Sitting on the mattresses, they looked at each other awkwardly. For a moment Anne regretted her easy acquiescence. She wondered what Yale was thinking. Was she just what it appeared? An easy make? A loose goose? She grinned, and then started to laugh. Yale asked her what was funny.
"I am," she gasped. "I don't know where I heard the expression, but it's me all right. A loose goose. I'm asking for it, aren't I? I'm cheap. On the make." Anne's laughter had turned to sobs. She didn't put her face down and cry. She just cried, sitting up, her shoulders square, looking at Yale. Her face revealed such misery and loneliness that Yale wanted to reach out and pull her into his arms. He held her shoulders and kissed her gently on her tear-wet lips.
"Anne, if I thought you were cheap -- or on the make -- I wouldn't have asked you. I'm not Major Trafford. I haven't been with many women. For all I know you may have known a lot of men intimately, but I don't think so."
Anne shook her head, still crying. "I guess that's why I'm scared, Yale. The only man I have ever been with was Ricky."
He took her in his arms. She lay close to him, and he kissed her tear-stained cheeks. For an hour or longer he held her, touching her face occasionally with his fingers. Outside they listened to the passing of footsteps, and the low male talk and laughter of soldiers on their way to the officers' club. They were near enough to hear the throbbing beat of the music. The candle sputtered and flickered as it burned to the end.
"Before it goes out," Anne said softly in his ear, "I'll dance just for you." Yale watched her get up and slip out of her skirt and underclothing. She moved easily with the rhythmic beat of the music. "I love music," she whispered. "It's an aphrodisiac."
Yale watched the shadows undulating on her breasts and belly. The light brown pubic hairs at the juncture of her thighs swayed, enticingly near him.
"Anne, come here!" Yale shed his clothes and embraced her, still moving and sinuous in his grasp. "I don't need an aphrodisiac." With the curve of her buttocks in his hand, her breasts against his chest, he gently touched her vulva. She sank to her knees . . . her lips parted. She sighed, "Oh, Yale . . . Yale . . . come inside me quickly . . . hold me close."
Midnight came. Still embracing . . . Anne was lying on top because his thigh hurt from the knife wound . . . they held onto the sacredness of their communion as they listened to the roar of welcome to 1945 from the officers' club.
He looked up into her face. She smiled, and leaned over and kissed his shoulder where she had bitten him. "Happy New Year, Yale Marratt." He heard her chuckle, and then say softly, "Ah, love, let us be true to one another! For the world which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new. . . ."
He pinched her buttocks, delighted. "You devil, you knew it all the time." He laughed. "Let me finish it. 'Hath really a joy, a love, a light, a certitude, and help for pain. And Anne and I are here, as on a darkling plain, avoiding the confused alarms of struggle and flight, while revelling in a warmest delight.'" Yale looked at her affectionately. "A few hours ago I would have said it the way it was written. . . ."
6
Anne walked slowly along the worn path that skirted the edge of the Axonby's tea plantation. It was a day like more than a hundred others she had known in India. Days of heat, and titanium white skies that suddenly turned red around four in the afternoon when cool winds blew off the shadowy peaks of the Himalayas.
A little over three months, she thought. Already, she moved in another world . . . absorbed in the strange timelessness and placidity of this land and its people. In the dry smell from the tea bushes that she plucked as she passed; in the brash hint of animal urine, perhaps from the tiger that had been lurking near Chatterji's village -- the tiger that she and Yale had tried to shoot, with carbines, only a week ago, as they perched giggling in a tree, while a staked-out goat bleated helplessly -- in the ever present smell of burning dung that dominated the cool early evening air. She sensed, almost dizzily, the strong sexual earthiness of the land and the people.
Walking toward the Indian village, leaving the Air Transport Command base at Talibazar, was like shedding the vestiges of western civilization that the Army had brought with it, and putting on the clothes of an older timeless world that seemed somehow closer to the roots of existence.
