Battle Cry - Leon Uris [40]
“What have you got?” he countered with the innocence of a child asking the flavors in an ice cream parlor.
“Humm, let me see your I.D. card.”
He flipped the card over the bar and the bartender paid scant notice to the dissimilarity of the boy before him and the picture of Milton Norton. “Just fix me something up. Er…a Tom Collins,” he said. “Yeah, a Tom Collins…double.”
He was surprised—it tasted like lemonade. Not at all like the vile smell of a buddy returning from a weekend of liberty. He dipped his fingers into the glass and withdrew the cherry and with a straw stirred the concoction. Three or four quick draws and the drink disappeared. “Survey,” he ordered.
“Better take her slow, son,” the bartender warned.
“If you’ve got any good advice, don’t give it away, sell it.” Danny studied the selections for the jukebox. He picked up a quarter which lay with his change and pushed five buttons. The Sunday serenity of the place was broken by a scratchy needle and a lilty voice, Frank Sinatra, crooning a favorite of his and Kathy’s:
I’ll never smile again,
Until I smile at you…
Always cut school twice a year anyhow. Once when Tommy Dorsey came to the Hippodrome; the other for Glenn Miller…
For tears would fill my eyes,
My heart would realize…
He guzzled the second drink and felt nothing. Maybe he had the capacity like he had heard others brag about in endless hours in the barracks. He stepped up the pace. Six drinks and he still stood in his original position loading the jukebox.
I don’t want to set the world on fire, sung out the high voice of Billy Jordan, Ink Spot.
I just want to start, a flame in your heart.
“W-where…is the men’s room?”
“End of the bar and to your right.”
Dammit, he thought, sure is funny trying to talk. Hard time getting it out. He withdrew his foot from the rail and his leg buckled. He grasped the bar quickly and steadied himself, fumbled for a smoke. It seemed his fingers had no sense of feel as they groped through his pocket. After a struggle he finally got one lit and started his trek.
“Hey, Marine!”
He turned slowly. “You left some money on the bar.”
“Oh…sure…silly me.” Wasn’t that a damned fool thing to say, “silly me.” “Better give me another drink…make me one like that guy has,” he pointed to a soldier’s glass which he had been admiring.
“That’s a Singapore Sling, son. Better not mix them like that.”
“Give me a Slingapore Sing…” He climbed on a bar stool and wavered. Hell, I’m not drunk. I know who I am. I’m Forrester, 359195, USMCR…he repeated to himself. I’m not drunk…I know what the score is…isn’t much of a drink. Who is that sonofabitch staring at—oh, that’s me in the mirror. Better get to the men’s room.
O.K., Danny Forrester, don’t look like one of those goddam drunken Marines you hate. Easy off the chair, boy. Watch that goddam table there, don’t trip…why feels like I’m not even walking…like being on a cloud…there’s the door. “Adam,” it says. Who’s drunk, I can read…Adam means man, I’m not drunk.
He doused his face in cold water and studied himself in the mirror. Oh-oh, you silly bastard…I guess you are drunk. He shook his head and laughed. So this is being drunk…isn’t so hot…Danny Forrester…359…did I say 359 or 358? Forrester…no eights in it…that’s my rifle number. Rifle, not gun…Oh buddy, you’re loaded. He laughed again. Mother should see me now. He roared a laugh. He shoved the door open and then sprung back into the lavatory. Forgot to button my fly…slippery ole buttons…damned.
A sailor crowded in. “Scuse me, Marine.” He edged past Danny. Bet I could whip that swabjockey. “Hi mate,” Danny roared, slapping the sailor on the back. “Quite a rig you guys got there, suppose you got to go in hurry?”
The sailor, an elderly sea dog, smiled casually at the young lad. “Easy, Marine, you’ve got a full load on.”
Before Danny could swing he found he had been eased back into the saloon. He studied the long way to the door. The whole room was an obstacle course, a moving obstacle course. He flopped into the first chair he could find, almost taking