Then, one Saturday in early November, he and Sam Horne were walking along the main street trying to find something to do when he saw her drinking a soda in a drugstore and he promptly stopped with his face pressed to the glass.
“What’s the matter with you?” said Horne. “What makes you so pale?” Then he looked into the drugstore. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, rather idly, and scratched his head, “there’s that broad from the chow hall.”
“Let’s go in and talk to her. Come on,” said Melvin. But Horne did not want to. “Come on,” Melvin insisted, and took hold of his roommate’s sleeve. “We’ll see if she’s got a friend.”
“Let go!” cried Horne, twisting away. “You almost tore my shirt. What the hell’s got into you?” He examined his sleeve and grunted, took a hitch at his belt, and said he thought he would go to the movies. There was a Western picture in town and he was very fond of these. He peered into the drugstore again, scowled, and began walking away.
“Wait a minute!” Melvin said, hurrying after him.
“You coming or not?” Horne demanded.
“I don’t know,” Melvin said, and stood first on one foot and then the other. “I guess so,” he said earnestly. “No, I guess not. Come on back with me.”
“I got better ways to waste my time,” said Horne. “I’ll see you at the barracks, if you don’t wind up in sick bay with the clap.” He took another survey of his sleeve and marched across the street to the theater as though he had been offended.
“Go on! See a movie!” Melvin shouted after him, meanwhile hoping Horne would change his mind, but when he did not, when he had bought a ticket and disappeared into the theater without so much as a backward glance, Melvin unwillingly retraced his steps to the drugstore. He did not want to go inside and approach the girl; now that she was actually available he decided he would rather go to the movies with Horne, but he had thought about her so much that he felt obliged to make use of the opportunity.
He emerged from the drugstore a few minutes later with her on his arm and they went for a walk around the town. This developed into one of the memorable walks of his life, because near the end of it he slipped a hand into the pocket of her coat and she allowed it to remain. He spoke volubly about himself, his opinions, his plans and difficulties, and about a Navy fighter plane called the Corsair which he hoped to fly when he was commissioned at Pensacola; and when they said good night at the boarding house where she lived he kissed her with such enthusiasm that an ugly little dog came dashing up and began to snap at his heels. He tried nonchalantly to kick the dog in the ribs, but the dog was too quick for him, and too persistent, and since he was afraid that he might be washed out of cadet training if he returned to the dormitory with his trousers ripped, he was forced to let go of her.
They went walking together every Saturday after that. Her name was Becky McGee, and if she was repelled by his cheerless uniform of khaki and brogan shoes, topped by a coarsely amorphous fatigue hat which looked as though something vital had been removed from it, she did not let him know. These walks, which began taking them progressively farther along the country lanes outside the town, became more and more gratifying as far as Melvin was concerned. His hand was always in her pocket. There, of course, he could enjoy the feel of a sturdy, bulging thigh, or they could passionately and suggestively intertwine fingers, and before long it seemed to Melvin that he would go out of his mind if he could not possess her.
One frosty Sunday morning, after a particularly frustrating Saturday night during which he had come closer than ever to his eventual object—with the result that he tossed to and fro on his bunk until Horne woke up and kicked him from below—while they were both leaning out the window to fill their lungs with the morning air, Melvin confided that he had fallen in love. Sam Horne, if he heard, paid no attention; he drew his head in the window and swung his arms to snap the kinks from his spine, then stretched out on the linoleum and started doing pushups with one hand behind his back.
Melvin, who could not imagine why anyone would do calisthenics voluntarily, seated himself on the window sill and observed with indifference the tanned, sculptural arch of his roommate’s torso methodically rising and descending.
“Well, as I was saying, this girl is different. She has a brilliant mind, for one thing, and then, too, a marvelous sense of humor. And, obviously, I mean, she’s—well, let me put it this way. Frankly, don’t you admit she’s one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen in your life? Tell the truth. I’m not asking you to say so unless you believe it.”
