He received this letter after a particularly hard day at the tee, a day in which the heat, the space, the ill temper of the officers, and the surging ethereal balls contributed to a sense of confusion; which, he reflected, was why the lines of his father’s letter had blurred and intermingled as he attempted to read, and why, after a few minutes, he had lain down dizzily.
The officers by and large were unexceptional golfers, but he had come to the conclusion that the three hazel-eyed Texans in their tooled and flowery boots were professionals before the war. One thing, at least, was certain: they aimed at whatever sign he was using for a shield, so that by sundown almost every day his head spun and his eyes bugged as though he had been roped to the clapper of a cathedral bell. He heard, no matter where he was—at meals, in the shower, or in his bunk—a distant click. Then, stiffening, he waited, and counted the seconds, and presently the ball hissed by and he relaxed, or there was a shattering crash. He could not accustom himself to this noise, nor banish the impression upon opening his eyes after each concussion that the prairie had caught fire, and all he had learned during four months of service at the tee was to take the chewing gum out of his mouth whenever the three lieutenants appeared—otherwise he was apt to swallow it when one of them hit the sign.
In the sunset, as he returned to the enlisted men’s barracks with his lips parted in a smile of dull stupefaction, the half-breed would gaze down on him from the upper bunk with affable concern and tell him that he ought to request a transfer, and he would nod in agreement. But after he had rested for a while in his bunk with his hands crossed on his chest and a damp towel over his eyes, the echoes would diminish and he would begin to defend his job. It was the first outdoor position he had ever held and he thought it was beneficial. He had begun seeing coyotes and enjoyed racing after them when he was not busy retrieving balls, and he recognized various creatures who burrowed in the range and he thought, he was almost positive, that some of these little animals now could recognize him. Then, too, the prairie air was so invigorating that cigarettes tasted unpleasant; he seldom smoked, and felt odd when he did. And, in a sense, he was free; whereas Dawes, who waited on table in the officers’ mess hall, merely went from the kitchen to the table and back again as though attached to a chain or a leash.
On liberty the two of them went to a movie. The movies were imbecilic: the love stories reeked, and those which dealt with the war were so buttered with propaganda that Melvin occasionally shut his eyes and put his fingers in his ears. However, that was the way movies were made, no one had a right to anticipate anything better, and besides, there was nothing else to do, except drink beer. He had never cared much for beer, but, after the movie, he and Dawes would drink some. The town swarmed with glossy, greenish-black flies the size of beetles that circled interminably with a deadly buzzing noise which could be heard for half a block in the desiccated air; these monstrous flies now and then would drop like molten glass or bullets to the rim of the bottle and with obscene frenzy crawl through the sticky foam, and Melvin, holding his head in his hands, would concentrate on happier times.
So, in this way, the weeks went by.
And the CPO remarked on one occasion, after surveying him with clinical, professional approval, “You’re holding up better than them other boys.”
One morning in May he reported for duty as usual, and a day of profound isolation it promised to be. He strolled around scuffing dust into gopher holes and trying to stamp on lizards, and when at last an officer appeared on the patio he settled himself behind his usual sign and opened the drawing tablet.
After a while the golf balls stopped bouncing by; he closed the tablet, ready to go to work, but, because he did not hear the customary halloo, he remained where he was. Fragments of conversation floated out to him, the morning was so quiet. He heard what sounded like “Europe.” Something or other must have occurred in Europe. He turned on his side, peered around the edge of the sign, and saw that the patio was crowded with officers. They had glasses in their hands, tall glasses, no doubt frosty, such as one would use for gin, lime, and ice. Melvin’s throat began to constrict. With his cheek pressed against the edge of the sign he gazed wistfully toward the crowd. He could tell they were celebrating. He decided to collect a few balls and use this as an excuse for going in to be near them, to watch them enjoying their drinks, and to overhear whatever they might be saying to each other. But he had no more than gotten to his feet and opened the gunny sack when he heard a shout. He did not bother to look around; he dropped the sack and lunged for shelter, hearing a thud right where he had been standing. He threw himself flat on the ground and buried his head in his arms. Moments later the sign rang from a direct hit.
When, at last, he heard the all clear he sat up, brushing the dust from his clothing. Then he got to his feet and staggered away through the sagebrush, dragging the sack behind him. He could see where he was going but could not hear anything other than a high, singing whine. He ran his fingers uncertainly through his hair, trying to think where he was, and a cloud of dust came sifting down. There was dust inside his dungarees, on his lips, and in his nostrils. He thought he felt all right, so long as he stood erect and kept walking, but each time he bent down to pick up a ball it formed a double image so that he often found himself groping for a hallucination and could not entirely rid himself of a sensation that he was careening through space.
At the patio, having filled the buckets, he folded up his sack and then, fearfully, approached the lowest-ranking officer—an ensign whose collar bars were so bright that he could not have been commissioned more than a few weeks. He was dressed in a gray work uniform and was standing a little to one side as though he did not know anybody and had, perhaps, just recently arrived on the station. Melvin came to attention in front of him and saluted.
“What do you want?” the young officer inquired, looking at him in surprise and amusement.
