Overhead the planes were flying. This was not only a day of celebration for Pensacola, but another day of business as well. A formation of SNJ’s broke up, gleaming in the sunlight, and swept over the water tower with engines howling. High above the J’s, so high that it hardly moved, and so high that the thundering engines were inaudible, a giant patrol bomber was flying out to sea.
“Mark time,” the lieutenant sang. “Mark!”
The bus to Ellyson Field went by on the way to the gate. The Whiting bus went by.
“Forward,” he called, “Harch! Pipe down back there.”
They went on through the shade of the trees and crossed over the road in the sunlight. A white-haired captain with a briefcase in his hand stopped, smiling, to let the column go by. When they came to another street they found that all traffic had been stopped because of them.
“Column right,” the lieutenant shouted, stepping aside while they marched ahead.
“Harch!”
An echelon of Corsairs arched overhead, tilting on the axis of slender gray wings, and streamed over the trees like gulls. The shadow of one Corsair darted along the marching men. Some of the ensigns glanced up, knowing the pilot had seen them and was wishing them safety and an honorable career.
Near the platform they came to a halt, were dismissed, and filed into a section of chairs which had been set up for them. On the platform were the senior officers of Pensacola and a visiting admiral.
After the speeches and the chaplain’s benediction, an officer began reading the names into the microphone. As each name was called, one of the graduates walked along the carpet to the platform, climbed the steps and marched halfway across, came to a halt, turned to his right, and saluted. The commandant handed him a diploma. Next he was congratulated by the admiral. Then he descended and another ensign took his place.
There had been no breeze, the afternoon was still, but just as Cole marched across the stage there was a rustling in the trees, and while he and the admiral were shaking hands the American flag majestically unfurled. The sky was as blue as the sky on a recruiting poster and there was a burst of applause.
When it was Horne’s turn he hopped to his feet and was in such a rush that he overtook the man ahead of him and was obliged to wait a few seconds at the bottom of the steps. When he got on the stage he expanded his chest, lowered his head, and stepped forward as though he planned to assault the admiral. He kept going until it appeared he would not be able to stop, but he did, and the click of his heels carried through the public address system. The admiral said something to him as they were shaking hands; Horne grinned, saluted, and marched away.
All at once Melvin became aware that someone nearby had been furtively watching him; he turned and saw a young cadet dressed in clean, starched, neatly-pressed khaki. The cadet’s cap rested squarely on his head.
“You must be new,” Melvin said.
The young cadet did not answer.
“Welcome aboard. What’s your name?” Melvin demanded with his hands on his hips, conscious that his own khakis had faded to a tawny color.
“Simms,” the newcomer replied in a shy voice. “You must have been here quite a spell.”
“How do you know?”
“You look like you have. I can tell.” He smiled, and suddenly became confidential. “Isn’t this base gigantic? I’ve been exploring all day. I walked as far as the ruins of the old Spanish fort.”
“My first day here I did the same thing.”
“Pensacola! I can’t believe it!”
Melvin was a little embarrassed by the enthusiasm and could not think of anything to say. The sun was beating down and he did not feel like talking any more. He shrugged and continued watching the graduation. In a little while McCampbell appeared on the stage. He looked shriveled and inadequate, sidling across with one shoulder lower than the other, his wrinkled head cocked to one side like an inquisitive midget. The Navy would commission him, but he would never be on a poster. As an officer he was somewhat irregular. But Melvin, watching him accept the diploma, remembered certain afternoons over the Gulf when McCampbell’s SNJ sliced out of the blazing sun and seemed to fasten itself to the target, tearing at it like a shark; and later, when the sleeve was stretched out on the pavement while they crawled over it on hands and knees counting the colored bullet holes, there had been times when McCampbell scored more than the rest of them together.
“Are you stationed at Barin Field?” asked the young cadet.
“I was,” Melvin answered. “Down here, though, friend, we refer to it as ‘Bloody Barin.’”
“I’ve heard about it.”
“You’re going to hear a lot more.”
Roska was standing up. Melvin watched him march crisply along the carpet, mount the steps, and cross the platform. Nothing betrayed the amount of whisky he had drunk that day, unless the admiral was able to smell his breath.
The young cadet asked what type of duty Melvin was expecting.
“Let’s put it this way: I don’t know for certain. I could be assigned to almost anything.”
“I’ll bet you’re proud.”
“Yes, indeed I am,” said Melvin. “You have no idea.”
They talked a little longer and then, as the ceremony was concluding, Melvin wished him luck, warned him about the high-tension wires at Ellyson Field, and quickly worked through the crowd until he was close to Horne—who was peeking at his diploma while the chaplain prayed.
The instant the ceremony ended Melvin called, “Congratulations, sir!” and saluted.
Horne was startled. “Where the hell did you come from?” he asked as he rolled up the diploma.
“Come on, return my salute,” Melvin insisted, grinning.
Horne’s face grew red and he frowned. But several people were watching, so, with obvious reluctance, he acknowledged it.
“Now the dollar,” said Melvin.
“What dollar?” Horne cried. “What’s the matter with you? Get lost, will you!”
