by Howard Fast
Barbara shook her head hopelessly. “You are wonderful, Leonard. Absolutely wonderful. You restore my faith in all the American verities. Now you want to know where I’ve been. Without being too specific, during the past few months I have been in India, in Afghanistan, in Assam, and in Burma. More immediately, only this morning I was in Saudi Arabia. I am hot, sweaty, tired, and entirely exhausted. In ten minutes I will probably collapse. All I desire now is to sit in a tub for half an hour, and then to pour cologne all over myself, and then to read some stateside magazine, like the Ladies’ Home Journal or Redbook. So if you will take me to this Shangri-la of yours, I will be everlastingly grateful.”
“How grateful?”
“Dinner tomorrow night. But—”
“All right. What’s the but?”
“You bring with you the top public relations man in the whole area. Who is he, by the way?”
“Oh, no. Don’t do that to me. His name is Oswald D. Ormsbey. Colonel Ormsbey. He’s a lecherous old bastard.”
“Good. Then you tell him I’m beautiful and reasonably sexy, and he’ll come.”
“Where does that leave me?”
“You’re my chaperone. And do find me a copy of the Ladies’ Home Journal. Please.”
Barbara dozed in the tub, then dried herself luxuriously. The VIP House was all that Belton had promised, and the magnificence of her two-room suite filled her with guilt. She had sandwiches and coffee sent up to her room, and as there were no women’s magazines available, the amiable GI room service sent along a copy of Yank, She opened it casually, and read:
Sure there were lots of bodies we never identified. You know what a direct hit by a shell does to a guy. Or a mine. Or a solid hit with a grenade, even. Sometimes all we have is a leg or a hunk of arm.
The ones that stink the worst are the guys who got internal wounds and are dead about three weeks with the blood staying inside and rotting, and when you move the body the blood comes out of the nose and mouth. Then some of them bloat up in the sun; they bloat up so big they bust the buttons, and then they get blue and the skin peels. They don’t all get blue; some of them get black.
But they all stink. There’s only one stink, and that’s it. You never get used to it, either. As long as you live, you never get used to it. And after a while, the stink gets in your clothes and you can taste it in your mouth.
You know what I think? I think maybe if every civilian in the world could smell that stink, then maybe we wouldn’t have any more wars.
I am reading this, Barbara said to herself, and I am sitting here in a guest house of the United States Army—since you can’t let very important people down, especially if they are attractive women—and I am eating a sandwich and drinking coffee in a room that any American millionaire would be proud of, and it’s the same war, and I think I have forgotten how to weep. Perhaps nature rations tears. That would be very sensible. You are born with three million one hundred and seventy-two potential tears, and you can use them up by the time you are eighteen or you can conserve them. I have been profligate with mine. In Burma, the smell of the dead is worse. I suppose it’s the heat.
In any case, the air conditioning in the VIP House was perfect, and Barbara slept as she had not slept in months. She was in bed at eleven, and she slept for fourteen hours. When she opened her eyes, the room was flushed with sunlight. For another hour she lay there lazily, thinking of nothing in particular, dozing, slipping in and out of an elusive dream world, reviewing connections and memories.
She conjured up the sun-drenched, hazy folds of the Napa Valley, the old vine-covered stone buildings of Higate Winery. Both boys were in the army, she recalled, two tall, skinny, freckled, redheaded boys, and her thoughts turned to Sally. She loved Sally, delicious, mad Sally, and that thought plunged her into a haunting nostalgia. How she missed them, how much she loved them—all the bits and pieces and connections of her life, her father and her mother, and Joe off in Hawaii—when she had last heard from him—and Jake and Clair Levy, and the little bit of life called Frederick, her first nephew, and even Tom and Eloise. Yes, she assured herself, she loved Tom, and she would not fault him for having a safe stateside spot, and thank heavens someone in her circle had enough sense to stay away from the lunacy that had overtaken the world.