“Sir,” Melvin began, and stopped; he had not addressed an officer for so long that his voice quavered. “I wonder if you can tell me what’s going on in Europe.”
“What makes you think there’s anything going on in Europe?”
Melvin stared at him in bewilderment. “Why, ah—sir, I heard you talking and I was curious.”
“Is it any concern of yours what we talk about? What’s your name and rate?”
“Isaacs, sir. Seaman, second.”
“A bit of advice, Isaacs. Mind your own business.”
Melvin saluted and turned away.
Crossly the ensign commanded, “Come back here. Maybe I’m upset today. What is it you want? You want some information?”
“Yes, sir. If it isn’t too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” the ensign said. “Do you care about the war?” he asked, looking at Melvin humorously.
“Yes, sir. Very much. Naturally.”
“Hmm! Well, grab one of those buckets and follow me,” the ensign told him, and selected a club from the rack. “Now why should you of all people concern yourself with the war?” he continued as they were walking toward the bunker. “Look at you,” he went on while Melvin was teeing a row of balls for him to hit. “Five thousand miles from the front lines,” he said, and touched Melvin’s knee with the tip of the club. “What possible difference can it make to you?” He assumed a stance, drew back loosely but powerfully, knocked a ball high into the wind, and watched it slice over the markers and lift a distant puff of dust. “That always reminds me of tank warfare in the desert. I’ve never seen it, but that must be what it looks like.”
Melvin said nothing.
“Well, anyway, I met a man,” the ensign resumed while he was addressing the second ball, “I met a man, a man who knows quite a lot about war. Told me some fascinating stories, this man did. Said to me that the Nazis conceived a few rather novel atrocities, such as putting an ape in a cage. What do you think of that?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Melvin replied. “What did they do to the ape?”
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p; “The ape? They didn’t do a damn thing to the ape! They merely let the beast into a cage with a woman. She was stripped. Yes, that’s right,” he murmured, and hit the ball. “And it seems apes are smarter than we think.” He took off his new gray garrison cap and slapped dust from it, put it on again, and neatly tucked in the corners. “Seems it didn’t take those apes long to get the idea.” He waggled the club and hit another ball; shading his eyes he watched it climb through the milky Texas sky.
“Know much about war?” he asked.
“No. Not much,” Melvin said. “Nothing, I guess, really.”
“Remote, isn’t it?”
“I guess it is. Yes, I guess it really is. I think I see what you mean.”
“When you enlisted in the Navy didn’t you expect to cover yourself with glory? Silver Star and so forth? Fancied yourself sporting a decoration or two, didn’t you? Maybe you used to wallow in that old sack and dream about the day you returned from foreign waters. Have you been overseas?” he asked, glancing at the faded dungarees.
“No.”
“Never been out of the States?”
Melvin shook his head.
“Where are you from, Isaacs? Didn’t you say that was your name?”
“Yes, sir. Isaacs. I’m from Kansas City.”
“Missouri or Kansas?”
“Missouri.”
“That’s something I never did understand,” the ensign remarked after a pause. “But never mind. Used to picture yourself coming home. Photograph of you on the front page of the Kansas City paper—whatever the hell the name of it is—local boy, some dignitary, the mayor, shaking you by the hand. Flash bulbs. Reporters. You, modest, reluctant to describe the battles—Midway, Coral Sea. That’s how it was, wasn’t it? Tell me the truth.”
“I don’t know. In a way, maybe,” Melvin said uncomfortably.
“But it didn’t work out. Suppose you tell me what it’ll be like when you do go home. People will ask where you were. What will you say?”
“Say I was here, and if they want to know where else I’ve been, I’ll tell them.”
“Be sure to watch their reaction.”
“Now look, I didn’t ask to be sent here five thousand miles from the war! There was nothing I could do about it! I was ordered here, you know that,” Melvin retorted, and wondered why it was that of all the normal, reasonable, decent officers in the Navy, of the thousands of officers who would simply have answered his question and been done with it, he had the bad judgment to pick this one.
“Sure, sure,” the ensign remarked with his unpleasant, toothy grin. “But only one thing will matter when you go home. The fact that you didn’t get into combat. You didn’t shoot anybody and nobody shot at you. That’s the yardstick. Frankly, how did you get here, Isaacs? How did you manage to be stationed as far from the fighting as a man can be? You know you couldn’t be farther from the action if you were in the antarctic.”
“Well, it’s a long story, sir. I was an aviation cadet for a—”
“You were what?”
“I was in the V-five program, but I got washed out at Pensacola, then they shipped me around the way they do and I wound up here.”
“Am I being given to understand that you were an av-cad at Pensacola?”
Melvin was puzzled by his tone and looked at him stupidly.
“Well!” the ensign breathed, leaning on the golf club with both hands. Then he tossed the club in the air and caught it as it fell. With his thumb he pushed the garrison cap back on his head and grinned.
Melvin understood, then, that the ensign had once been an aviation cadet; they glanced at each other and both of them were grinning.
Melvin said, “Well, I’d about decided I was the only one in the world.”
