by Irwin Shaw
“Unskilled labor,” one of the pilots said calmly. “We’re delicate and highly sensitive mechanisms. We are war-weary. Our Schneiders are low as an Egyptian whore. We’ve bombed too many places. We’ve seen too much flak. We are lopsided from wearing ribbons. We are going home now to instruct the young how to shoot.”
“I am going home to play with my wife,” the twenty-four-year-old major said soberly.
“The infantry is not under the same Awful Strain,” said the pilot who had been singing. “All they have to do is walk in and be shot. Their nerves are not stretched to the breaking point like ours. Captain,” he said, leaning back and talking to Peter, “you look a little war-weary yourself.”
“I’m pretty war-weary,” Peter said.
“He looks sensitive,” the major said. “He looks fine and sensitive enough to be at least a navigator. He looks like Hamlet on a rough night.”
“I was in the tanks,” Peter said.
“It’s possible,” said the major, “to get war-weary in a tank, too, I suppose.”
“It’s possible,” Peter said, grinning.
“… breakfast in Carolina …” sang the musical pilot.
“When’re you leaving for home?” Peter asked.
“6 A.M. tomorrow. 0600 hours, as they say in the army,” said the major.
“Five or six glorious days in London among our brave English Allies and cousins,” said the other pilot, “and then the Stork Club, the Harvard-Yale football game, all the blonde, full-bosomed, ribbon-conscious, lascivious American girls …”
“London,” said Peter. “I wish I were going with you.”
“Come along,” said the major expansively. “We have a nice empty Liberator. Pleased to have you. Closer relations with our British comrades. Merely be at the airport at 0600 hours, as they say in the army.”
“Did you see,” asked the singing pilot, “in the Mail today? Some idiot wants Princess Elizabeth to marry an American.”
“Excellent idea,” said the major. “Some upstanding representative citizen of the Republic. Post-war planning on all fronts. My nomination for Prince Escort is Maxie Rosenbloom.”
Everyone considered the suggestion gravely.
“You could do worse,” the pilot said.
“Infusion of sturdy American stock into an aging dynasty,” the major said. “The issue would be strongly built, with good left hands.…”
“Do you mean it?” Peter asked. “You really could take me?”
“Delighted,” the major said.
The singing pilot started in on “All Alone,” and everyone but Peter joined him. Peter stared unseeingly at the glasses and bottles behind the bar. In three days he could be home. Three days and he could walk into Anne’s room, quietly, unannounced, smiling a little tremulously as she looked up unsuspectingly. Maybe it was possible. He had had no leave since he’d come to Africa, except for two weeks’ convalescence. He could go immediately to Colonel Foster’s apartment, explain to him. Colonel Foster liked him, was very sympathetic. If he gave him a written order, releasing him from duty for twenty-one days, he, Peter, would undertake to get transportation back. Somehow, somehow … He would take all the responsibility himself. He was sure that Colonel Foster, who was a good soul, would do it.
Peter stood up straight. He spoke to the American major. “Perhaps I’ll see you at six o’clock.”
“Fine,” the major said heartily. “It’s going to be a great trip. We’re loaded with Scotch.” He waved as Peter turned and left the bar.
“All alone, by the telephone …” the wailing, mocking voices quavered in the night. Peter got into a taxicab and gave Colonel Foster’s address.
He felt he was trembling. He closed his eyes and leaned back. It was all absolutely possible. England was only three days away. Two weeks there and the desert and the guns and the dying and ruled paper and heat and loneliness and insane expanding tension would disappear. He could face the rest of the war calmly, knowing that he would not explode, would not lose his reason. It was possible. Men were going home to their wives. That American major. All so cheerful and matter-of-fact about it. England in three days, after the three years … Colonel Foster would most certainly say yes. Peter was sure of it as the taxi drove up to the dark building where Colonel Foster lived. Peter paid the driver and looked up. The colonel’s window was alight, the only one in the entire building. Peter felt his breath coming fast. It was a symbol, an omen. The man was awake. His friend, who could give him England tonight with five strokes of a pen, by luck was wakeful in the quiet night, when all the rest of the city slept around him. It would be irregular, and Colonel Foster would be running some risk, but he had rank enough and was independent enough to take the chance.…
Peter rang the night-bell to the side of the locked doors of the apartment building. Far in the depths of the sleeping stone and brick, a forlorn and distant bell sang weirdly.