Sam Horne bounced to his feet and went shadow-boxing around the room.
“They’re all beetles,” he declared. “Listen, Isaacs,” he continued, feinting, jabbing at the lamp, “before we get through this program”—he ducked, danced sideways—“even a woolly dog is going to look beautiful.” All at once he stopped boxing and glared around, his fists clenched. “Where are my shoes?” he demanded excitedly. “Who took my shoes? By God, somebody’s run off with my shoes!”
“They’re underneath the wastebasket,” said Melvin.
Horne danced nimbly out of the room, down the corridor, and back into the room, bobbing and weaving and throwing punches stiffly in every direction, shuffling his feet, snorting, and exclaiming triumphantly, “Hah! Hah!”
“What are they doing under the wastebasket?” he asked suddenly, with his hands dangling at his sides.
“They don’t smell very good,” Melvin explained, “so last night I turned the wastebasket over and put them under it.”
Horne straightened up with an ominous expression, but just then another bugle call rang through the corridor, followed by a metallic announcement on the loudspeaker: “Now hear this. Now hear this. There will be inspection of quarters in five minutes. Inspection of quarters in five minutes. Quarters not shipshape will result in cancellation of liberty privileges next Saturday. That is all.” There was a crackling, crashing noise as whoever had read the announcement began shuffling papers beside the microphone; then the loudspeaker fell silent. Horne and Melvin were already at work cleaning up the room.
On Thanksgiving Day he received a special-delivery letter from his father. The letter was quite long, and after finishing it he gave it to his roommate, who read it attentively and turned back to read parts of it a second time; so absorbed was Horne, in fact, that Melvin became embarrassed and fidgeted and finally said, “It’s nothing really, just a lot of dry family history,” but Horne went on reading. Melvin wandered around the room cracking his knuckles and pulling the tip of his nose.
“I mean, after all,” he suggested once, and shrugged.
“I’d like to know your old man,” said Horne, folding up the letter. “My old man couldn’t write a letter like that. Is what he says true about your ancestors immigrating to this country in seventeen twenty-eight?”
“His folks did. My mother’s people came here recently. She’s still got relatives in Europe, in Holland, I think. I know she’s worried about them, because of the Nazis. But my father’s ancestors were about as American as you can get, I suppose, probably wrestling with Betsy Ross in some cornfield,” he added, thinking of his latest evening with Becky McGee.
“He says there were two brothers named Isaacs who fought at the battle of Kings Mountain during the Revolutionary War. Is that the truth?”
“Well, my father has spent a lot of time doing research in our family history, so I guess it is.”
“He says one of your ancestors was decorated by General Wolfe after the battle for Quebec.”
“Yes. I’ve seen the medal. It’s in a bank vault.”
“And you were in the Civil War, too, huh?” Horne asked, scratching his head.
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about that war lots of times. My ancestors got all mixed up in that one. They were mostly Confederates, but there were a few who sympathized with the North.”
“Well, there’s one thing for damn sure—your old man is expecting big things of you in this w
ar. Twenty-five Japs and the Congressional Medal.”
“At least,” Melvin said.
“Yuh, yuh,” Horne remarked, tightening his belt.
Then, for just a moment, their eyes met, and Melvin wondered if he was quite as cynical as he had been three months ago.
3
Snow was sifting from a hushed blue-gray sky one morning early in December when Sam Horne, who had been appointed a cadet officer, brought his platoons to attention and stepped forward to salute the executive officer of the base. Moments later he once again saluted and stepped backward. In his left hand was a large manila envelope containing the company orders: the company would proceed to the War Training School at Albuquerque, New Mexico.
