With a strangled cry of rage, Hal pressed himself harder against her to drive out the tortured thought and, when there was still no stirring of desire, his rage turned slowly to a nagging alarm.
“Please.”
He pushed himself up on his arms to look into Susan’s face and discovered that she was no longer crying. She was rolling her head from side to side with her eyes tightly closed and her hips moving in an insistent rhythm. “Please,” she repeated. “Take me, take me. Please. Do it, do it to me.”
Then the hot rage burst through, and Hal struck her repeatedly across the face, first with one hand and then the other, and he heard his voice screaming, “Damn you! Luke gets everything. Even you! He got you too. You damn whore. You damn whore!” And then the tears that fell were his, and he was hitting her again just as he had that night in California, and Susan was whimpering softly.
“Damn you,” he repeated. “Damn you. I loved you? Why did you do it? And with Luke. Why?”
And Susan took his face in her soft hands and brought her red hair close to his face as she said softly, “I love you, Hal. I’ve always loved you. I never gave myself to Luke. Never. I’m only yours. I’ve waited for you.”
Hal pulled away and stared at her. Her words slowly registered, and he wished he could think more clearly. “You never . . . gave yourself to Luke?”
“Never. I’ve waited for now . . . for you.”
“But Luke said . . .”
“He lied to you.”
Hal closed his eyed tightly and tried to focus on that one delicious thought: Luke had lied to him. “Yes,” he breathed. “Luke would lie about that.”
“He did lie. And now I’m here. Only for you.” Hal was suddenly filled with fierce joy. He lied. He lied! Oh God. “I love you, Susan. I love you.”
Then she was in his arms, easing him back on the floor and, when she leaned over and kissed him softly, her long red hair framed their faces, shutting out the world. Her hands were gentle as they removed his clothes and stroked his body, and he tried to be equally gentle with her when he touched her breasts and went inside her. And during the long, joyous minutes, his mind was filled with thoughts of love, and he heard his voice repeating over and over, “I truly love you; I love you; I love you.”
Hal awoke to find Betty Axley standing looking down at him. She was wearing a dark blue robe, and her hair was brushed loosely to her shoulders in a long cascade. “How are you feeling?” she asked; her tone was slightly apprehensive.
“I’m fine,” he answered. And he was. He had the strangest feeling that something wonderful had happened . . . if only he could remember what it was.
Betty sat down on the bed beside him, and for the first time, he saw that her face was puffed and bruised. “Your face!” he cried. “What happened?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
She appeared to choose her words carefully. “Last night,” she said, “you made love to a girl named Susan.”
“Susan!”
“You came here looking for her, and when you found her . . . you proved that you were as much a man as your brother.”
Memory flooded back. “I made love last night . . . to you?” She nodded. “You let me think you were her.”
“Yes.”
“But how . . . ? You know what happened the last time we . . .”
“I know, but you did it this time.”
“But . . . there was something else. Susan told me . . .” He stopped. Now he knew why he had been so happy . . . but it wasn’t true! “You lied to me. It was you who lied, not Luke.”
She brushed her lips against Hal’s cheek. “That doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you and I made love.”
Hal swallowed against the sourness that filled his throat. So, nothing had changed. Susan had allowed Luke to make love to her. That meant she could not love him; had probably never really loved him. But wait. There was one change. He had made love to Betty. He remembered then, remembered feelings of joy, incredible feelings of warmth, and tenderness that neither Luke nor Susan could ever take from him.
He turned to look at Betty. “Why did you do it?”
She touched his lips with the tips of her fingers before she answered, “You needed me.”
“Was that . . . the only reason?”
“Then . . . yes. But now. . . . I’m not so sure.” When he said nothing, she added, “Are you still in love with her?”
Hal thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s funny. When respect is gone . . . love doesn’t last long. Last night . . . well, I guess I had to prove something. I’m sorry I hurt you.”
He started to get up, but she put her hands on his shoulders. “No,” she said. “It’s not finished.” She leaned down and kissed him, and again he was aware of her body. She stood up and slipped out of the robe. “Last night, you made love to someone named Susan,” she said. “This time, it will be me.”
Later, he watched her dress while he lay in bed, savoring the languid warmth and feeling of contentment. For the first time, he had a glimmering of understanding of Fox and O’Reilly. In this warmth of memory, there was no room for wars or death or the high cold sky. There was only room for a euphoria of wonder, wonder that this could be happening to him, wonder that this girl could love him enough to love him.
She fixed them breakfast of tea and toast and marmalade, and there was no mention of Susan or Luke. Hal knew he was now free of the sun-washed girl back home, and he thrilled in the knowledge. But Luke . . . Luke was a problem he had yet to face. Betty saw his expression and softly asked, “Are you going back? You don’t have to, you know.”
“Yes,” he answered, “I’m going back,” and the sureness of his voice surprised him. “I have to go.”
“You’re going to fly?”
He nodded. “I owe that much to Luke . . . and Schultz.”
Before he left, while he stood awkwardly in the doorway, he said, “You know I love you.”