The officer wagged his head: “No, no! Lots of us. Lots. I got the ax at Bunker Hill. In my company thirty-nine out of forty-two washed out. Damnedest thing you ever saw. Directive from Washington—too many cadets being trained, get rid of them, miscalculation. Familiar story. Governments can multiply, but don’t know how to add. It was like a plague, Isaacs.” Thinking about it seemed to summon an old resentment; he snapped his fingers and sighed.
“One after another we went, bunks emptied. Every day or so another wash-out. Don’t know why, but it began at the far end of the barracks and spread toward me. Mattresses turned back, duffel bags missing. Upper bunk, skip one, upper bunk, lower, upper, skip one, coming right toward me. I couldn’t believe it. So methodical, like a crazy roll call. Buses left for the Lakes twice a week. The plague skipped over me, thought I had it made, then. They got me on the last flight. Chase pilot said I didn’t signal clearly enough. Board of review. No extra time. Not a chance. Wasn’t the chase pilot’s fault; he had his orders. Get rid of us. Hell, you know how it was. But I’ll never forget the last day. I was out, but my orders to the Lakes hadn’t arrived, so I watched the lucky ones start for Pensacola. Three from a company of forty-two. Three. They lined up in regular formation: company commander, platoon commander, one man in the ranks. Company commander accepted the orders from the exec, saluted, about-face, exchange salutes with platoon commander, repeat orders, platoon commander saluted, about-face, bawled orders to the ranks—that one man. I saw them marching toward the depot. Three of them. Company commander bawling cadence. Damnedest thing in the world.”
“We didn’t lose quite that many at Memphis. I’ve forgotten by now what the percentage was, but it seems to me that no more than seventy or eighty per cent.”
The officer nodded. “We heard Memphis was easy.”
“Yes, but you ended up with a commission anyway.”
“My uncle’s a senator. After I fouled up at Bunker Hill and went through the Lakes he recommended me for ground officers’ school. I’m what’s known as a ninety-day wonder.”
“Well, the situation doesn’t bother me as much as it used to,” Melvin said, and was prepared to tell his story; but the ensign, once more squaring the corners of his cap, had begun to frown and was plucking at the golf club with impatience and disapproval.
“What was it you wanted to know?” he demanded curtly.
“About Europe, sir.”
“What would you do,” the ensign inquired picking at the lacquered string which bound the head of the club, “if somebody told you the war in Europe was over?”
“I don’t know.” Melvin shrugged. “Nothing special.”
“Wouldn’t you get drunk?”
“There’s no reason to.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Sure. I mean, yes, sir.”
“Suspect that could be why they’re so pleased?”
Melvin glanced toward the other officers, who had formed a circle with their arms around one another’s shoulders and were singing and clinking glasses.
“Yes,” the ensign whispered, bending down and pounding on the prairie with the dusty club, “Yes! Yes! I didn’t help, but the war in Europe is over!”
Melvin thanked him and wandered away with the sack tucked underneath his arm.
So the war was over. In Europe the war was over. The Germans were again defeated. This meant that when the Japanese surrendered, as they must, and the armies and navies once more disbanded, he, Melvin Isaacs, would be released.
That evening when he returned to the barracks he found the CPO describing to a group of men how the war had begun at Pearl Harbor, how he had been climbing a ladder of the Arizona after eating breakfast on the morning of December seventh when the first bomb fell. He had not thought it was a bomb; he had been arguing with a machinist all through breakfast and he thought the machinist had run after him and struck the stanchion with a length of pipe. The concussion blew his hands from the rail and he dropped to the deck of the battleship, bleeding from the nose and the ears.
Just then Melvin was summoned to the telephone. His father was calling from Kansas City.
“Wonderful news! Thank God! And it means Japan is doomed, thank God! The Russians will march through Siber
ia, I am positive. Vladivostok. They have submarines, a magnificent air force, trained pilots and bombers vastly superior in every respect to the Japanese, which are imitations of American models. I am too excited to say much, however we are anxious to have you home. It will all be over soon. I cannot bring myself to think of the past. How soon will you come home?”
Melvin replied that he did not know.
“As soon as possible, don’t forget. Request to be discharged from service. We are expecting you. It is not too late, you can become an attorney. Nothing will be more logical; one day you will be inheriting my practice, a select clientele. Some of the finest people in the city, I am happy to say. A gentleman, recently, from the Plaza district, with considerable holdings, came to me on a confidential matter. I was surprised, with large offices in competition, but delighted, I assure you. I’m requesting information from the University of Missouri, undergraduate studies nicely designed leading to the school of law. You will have to study with diligence. Tuition is low for residents of the state, in addition you will be able to come home on week ends.”
“I’m not going to be a lawyer,” Melvin interrupted. “You might as well get used to the idea. I’m not sure just what I want to do, I’m thinking over various professions. But I don’t want to be a lawyer. I’m sorry—I know you’ve counted on it—but my mind is made up and I don’t feel like discussing it now.”
A letter postmarked about an hour after they had talked on the telephone referred not only to Melvin’s future career but to Pensacola: the family was still disappointed that he had failed to graduate, and, he surmised, they would not ever quite overcome their embarrassment. He did not think his naval experiences would be a topic of much conversation when he returned to Kansas City.
The Patriot Page 33