Battle Cry - Leon Uris [148]
He felt her hand on his arm and the warmth of her breath on his neck. He stiffened.
“Kiss me, please,” she asked. He felt a surging desire to reach out and take her, but he shook his head.
“I was right,” she said. “You see, this is my very best dress.”
“You’re wrong, Nonie. I want to kiss you very much but I don’t think I’d be able to stop.”
“I don’t care,” she whispered.
“I do.”
A hurt expression came over her face.
“Look, Nonie, it isn’t you. It’s every other girl in the world as far as I’m concerned. I want to keep it that way.”
He realized that she felt cheap. She had been unfaithful to the boy in the prison camp before. She was trying to be again—he didn’t want her.
Milt Norton’s words passed through Danny’s mind, about wars and women. It doesn’t make any difference what or where they come from…in wartime it’s an old pattern….
CHAPTER 2
L.Q. sighed with relief as he stepped to the counter at the railway station and ordered a cup of tea. He looked at the wall clock. The train was due in a few minutes. He glanced over his shoulder and noticed a middle-aged man staring intently at him. The man was neatly attired in a suit of blue with gray pinstripes. His graying temples matched his gray moustache. He wore large horn-rimmed glasses, common in New Zealand, and a squarely placed derby hat. Draped over one arm were a heavy woolen greatcoat and a highly polished cane. L.Q. finally smiled and nodded to the man.
“Evening, Yank,” the man said. “Pardon the intrusion, but I don’t recognize the braid on your arm, there.”
“Called a fourragère. The Sixth Marines, my outfit, won it in France in the first war.”
“That so? We don’t see many Americans out my way. Back from Guadalcanal?”
“Yes sir.”
“Bloody awful mess, eh what?”
“Yes sir.”
“Busby’s the name,” he said extending his hand, “Tom Busby, field representative for Dunmore Machinery Company, Limited. We have a new brick-making machine, makes solid or hollow, simple enough for a baby to operate. No tamping, no vibrating.” He jabbed L.Q. in the ribs. “But you wouldn’t be interested in that, what? What the deuce brings you to Waipukurau?”
“On a ten-day leave, sir.”
“Lovely country here, lovely. I didn’t catch your name?”
“Lamont Jones. My friends call me L.Q.”
“L.Q., that’s a good one.” They shook hands. “Suppose you’re heading back to camp now?”
“No, I have almost a week left. My buddies are at Mr. Portly’s Lodge. I’m heading for Pahiatua.”
“Pahiatua? What the devil are you going to do in that place?”
“Just looking for a little fun, sir.”
“Go to the window and change your ticket this minute.”
“What?”
“You’re coming home with me, lad. There’s nothing in Pahiatua.”
“But…but…”
“No nonsense about it, L.Q. Have the man give you a ticket to Palmerston North.”
“But, Mr. Busby, I can’t just bust into your home like this.”
“Tommyrot. What kind of a bloke do you think I’d be, letting an American friend go to Pahiatua? My home is yours, son. Now hop to it.”
“But…”
“Come now, lad, there are plenty of Sheilas in Palmerston North if that’s what you’re worried about—plenty of girls.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Tom is the name, L.Q. Now get a move on before the train comes.”
The conversation on the long ride to Palmerston North was pleasant. Tom Busby stopped talking and listened intently when L.Q. spoke of Los Angeles. As they came into the station, L.Q. looked worried.
“Now, L.Q., my old woman Grace isn’t that bad.”
They were greeted by a small plumpish woman in her early forties and a frail-looking boy of about twelve. Tom and his wife exchanged reserved British kisses and the salesman bussed his son’s hair as the boy took his briefcase to carry.
“Good trip this round, old girl, got a surprise.” He turned to L.Q., who stood awkwardly behind him. “Meet L.Q. Jones, just back from Guadalcanal, that’s what. The lad is on a leave and was going to Pahiatua of all places.”
“A real Yank!” Ronnie Busby cried. “Is he going to stay with us?”
“Er, this was your husband’s idea,