As he waited for the hall-boy to open the doors, Peter hastily rehearsed his story. No leave in three years. The tension getting worse and worse. Medically graded, no chance of getting to an active unit. Regiment disbanded. Work deteriorating. Given to sudden fits of temper and what could only be described as melancholia, although a doctor wouldn’t believe it until it was too late. He knew the British Army couldn’t provide transportation, but here were these Americans with an empty Liberator. He’d get back somehow.
As he went over it, in the darkness, with the faraway bell sounding as though it were ringing at the bottom of a troubled sea, Peter was sure the logic was irrefutable; Foster couldn’t refuse.
When the hall-boy finally opened the door, Peter sprang past him, raced up the steps, too impatient to take the elevator.
He was panting when he rang Colonel Foster’s bell, and the sweat was streaming down the sides of his face. He rang the bell sharply, twice. He heard his breath whistling into his lungs, and he tried to compose himself, so that Colonel Foster would think him absolutely calm, absolutely lucid.…
The door opened. The figure at the door was silhouetted against the yellowish light behind it.
“Colonel,” Peter said, panting, “I’m so glad you’re up. I must talk to you. I hate to disturb you, but …”
“Come in.” The door was opened wider and Peter strode down the hall, into the living room. He heard the door close and turned around. “I …” he began. He stopped. The man who was standing there was not Colonel Foster. It was a large, red-faced man, bald, in a tattered red bathrobe. He had a mustache and tired eyes and he was holding a book in his hand. Peter looked at the book. The Poems of Robert Browning.
The man stood there, waiting, pulling his bathrobe a little tighter, a curious little smile on his weary face.
“I … I saw the light, sir,” Peter said. “I thought Colonel Foster would be up and I took the liberty of … I had some business with …”
“Colonel Foster doesn’t live here,” the man said. His voice was clipped and military, but tired, aging. “He moved out a week ago.”
“Oh,” Peter said. He suddenly stopped sweating. He swallowed, made a conscious effort to speak quietly. “Do you know where he lives, sir?”
“I’m afraid not. Is there anything I can do, Captain? I’m Colonel Gaines.” He smiled, false teeth above the old robe. “That’s why when you said Colonel, at the door, I …”
“No, sir,” Peter said. “Nothing, sir. I’m dreadfully sorry. This time of night …”
“Oh, that’s all right.” The man waved a little embarrassedly. “I never go to sleep. I was reading.”
“Well … Thank you, sir. Good night.”
“Uh …” The man looked hesitantly at him, as though he felt that somehow Peter should be helped in some dubious, obscure way. “Uh—perhaps a drink. I have some whisky I was just going to—for myself …”
“No, thank you, sir,” Peter said. “I’d better be getting along.”
Clumsily, they went down the passage together to the door. The man opened the door. He stood there, red-fac
ed, huge, British, like a living Colonel Blimp, lonely and tired, with Robert Browning in the foreign night.
“Good night, sir.”
“Good night.…”
The door closed and Peter walked slowly down the dark stairs.
Peter started toward his hotel, but the thought of the disordered room and Mac lying there, steadily asleep, steadily and slightly snoring in the next bed, was impossible.
He walked slowly past the dark policemen standing quietly with their rifles on the street corners. Down the street garry-lights, small and flickering and lonesome, wandered past, and the sound of the horses’ hooves was deliberate and weary.
He came to the English Bridge and stood on the banks of the river, looking at the dark water swirling north toward the Mediterranean. Down the river a felucca, its immense sail spread in a soaring triangle, slowly made its way among the shadows from the trees along the shore. Across the river a minaret, poignant with faith, shone sharp and delicate in the moonlight.