And May Ling. She would come back to a world without May Ling. It did not seem possible. Three and a half years since May Ling had died, but here, so far away from home and the place of her memories, the fact of May Ling’s death lost its reality. Dozing, Barbara saw her again, returned her to life, made everything as it should be, the little house in Westwood unchanged, May Ling embracing her, brewing tea, putting the insane world back to order in terms of her simple, childlike common sense.
She slept and awakened, and the world returned to reality.
Finally, Barbara got out of bed. She bathed again, unable to resist the luxury of the big tub, hot water, and scented bath soap. Then an appreciatively grinning GI brought her toast and coffee and fresh orange juice and crisp bacon.
“It sure beats the infantry,” he said.
She resisted the temptation to go out and wander around Cairo and perhaps visit the pyramids again. She had done all that long ago. Instead, she spent the balance of the afternoon writing the story of the Sharjah installation and Private Polchek. It was certainly an odd, strange, offbeat story, but then, most of her stories were. She was not expected to report the battles and the troop movements.
She was interrupted by a telephone call from Captain Belton. “The old bastard is coming,” he told her.
“Good. Now tell me something about him.”
“What’s to tell? He’s about fifty, originates in Omaha, Nebraska, and was a captain or something in the National Guard. He ran some kind of a boondock advertising agency there, and now he’s a colonel in PR.”
“Does he have a heart?”
“Sure, in his pants.”
“Well, bring him along. We’ll manage.”
“Where do you want to eat? You want some exotic Egyptian food?”
“No, I don’t think so. Do you suppose they’d serve dinner for three in my sitting room here?”
“Just tell them it’s for Colonel Ormsbey, and they’ll serve dinner for a regiment. Sure. That’s a good idea. Anyway, it’s the best food in Cairo.”
Belton and Ormsbey arrived at Barbara’s suite at seven forty-five. Ormsbey was a plump, pink-cheeked man with thin, pale hair and glasses. He was effusive and delighted with Barbara. He requested martinis, and sent the GI waiter back to the bar to rectify the proportions of vermouth and gin. “One to seven,” he instructed him. “And, soldier, tell Jackson at the bar to send along two bottles of wine. The best. Understand?” Then he said to Barbara, “Now, Miss Lavette, what do you think of this little institution we set up here? Is it class, or isn’t it? Not easy to maintain this kind of place with a war on. You got to fight them tooth and nail. But”—he emphasized this with a pudgy finger directed at her—“we carry weight. PR. Public relations. Everyone wants a good press. That’s human nature. Take a woman like yourself. Put her in a barracks? That would be an abomination. People like yourself bring the war home to those we love. I suspect your forte is the human side of war. I haven’t read your stuff, but that’s what I suspect. Am I right?”
“Uncannily right,” Barbara agreed, smiling. “You’re a perceptive man, Colonel.”
She had anticipated the colonel’s taste and ordered steak, fried potatoes, and green peas. Pie and Egyptian melon for dessert. Coffee and brandy. The waiter brought the brandy in deference to the colonel’s presence.
Barbara noticed Belton watching her keenly, wondering what kind of game she was playing. Ormsbey had two martinis and most of a bottle of wine, but with no more effect than an increased flush on his cheeks. He ate with hearty appetite, and Barbara poured him a large brandy. He took out a cigar and asked gal
lantly, “Do you mind this foul weed, dear lady?”
“Not at all. My father smokes cigars. I rather like the odor.”
“Ah. Good. A fine meal without a cigar is like life without a woman, endurable, but by no means satisfying.” He clipped off the end of the cigar and lit it, a man at peace with the world. “I understand you write for a San Francisco paper?”
“Yes, the Chronicle.”
“Fine paper. Fine paper.” He took another puff. “Of course, with the European invasion on, we’re just a backwash. Not too many good stories here. But I’m sure we could find something to entertain your readers.”
“As a matter of fact, I did,” Barbara said. “I was in Saudi Arabia yesterday, at a place called Sharjah. I’d like to tell you about it—if I may. I don’t want to bore you.”
