Battle Cry - Leon Uris [162]
“Joe has a yellow streak,” I said. “We’ve all talked about it. Behind all that bluster he hasn’t got much guts.”
“I don’t mean that, Mac. He comes back to me because I’m the only friend he’s got.”
“Why do you put up with the sneak thief?”
“I don’t know. In some ways he’s the most rotten person I’ve ever known. Maybe I’m trying to salvage what little decency he has. I guess, too, I feel duty bound to keep him under control for the rest of the fellows.”
“He’s slick,” I said. “We’ve never been able to nail a lie or a missing pair of skivvies on him yet.”
We looked through the haze to the bar. Joe was swaggering and bleary. “Survey this ale!” he shouted. “I can outdrink any man or beast in this pub…any takers? And when I finish I’m gonna get me a broad. They ain’t been loved till Spanish Joe loves them.”
“Is it true that you were a cattle rustler before the war?” a Kiwi asked.
“Naw, them damned cows just took a liking to me and followed me home.”
Marion grinned. “About three more glasses and Joe will be done.”
We looked around the room and through the smoke caught sight of Pedro Rojas, who had just entered. “Hey, Pedro!” I called. “Over here.” Pedro steered an uneven course around the crowded tables of drinkers toward us. He was half crocked. He slumped down beside Marion, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his face.
“Ah, my very good friends. Señors Mac and Maria.”
“Hello, Pedro.”
“I see you are once again babysitting.” He nodded toward Spanish Joe. The waiter surveyed my brew and brought on another round of sarsaparilla for Marion. Pedro’s brow furrowed as he sipped from his ale mug. He smacked his lips. “You two are my very good friends. You two are fine understanding fellows…for Marines.”
“What’s on your mind, Pedro?”
“Pedro very sad tonight. Pedro is very sad because he is so happy,” the corpsman mumbled.
“Pedro is very drunk,” I said.
“Yes, my friend, I am drunk. But I am drunk with great sorrow.” He threw up his hands in a disgusted gesture, loosened his field scarf and downed the ale and refilled it from the quart bottle. “I am wishing to hell I have never come to New Zealand.”
“I thought you liked it, Pedro. It is a perfectly lovely country.”
“It is lovely, Maria, too lovely. That is why Pedro is sad because he is so happy here.”
“I don’t understand you, Pedro.”
Pedro Rojas sighed and looked into the ale mug. He took the handle and spun it about slowly. “I not wish to burden my good friends with my troubles, especially when I am drunk.” As he lifted the mug to his lips I reached over and drew his arm down.
“What’s on your mind?” I asked. I handed Pedro a smoke and lit it with the tip of my own. Pedro crouched forward, his eyes narrowed.
“You are two fine men. You understand more deeply than most.”
“Come on, out with it. You got a broad you want to swap?”
“Nothing as simple as that, Mac.” He lowered his head. “Have you ever been to San Antone, Mac?” His face was sad and sullen as his mind drifted back over six thousand miles. “Have you ever been to the Mexican quarters around the city dumps?” He shook his head at us and spoke softly. “Yes, I am sad because I find this country. Do you know this is the first time I have ever been able to walk into a restaurant or a bar with a white man? Oh yes, even in San Diego they look at me like I was a leper. People here, they smile and they say, ‘Hello, Yank.’ And when I say I am from Texas—well, this is very first time a person he call me a Texan. I am drunk. To hell with it.” He squashed out his cigarette and emptied his glass.
“You know what happen tonight? Pedro will tell you. I went to a dance at the Allied Service Club and some colored sailors from a ship come in and the girls, they just dance with them and treat them like anybody else. And then some goddam Texans they go to the hostess and demand the colored boys leave the club. Instead, all the girls refuse to dance with Marines at all and they walk out. I like it here in New Zealand.”
Of course there was little or nothing