Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

The World Publishing Co. liked what he’d sent them, and could he arrange to have the finished manuscript in their office within three months, so that it could be considered for fall publication?

  That was the substance of the letter. Joe let out an excited yell and sat down in front of his typewriter.

  Could he?

  The typewriter began to rattle like a machine gun.

  Things went great for another week and then he ran into trouble. Something was wrong and he couldn’t put his finger on it. He was throwing every other page he wrote into the waste basket and he didn’t particularly like the stuff he saved.

  He wrote all morning and then, after lunch, when he re-read what he’d done, he started re-writing, throwing away complete chapters, changing the plot around, re-slanting the characterization, so that by night he was right back where he started.

  That went on for a week and he was getting desperate. He was living on coffee and cigarettes and his money was running low. He had to finish the book pretty soon or he wouldn’t have enough strength left to pound the keys.

  But the more he wrote, and the harder he tried, the less satisfied he became. He was smack in the middle of a neurotic complex and he couldn’t lick it.

  One night he ripped a page from the typewriter, got up disgustedly and began pacing the room.

  “What in hell is wrong?” he muttered.

  He stopped abruptly in front of the picture of Sylvia Dare. He felt an angry bitterness toward her. This had been her idea, hadn’t it?

  “Well what is wrong?” he demanded. “You were full of inspiring advice a while ago? You told me to quit the job and write the book, didn’t you?

  He glared at the picture, and then he noticed something that brought a film of perspiration to his forehead. The picture seemed to be smiling. The lush lips were parting and there was a kindling sparkle in the depths of smouldering blue eyes.

  “So it’s my fault because you can’t write?”

  There was no mistaking the sarcasm in the soft voice.

  Joe felt anger bubbling inside him.

  “I didn’t say that,” he said. “You simply twisted what I said to make me look ridiculous. Every woman learns that trick at about the age of three.”

  “Well, what’s your trouble? The book isn’t going right, eh? That’s not my fault. All I can tell you is to stop being so critical of your own work. You’re tense and nervous because you’re so close to selling the book and that is making you worry about every word you write. Forget all that and just write your story as honestly as you can. It will be good. I’m sure of it.”

  HE SAID slowly, “Maybe you’re right.” He sat down at the typewriter again and slipped in a clean sheet of paper. He glanced at the picture and winked. “I’ll give it a try, anyway.”

  His typewriter started clattering under his fingers and he finished the, page before he realized there had been no answer from the picture. He glanced back at the picture. It was just a picture again. Pretty, smiling, but lifeless.

  He wondered about it. He must be just as crazy as ever, he decided, but oddly enough it didn’t worry him anymore.

  The book started going right again. He put in ten hours a day, and he knew that what he was doing was good. In the little spare time he allowed himself he learned all he could about Sylvia Dare. From fan magazines he discovered that she had come to Hollywood with the announced intention of becoming a serious actress, of studying conscientiously, of learning all she could about the art, and then spending a few seasons in stock, doing revivals of plays which wouldn’t make money, but which would teach her more about acting.

  Joe thought about her casting in “Scarlet Passion” and the other stupid roles she had accepted and wondered what had happened to her high ideals.

  He finished his book a month later and then spent two weeks re-typing it. When that was done he placed it tenderly in a cardboard box, bought a dollar and a half worth of stamps and sent it to the World Publishing Co. That last expenditure left him with about three dollars. He bought a bottle of wine, in what he considered a fine artistic gesture and went back to his room to toast himself, his book, the World Publishing Co., and the gods that protect indigent authors.

  After six or eight drinks he found that prospects looked bright. He’d written his book, and whether anybody read it or not, didn’t matter. He’d done what he wanted to do, and that was enough. The room was dark and from where he sat, with his feet propped on his desk, he could vaguely see the picture of Sylvia Dare on the dresser.

  “Well,” he said, “I did it. I wrote my book.”