“I know.”
“And I’ll be back.”
“Yes,” she said, “I know that too.”
CHAPTER 21
Sergeant Weems was guarding Luke’s office door, reading the same copy of God’s Little Acre, with his feet propped on the desk.
“Is the major in?” Hal demanded brusquely.
Weems scowled and looked up. “Look, Jack . . .” When he saw who it was, he stopped abruptly and lowered the book. “Where the hell have you been? The major’s chewin’ out everybody in the squadron.”
Hal stifled an impulse to knock the man’s feet off the desk. “Is he in?” he asked again.
“Yeah. He’s in all right.”
Hal opened the inner door without knocking and went in. Luke was writing a report with labored strokes of a stubby pencil. When he looked up and saw Hal, his relief was obvious.
“Where the hell have you been?” His voice was surprisingly quiet as though all emotion had long since been drained from him.
“I got drunk.”
“Drunk? Don’t give me that shit. You wouldn’t drink that much if somebody poured it down you.”
“It didn’t take much.”
“I’ll bet it didn’t.” Luke pushed to his feet and moved around the desk. “It’s a damn good thing you showed up. I was getting ready to slap a desertion charge on you.”
“Desertion? That wouldn’t look very good for you, would it?”
Luke’s face reddened, and he took another step toward Hal. “You son-of-a-bitch. You’ve already screwed me royally. If I could do it, I’d have you shot.” He paused, then said slowly, “I’ve been trying to figure what the hell you expect to get out of this.”
“Get out of it?”
“Nobody does something for nothing. They may th
ink they’re doing it for nothing, but that’s a bunch of shit. You’ve got to have some reason for this whole damn pot of crap.”
“Okay, so what is my reason?”
“Well, I don’t believe you’re gutless. And I don’t believe your friggin’ conscience is bothering you, either.”
“Then what is it?” Hal pressed, though he was beginning to be afraid of Luke’s answer. “What is my problem?”
“Me.” Luke tapped himself on the chest. “Me, you bastard. You finally figured a way to get even! You’ve been lookin’ for something like this ever since we were kids. And after I laid that stupid McInnis broad of yours, you wanted to kill me. Don’t tell me you didn’t, ‘cause I know better. You couldn’t come right out and try to kick the crap outta me. Oh, no. Not the big brain. You had to think, think, think! God, how I hated hearing about what a brain you were. ‘Look at your little brother. Straight A’s. Why’n hell can’t you be smart like that, you big stupid ox?’ Yeah, but the stupid ox went out and made something of himself, didn’t he?” He thrust his face close to Hal’s and snarled. “Well, didn’t he? Couldn’t stand that, could you? You bastard! The stupid ox had it made! You couldn’t let that happen, could you? Christ, no! So, you get yourself sent here so you could screw it up for me. End of old Luke’s career. End of everything. You don’t even give a damn if they shoot you for it, you’ve done your god-damned hatchet job.” Luke walked back to his desk and slumped in his chair. “You’ve done it good.”
Hal was stunned. Most of the things Luke had said were true. He had wanted to kill him after he had found out about Luke and Susan. And he had always been aware of his brother’s resentment toward him. But it wasn’t true that he had come here to destroy Luke.
“No,” he said. “You’re wrong. I didn’t plan anything like that. I didn’t ask to be sent here.”
“The hell you didn’t. I found out you requested the ETO instead of the Pacific.”
“Yes, but not because of you.”
“Why then? God-damn-it, why? We lose ten ships over here to everyone in the Pacific.”
“That’s just it. I wanted to go where I was needed.”
“Crap! Maybe you couldn’t chisel an assignment to my squadron, but you figured there was a chance if you got this far, some stupid file clerk might read your 20l and get you in the same outfit as your brother. And you lucked out again, didn’t you, you son-of-a-bitch?”
Hal shook his head. “That isn’t true, Luke. I swear as God is my witness, I never planned anything like that. I swear it.”
“Screw!” Luke looked up at Hal, his eyes gleaming with hatred. “What about Crys?”
“Crys?”
“You tried to screw her. She told me.”
Hal felt as though he might faint. “She told you?” he whispered.
“She said you tried, all right. She almost beat your brains out.” He laughed then, a harsh, unpleasant sound. “Boy, I’d like to have seen that.”
“Then . . . that’s all she told you?”
“What the crap else was there? And I know why you did it, you son-of-a-bitch. Screw Luke’s girl and you screw him. I know about that, even if I am stupid. Why the Christ do you think I screwed that stupid bitch of yours?”
Hal shook his head, rejecting the thought. It wasn’t like that. He had been in love with Crystal. That was the only reason he had tried to make love to her. Not because of hate or revenge. It was a lie, just like Luke’s other charges were lies. It had to be.
“Luke,” he said abruptly. “I’ll fly.”
Luke turned his head slowly to study him. “Fly?”
Hal nodded, wondering when he had begun to believe his decision. He had told Betty Axley he would fly. But he hadn’t been positive he could go through with it. Now, however, there were no doubts. “What you’ve said . . . well, it’s not true. I’m not trying to hurt you. But there’s only one way to prove it. I’ve got to fly.”
