Battle Cry - Leon Uris [73]
“Take off your blouse and make yourself comfortable. I’ll put on some coffee.”
He relaxed in a big chair and reached for a book; it was Sonnets from the Portuguese. She sat on the chair’s arm. “I was hoping you’d come back,” she said. “I wanted you to read it to me.” She kissed his forehead and disappeared into the kitchen. His eyes followed her from the room.
Rae left San Diego the next morning for Marion’s home.
Dearest Rae,
I’m happy that you like the folks. They wrote and they adore you just as much as I do. I’m glad we decided for you to leave quickly, it is better this way. One of the fellows brought his wife to San Diego and now that we are expecting to leave the States, their life is one climax after another. She is half crazy by the time he gets home each night. Anyhow, we have a wonderful memory to keep us going. I can’t yet realize that you are mine.
I’m doing a lot of writing. All the spare time I get. One of these days we’ll have a lot of wonderful things to do and see a lot of wonderful places together…we are going to be so happy.
Darling Rae, what you said in your last letter…don’t think about it any more. It doesn’t matter. The past is the past and only tomorrow counts. You are my girl and I love you.
Marion
CHAPTER 5
WE had dispensed with field day and inspection because of an overnight field problem in the brush outside the main barracks area. All night we crawled, practicing infiltration to sharpen ears and eyes in darkness. The squad had a rough time. It was imperative that we send our messages short and fast because the noise of the generator could arouse the dead in such stillness. We had to move quickly after each transmission, lest the “enemy” capture us. After stumbling around in the night for eight hours we returned to barracks dead tired.
“I’m dundee,” L.Q. Jones sighed. “Here I got a weekend ashore, that broad all lined up in El Cajon, and I can’t get off the sack.”
“You know what they call that in the Russian Marines—toughi shitski,” his pal Lighttower prodded.
“Yeah, write him out a T.S. chit for the chaplain.”
“She’s picking me up at the gate, dammit, how about going down and telling her I’m in the brig or something, Injun?”
“Ain’t you got that broad, yet, L.Q.?”
“The way I figure, tonight’s the night. Her old man has this here ranch and I’m in for the weekend, but this lil ole fat boy is plumb tuckered out…I don’t think I got the energy.” He dragged to his feet. “Recktum I’ve got to keep up the morale on the home front.” He trudged to the head to clean up.
“Is that the same broad that sang over the radio on that church hour,” Danny asked Lighttower, “the night he loaded his Reising gun and made us all listen and write letters to the radio station?”
“Yeah, same squaw.”
“Hasn’t he got none of that yet?”
“Naw, she’s giving him the business. I told L.Q. to watch that woman, she’s foxy. And she’s so damned homely that if she doesn’t get herself a husband with twenty thousand gyrenes around, she’ll be prune picking on that ranch for the rest of her life. That set up in El Cajon is a trap….”
L.Q. was held up at the main gate and made to enter the guard shack to shine his shoes. He entered the parked convertible amid wolf calls from the Marines heading for liberty. Ninety per cent of the catcalls were for the convertible with white sidewalk, and very few for poor Nancy East, who slid over as L.Q. took the wheel and whisked away.
L.Q. Jones, by the time they reached El Cajon, was a very tired young man. The night problem had left him limp with exhaustion. However, this appeared to be the opportune moment in the cat and mouse game he had been playing with Nancy East. On each succeeding liberty he had made a slight gain toward his objective.
Nancy, on the other hand, granted each gain managing to wheedle a further verbal confession from L.Q. He was armed with a weekend pass, poppa away on business and the blue chips were down.
The homely little girl was well aware of L.Q.’s physical condition.