just a little bitterly, and then quickly recovered. "Which might be a good idea, come to think of it."
"I heard it takes two," Dick said.
"Do you want to go to Atlanta, or not?"
It was necessary to get permission to travel more than a hundred miles from the Pensacola Navy Air Station. And before they could run down Captain Mustache and obtain his approval, it was after six. As a result they got to the Foster Peachtree Hotel after midnight. The bar wasn't closed, but there were no females dewy-eyed with the thought of consorting with two handsome and dashing young Marine officers.
That didn't seem to bother Pick. He was interested in drinking, and the two of them closed the bar long after everyone else had left. Stecker wondered why the bartender hadn't thrown them out, until he remembered that Pick's grandfather owned the hotel.
And Pick of course waxed drunkenly philosophic about his inability to get together with the Admiral's Daughter. Dick Stecker had heard it all before, and he was bored with it.
"I'll make a deal with you, Pick," he said. "You won't mention Whatshername's name all weekend, and I will not pour lighter fluid on your pubic region and set it on fire while you sleep."
In the morning, Pick slept soundly, snoring loudly, until long after ten.
Then, determinedly bright and cheerful, he went into Stecker's room, ordered an enormous breakfast from room service, and then explained that they really shouldn't eat too much, for they were meeting his Aunt Ramona for lunch at quarter to one.
"Your Aunt Ramona?" Dick asked, disgustedly.
"My Aunt Ramona loves me," Pick said. "And I always try to see her when I am in Atlanta. Only the cynical would suggest I do this because dear Aunt Ramona usually is accompanied by two or more delightful young belles, straight from Gone with the Wind." _
"No shit?"
"You will have to watch your foul mouth, Stecker," Pick said. "There is nothing that will chase away a well-reared South'ren lady quicker than a foul-mouthed Marine. And if you talk dirty, my Aunt Ramona will rap you over the head with her cane."
Aunt Ramona was not what Dick Stecker had been led to expect. She turned out to be a good-looking redhead, wearing a silver fox hat to match her knee-length silver fox coat. She was in her thirties, Stecker judged, as he watched her give her cheek to Pick to kiss.
"Aunt Ramona," Pick said, on his very good manners, "may I present my good friend, Lieutenant Richard Stecker? Dick, this is Mrs. Heath."
"I'm very pleased to meet you, Lieutenant," she said, extending a diamond-heavy hand with a gesture that would have done credit to the Queen of England.
"My pleasure, ma'am," Stecker said.
"If I had known you were coming, before ten o'clock this morning, Pick," Aunt Ramona said, "I would have set something up."
"I realize this has inconvenienced you," Pick said politely.
"You have always been an imp," Aunt Ramona said. "But I am glad to see you."
And then the girls appeared.
One was a blonde, and the other was a redhead, and they were gorgeous.
The first thing Dick Stecker thought was that they were not going to get laid. Not the same day they met these gorgeous creatures. Probably not until after they had walked down an aisle with them to be joined together in holy matrimony. Then he thought, That doesn't matter. Just being with them is enough. You just don't often get to meet girls like this.
They had thick Southern accents, which Dick Stecker found absolutely enchanting, and names to match. The blonde's name was Catherine-Anne, and the redhead's Melanie. Melanie had light blue eyes and a most enchanting way of licking at her lips with the tip of her delicate red tongue. And she, even more than Catherine-Anne, seemed to be fascinated to meet a West Point graduate who had gone into the Marines and was learning to be a Naval aviator.
They had lunch in the high-ceilinged main dining room-an elegant, delicious lunch, which Dick Stecker thought was very appropriate for the circumstances. There had even been champagne.
"This is a celebration," Aunt Ramona said. "And-as wicked as this might make me sound-I'd just love to have some champagne."
When the champagne was delivered and poured, and they all touched their glasses, Melanie had met Dick Stecker's eyes over the rim of her glass.
And three times, by accident of course, her knee had brushed against his under the table. The last two times she had pulled it away, of course, but sh
e had also looked into his eyes. Everything had at first gone swimmingly. They had had a second bottle of champagne. There was a string quartet, and they had danced. Both of them danced with Aunt Ramona first, of course, and then with the girls. When he had finally gotten his arms around Melanie, her perfume made him a little dizzy, and she seemed oblivious to her breasts pressing against his abdomen.
Pick seemed interested in Catherine-Anne, and she in him; and that all by itself seemed to be a blessing. All that had to be done now was to ask to take them to dinner. And get rid of Aunt Ramona, of course.
And then Aunt Ramona looked at her diamond-encrusted watch and cried in her ladylike way, "I had absolutely no idea it was so late! Girls, we have to go this minute!"
Pick jumped to his feet, and Dick had been sure that what he was going to do was make his move. He was a smooth sonofabitch, and there was no question that he would say precisely the right thing, and in precisely the right way, and that the result would be that they would get to take Catherine-Anne and Melanie to dinner. Maybe starting with early cocktails.
But he didn't. He kissed his goddamned aunt on the cheek and told her it had been nice to see her. And then he smiled at the girls and told them it had been a pleasure to make their acquaintance and that he hoped sometime to see them again. And that was it. Melanie gave Dick one of those looks, and her hand; but then she was gone, following the other two out of the dining room.
"Jesus Christ, you blew that!" Dick snapped. "Blew what?"
"They're gone! Goddamnit! Didn't you notice?" "As opposed to what?" Pick had asked, innocently.
"I thought we were here to get laid," Dick whispered furiously and a little too loudly. Heads turned.
"You really didn't think… Aunt Ramona's friends?"
"I thought maybe dinner."
The Corps II - CALL TO ARMS Page 30