Battle Cry - Leon Uris [143]
“They’ve been away from folks for a long time, they’ll settle down.”
“It seems to me more of them should turn to God instead of whisky.”
“Yes, ma’am…is Mrs. Rogers in?”
“Oh, Mrs. Rogers—she moved out last week.”
Andy paled.
“She took a flat on Dumbark Street. Right up in the hills near Aota Bay. Only a few minutes’ tram ride from here. Let me see, what did I do with the address? Ah, here it is.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cozzman.”
“God bless you, Andy. Come and see us.”
“Yes, ma’am, I will…good night.”
The walk up the hill winded Andy. He caught his breath and plodded toward a big brown-shingled house. He paused for a moment and scanned the row of mailboxes: Mrs. Patricia Rogers No. 3. He felt shaky all over. He opened the door and soon reached Apartment 3. He rapped softly and the door opened. A young New Zealand sailor stood before him. For a moment the two stared at each other. Andy’s face flushed in a quick surge of anger and he turned to leave.
“Andy Hookans!” the sailor called.
He spun around to find a hand extended to him. “’Ow now, of course you don’t recognize me in this get up…in the King’s Navy now, you know.”
“I…”
“Henry Rogers, Pat’s cousin. Met you last summer at the farm. I’m in on a weekend, last one before action…. Well, come in, joker. Don’t stand in the blooming hall.”
They shook hands. Andy felt very foolish. He entered the flat.
Pat arose from her chair as he entered the room. She caught herself by grasping a lamp table. Her face was mixed with anguish, a muffled smile, a verge of tears, and a long, unbelieving stare. Andy lowered his eyes to the floor. “Hello, Pat,” he said softly.
“Andy,” she whispered.
“Just in from the Canal, eh?” the sailor said. “Bet you jokers had a ruddy time for yourselves….” He cut himself short in the awkward silence of Pat and Andy. “Well, I’d better be pushing off, know you don’t need me here.” He winked at Andy.
“No…don’t go,” Andy said. “Don’t let me chase you out.”
“Tsk, tsk. Got to see the mates at the pub. Late now. Thanks, old girl, for the feed. Glad to see you back, Andy.”
“Give me a phone if you can get leave again, Henry.”
“I’ll do that, Patty girl. Ta ta.”
“Ta ta.”
“See you around, Henry, sorry to bust up your…”
“Just stay there—I know the way.” He winked at Andy again and left.
“Won’t you sit down, Andy?” Pat said. He slipped onto the edge of an overstuffed chair uneasily.
“Nice place you got here, Pat.”
“Belonged to a girl friend who lived in Masterton. Her husband was billeted here. He went overseas and she returned home.”
“Sure, nice to…”
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Thanks.”
“How did you fare?”
“Ski got killed, Red Cassidy lost his leg.”
“Oh….”
“I did O.K.”
“You look as though you’ve lost a bit of weight.”
“I’ll be all right in a couple of weeks. Heat and all that stuff.”
Pat poured the teacup to the brim. He placed it in his lap. As he lifted the cup his hand trembled and the tea spilled on him. “Dammit!”
“Oh, Andy, did you burn yourself? I shouldn’t have filled it so full.”
“No, I’m just a little shaky. I’ll be all right in a few days.”
He put the cup aside. They looked at each other, not knowing how to ease the tension. “Let’s take a walk or go to a movie or something,” he said.
“I’ll get my coat.”
Once settled, ten-day furloughs were granted in three shifts with permission to travel anywhere in the country. We were warned to conduct ourselves as ambassadors of good will.
Gunnery Sergeant McQuade, Staff Sergeant Burnside, and Private Joe Gomez leaned over a bar in Levin, New Zealand. Their stance had changed little in six days. Seven other Marines, accompanied by girls, paraded in and took a large booth. The three buddies eyed each other’s ale glasses, lest they fall behind in the ten-day race.
An exceptionally burly Marine among the new entrants looked toward the bar and noted the fourragères on Gomez, Burnside and McQuade. He winked to his buddies. “Say! Anybody got a bar of pogey bait?” he roared.
“How many of them are there?” McQuade mumbled, peering into the mirror