Luke’s voice was thick with joy. “I’m supposed to see the colonel about you today. I’ve been putting it off. I’ll tell him you’ll fly group lead with me.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.” Luke’s eyes registered suspicion as though he expected another excuse.
“All right.”
They were silent then, staring at each other. For the first time, Hal realized that Luke had been as much afraid of him, as jealous of him, as he had been of his brother. But there was no point in trying to explain this to Luke; it would mean nothing to him.
“All right,” Hal repeated, and he went out the door. “Tomorrow.”
Outside, the light was almost gone, and the rain was drifting down in a soft mist. He paused outside the barracks. Could he face O’Reilly, Cossel, and the other men? They would not know of his decision. He felt an impulse to turn and walk away across the meadow into the shadow world of the English mist, allowing it to swallow and protect him.
But he had made his decision, and it gave him the strength to push open the barracks door and walk in.
Now it was familiar; the muted sounds of men’s voices, the sudden laughter, and the warmth of the two big stoves. He walked down the aisle between the bunks, past men reading by the light of naked overhead bulbs, past men playing cards and chess, past the cruel, empty bunks. No one paused in their actions; no one spoke.
Cossel was sitting on the edge of his bunk, working on his poem. Hal recognized the old, much-folded piece of paper. The other bunks of O’Reilly’s crew were empty.
Cossel looked up when Hal took off his trench coat. He studied Hal impassively as though debating whether to acknowledge his presence. Finally, he made up his mind. “Still raining?” he asked flatly.
Hal nodded, relieved. He could not have spoken to Cossel first. They both knew that. “Supposed to clear tonight, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Cossel said. Despite his impersonal tone, Hal knew that Cossel was thinking about the last time they had spoken.
“How’s the poem coming?” Hal asked.
“Okay. I’ve got the last couple of verses.”
“Yeah? I’d like to hear them.”
Cossel stared at the words he had written as though they could tell him whether they were ready for reading. Then he cleared his throat and read:
“A cloud I see, a nebulous moon, and below, the resting road, but the brooding sweep of the peaceful sleep is thrust by the shade of my thundering goad; by the onrushing shadow of doom.”
“The years have flown like the plane I ride. I’ve a son to share my dream: that the land I see will age peacefully, and he too can know this scene, but not, oh God, from the bomber’s pod of a ship of death . . . like mine.”
His voice drifted into silence, and he sat, staring at the paper. Hal nodded slowly and said, “I like that. What are you going to do with it?”
“Nothing, I guess.”
“Then why did you write it?”
Cossel shrugged. “Well, because . . . I had some thoughts I wanted to put down . . . what I was thinking, I mean. This says it best for me.” He shook his head. “In a way, I guess I’m as confused as you are about this war.”
“I thought your views were pretty definite.”
“They were. But they change. Back home, in the old environment, it isn’t hard to hang on to your convictions. But you surround a person with blood and death, some of it his own blood, and you’re going to see a lot of concepts get a good hard second look.”
Hal hesitated. “You think that’s what happened to me?”
“Didn’t it?”
“Not really. I think I’ve always felt the same about war, about killing. I thought I’d convinced myself that I’d changed. That the need to stop Hitler would overcome any doubts. But it didn’t work. I hate it as much as I ever did.”
Cossel folded the paper carefully a
nd put it in the breast pocket of his leather jacket. “Fox and O’Reilly went up to the Club. I was going to join them for a drink. Want to come?”
Hal smiled and rubbed the bruises on his face. “With Fox?”
“He’s still got a lump on his head,” Cossel said. He took his hat off the post of the bunk and put it on. “At least he won’t spit in your eye.”
Hal grinned and reached for his trench coat. It was then he saw O’Reilly coming down the aisle toward them, water dripping off his coat and hat.
“If I had your luck, Bailey,” he said cheerfully, “I’d start my own war.”
The men in the nearby bunks had paid no attention to Hal, but now that O’Reilly was here, they gathered to watch the fun.
“Yes, indeed,” O’Reilly continued as he slipped off his wet clothes. “If you could get it to rain like this every day, nobody’d know you were gutless.”
Incredibly, the words failed to hurt. Whatever it was—the night with Betty, the decision to fly, the talk with Luke, and then Cossel—he seemed immune to the sting of O’Reilly’s words.
“You know, O’Reilly, I used to envy you and Fox; you never had to go through what I did. The war came easy for you.”
“Easy is relative. From where I stand, you’re the one who’s got it made.”
“I have? Would you like to change places with me?”
“I should live so long.”
“Why not? Do you believe in the war that much? Or is it that it takes more guts not to be part of the crowd?”
Hal had never seen O’Reilly lose his composure, but he sensed he was dangerously close to it now. The Irishman started to step forward, but he caught himself and grinned. “Ah, but you’ve got a wicked tongue, laddie. You almost made it look like we’re wrong and you’re right.”
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