Battle Cry - Leon Uris [103]
“Don’t rush me, boy, don’t rush me…I’m an artist.”
Andy unlatched the gate that led to the Salvation Army Hotel for Women.
“Let’s walk up the hill a bit, I don’t feel quite like turning in.”
They walked the steep hill to a point where the paved street ended for vehicles, then took the zigzag stairway to the top. They came to a rest along a concrete rail guarding the drop. Andy looked down on the browned-out and sleepy city. In the distance they could see the dim outline of ships cluttering the harbor.
“Phew,” Andy said, catching his breath. “Pretty up here.”
“Softy.”
They leaned on the rail and gazed at the view below them. Andy lit two cigarettes and handed Pat one, and helped her to a sitting position on the rail. Her back rested against a lightpost.
“I saw a flicker once where the hero always lit two cigarettes that way. I always wanted someone to do that for me.”
“You cold?”
“It is a wee bit chilly.”
He opened his green overcoat, which he had been carrying folded over his arm, and put it about her shoulders. “Thanks, now there’s a dear.”
They puffed contentedly. “Funny,” Andy said, “I used to think that New Zealand was right next to Australia. Sure get a crazy idea in your mind of a place. Just like most of the people here thinking America is a place where you just pick dollar bills off trees and everything runs by a motor.”
“The girls at the hotel…I really shouldn’t say this….”
“Go on.”
“Well, most of them are hoping to hook a Yank. You boys don’t help much either. With our own lads being gone so long, and those uniforms and the way you throw money about.”
“I guess we’re pretty cocky.”
“Too right. We’re not used to so much attention, you know.”
“Sure is crazy the way everything turns upside down in a war, Pat. People don’t realize what has gone on here. We talked about an all-out effort back home. I know what those words mean now. You people have taken an awful beating.”
“It wasn’t nice, Andy…Crete and Greece and now North Africa. The casualty page was full for weeks when they trapped us on Crete.”
“I mean, Pat, everyone here has lost someone. I guess that doesn’t come easy…but what I like is the guts. The way you accept things, quiet and calm-like, and take in your belt another notch. They’re great people here…. Pat, what kind of a guy was your husband?”
“Don? Oh, just a plain boy. A distant cousin…we had the same name, Rogers. We were only married six months when he shipped over….”
“I’m sorry. I’ll change the subject.”
“You do like New Zealand, don’t you, Andy?”
“Yes, I do. I like the way everybody takes it slow and easy and like they know where they’re going and what they’re doing. I like it how there ain’t no real rich or no poor. Everybody the same, even the Maoris.”
“We’re proud of the Maoris. After all, it was their country we took.”
“Let me tell you something, Pat: it’s bad, us being here. A lot of people talk about wanting to be like Americans. That ain’t right, you’ve got the right idea.”
“Andy, that’s no way to talk.”
“Oh hell, I guess I’m proud enough about wearing this uniform. There ain’t no guys in the world like my buddies…but somehow I just feel like it doesn’t owe me nothing and I don’t owe it nothing.”
“What’s the matter, Andy? Sometimes you give me quite a fright, the way you talk…the way you think about women.”
“It’s a long story, and not very interesting.” He took a last drag on his cigarette, snuffed it out and knotted the paper in a tiny ball.
“Pat?”
“Yes.”
“Am I such a bad guy?”
“Well, I must admit the past three weeks were much better than our first date.” She laughed.
“Serious?”
“I’m glad I changed my mind, Andy.”
“Look, I want to ask you something. I don’t want you to get sore. I mean…to ask in a decent way, see?”
“Goodness, what is it?”
“We’re celebrating American Thanksgiving Day and I get a pass till Monday. Couldn’t me and you go away someplace…separate rooms and all that—no funny stuff. I’d just like to get away from camp and Wellington and the Marine Corps, take off a couple days, maybe on South Island.