  He couldn’t see her lips move, but he heard her voice, soft and little sad.

  “You must be very happy, Joe. Doing what you want is more important than people know.”

  “Sure it is. But I’m surprised you know anything about it.” He felt grand and lofty and just a little drunk. “What about your ambitions? Your desire to be a sincere actress and do stock company revivals? Was that something your press agent wrote?”

  “Please, Joe. I really meant that, but—”

  “Nonsense. Your letting them toss you into ridiculous pictures like Scarlet Passion and not doing a thing about it. You’re great at giving other people idealistic advice, but you haven’t the guts to take it yourself. Am I right?” But the picture didn’t answer. And Joe went to bed in his dark room feeling a little sad and lonely and more than a little tight.

  The next morning he had a bad head and he still felt lonely. After he shaved he went downstairs and outside. The day was cold and overcast, and it fitted his mood perfectly. He bought a paper and went into a restaurant for a cup of coffee.

  He looked through the paper absently until he came to the section devoted to show business. And there he saw an item that startled him. It was a feature story under the by-line of a Hollywood reporter.

  It began:

  “Hottest news in the film colony this A.M. is Sylvia Dare’s announcement that she is quitting pictures to join a touring stock company. The young starlet, who rocketed to sensational heights in Scarlet Passion, notified her producer last night that she is walking out of Love Indigo. Insiders believe . . .”

  Joe didn’t bother reading what the insiders believed. He left his coffee cooling on the counter and went back to his room. His head was spinning with speculation.

  She had heard him. She must have heard him. And she had acted on what he had said.

  He scooped up the phone and called a friend of his, a man about the village, who knew most of the unlisted phone numbers in town. He asked his friend for Sylvia Dare’s phone number and a few minutes later he was dialing the number.

  He listened to the phone ringing in his ear, and he realized his heart was pumping in an extraordinary way.

  Supposing she didn’t answer? Supposing her maid said Miss Dare isn’t in?

  Then the connection was broken and a soft, wonderful voice said, “Hello Joe. I knew you’d call.”

  “Sylvia,” he said. “You knew it was me?”

  “Of course. This is all so strange—but it seems to be just right, too.”

  “Yes, yes. It’s perfect. And you heard me last night? When I talked about what you should do?”

  “I MUST have. Tell me, Joe, are we crazy? People who hear voices are crazy, aren’t they?”

  “Crazy or lucky, I guess. Can I come over and see you, honey?”

  “Of course.” Her voice broke into a gentle laugh. “I want to talk to you.”

  “I’ve got more on my mind than conversation,” Joe said.

  “I guess I have too.” Her voice sounded small and a trifle guilty. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

  “Joe, please hurry.”

  Joe put the phone down and reached for his hat. He smiled down at the picture of Sylvia and a voice said, “Darling, isn’t it wonderful?”

  Joe looked hard at the picture, but her lips hadn’t moved. It was just a picture.

  He turned slowly. Mona was standing in the door, a bright smil
e on her face, wearing a mink coat over slacks and bright yellow blouse.

  “Isn’t what wonderful?” he asked.

  “The book, darling. I just read about it in Winchell. He says it’s going to be terrific. I just knew you could do it, darling.”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course, darling.” She smiled and opened her arms invitingly. “And what are you going to do for me now,

  honey?”

  “I’m going to send you an autographed copy,” Joe said. He brushed past her and went down the steps two a time. Mona was shouting something after him that sounded very unlady-like, but he wasn’t bothered.

  He went out into the gray overcast morning and started waving for a cab.

  He realized it was a beautiful day.

  ORDERS FOR WILLIE WESTON

  First published in the January 1948 issue of Fantastic Adventures.

  Old soldiers never die—their reward comes on the parade ground—but Willie Weston wasn’t quite sure . . .

  WHEN Private First class Willie Weston realized that the grenade was going off in a matter of seconds he thought with classic detachment that it had been a most peculiar sort of day.

