Tales of the South Pacific Part 16

"No," the plantation owner replied in a sniffling drawl. "She a Tonkinese girl. I want to marry her since a long time. She jus' come back from Bali-ha'i." Benny stopped slapping atabrine pills into yellow mouths and looked at Cable. The Marine's face was impa.s.sive. Benoit drooled on: "Be nice if you come to the weddin', Benny. Many American friends will be there. In the church. She is a Catholic, too, fortunately."

Benny shrugged his shoulders and watched Cable indirectly as the blacks lined up for their atabrine. The Marine was studying the Frenchman. Benoit looked like a beachcomber. Once he had been a powerful person. Now he was fat and ugly. His face was marked with tropical diseases. He looked like a man of the islands, tough, sloppy, determined. Cable s.h.i.+vered from the icy fingers of his thoughts. "Let's be going," he whispered to Benny.

"And now!" Benoit cried. "We have one little drink? For the marriage, one little celebration?"

Before Cable could stop him he hurried into his hut, a rude affair. A young native woman snarled at him. He pushed her aside and returned with a bottle and three gla.s.ses. "Some fine whiskey." he said. "An American give it to me for the wedding," he explained. He poured three gracious drinks. "To the bride!" he proposed. He winked at Cable, drawing up his pock-marked cheeks. He said, "Only a Tonk! Ah, but such a Tonk!" He made an hourgla.s.s of his hands the way Americans had shown him. Then, feeling expansive with white men as his guests, he swept his languid arm about the plantation. "It will be good to have one wife. I get rid of these natives. All of them. We get some Tonks who can really work. Build this all up!" He put his finger to his bulbous nose. "I got some money. It's wery good to be married!"

On the way down the hill Benny was perplexed as to what he should say. He finally observed, as a feeler, "I'd say that guy was no catch, not even for a Tonk." Cable's shoulders tightened a bit. Benny said no more. The American whiskey, which was good, burned in Cable's throat.

As soon as Benny delivered him to the Marine camp Cable made plans to see Liat somewhere, somehow, that same afternoon. But when he returned to quarters he found that a briefing meeting would be held at 1400. For three stifling hours one dull explanation after another was given. "The unit will move in thus and thus many s.h.i.+ps. You will debark at Bonita Bay for one last maneuver. You have got to maintain communications. Any unit, failing to maintain communications will be severely disciplined. Fooling has ended. It will be your responsibility to see that each s.h.i.+p is packed for combat. Stow all gear according to battle plan, rigidly." And so on, and so on.

Cable ate no supper. He felt that he had to avoid his fellow officers. As soon as it was dark he drove his jeep to the edge of the Tonk village. If Liat were there he would find her. He stumbled among the little houses and was lost. Like an ever willing guide b.l.o.o.d.y Mary's voice came to him through the darkness. "You lost, lieutenant," she called softly. "Here!"

Cable turned. There was the old Tonk waiting, confident that her Marine would come that night. She sat cross-legged on the floor of her small porch. "Allo, lieutenant!" she said. She was chewing betel nuts again.

"What you want, lieutenant?" she asked in French. Then she cackled and pulled herself up. "You come! You come!" she said in English. She motioned for the Marine to enter the small room. As he did so, she disappeared.

"Liat!" he cried.

In unbelievable pleasure the little Tonkinese girl turned from where she sat on an Army cot, and saw that it was truly Cable. Deftly, with the motions of a great dancer, she rose and hurried to his arms. "Zhoe! Zhoe!" she cried.

"What's the matter, Liat?" he asked. The little girl wept for a moment, saying nothing. Then she started to kiss the Marine, but changed her mind and pushed him away.

"You are too late," she said in exquisite French.

"No!" Cable said in a flood of pa.s.sion for this lovely girl. "I tried to see you yesterday. On Bali-ha'i." Liat's eyes brightened. Impulsively she kissed him three, four times. But as his hands sought her b.r.e.a.s.t.s she drew back, frightened.

"No, Zhoe! Please, no! You mus' not! Somebody is coming."