During the trip Melvin and Horne sat together, and the envelope rested in Horne’s lap. He had received the highest rating in the battalion. Melvin, who had nearly failed, was determined to do better at Albuquerque, and reminded himself there was no reason he and Horne should not be standing together at the head of the class on graduation day at Pensacola. After Pensacola they would be sent to the Pacific, to the war. From movies and magazine stories he knew what to expect—the sea and the sky and the Navy blue planes peeling out of formation and plummeting toward the Japanese, tracers setting fire to flimsy Zeros, brilliant explosions, debris and flames on the ocean, battleships rocking through the heavy seas, submarines with brooms tied to the conning towers to signify a clean sweep, and the carriers on the horizon. He imagined himself in the war, taking off at dawn with bombs slung beneath the wings of a Corsair, and returning, spiraling down on the carrier while everyone watched, and later, standing at attention on the deck of the flagship. Perhaps Sam Horne was standing beside him—the two of them receiving a decoration of some sort from an admiral. He thought of Admirals Nimitz and Halsey, and it did not seem impossible that after the ceremony the admirals would invite them ashore somewhere for a drink, or to have supper—there was a hotel with palm trees in this dream, and there were mustachioed British major generals in pith helmets being introduced, and native entertainment, discussion of the campaign—and finally it would be time to go. He and Sam Horne would rise, take leave of their commanders; then in a few minutes the generals and admirals and congressmen at the hotel would look up as two Navy fighters in perfect formation, each with an uncompleted quadrangle of Japanese flags stenciled on the fuselage, roared over the palm trees in the direction of the fleet which swung at anchor a mile off shore, or which had weighed anchor and was steaming toward Japan.
Sam Horne had spoken to him. Melvin blinked and sat up.
“What’s the matter with you?” Horne inquired.
“Nothing,” Melvin answered. “I was just thinking.” He pulled out his wallet, looked to see how much money was there, and said, “If you want to know the truth, I feel lucky. What about you?”
“You’re not lucky,” Horne replied, smiling.
“I have a dollar that says you’re wrong.”
“Do you really think you’re lucky?” asked Horne. “All right. All right, if that’s the way you feel.” He took a coin from his pocket, shook it between his palms, and clapped it expertly on his knee. Melvin did the same.
“We’re alike,” he decided.
“We’re not,” said Horne, and lifted his hand from the coin. “Now do you believe me?” he asked as he was putting Melvin’s dollar into his wallet. “There are people who win and there are people who don’t win. That’s the way things are and there’s nothing you can ever do to change the situation.”
“I’ll match you again,” said Melvin.
“It’s your dough,” said Horne. As he put away the second dollar he continued. “I try to explain things to you, but you never listen. I win, you lose. Is that so hard to understand?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Melvin said after a moment of thought.
“That’s absolutely irrelevant,” Horne went on patiently. “It’s the same in this program. Like on that final exam in recognition. Neither of us knew for sure what that heavy cruiser was, but I guessed right and you guessed wrong. It’s fate. Stick with me, though, and I’ll see if I can get you through Pensacola.”
“I’ll get through. Nobody needs to help me get anywhere.”
Horne looked at him quizzically, grunted, and resumed staring out the window, tapping his blunt strong fingers on the envelope.
“The Deacon’s going to get through,” Melvin remarked a few minutes later.
“He might,” said Horne.
“How can he miss? Already got a private pilot’s license, and besides, he’s a college graduate. He won’t have a bit of trouble.”
“He’s got a license for a Cub. Flying a Cub is not the same as flying an F6F. He got a little head start on us, that’s all. I’m not so sure he’s going to make it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Call it a hunch. I see him stumbling around the obstacle course in those baggy sweatpants like he was half-crocked and I say to myself, What’s with this clown? What’s he doing here? You know how he is. He hates being in the Navy. The Nazis and Japs have overrun half the earth but he doesn’t much care. The only thing he’s sore about is that he couldn’t stay home and make more money.”
Melvin looked at him in astonishment.
“So all right,” Horne added, “I know what you’re thinking—couple of months ago I was sore as hell about being trapped in this rat race. Well, I still am, but it looks like we haven’t got any choice. I want out as bad as anybody. Jesus, I could be cleaning up with that farm.”
“I see your point. I can see his point, too,” Melvin said. “If you look at the situation objectively.”