  First there had been that business of the orders . . .

  He had been told that morning he was being transferred to another outfit. The first sergeant instructed him to report to the orderly room for his orders.

  Willie had gone to the orderly room as instructed and told the Charge of Quarters what he wanted. The CQ was a corporal with nine months of service which made him quite an old campaigner in this new army. He picked a copy of Willie’s orders from a basket and glanced at them perfunctorily.

  “You leave at eleven this morning,” he said. “You’re going to B company, third regiment—”

  He stopped talking and looked at the orders with new interest. Finally he looked up frowning. “These orders are snafued. Hold it a minute and I’ll check with the captain.”

  He came from behind his desk and went into the captain’s office. Willie heard him talking, then the captain’s voice sounded: “Weston, come in here.” Willie walked nervously into the Captain’s presence, came to attention and saluted.

  “At ease, Weston,” the captain said, returning the salute casually. He was a muscular, graying man of about forty. He had a copy of Willie’s orders in one hand and he rubbed his chin with the other.

  “These orders aren’t right,” he said. “According to this you’re being transferred to the 127th. Infantry. You’d have a helluva job finding that outfit.”

  “I know, sir,” Willie said. “The 127th. was deactivated at Munich in forty-five. They fought from Africa all the way to Berlin and . . .”

  Willie floundered and was silent.

  The captain glanced curiously at Willie. “How’d you remember all that?”

  “I—I used to read about it, sir. The war, I mean. It was like a hobby.”

  “Hmmn. Well, carry on, Weston. I’ll get this straightened out at Headquarters.” He glanced again at the orders and smiled. “The 127th! Might as well try to send you to the old Rainbow division. Well,” he paused, still looking at the orders. “Would you like a copy of this as a souvenir?”

  “Yes, sir. Very much.”

  “It’s probably as close as you’ll ever get to a combat division. That’s all, Weston.”

  Willie took the mimeographed sheet from the captain, saluted and went out to find the battery. They were on the parade ground listening to a lecture on booby traps and grenades. The men were squatted in a semi-circle listening to a lieutenant who was trying vainly to keep them interested.

  Willie found a seat in the front row and squatted down. He tried to listen but it was impossible. His thoughts strayed to the orders in his pocket.

  The 127th. Infantry! One of the real glory outfits. Willie had followed their exploits for three years. He had been a kid then, fourteen years old and the war had been a fascinating parade which he would have given his soul to join. But it had ended when he was seventeen and he could still recall his half-guilty feeling of disappointment.

  WHEN he was eighteen he had been drafted into the peacetime army which wasn’t the same thing at all. There were no heroes, no romance, no boom of guns to counterpoint the cadence of marching men; there was just gray routine and other lonely kids of high school age.

  That was about when the business with the grenade happened. Willie was too lost in his thoughts to remember just how it happened, but he heard everyone yelling suddenly and then they were scrambling away from him in every direction. He heard a lieutenant yell, “Hit the ground!” and then he saw the grenade.

  It was right in front of him, a peculiar looking thing with a handle on it, quite different from the other grenades he’d seen in the army. He stared in fascination, too surprised to move.

  He was conscious of the hot sun on his neck and the baked, dusty ground; he heard shouts and running feet and he heard a horrible little ticking sound coming from the strange looking grenade.

  That was when he realized it was going off any second.

  There was no time to run. There was hardly time to feel fear. He stood up and threw himself toward the grenade without any precise idea of what might happen.

  He heard a noise then that was so vast his ears had trouble assimilating it. It was all around him like fog and it seemed to come through his body, his pores and his lungs, as well as his ears. There was pain for a moment but it was too great to hurt very much.

  That was all there was to it. The sound and the pain and then the darkness . . .

  He didn’t know what to expect when he opened his eyes. The pain was gone and it was quiet now. He was standing in what appeared to be an orderly room. There was a youthful second lieutenant sitting behind a desk, glancing at some papers.