Peter felt spent and drained. A nervous and hysteric pulse pulled at his bad eye and a gigantic sob seemed wedged into his throat.
Overhead, far away, there was the sound of a plane. It came nearer, passed across the stars, died away, going somewhere.
The wedge dislodged and the sob broke out like tears and blood.
Peter closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the wild pulse had stopped, his throat was clear. He stared across the river at the minaret, faithful and lovely in the light of the moon, by the side of the old river.
Tomorrow, he thought, tomorrow there may be a letter from home.…
Night in Algiers
It was late at night in Algiers and in the army newspaper office the clatter of typewriters had long since died down. Most of the men had gone to sleep upstairs and the halls were empty. The wisecracks and decisions and sudden laughter were over for the day, and in another building the presses were comfortably turning out the next day’s paper.
On the walls, the pictures of all the pretty girls with big bosoms looked a little weary in the dim light. Down on the street outside the Red Cross building, late-traveling soldiers whistled for hitches in the dark and a soldier who had had some wine was singing the “Marseillaise” in English, the brave words and the brave tune floating up a little uncertainly through the darkness until a truck stopped and picked the singer up. In the office the radio was on and Tchaikovsky’s piano concerto was coming in, moody and sorrowful, from London.
An assistant editor with sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves came in and sat down wearily in front of the radio. He stared at it, remembering many things that had nothing to do with his job, remembering home and what his college campus looked like in June and how it had felt to sail out of New York harbor in the rain.
“Have some wine,” said the reporter who was sitting there listening to the music. The reporter had no stripes on his sleeves at all. The assistant editor took the wine and forgot to drink, just sitting there holding the bottle.
“There’s a bar in New York,” the assistant editor said. “Ralph’s. On Forty-fifth Street. Ugly little joint. I like to drink there. Ever been there?”
“Uhuh,” the reporter said.
“Scotch whisky,” the assistant editor said. “Cold beer.”
The concerto ended in wild, mournful thunder and a polite English voice said it had been Toscanini conducting and Horowitz at the piano, the names sounding strange on the night-time African coast. The polite voice said good night and the reporter got Berlin. There were waltzes on from Berlin, very prettily played, lilting through the small, paper-littered room. A polite German voice described the waltzes and once more the violins and trumpets swept out of the radio.
“The Germans,” the assistant editor said. “They should be deprived of music for fifty years. Should be part of the peace treaty.”
A rewrite man, a corporal, on his way up to bed, stuck his head in. “Anybody want a gumdrop?” He brought out the box. “Just got my rations today.”
The assistant editor and the reporter reached out. They chewed consideringly on the gumdrops, listening to the waltz.
“Nice music,” the rewrite man said.
“Fifty years,” said the assistant editor.
The rewrite man yawned and stretched. “Going to bed,” he said, and started out. “Maybe when I wake up tomorrow the war’ll be over. Good night.” He went out and the assistant editor washed down the rationed gumdrop with a little wine.
“Did you ever eat a gumdrop in civilian life?” he asked.
“No,” said the reporter.
“Neither did I.” He rolled the wine around reflectively in the bottle. “God, it’s dull around here. I wish I could have gone to Italy.” The radio turned to Hungarian dances and the assistant editor stared gloomily at it. He drank a little wine. “That’s the trouble, though. Now that the invasion has come at last, other guys are covering it. Other guys’ll write great stories. I’ll be sitting here on my can in Africa. The editor. The assistant editor … When I got out of college I wrote better than I do now. Eight years ago.” He rubbed his bald spot thoughtfully. “Somehow I got to be an editor. Eight years.” He finished the wine. “Maybe I should’ve got married.”
“Probably wouldn’t make any difference,” said the reporter, who was married.
