Battle Cry - Leon Uris [177]
By the time the rug was rolled back for dancing there was a bursting frivolity and brotherhood the like of which I had never seen. No wonder the New Zealanders got along so well with the Maoris.
Burnside had ducked the place about halfway through the drinking bout, with a lovely MacPherson maid of honor. Danny and L.Q., recuperating from malaria, were unable to stand the pace and staggered from the hall soon after Burnside and the girl left.
Bleary and wavering, L.Q. and Danny propped themselves against a building and caught their breath, “Shay, Danny, didya see Burny leave with that broad?”
“Yeah,” hicked Danny.
“Shay, we better find ole Burny. He’s liable to get the shame treatment that ole Andy got.”
“Where you suppose he is?”
“At a bar.”
“Naw. No bars in this town.”
“Anyhoo, we gotta save ole Burnside from a fate worsen death.”
“Yeah, we gotta save our old pal, the billygoat.”
They hailed a taxi and spilled in…. “Shay, where can we get a drink, old bloke?”
“Nothing in this ruddy town, chappies,” the cabbie answered.
“Shay, you seen Burnside?”
“The Marine sergeant with the fancy ribbon about his shoulder and the girl, just left the reception?”
“Did he look like a billygoat?”
“Wot?”
“Did he…where you take him?”
“Really, lads. I wouldn’t butt in.”
“What I tell you, L.Q. He’ll go like our old pal Andy.”
“Speak up, man. This is a dire emergency.”
“Well, if you insist. They went over the city line. Only pub and hotel about.”
“Be off to the city line.”
“Hurry old bean, or we’ll hang you from the highest yard-arm in all Liverpool.”
The cabbie’s pleas for privacy for the pair were in vain and only heightened the emergency in the minds of Danny and L.Q. After a wild ride the taxi stopped beside a large inn. Danny and L.Q. staggered out, advising the driver to keep his motor running.
They broke into the bar, which was empty save for the bartender cleaning glasses for the coming night rush of trade into the wet zone. Danny, with memories of San Diego, sprang over the bar, landing almost on the keeper’s back, and demanded of the startled and mild little man, “What you do with him?”
“Wot is this—a holdup?”
“Where’s the Sarge? We know he’s here.”
“Yeah,” bellowed L.Q., helping himself to a quart of ale. “We come to save him from a fate worsen death.”
“But…but…”
“Speak up, good man. No time for tomfoolery.”
“You lads are drunk.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“He says we’re drunk, L.Q.”
“Tsk, tsk, big Dan.”
“But you blokes can’t break in on them. Be good lads—he’s got a sheila in the room.”
“Oh ho, the plot sickens.”
“Hurry, where is he? We got to save him. Poor ole Burny.”
“Lads, please,” pleaded the innkeeper. Danny grabbed him and shook him. “He’s in a room at the end of the hall, to the left,” the little man finally admitted.
The pair wended a wavy course down the corridor and smashed in the door. Sergeant Burnside and the girl were on the bed. She shrieked and fell flat, drawing the sheets over her.
“Sarge! We come to save you,” Danny yelled.
“Hey, Burnside, you’re out of uniform,” L.Q. noted.
“I’ll kill you bastards for this!”
The girl became hysterical, but Burnside cursed his way into his trousers. L.Q. and Danny shook hands on the successful completion of their mission.
“Come on, Burnside. Escape while there’s still time. We got a cab running outside.”
The girl shrieked again and the innkeeper popped his head into the doorway. “Easy now, lads, easy. This is a refined place.”
“I’ll kill you!”
“Gee, Burnside, we was only trying to save you.”
“Get out!”
They staggered out sadly. “Ungrateful bastard,” Danny muttered.
I sat in the bus depot and checked the squad as they staggered in one by one, filed aboard the bus, and passed out. Burnside came in raving. “Where’s Forrester and Jones? I’m going to kill the bastards!”
It took me several moments to calm the Sergeant