Battle Cry - Leon Uris [175]
“Yes,” I answered for the hundredth time.
“Hey, Andy, you better have a bracer.”
“Yeah, I sure need one.”
“I don’t think that’s wise,” killjoy Marion said. “I’ll order a cup of tea for you. That will be better.”
“I need something. I sure need something…oh, hello, Danny. I’m sure glad you could make it.”
“Had to be in for the kill,” Danny answered. That shattered what was left of the Swede’s nerves.
As the cup of tea was placed on the counter the Injun deftly replaced nine-tenths of the contents with gin. Andy, under great duress, managed to get the cup to his lips and downed the drink. He sighed and asked for another cup.
“I told you that was what you needed,” Marion said smugly.
Two cups later and Andy felt no pain. He clapped his big hands together and his eyes began twisting crazily. I checked the time. “We’d better get to the church,” I said. “You guys be there in a half-hour.”
Andy turned somberly and faced the squad. One by one he shook each man’s hand. As he came to L.Q., L.Q. broke down. “Good-by, old buddy,” he said with tears streaming down his cheeks. Andy threw his arms around L.Q. and they both began to cry. I pulled them apart and dragged Andy to the door before he was given any more “tea” to drink.
“And, Burnside,” I yelled. “I’m holding you responsible for getting them there.”
“Leave it to me,” the sergeant answered.
As the cab pulled away from the curb a mood of silent sadness fell over them. “Poor ole Andy….”
“Yeah, he used to be a good man.”
“It’ll never be the same.”
“Time for one quick toast,” Burnside said. “For our old pal Andy.”
Three rounds later they poured into the cabs and, in a mood of sullen despair over what had befallen their brother, they left for the ceremony. They debarked before St. Peter’s Church and mingled with the crowd.
A jeep raced madly up the street and pulled to a stop near them. From it erupted the Gunner, Chaplain Peterson, Banks, Paris, Pedro, Wellman, Doc Kyser, and the driver, Sam Huxley. They had completed a mad dash over the mountains to get there.
Huxley ran to Burnside excitedly. “Did we make it in time?” His hair was windblown and his uniform disheveled from the drive. As Burnside opened his mouth to answer, Huxley fell back under the impact of a powerful whisky burp.
“They must like the sight of blood,” L.Q. groaned sadly.
The squad, on the verge of tears, entered the packed church and filled the last pew. Rogers and MacPhersons of all sizes were there. They turned and nodded and smiled at the new arrivals. Speedy lunged for the Injun’s overseas cap and yanked it from his head. “Ain’t you ever been in a church before, you renegade?”
A hush fell as the choir took their places. The organist seated himself and the vicar took his place before the altar. Great chords from the organ filled the old stone church and fell sharply into the pits of the stomachs of the drunken members of the radio squad. L.Q., more emotional than the rest, let out a muffled but audible sob as Pat Rogers came slowly down the aisle.
She wore blue and was veiled in ancient lace of the Rogers family. She looked very beautiful indeed. Behind her paraded a half dozen plump little Rogers and MacPhersons. Enoch looked lost in his ancient cutaway. As they passed his wife and as the music swelled and echoed, Mrs. Rogers joined L.Q. in sobs. Next Danny broke down and then the Injun and Speedy. They sniffled and choked with tears as I placed the golden band on the velvet cushion. Andy was feeling no pain. He had a cocky grin on his face and tried to make for Pat and kiss her. I had to yank him back to his place.
The ceremony began. Muffled whispers came from the rear of St. Peter’s.
“Poor ole Andy….”
“Poor, poor ole Andy.”
I held my breath and cursed them. Andy started to waver like a pendulum as the Anglican vicar babbled on and on. I was glad when he finally got around to asking me for the ring. I took it from the cushion and gave it to Andy, who sighted in on Pat’s finger, but saw too many fingers. He closed his eyes and lunged. The ring slipped from his hand and rolled