“You know what dollar, don’t hand me that line. The first salute an officer gets costs him a dollar, and I got you first so I want my money.”
“You going into the business?” Horne gestured at the enlisted men who were darting around the edge of the crowd saluting every ensign and lieutenant they could find. “How disgusting can you get! Jesus, you’ve come to prey on the ceremony. Oh, all right,” he said, and took out his wallet. “I only wish I had a hundred rusty pennies.”
With the dollar in his hand, the money touching his fingers, Melvin realized he did not want it; he had not even thought about the dollar except as a joke, but the dollar itself was not quite a joke, it was disagreeably real.
“Take it back,” he said.
“Take it back?” asked Horne. His face assumed a turgid, furious expression. “Keep your damn money, it’s what you wanted!”
This was how their fights began; it had happened before. Horne was outraged and Melvin, the longer he considered this, could feel himself growing angry. He crumpled the dollar and threw it on the grass. Horne shut his eyes and gritted his teeth.
Melvin nodded toward Cole, who was talking to his parents, and said with an effort, “I think I’d better go congratulate glamour boy.”
“Go salute him! He’s loaded with money!” said Horne. “Never mind, I didn’t mean that,” he added, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. “You took me when I wasn’t ready. I don’t know how this got started.”
They left the dollar where Melvin had thrown it and walked through the crowd and were introduced to Cole’s parents. Dr. Cole was a stout, pink-faced man of about sixty with a white mustache and penetrating gray eyes who was wearing a tight linen suit; he shook hands without speaking and then walked away a few steps and stood looking at the patrol bombers taking off and landing on the bay.
Mrs. Cole was cradling a drowsy chihuahua in her plump, freckled arms, petting the dog while she talked. “I’ve heard so much about you boys,” she remarked, and presently, no
ting Melvin dressed in khaki instead of blue, she said, “And of course you must be the Marine we’ve heard so much about, and I—”
“No, ma’am,” Melvin interrupted. “I’m the one who washed out.”
“How unfortunate. I do hope you boys will drop in on us whenever you are in Chicago,” she continued, smiling at Horne. “The doctor and I are usually at home in the evening.”
A few minutes later they were gone. They drove away in a creamy Cadillac convertible with Pat and the dog in the rear seat.
Already the flags had been taken down. The public-address system was being dismantled, a crew of enlisted men were collapsing the chairs, a truck was backing up to the platform.
“Well, I guess that’s that,” said Melvin. “You know, I’ve been thinking we ought to get together tonight for a party in Mobile. We can find Roska, and Nick must be around somewhere. And Kerdolph, and some of the other fellows, and we can get a case of champagne and rent a suite. How does that sound?”
“That’s a good idea,” Horne answered. He shuffled his feet and scratched the tip of his nose. “You scare up Roska and Nick and those fellows.”
“What about you?”
“As a matter of fact, there’s supposed to be a party at the BOQ.”
“You’ll have plenty of time for BOQ parties in the future.”
Horne was fretful. He seemed anxious to get away. “I’ve been planning on this.”
“Did you promise anybody you’d be there?”
“Look,” said Horne, “maybe it would be all right if you came along. It’s going to be a free-for-all. I doubt if anybody would notice you there.”
Melvin turned away, shaded his eyes, and squinted across the bay. “Well, thanks, but I don’t know. I was thinking about town. This should be a good night. We could find Roska, you know. Listen, if Mobile is too far, how about Pensacola?”
Horne pretended to be enthusiastic. “Why don’t you come along to the BOQ? I doubt if anybody would bother you.”
“I think I might hit Mobile once more. There’s a cashier in the drugstore that looks ready.”
Horne didn’t say anything. He looked at his wrist watch. The sun beat down on the grass which yielded up faintly the odor of summer.
“This breeze is a little stronger,” Melvin said. “Maybe a storm tonight.”
Horne shrugged, and stretched elaborately. “Could be. When do you—do the—?”
“My orders? Any day, I guess. I’ll check out as soon as they get here. There’s nothing left for me in this area.”
“Great Lakes, huh?”
“Sure. Where else.”
“Chicago’s a red-hot liberty town, they say.”
“That’s what I hear.”
“You could look up the Coles.”
“Yes. She’d love to see me.”
“Yuh,” Horne replied absently. “I’ve got to run along. You know how it goes. Last night ashore—wine, women, and stuff. Wild blue yonder.”
Melvin knelt on the grass to untie a shoestring and tie it again, quite slowly. Horne looked down at him.
“When do you shove off?”
“Tomorrow,” Horne said.
“Stop by Saufley before you go. We’ll have breakfast together.”
“I’ll do that.”
He was edging away; he was nervous and was snapping his fingers. Melvin followed him. He knew Horne wanted to leave and he felt ashamed of himself for trying to prevent him from leaving, but all at once the poverty of his situation seemed more than he could bear and he did not, above all else, want to be alone this afternoon and this coming night.
“Take it easy, baby,” Horne said, and he kept backing away. “You got roughed up in the program, but you’re not hurt.”
Melvin stopped. “No, I’m not hurt.”