“Bore me? That would be the day, my dear. Go ahead.”
Barbara told the story of her trip to Sharjah and of the dilemma of Private Adrian Polchek. When she had finished, Colonel Ormsbey was silent for a minute or so.
“Do you know this Polchek?” Ormsbey asked.
“No, I don’t.”
“Never met him?”
“No.”
“Then what’s your interest in him?”
“Just that he’s a San Francisco boy and that I feel he has been done an injustice. I’ve spent the afternoon writing the story. I expect it will be picked up by one of the wire service men here. I’d like to end my story by saying that the charges were dropped.”
“I know about the Polchek case,” Ormsbey said slowly. “We put out a release on him, didn’t we, Belton?”
“Yes, sir, we did.”
“You know, we’ve had a lot of trouble with the Saudis. The President’s gone out of his way to keep it nice and friendly with Ibn Saud. Very top priority. The Saudis know about this case. Hell, it’s not a question of what happened down there. This kid got himself in hot water, and we got to make an example of him.”
“But, you know,” Barbara said gently, “if I wrote a story headlining this as a grotesque injustice—front page in the San Francisco Chronicle—it will be picked up by every paper in the country. It will become a cause célèbre. Heaven knows where it might end. And that would reflect very badly on public relations here.”
Ormsbey puffed his cigar thoughtfully. Barbara and Belton waited. Ormsbey finished his brandy and poured himself another. Then he turned to Belton and said, “Leonard, beat it!”
“Sir?”
“I said, beat it. Get out. Make yourself scarce. I want to talk to Miss Lavette privately.”
Belton hesitated, sighed, rose, said good night to Barbara, and left the room.
“What makes you think I could do anything about this, Barbara—you don’t mind if I call you Barbara?”
“Not at all. Oh, I think you carry weight, Colonel. If you let the adjutant general know that this will make a godawful stink, well, the kid will get off with a reprimand at worst.”
“And it’s important to you?”
“Very important.”
Ormsbey finished his brandy. “Tell you what, Barbara, we’ll make a trade. I’ll get the kid off the hook. You do your end.”
“What’s my end, Colonel?”
“Leonard tells me you’re booked out of here tomorrow. We’ll probably never see each other again. You’re a damn attractive woman, and I’m not the worst-looking man on earth.”
He paused and Barbara waited. “Go on,” Barbara said.
“Hell, Barbara, do I have to spell it out? We’re not kids, either of us. You’ve been around.”
Barbara regarded him thoughtfully. “What you’re saying, Colonel, is that you’d like to fuck me, and if I go along with that, you’ll let the kid off.”
“You’re putting it damn bluntly. I wouldn’t use that language to a woman.”
“That’s commendable delicacy on your part. Are you married, Colonel?”
“Look, Barbara, I put it on the line. Because you struck me as a woman who knows the ropes. You’re asking me to stick my neck out. Well, quid pro quo, as they say.”
Barbara smiled. “Or tit for tat, as they also say. I’ll tell you what, Colonel. Here’s a counteroffer. I’ll stay here an extra day. If the charges against Polchek are dropped tomorrow, I won’t write an absolutely fascinating story, namely, about how a colonel in the United States Army offered me a deal, a boy’s life for a night in bed.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Why not?”
“Your paper wouldn’t dare print it.”
“You don’t know the Chronicle.”
“I’d sue them for their last cent.”
“I bet you wouldn’t.”
“What the hell kind of a bitch are you?”
“That kind,” Barbara agreed. She poured brandy into the colonel’s glass. “Have another drink.” She smiled at him. “Come on, Oswald, you tried and you lost. A man can do no more.”
He sipped the brandy and began to grin. “God damn it, I’m beginning to like you.”
“And the kid gets off?”
“No deals. I’ll bust my ass to get him off. How about your giving me a break?”
Barbara shook her head. “It wouldn’t work. It just wouldn’t work at all. We’ll just sit here and chat while you finish the cigar and the brandy—and then off you go.”
