Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [5]
“You wouldn’t back out, Gideon,” she said sarcastically. “After all, war is where little boys go to prove they are big boys. You wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
She was right. She generally was. I realized my posturing had convinced the Israelis that I was rattlesnake-mean. I’d sold them a real sackful of B.S. Out of an airplane, huh? Well, I hoped I wouldn’t make an ass of myself. I didn’t make an ass of myself that one time, long ago... I almost did ... I almost broke with fear, but I held on—barely.
We were coming into the beach at Tarawa. My boat was in the first wave and I was up front, right next to the ramp. We were hitting one of the smaller islands on the atoll and not expecting much opposition. We’d been circling around for hours and most of us were pretty nauseated as the line of landing craft straightened out and moved for the beach. Just then, Japanese machine-gun fire opened up and raked us. The bullets hit the armor plating on the ramp and their impact nearly shook us out of the water like a wounded sailfish. In a matter of a few seconds the ramp would be lowered and I’d be the first out, into the water. All I could think about clearly was that I couldn’t disgrace myself because I was a Jew. I almost fainted with fright. I managed to dare a peek back into the boat. Almost half of the guys, including the major, were puking out of sheer fear. Pedro, the toughest guy I ever knew, was on his knees praying to Jesus, Mary, and an assortment of Mexican saints. And just like that, a miracle happened. I was no longer afraid. The ramp lowered and bashed the water and I leaped in without hesitation. We were pretty near chest high and being fired at as, grunting, we waded forward. Funny part of it is how other things take over. I had a lot of work to do when we hit the beach—set up a radio and contact our command ship. Then my mind went to Sergeant Bleaker in back of me. He was the tallest guy in the company so we all gave him our cigarettes to keep dry inside his helmet. ...
So, them were the apples. I was going to jump out of an airplane and I couldn’t dream or wish it away. Thirteen years had passed since Tarawa, with a lot of fat living in between. I put my face in my hands and sighed away my trepidations.
Natasha stood over me, her hands on her hips and her legs apart provocatively. Natasha did not assume that stance accidentally.
“What are you thinking about?” she said.
“It’s been a real shit night,” I said.
“The first destination of your family was to be Athens. They cleared our airspace without any problems. Your wife is probably enjoying an ouzo ...”
So, finish your fucking sentence ... with some nice, handsome, young officer from the embassy. ...
Hungarian bitch!
“You love me now or you hate me now?” she persisted.
“Bitch!”
I lifted my head, the same instant her skirt fell to the ground and she stepped out of it. Her blouse and bra followed.
“Come on, Natasha, only a rat could make love at a time like this.”
“That’s right,” she answered, “we’re rats, both of us, so let’s do a little rat fucking.”
She hurled herself atop me, grabbed two handfuls of sand, and ran them up and down my back, hard.
“I make it raw. I want to see blood from you. I want it to hurt so bad that when you jump out of the airplane your shirt will stick to you from blood and you’ll be thinking of Natasha!”
Natasha did have a nice way of getting your mind off your troubles.
If you considered things from Natasha’s point of view, she’d been waiting for a long time to make tartare out of my back. For the better part of six months I’d been chastising her.
“For Christ sake, stop wearing perfume!”
“Look what you’ve done. I’ve got a bite mark on me.”
“Easy with the fingernails.”
Those times we soared, and they were often, restraint was not one of Natasha’s commendable qualities. From time to time she’d deliberately leave a calling card in the form of a high-visibility mark, a bite bruise, scratches, which obviously