In a few minutes she would be in their house . . . Yale and hers . . . a tiny bamboo basha covered with dried grass to keep out the rain. Chatterji and his relatives had built this for them. A house in the forest, she told Yale. The first night Yale had made love to her in their basha she felt as ephemeral and evanescent as Rima, the jungle girl, and she knew that in her first quarter century of life, nothing . . . not even her marriage, and the loss of her husband . . . had touched and changed the well springs of her being so thoroughly as had these three months with Yale.
Helen Axonby had cautioned her against "going native."
"We all have to watch it here in India, my dear. When you come to know them there is something irresistibly attractive about these people. The British have been trying to change India for years. In the end, you'll see, India will change them and the West too."
But Anne had not listened and for a few days stolen out of every week she had gone native with Yale. Wonderful, crazy days when she sneaked out to Chatterji's village, walking the narrow road across the rice paddies, to find Yale eagerly waiting for her. But it had been Helen Axonby's admonition that worried her as much as Colonel Trafford's blunt appraisal.
She remembered the flight from Abadan, and Trafford's speculative manner as he surveyed her and. Yale. She remembered his remark, "So you shacked up together, huh? Well, I don't blame you, baby . . . but don't keep it all to yourself. Spread it around. You won't wear it out."
He had guffawed at Yale's "Shut your rotten mouth," and had been silent for the rest of the flight.
Anne had been silent, too, knowing that she was "marked" by Trafford, who would spread the rumor about her availability. Echoes of the popular notion that Red Cross girls were provided for soldier comfort; rumors she had heard about girls who had actually gone into business in certain theaters of war selling a few minutes of "next-in-line" ecstasy for twenty dollars or more for a thrust or two, swarmed through her mind. She had wondered what Yale thought about her, and had been sad because the next day he had said little. She remembered him tenderly tracing the curve of her face and saying, "Thank you, Anne, for a warm wonderful New Year's Eve." But she had been frightened. It was a nice thing to say, but somehow it wasn't enough.
In Karachi, at the officers' club, eating bowls of shrimp and tremendous steaks served by Hindus who watched them resignedly as they ate the "uneatable," Yale told her about Cynthia.
"You and I seem to reach out to each other the same way, Anne," he had said. "I don't know what it was about Cynthia. Perhaps because we studied together for four years I absorbed a little of her into my being. It's crazy, really. It's more understandable for you since you were actually married, but I never thought I could experience the same relationship with another woman." He touched the ends of her fingers. "Maybe because until I met you I never wanted to experience it with anyone else."
For two days they wandered the streets of Karachi, reporting back to the base every night for their orders. They were unable to dispel the feeling that this wisp of love they had found would soon be blown away. Living from minute to minute, delighted in their discovery of each other, and fearing the inevitable separation that their orders would bring; choked with a feeling of loneliness that almost corroded their relationship.
Yale hired a gharri to drive them around Karachi. Silently they listened to the clip-clop of the horse's shoes. Without speaking, they watched the curved back of the Indian driver who occasionally turned to describe a historical site. They nodded bemused acknowledgment of his attempt to enlighten them.
"Yale," she had asked, "where is the world going? Does this war mean anything? We all take it so uncomplainingly . . . like the Indians, here, who follow
their Karma endlessly from one reincarnation to another. I can remember back in college when we used to get angry. There were America First meetings. We talked endlessly about what a sucker the United States had been, and how we had fought a war to make the world safe for the armament makers. . . ."
Yale remembered. He told her he didn't believe it would ever happen again. There would be no Sassoons or Hemingways caviling against war. "I think too many people on both sides like strife; they like the herding together that occurs in a war. You know the saying, 'They've found a home in the army.' The gregarious ones . . . the pack which runs together . . . which is most people . . . they fear loneliness more than anything in this world. They are afraid to look into themselves and find the great nothingness that is there. When the war is over the people of the world will have been conditioned to accept the leader to obey the organization . . . to identify themselves with the morality of numbers. Why? Because human beings fear loneliness worse than death." Yale had sighed, and there were tears in his eyes when he took her in his arms. "God, Anne, I don't know as I blame them. I am lonely for you. I fear losing you. If it is because I only want basically to hide my face in your breasts, it won't be a good love, will it?"
