Battle Cry - Leon Uris [173]
The special feature of the Cecil was its restaurant. Here a Marine or sailor could get a plate of ham and eggs and real American coffee for a nominal sum. It was a little corner of America and it was cherished.
The American girls were mostly of the homely variety and were generally bypassed in favor of younger and more comely New Zealand models. It was, however, a ritual to have a word or two with the directors, who spoke a refreshingly unaccented lingo.
The squad entered the Cecil.
“I don’t care what they say about the Red Cross,” L.Q. said, “they can always come to me for a couple of bucks.”
“Yeah, but did we get anything when we were on the lines?”
“Cassidy sure got a lot of blood from them.”
“Talk to some guys from the Second and Eighth and see what they got to say about the Red Cross.”
“He’s right. They ain’t no good. One year when we had a flood back in Iowa…”
“So what? So they got plenty of faults. If it helps some poor bastard get a free cup of coffee, I say what does it hurt to toss in a couple of bucks?”
They entered the lobby and automatically went to the bulletin board. Their mouths fell open in unison.
“Do you see what I see!”
“Oh, no!”
“Gawd!”
“Mother, I’ve come home to die.”
On the board were tacked pictures of the newly formed Women Marines.
“Jesus H. Christ. Women in the Marines!”
“The Corps is shot to hell.”
“Just the same, their uniforms look kind of pretty.”
“But, women!”
“You gotta admit they look better than them Wacs and Waves.”
“Naturally, but just the same.”
It was a bitter pill. They walked away sadly. Of course they agreed that the uniforms weren’t too bad and the girls were most likely a select group and of course superior to the other females in the services. But it was still a bitter pill.
Danny Forrester was asleep in an overstuffed chair in one of the reading rooms. He was quickly hotfooted, and bounced up with joy at seeing the squad after a two-week absence in Silverstream due to a severe case of malaria.
“Cousin, what the hell you doing here?”
“We thought you was going to get a survey to the States when they packed you out.”
“Big Dan,” Danny answered, “has returned to the living.”
“Then you coming back to camp?”
“I’m finished with the bug. I got a four-day leave.”
“That is double peachy. Andy is getting hitched and we’re going up to Masterton tomorrow.”
“What a break. I got two days left.”
“Come on, men. Thar’s a dance floor full of women awaiting my charms.”
They returned to the hostel a few minutes before the midnight curfew. The squad had rented one of the rooms for themselves in the converted mansion. Marion lay on a comfortable bed as the rest entered. He was in his most familiar position—reading.
“Get any stuff?” L.Q. asked.
“Three bottles of gin, three Scotch, and one rum.”
“Yeah!” Seabags said. “Let’s see them.”
“They are under the bed and they’re staying there,” Marion answered.
“Can’t we just look at them, Mary?”
“You can look but no touch…see?”
They drooled and fondled the bootleg booze. Under Marion’s stern gaze the bottles were handed back to him.
“Where is Spanish Joe?”
“I think he pulled one off on me,” Marion said. “After he got a bootlegger he asked me for five pounds. I think he made a deal to meet him later and get a rebate. At any rate he hasn’t returned and I doubt that he will.”
“We’ll never see him with a three-day pass.”
“Hey, Mary, couldn’t we just have a nightcap? Maybe a little rum.”
“No. It’s for the reception. We decided that beforehand.