“Probably not.” The assistant editor shrugged. “There was a girl back in college in my sophomore year. She was a year older than me. You had to date her up in October for the spring prom. There was a fellow with a car who used to drive her to breakfast, lunch and dinner and send her flowers every day, but she used to take walks with me and lunch sometimes. She did the most marvelous thing that anyone ever did for me. I was a kid then and maybe it oughtn’t to seem like so much to me now, but it still does. She broke a date with this other guy and went to the spring prom with me, I gave her orchids and we went to a couple of speakeasies and it was the best night I ever had in my whole life.” He sat back, remembering the orchids and the speakeasies. “I introduced her to a friend of mine that summer. He had a lot of dough and called her long distance three times a week and six months later they got married. You can’t blame a girl. Want to see her picture?”
“Yes,” the reporter said.
The assistant editor took out the picture, yellowed and raveled at the edges. It was of a pretty, graceful girl, in a white dress, sitting erect, a hint of strength in her face, mixed with ancient coquetry. “I don’t know why I keep it,” the assistant editor said, looking at the picture. “Maybe for luck.” He put it back carefully into his wallet. He leaned back and his thick glasses and square, angular, plain, decent face shone in the dim light, clearly and painfully the face of a man who all his life might expect to find his best friends taking his girl.
“There was another girl. A Danish girl,” the assistant editor went on. “I met her at a party in the Village. She’d come down from Boston with a friend, to be an actress. She worked at the Filmarte as an usher. I must have seen the last part of ‘Grand Illusion’ twelve times.”
He smiled.
“I’d go around for the last reel or two of the pictures,” he said, “and take her out to Sunnyside. She lived there with her friend. She liked me, but she wouldn’t have anything much to do with me, even though I used to sleep out on the living-room couch five times a week. We had a fight and she decided she didn’t want to be an actress and she went home to Boston. I guess I would’ve married her then if I hadn’t fought with her so much.” He took off his glasses and stared wearily at them. “About six months later she came down to New York on a visit and it was different. She moved right in and we had a wonderful time. We’d go out on week ends in the country. Just drive around in the summertime and stop in for drinks here and there and go swimming and laugh. She met me in Provincetown and we stayed with a Danish family. There was a great party. Provincetown, on Cape Cod. I don’t think I’ve ever had a better time and I keep remembering it.… Maybe I should’ve married her. I don’
t know.”
The assistant editor leaned over and put the bottle down. On the street below, three Frenchmen passed, singing loudly.
“I’m thirty years old and I write worse than I ever did. I don’t know what I’ll do after the war. Once, when I was in the Engineers, I sent her a letter. She was married, she wrote me, and she was having a kid on May seventeenth. She was going to call it David, after her husband’s uncle, she said. She asked me to pray for it. I haven’t written back. Well, what’s the difference?” He put his glasses on again. “The Filmarte Theatre.” He laughed and stood up. “I wish I had two hack writers I could throw stories to and know they’d come out right,” he said. “I wouldn’t get so tired. Well, it’s pretty late. Got to go to bed. Tomorrow’s another war.”
The radio was sending out American jazz now, the deep familiar horns of America pounding like all the music in all the dance halls and all the night clubs and at all the spring proms any American ever went to, any girl in a white dress ever danced at.
The assistant editor listened, his eyes blinking behind the thick lenses of his glasses. When it was over, he walked into his own room slowly, his shirt dumpy and wrinkled, to take one last look at his desk, and made sure everything was all right before going to bed.
Gunners’ Passage
“In Brazil,” Whitejack was saying, “the problem was girls. American girls.”
They were lying on the comfortable cots with the mosquito netting looped gracefully over their heads and the barracks quiet and empty except for the two of them and shaded and cool when you remembered that outside the full sun of Africa stared down.
“Three months in the jungle, on rice and monkey meat.” Whitejack lit a large, long, nickel cigar and puffed deeply, squinting up at the tin roof. “When we got to Rio, we felt we deserved an American girl. So the Lieutenant and Johnny and myself, we got the telephone directory of the American Embassy, and we went down the list, calling up likely names—secretaries, typists, interpreters, filing clerks.…” Whitejack grinned up at the ceiling. He had a large, sunburned, rough face, that was broken into good looks by the white teeth of his smile, and his speech was Southern, but not the kind of Southern that puts a Northerner’s teeth on edge.