Redemption - Leon Uris [164]
“Can you ride?” Rory asked.
“I jumped at Harrow and I’ve actually played a spot of polo for a club in Hong Kong.”
Impressive, Rory thought. The kid had spunk and there was a likable manner to him. Surely, if anyone in the world was lonelier than he, it had to be Chester.
When they pulled into Camp Hobson and Rory looked from the windows to see the goon squads of serjeants barking all at once, he thought Chester was never going to make it, and the confused look on Chester’s face confirmed it.
“All right, you stick with me,” Rory said.
“Thank you, I’m sure.”
“But don’t get on my nerves. You know what I mean. Don’t get on my nerves, Chester.”
Chester did get on his nerves. However, Rory was the only recruit at Camp Hobson who had his own batsman, shoe shiner, placeholder in the mess hall line, and roll call answerer so he could get an extra hour’s sleep.
Within the week, while the army was trying to untie all the bureaucratic knots they had tied themselves into, Rory began to see further virtue in Chester Goodwood. The relationship was more than the satisfaction of a son of an aristocrat serving a sheepman’s son. Chester had his own gall.
Although, according to Chester, three schools had dumped him, he apparently had picked up some education at each of them. The kid was a bloody wizard with figures and calculations. He must have inherited it from his daddy, the banker, Rory figured. On a practical basis, nobody could beat Chester Goodwood in any game of chance or skill. He was hands down the best in chess, checkers, dominos, cards, or whatever bored men pass their time with in the barracks.
On considering the rest of the lads in his unit, Rory decided Chester was a good one to hook up with and, as happens in times of war, an odd friendship was born.
Rory’s stomach was in delicate condition and his head not much better. The Camp Hobson pub featured some god-awful rum and underaged ale, a combination potent enough to remove the varnish from the deck of a ship. Chester Goodwood came running into the tent, elated.
“Rory! They just posted it! Our group has its trials in an hour!”
“Jesus! Jesus! This bloody army’s got some sense of humor. We’ve been lying around for a week and they pick this bloody minute.” Rory came off the cot slowly. “I’m dying, Chester.”
“I wish I could ride for you,” Chester said.
Rory grabbed him. “Maybe you can! No, it would never work. Oh Jesus.” He sat down then started to lie back.
“Get up!” Chester demanded. “We’ve been waiting for this!”
Rory turned his back on him. Chester dumped the cot. Rory crawled to his feet and looked for someone to punch.
“Now, you’re on your feet,” Chester said, “start walking and keep taking deep breaths.”
Daylight erupted in Rory’s face as he left the tent. “Gawd!…it’s ugly!”
“What’s ugly?”
“Life.”
“It won’t be so ugly once you relieve yourself. Now, we’re heading for the latrine. Get on your knees over the hole, place your finger down your throat, and eject.”
“Chester, get out of my life! And take your fucking hands off me. I can walk.”
“Easy does it, cobber, easy does it.”
Rory longed to fall to the ground where Georgia would be waiting with her sweet, gorgeous, warm bosom.…Chester held him upright and guided him toward the latrine.
Rory entered the assembly area of the barn with a plan formulated in his fuzzy mind. A hundred candidates were in line biting their fingernails. Good! Excellent! He elbowed Chester in up close to the front of the line so he could ride early. After Chester rode he could return and brief Rory on the layout of the course and possibly the best horse, if there was a choice. The line was moving fairly slowly…excellent…it would afford him another hour to recover.
Rory sat on a bench, his back to the wall, then slid to a sitting position.
He thought he had barely closed his eyes, when…
“You!” a voice boomed over his head.
Rory lifted his head off his chest. It was like a rock being pounded by an angry sea.
“You!” the ugly