Battle Cry - Leon Uris [161]
“Look at the bloke’s ribbons, would you,” a New Zealander said squinting at Joe’s blouse. Gomez thrust out his burly chest to give his admirers a better view of the decorations he had recently purchased at Mulvaney’s Army and Navy Store on Lambden Quay.
“Must have seen a lot of action, aye, Marine?”
The spotlight shone on Spanish Joe Gomez. He casually glanced at his fingernails, flicked a small spot of dust from one. “This boy’s been around, cobber. Worn out more seabags than you have socks.” His fierce eyes cut the enveloping haze of flat-smelling British tobacco smoke and the sharp odor of nine per cent ale. He reached out and clutched an onlooker by the collar. “See this one here, Kiwi?”
“Yes.”
“Silver Star for gallantry in action—Guadalcanal.”
“Looks bloody impressive.”
Joe uncorked a pack of cigarettes and flipped them on the bar. “Have a decent coffin nail, gents.” The pack was devoured. “I was on a patrol, see, over the Kokumbona River near Tassafaronga Point, five miles behind Jap lines,” Joe said. “They used me as a scout on account of, if I got to say so myself, in all due modesty, I’m a pretty savvy guy.”
I was at the other end of the bar and, having heard Joe’s routine a hundred times, looked around for Marion. I spotted him alone in a booth and moseyed over. “What’s the scoop, Mary?” I asked, dropping anchor opposite him. Marion lay down his book, took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes.
“War and Peace, by Tolstoy. Very interesting.”
“Looks like Joe is really wound up.”
“Lost from the patrol five miles behind enemy lines. What a situation. A lesser man would have cracked up right there. But not old Spanish Joe…”
Marion smiled. “He’s on the way. Been a pretty good guy though. I’ve had him in camp for two weeks and that’s a record. I suppose he’s entitled to a bust.”
“I come to this here clearing,” Joe went on, “it’s burning hot, a hundred and twenty in the shade.” Joe dramatized with full sweeping gestures, pointing out his trek with a map of ale bottles and ashtrays on the big black bar.
“By the way,” I said, “he hit me for a ten-shilling note and he took one of Andy’s shirts.” Marion withdrew his notebook and jotted the items down.
“Not too bad this month,” Marion said. “He only owes three pounds and eight shillings. I’ll take care of you and the boys at pay call.”
“Roger.”
“The sweat was gushing offa me. I was tired and so hungry I coulda ate the north end of a southbound skunk…I peers to the left and what do I see….”
“What was it, Yank?”
“A sniper, had me right in his sights…I was like a bump on a log. Makes me shudder to think of it.” Joe whipped out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead.
“What the hell happened?”
“I glances around fast-like, see…and there,” he sipped from his glass, “and there, looking down my throat at the edge of the clearing was a Jap machine gun!”
“Blimey!”
“Spanish Joe, I thinks to myself, a hundred broads from Chi to Dago will be grieving this day. I lowered my head and charged bayonet first like a mad bull at them!” He loosened his field scarf and rested back on the bar, leering mischievously at his audience.
“Tell us, man, what happened?”
“What the hell you think happened? I got killed, you damned fool!” He tilted his head back and roared at the stupefied onlookers. “Hey, bartender, survey this ale!”
I always got a kick out of the silly looks of Joe’s audience at the punch line of that story. I smiled and turned to Marion. “Heard anything from Rae?”
He nodded. “Look, Mac.” He opened his wallet and shoved it over the table to me.
I whistled. “Sharp girl, that Rae, a real lady.”
“That’s my house in the background, my room is around the corner. You can’t see it in that picture.”
“You’re happy, aren’t you, Mary?”
“I’m lucky,” he said.
“Tell me something. Anything gone sour between you and Joe because of Rae?”
Marion lowered his head and thought. “I can’t help but feel it sometimes, Mac. He tells me to jam it when he gets sore but he always comes back to me sorry. He never mentions her name but I can’t help but think…”
“What?”
“It’s hard