Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [181]
His eyes flitted about, now avoiding mine. He was very jumpy and jittery. He wanted out, to hit the road. His mind was closed. “You owe me twenty minutes’ conversation, for God’s sake,” I said.
Gideon jumped on the bed, rested his shoulders against the headboard, and nodded to me, daring me to talk him out of it.
“Why the Marines?” I asked.
“That’s funny coming from you.”
“I joined the Navy, they attached me to the Marines. I was also a grown man. I have my reasons. They’re not the same as yours.”
“I’ve always wanted to go into the Marines when I could get rid of that Communist crap. I’ve seen them at the Fireman-Quantico Marine game, walking out of the stadium in their dress blues with a girl on each arm. I’d look at your picture with the fourragère around your left shoulder. I don’t really know, Uncle Lazar.”
“Then think of reasons.”
“I’m not happy here. It’s not you. It’s not Molly. I’m flunking in school again. I’m not doing what’s right with my life. I’ve got to get out there and find out about it. Maybe the war just makes it a good excuse, I don’t know.”
“Come on, you can do better than that,” I said.
“My Uncle Matti was a hero during the Arab riots in Palestine. You were a hero at Belleau Wood. Miss Abigail was a heroine.”
“So you need a war of your own, is that it?”
“I want to be wanted,” the boy cried. “I know how much you and Molly love me, but you have your own people to love. I want to belong. I want to be needed. I have to be a writer and I have nothing to write about but sadness and despair.”
“So go down to the burlesque show and copy their jokes.”
“All right,” he cried, “I have to go! I’ve got to fill my coffers with whores and buddies and feel good about living. I want to look sharp in a uniform. I want to be tough and drink like Hemingway and have mates like the Mexicans in Tortilla Flat. With my mom and dad, it’s all hate. It’s hate. We’ve all got our time, Uncle Lazar. My time is here. I have to answer.”
“That’s quite a mouthful, son.” I brought the hardback chair up close to the bed, so we were very near to one another.
“I want to fight my own Belleau Wood,” he whispered. “I want to be a man, a writer. Every day in the Marine Corps will be a new chapter.”
“You know how many would-be writers are under the ground in France?”
“Do you know how many writers were born in war?” he answered.
I sighed because it hurt. All I went through was in vain. Look at his eager face. He couldn’t wait to get at the world. There would be no stopping him now. What was that goddam tattoo some of the guys wore on their arm ... “victory or death” or some shit like that.
“I never spoke much about Belleau Wood,” I said. “I never talked about it to Aunt Simone. Writers make this shit glamorous, high adventure, spellbinding romance. So, let’s talk about Belleau Wood. Yes, son, it is true I went into the Navy to free myself from Moses Balaban, a father I hated. I wanted to be free of the red-necked bigotry that took my brother, Saul, may his soul rest in peace. I wanted freedom from the Balaban women. ... I’ll tell you about Belleau Wood... .
When America entered the war in 1917, a brigade was made up of the Fifth and Sixth Marines and rushed to France to show the flag in the vanguard of the American Expeditionary Force. I was made a Chief Pharmacists Mate because my special skills were badly needed. My unit, a naval unit, was assigned to the Marine Corps as their medical support group. That’s how I got to wear a Marine uniform and won my decorations.
By mid-1917 we had crossed on the troop ship Henderson and landed at St.-Nazaire filled with hatred of the Hun, looking for French poon and to make the world safe for democracy ... that was the big slogan. They always have to sell you some kind of shit, so we were convinced the Krauts ate little babies for breakfast. We landed and the French pelted us with flowers as we marched through the villages.
There were so many stars in our eyes, we didn’t see Europe was soaked with the blood of millions of casualties, ravaged landscapes, hunger, disease, mud