Morosely, they analyzed and re-analyzed their desire for each other. They made a case study of their needs. They stripped the warmth of their first embrace of its wonder. They tried to pin it down with words until it was almost a crass and ugly thing. And then Yale had said suddenly, "Anne, Anne, this is stupid! Why are we afraid? Because we may be separated? It's as simple as that. But I care for you deeply, and you care for me. Let's not analyze it anymore. Let's just be glad we met." He looked at her tenderly. "At least I am glad. How do you manage to look at me with such love in your eyes?" He grinned and kissed her. . . . "And you are a pretty good belly dancer, too."
When their orders came through, they were amazed to find that they both were assigned to the Assam Valley; to a new pipe line base that was just being established. Talibazar. Anne was assigned to the enlisted men's club with three other Red Cross girls. Yale's orders directed him to establish a finance office with a complement of enlisted personnel who in civilian life had been bank clerks and accountants.
Anne remembered Joe Trafford's sardonic grin when they boarded the plane. "Well, ain't this just cozy," he had said, grimly. "You're all going to be under my jurisdiction. Talibazar is mine! Read it and weep!" He dropped his mimeographed orders in Yale's lap.
In essence Major Trafford had been promoted. He was now Lieutenant-Colonel Trafford in full charge and authority of the new base at APO 1468. Talibazar . . . in the Assam Valley.
On the long flight from Karachi to Talibazar Trafford remarked ominously to Yale and Anne, "What I know is my business, Mrs. Wilson. We're with a new group now. These other girls will know nothing about you and Marratt from me. But understand this. When this plane sets down at Talibazar, you, Marratt, are running a finance office, and you, Mrs. Wilson, are running an enlisted men's club." He looked at Anne sourly. "And never the twain shall meet. Just keep it in mind. I won't encourage a private romance on a base where there will be a few thousand men, and only a handful of Red Cross girls and a few nurses. Like I told you, Mrs. Wilson," he finished balefully, "spread it around; and everyone will be happy."
A few days after they arrived at Talibazar, Trafford drove up in front of the huge Red Cross basha in his jeep. He found Anne perspiring as she worked with the other girls moving in equipment supplied by the recreation officers. Trafford was genial. "You girls won't have to bunk here any longer. I've found you a home."
Merrily, they piled into his jeep. Martha Burton, Chris Powers, Jane Belcher, and Anne. She listened warily as Colonel Trafford drove them off the base, past the town of Talibazar, deep into the country. As he drove he extolled the merits of the Axonbys. "They are English, you know. Been out here for years. Most of Talibazar was a huge tea plantation before the Americans took over. Half a dozen English families live here and run it for some big outfit in England. You girls are lucky. They have an empty house right on their property. They've turned it over to you four plus a few of our nurses."
"How will we get back and forth?" Chris Powers had asked. "It seems pretty far out."
"You'll be picked up and delivered by a sergeant from the motor pool," Trafford said. He turned to stare at Anne. "The Army believes in taking care of you girls. You can all appreciate that we can't watch two thousand men every minute. Some of them have been out here for nearly thirty months." He turned off the dirt road and pulled up in front of an English bungalow. "You know men. You can take it from there."
Helen Axonby greeted them. 'This is so much fun," she told them. Her lean, English face was bright with her enthusiasm. "We've been out here all by ourselves for so many years. Now the U.S. Army has moved in and brought civilization with it."
Trafford followed them into the house, listening while Helen Axonby apologized for the smallness of the rooms. She told them that they could decide which girls would share a room together. There were four small bedrooms, a primitive kitchen, and a sitting room. No bathroom.
"There's no plumbing." Helen Axonby sighed. "But then there isn't any on your dusty old base either, and we do have plenty of servants." She waved at the shiny faces of three Hindu girls who had followed them in, carrying jugs of water. Wrapped in saris, they looked shyly at the American girls. For no accountable reason they burst into laughter.
Anne took a room with Chris Powers. "This is for the birds," Chris said, shaking her long corn color hair in dismay. Anne liked her easy Texas accent. "I didn't join the Red Cross to get plopped out in the sticks of India, old top. This ferret face Colonel Trafford can shove this place, you know where."