A half-hour later, Barbara steered him to the door, kissed him on his pink cheek, and saw him stagger uncertainly down the hallway. The following day the charges against Private Polchek were dropped, and the day after that Barbara left Cairo on the first leg of her journey home. Colonel Ormsbey saw her to the airport, and she kissed the pink cheek for a second time. “You’re a good man, Oswald,” she told him.
“If you’re ever in Omaha?”
“Absolutely, if I’m ever in Omaha.”
***
At about seven o’clock in the morning, on the sixth of June, Captain Adam Levy leaped into the water off an LST, which stands for Landing Ship, Tanks, and moved in toward the beach. His first impression was the shock of the icy cold water; then he almost fell, telling himself, Damnit, don’t fall. You’ll freeze. He was very frightened, but the thought of freezing took his mind off it, and because he felt impelled to do something other than stagger through the cold water, he shouted for his platoon leaders to stay in touch with him. A fleeting thought informed him that he himself could not hear his own voice, so how could anyone else hear it? No one had warned him that he would not be able to hear his own voice. They never briefed you on things like that. The reason was not only the thunderous bombardment from the ships offshore, but the roar of the surf and the howling of the wind. Strangely, there were concrete blocks sticking out of the water. He didn’t know what those were, either.
He saw a man on his right go down, thinking, He must have slipped. Or could it be gunfire from the beach? He had no sense of gunfire, and afterward he thought about that man and wondered whether he had been shot and had fallen dead in the water before they ever reached the beach. The thought of death in the cold water horrified him, even though it couldn’t be any worse than death on dry land.
A minute or so later he was on the beach himself, slopping through the lacy foam and yelling for his platoon leaders again. Adam had come to learn the art of swearing in the army, and he had embraced it. That was the result of early deprivation; his mother, Clair, had spent her childhood on lumber ships on the California redwood coast, and she had learned to swear like a trooper at a very early age. The result was that she became an absolute martinet with her children when it came to foul language, and now Adam, a late starter, was shouting, “Califino, you mother-fucking second-rate sonofabitch, where the hell are you?”
“Here, Captain.” The voice was in his ear. Califino was right behind him.
“For Christ’s sake, Lieutenant, get them up!�
� Adam yelled, pointing to where the men in his company had flung themselves onto the wet sand, the tide wash slopping over them. “Get them up! Prinsky!” Sergeant Prinsky was crouching, a few feet away. “Prinsky, get them up on the beach!”
Califino, big, heavy, phlegmatic, pulled Adam down onto the sand and spoke into his ear, “You got to stop shouting, Captain. Voice goes. Sore throat.”
“Where’s Meyers?” Lieutenant Meyers was his other platoon leader.
“God knows. I don’t see him.”
“Thing is, we got to get them up the beach.”
“How far?”
“Make it a hundred yards. We’ll try to group there and dig in. Take the right; I’ll take the left.”
Adam ran down to the left, stooping, kicking the men. “Up the beach! A hundred yards!” The first dead man he saw was Oppenheim. He lay on his back, a bullet hole in his head, grinning stupidly. It was his first real comprehension that they were being fired upon, and it came as a shock. Sergeant Duggan rolled over to stare at him and pointed to where small-arms fire was kicking up the sand. Adam squatted. “This is the worst damn place,” he said to Duggan. “This is a shithole. Come on, Duggan. Get your guys up there. Up there, a hundred yards.”
Duggan began to crawl, waving on his squad.
“I’ll make a point,” Adam said excitedly. “Understand, I make the point.” He couldn’t crawl. He raced up the beach, counting his paces. The jumping sandspouts of small-arms fire reached out for him, and he began to take crazy leaps, as if doing the high hurdles. Far enough, he decided, and he turned, waving his arms. At least a dozen of his men raced after him, one of them hit and spinning like a top; then Califino reached him and dragged him down.
“That was dumb!” Califino said. “Adam, dumb. That was a crazy thing to do!”