  Willie was very surprised by this deal.

  The young lieutenant who had unruly blond hair and clean blue eyes finally looked at him and grinned.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hello,” Willie said blankly.

  Then he remembered a number of things, chief of which was the courtesy he should accord the lieutenant’s gold bars. He snapped to attention and saluted.

  The lieutenant smiled good naturedly and came around the desk. “Relax, soldier,” he said. “We don’t use that stuff here. My name’s Pete.” He stuck out a hand.

  Willie brought his hand down from his forehead and shook hands gingerly with the lieutenant.

  “I’m a little mixed up, sir,” he said.

  “Never mind the sir. What’s on your mind?”

  “Well a grenade went off and I was pretty close to it,” Willie said. He looked around the neat orderly room as if expecting to find the walls sagging from blast. “It’s all very funny,” he went on.

  “You’ll get used to it,” the lieutenant named Pete said. “I got mine with a mortar. Took me a while to get oriented when I got here.”

  “Well, where am I?”

  “This is B company, 127th. Infantry,” the Lieutenant said.

  “But you were all killed!” Willie gasped.

  The lieutenant chuckled. “Brother, say that again. I guess we got expended faster than any outfit in the war. Set a record for casualties, I think.” He seemed quite proud of this fact.

  “Then I’m—” Willie couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “That’s right,” the lieutenant said. “You’re Kaput. Don’t worry about it. The big thing is that you’re in the wrong outfit now. Do you have your orders with you?”

  “Orders?” Willie shook his head. He fumbled automatically through his pockets and his fingers touched the mimeographed sheet his captain had given him as a souvenir.

  “YOU got ’em,” Pete said. He reached over and plucked the papers from Willie’s pocket. “I’ll see where you’re supposed to go and get you started on your way. I don’t see how you got here in the first place.”

  He opened the paper and glanced at the orders.

  “You se
e,” he said, “we’re a deactivated outfit. We don’t take any recruits.”

  “I see,” Willie said, feeling strangely inadequate.

  “You should probably have gone to—”

  He stopped and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “Holy Smoke! Something is really fouled up. These orders are made out for us.” He stuck the paper in front of Willie’s eyes and pointed unbelievingly at the typed instructions. “See that? B company, 127th. Infantry. Plain as the nose on your face. What d’ya know?”

  “It’s a mistake, I guess,” Willie said. “Why, sure it is. Boy what a mess!”

  “I was going to be transferred,” Willie said. “They cut the wrong orders. I had ’em with me when the grenade went off.”

  The lieutenant frowned thoughtfully. “Yeah, that’s the deal. You had the orders on you when you got it. So Headquarters sent you over here. Probably didn’t bother checking it,” he said gloomily. “Stupid so-and-sos.”

  Willie gulped. “Does Headquarters up here get things fouled up, too?” The lieutenant shook his head despairingly. “Brother they make more mistakes here than anywhere else.” He grinned suddenly. “But it gives us something to gripe about. And by the way. I wouldn’t say up here when you’re referring to this place.”

  Willie looked at him in horror. “Is it down here?”

  The lieutenant looked around cautiously, then leaned closer to Willie. “It’s hard to say,” he said confidentially. “Sometimes I’m not sure. Just play it safe. Say ‘here’.”

  “All right,” Willie said weakly. “Now,” the lieutenant said, “I’ll get this thing straightened out. Meantime you might as well have chow with us.”

  “I am hungry,” Willie said.

  “Well, we’ll take good care of you. I’ll find one of the boys to show you around. Sometime this afternoon I’ll probably have the dope on these orders and I’ll look you up. You should be with your regular outfit by this evening.”

  “Thanks a lot, sir.” Willie said.

  “Now watch that,” the lieutenant said warningly. “I’m easy going and I don’t mind that Sir business. But some officers up here are pretty chicken and they’ll raise hell if you don’t Sir ’em.”