They shook hands, Horne muttered something, grinned insincerely, and went trotting across the field toward the officers’ barracks, running faster as he got farther away.
18
The sense of dejection, the lassitude, and apathy, that overwhelmed him during the final tedious days at Pensacola persisted through the course of indoctrination at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center and was still upon him, more onerous than ever, when he was ordered to report for duty at the Naval Air Station in New Orleans. He was a seaman. He felt awkward and preposterous in the skin-tight jumper and bell-bottom trousers and he blushed when anyone stared at him. His rump felt strangely exposed, and his feet, as he gazed down at them, seemed remote and exceptionally large. He much preferred the dungarees which were his work uniform, because they were cut more conservatively and they were, in the harshness of the cloth, not unlike the khakis he used to wear as a cadet.
He remembered that Pat Cole had received orders to the New Orleans station and might still be there; consequently he went to the officers’ barracks as soon as he arrived and learned that Cole was living there. He was not in, so Melvin left a note.
But the days went by and Cole made no attempt to get in touch with him. It was summer by this time, the middle of June, and the air was unpleasantly hot and moist. The temperature stayed in the nineties.
The air station was across the road from the beach at Lake Pontchartrain, and there it was apt to be cooler than anywhere else; Melvin often walked across the road in the evenings and lay down on a stone wall at the edge of the lake. He would lie there for hours, motionless, with his head cradled in his arms, staring up at the constellations, the night birds, and the meteors, and listening to the modest splash of the waves and to the people who waded in the shallow, tepid water in search of prawns or whatever else was edible
Nights when he was restricted to the base he usually sat on his bunk. He could hear music from the amusement park and he could see, through the fence, an arc of the Ferris wheel; he would sit on the bunk in his shorts, eating a candy bar and looking at the Ferris wheel while his feet crept back and forth on the board floor as though amusing themselves. Late in the night when he decided to lie down, because there was nothing else to do, he seldom managed to sleep. The sluggish air weighed on him, and congested his lungs. One hour passed after another while he perspired and waited to become sleepy. There were times when he was still awake at dawn, the sheets soggily twisted around him.
Seldom did he go into the city. In the streets, the hidden courtyards—everywhere he went it was hot and muggy, even more so than at the base; and dressed as he was, conscious of his failure, he could not bring himself to enter the night clubs, hotels, and restaurants for which New Orleans was celebrated. He did not think he would be admitted even if he tried.
He did not know anyone at all in the city. He began to take morbid pleasure in the fact that he had no desire to meet anybody, although with an expression of drowsy and sullen fatigue he stared at the women in their summer dresses, and desired them with a hopeless, tiresome ache. But he did not have enough energy to go after them, it was so hot all night. And he thought they would not want anything to do with him; there were so many service men around.
So he only watched, and observed the women, and lapsed into a weary and languorous stupor, feeling more disheartened every day. Occasionally, when in the city, he stopped at the USO, though it was a chore to climb the steps, and there he played a lethargic, jaded game of ping-pong or checkers, usually losing; and once he attended a dance where he remained all evening in a corner by the electric fan, blinking and yawning. Most of the dances in the city were for officers.
He sometimes thought about the war, which was still going on, and with an air of boredom he read of American victories. It had become evident that the Axis would lose; he was glad enough of that, but found himself hoping the war would drag on a while, because as soon as it ended he would be obliged to begin thinking about the future. The end of the war would mean he would be discharged and would have to find something else to do. He did not have any plans. For a while after leaving Pensacola he had thought he might apply for medical school as soon as he could manage to get out of the Na
vy, but as the weeks and months went by the idea began to seem somehow like a dream—so much study, so much hard work would be necessary. He considered transferring from the reserves to the regular Navy; that way he could stay where he was, or in some similar position. He would be fed and clothed, given directions as to what to do, and would have a little money to spend on week ends.
One sweltering noon as he was listlessly emerging from the enlisted men’s mess hall into the blazing sun he stumbled against a tall, lean officer with a bristling mustache. The officer, an ensign, was wearing dark glasses which gave him the expressionless half-human look of a homosexual, or a child’s doll, and Melvin promptly saluted, for he had gotten into the habit of saluting whenever he found himself in a threatening situation.
“Damn you, watch where you’re going!” the ensign snarled.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Melvin blurted, standing at attention and squinting up at the officer. All he could make out was a peaked garrison cap silhouetted against the glare of the sun and the ominous robot sockets of the polaroid glasses.
“So it’s you,” the officer said after a moment of silence.
Melvin was still blinded by the sun and could not see the officer’s face, but he recognized the voice. It was Cole.
“You never did know where you were going,” Cole went on. “How have you been?”
“All right,” Melvin said, and stepped to one side in order to be able to see him. “When did you grow that?”
Cole twisted the ends of his mustache and grinned, and it seemed to Melvin that he was actually pleased they had run into each other.
“Did you ever get that note I left you at the BOQ?”
“Of course I got it. But what have we to talk about? We live in different worlds now, you know that.”
“I know,” Melvin said. “I just wanted to say hello, and I wondered if you might have heard from any of the other guys.”
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