"I don't think you'll get anywhere with him," Anne said, knowing that her interest in Yale had played some part in Trafford's decision to get the girls off the base. "He's pretty tough."
Chris tried her charm on Trafford and met with quick rebuff. "You're here to do a job, Miss Powers. If you're not happy, I'll contact the local field director. You can leave. I'm just stopping trouble before it occurs. I'm not particularly in favor of these clubs anyway. You girls flipping your butts around the base can be more of a challenge than some men can endure. At least, I'll sleep better at night knowing you're five miles away."
"Won't we even see you, Colonel?" Jane Belcher asked, teasing him.
Trafford smirked at her. "The code for officers who are presumed to be gentlemen is somewhat different. I'm sure you won't be lonely. You are right next door to the local tea planters' club. Any Army officer in good standing with me is automatically a member."
In the following two weeks Anne saw Yale twice. Once to wave at, as he passed her with several other officers, and the second time for a few minutes on a Sunday at the bar of the tea planters' club. Anne had decided that he was purposely avoiding her. She reacted coolly to him when he passed her a warm gin and orange crush.
"Tasty English drink," he said, sipping his gingerly. "They like warm drinks. Ugh. Tastes like a lollipop." He looked around. A group of officers were sitting on the porch. "Trafford's not here yet. Thank God. But that snotty looking character on the porch with the Captain's bars is his adjutant."
"So you're afraid of Trafford," Anne said bitterly. "That's why the brush-off."
Yale took her arm in a fierce grip. "Don't be stupid! First, I've been to Calcutta for two days and then to Dacca getting funds and instructions on activating this finance office. Next Saturday is the end of the month. Pay day. Remember. i've also been dabbling in rupees. Remember my francs. They are now a hundred and forty thousand rupees. Not as much as I expected, but -- in dollars -- about twenty-two thousand more than I had in Miami. We've got enough to set up light housekeeping."
"Which leg did you get hacked off this time?" Anne asked sarcastically.
Yale looked at her, a hurt expression on his face. "That's unkind."
"I'm just beginning to realize how important money is to
you." Anne sipped her drink. She looked at him and felt that odd tugging at her heart. What was there about Yale that charmed her so much, she wondered. "I can see you when you are fifty years old piling furs and diamonds on a plump wife while you patiently explain how lucky she was to have married you."
"I'd like to paddle your plump little fanny," Yale said, half in anger. "Didn't you hear what I said about light housekeeping? I've bought us a house. . . ."
"I see you two have met. . . ."
Yale and Anne looked around startled to find Trafford walking toward them. Trafford ignored Anne. "Are you all set up for pay day, Marratt?" he asked. "Colonel Beaver may be up from headquarters to see how it goes. I was talking with him yesterday."
"I'm sure he'll be pleased, Colonel Trafford," Yale said coldly.
Trafford turned to Anne. "I just drove Howard Tuttle out. He's on the porch. I suggest you meet him."
Yale quickly touched Anne's hand. She could feel a piece of paper being pressed into her palm. "It was nice seeing you again, Anne." He watched through the open screened windows as Trafford introduced Anne to Tuttle.
Later Anne had read the note with tears in her eyes. "If you are reading this note," she read, "it's because I haven't been able to escape the eagle eyes of our friend Trafford. I know you are probably angry with me, but for reasons only Trafford would understand, I believe he would like nothing better than to have me transferred off the base. He can't do this unless he could prove to Headquarters in Calcutta that I was a bad boy. Problem. How to be with you and keep it a secret when five or six thousand male eyes know everything you do? You might sigh and say it was impossible, but then maybe you're not so much in love as I. If you love me do what I say. The very next day you are free, go to the base officers' club. It's a bamboo building across the swamp from the enlisted men's club. Behind the bar is an Indian Walla, called Vaswani. When no one can hear you, say to him, 'Take me to Chatterji.' He'll know what to do . . . I love you."
The Rebellion of Yale Marratt Page 33