“That’s the whole trouble. In war you can’t afford to be objective. Either the Axis is going to be destroyed or the free world is.”
“You don’t have to tell me. I know that as well as you do. In fact that’s what I was trying to point out to you right from the beginning. At the moment, however, I’m simply attempting to look at it from somebody else’s point of view.”
“I hope to God if you and I end up in the South Pacific flying missions together you don’t start looking at it from the Japs’ point of view.”
“Listen, I agree with you,” Melvin said. “Don’t tell me.”
“Okay, but just don’t forget it,” said Horne.
“Where is the Deacon?”
“Down the corridor shooting craps, where else? Why? What do you want with him?”
“I was just wondering how come he volunteered for an outfit like this. You know what I mean—there’s such a high mortality rate in naval aviation. It’s strange that he’d volunteer.”
“It’s strange anybody would volunteer,” said Horne gloomily. “I could kick myself.”
Melvin suddenly got up and began walking through the coach; Horne jumped up and hurried after him.
The Deacon was on his hands and knees rolling dice against the door of the lavatory. Beside him was a paper cup nearly filled with coins, and some dollar bills, and from his lips drooped a white clay pipe which gave off a rancid, pallid smoke.
“No gambling on this train,” Horne remarked, pushing his way through the crowd. “I’m in charge of this detachment and I’m giving an order. Break it up. All of you people are on report for gambling aboard a Navy conveyance.”
Nobody paid any attention. The game went on.
“You people, I say, are on report, by God, and I’m not fooling, not only for gambling but for showing disrespect to the company commander—and that’s me.”
Then the Deacon said without looking up, “G-get lost, fruit. No-nobody cares what you say. That’s a fact.”
Melvin had been staring at him with great curiosity. “What are you doing in this outfit, Deacon? What made you join this program when you didn’t have to?”
“I was dodging the frigging draft, what do you think?” he replied irritably. “Christ almighty, what a question! Leave it to nature’s ready-mades,” he added, blinking, and reached for
the dice. “S-seventy-five dollars a frigging month! I agree with S-Schopenhauer.”
“You say you’re dodging the draft, but you volunteered for this.”
“I’m a patriot,” he answered. “Now get lost, because I’m a busy man, god-g-goddammit.” He shook some coins out of his paper cup and began to blow on the dice.
“Come on,” Horne muttered, “let’s get out of here,” and when they had returned to their seats he said, “I tell you, I don’t get him. One night in the barracks out of a clear blue sky he opens his yap and says, ‘Your p-patriot is the most d-dangerous man alive because he is b-both willful and s-s-sin-sincere.’ I don’t figure him at all.”
The train stopped for half an hour in Kansas City. Melvin telephoned his family and they reached the station a few minutes before the train was ready to depart. Horne seemed very much surprised by Leah; after staring at her he began to talk loudly and officiously to Melvin’s mother, saying that as soon as the company reached Albuquerque he was going to have Melvin appointed his adjutant.
“He thinks being an officer is important,” Melvin explained. “See, he gets to wear a black tie instead of a khaki tie because he’s a cadet officer and he likes that.”
“I worked hard for it,” Horne said, turning on him. “Don’t think I didn’t!”
“It’s an honor, unmistakably,” exclaimed Jake Isaacs, and stepped backward as though to have a better look at the black necktie. “You should be working harder, Melvin, and get to be a cadet officer like your friend. This will all be placed on the records. Being an officer is important, I agree.”
“We all get commissioned at the same time.”
“You mean maybe,” said Horne, tapping him heavily on the chest. “Not everybody’s going to get through this program.”
“But you intend to get through, don’t you?”
“You bet I do, and no mistake!”
“Well, I’ll be right alongside, don’t worry about me,” Melvin retorted.
Later, several hours after the train had left Kansas City, Horne coughed, loosened his collar, and drummed his fingers on his knees. “How old did you say your sister was?”
The Patriot Page 3