Surprised, Cable left his hand upon her thin stomach. He could feel the tenseness of her body. What had happened? "Who is coming?" he demanded.

There was a long silence. Liat kissed him on the cheek. She started to speak but hesitated. Then she said, "I am going to be married."

"I know," Cable said softly. "They told me. I'm happy for you, Liat." She shuddered. "In a way I am, that is. I hope it will be good for you. The one who's coming? Is it M. Benoit?"

Liat sucked in her breath. "Oh, Zhoe! You know that man?"

"Yes," the Marine said. They looked at one another across the shadow of Benoit, the planter, the gross, ugly man living with his mistresses in the bush. Benoit, so different in spirit and appearance from Lt. Joe Cable. Thin tears trickled from Liat's almond eyes. An old jungle fragrance from Bali-ha'i was in her hair. Cable whispered that most terrible of blackmails: "Tomorrow we are going. I hoped we might... again... for this last time..."

"Oh, Zhoe!" the little girl cried in fright. Outside she could hear b.l.o.o.d.y Mary striking a match to light a cigarette. She turned her face away as the impa.s.sioned Marine pulled the white smock over her head. "Zhoe?" she whispered. "Tomorrow? You going to fight?" Cable pulled her to the clean floor and tugged at the ankles of the sateen pants. "Zhoe?" she whispered, close to his ear. "You fighting? You won't die?" She heard Cable's wild breathing as he spread his s.h.i.+rt beneath her. "Zhoe!" she wailed in her exquisite misery. "You're never coming back. Zhoe? Zhoe? How can I live?" Outside b.l.o.o.d.y Mary sc.r.a.ped another match across the sole of her sandals.

Cable's goodbyes were brief. "I brought you this watch," he said. "It's a man's watch, but it keeps good time."

Liat pressed her left hand to her lips. "Zhoe!" she cried. "But I have no present for you!"

Cable's exhausted heart allowed him to say nothing. His farewells might have been more tender had not b.l.o.o.d.y Mary made a warning sound from the porch. In response, Cable hurried to the door, but Mary blocked the way.

"He's coming!" she warned. Outside a car wormed its way through the coconut trees. Liat pressed her smock out straight. Mary looked at Cable. "This you last chance, lieutenant," she said in soft persuasion. "You like Liat, no? This you last chance. I save her for you till you come back. Benoit? Phhhh! You want her, lieutenant?"

Cable could hear the car coming. He could visualize the driver, gross, ugly Benoit. He was ashamed and distraught. "I can't, Mary. I can't," he cried.

"Get out!" the bitter Tonk shouted. Cable stepped toward the door. "Other way, G.o.ddam fool lieutenant!" she hissed like an old rattlesnake. "So-and-so G.o.ddam fool!" The words bit out in horrible accent. The Tonk stood in the doorway with her arms folded. Her black lips were drawn back over still blacker teeth. As she grimaced at Cable betel juice showed in the ravines of her mouth. "You go! You go!" she cried hoa.r.s.ely. "You one G.o.ddam fool, lieutenant. Liat one fine girl for you."

Stunned by the cruelty of b.l.o.o.d.y Mary's revilings, bewildered by all that had transpired, Cable climbed out the window. His last sight of that room was of Liat, her hands over her face, her body pressed against the wall as he had first seen her, crying. Behind her stood b.l.o.o.d.y Mary, black, black.

He jumped behind a tree. An old French car chugged right up to b.l.o.o.d.y Mary's porch. Its lights died in the tropical blackness. From it stepped Benoit, come to court his betrothed. He was dressed in white cotton trousers and a black alpaca coat. He wore a white hat. In his left hand he carried a bunch of flowers. Brus.h.i.+ng himself off and checking to see that his fly was b.u.t.toned, Benoit stepped up to the porch. b.l.o.o.d.y Mary was waiting for him.

"Bon soir, mon ami!" she cried in cackling French.

"Est-ce que Liat est chez elle?" he asked.

"Entrez, entrez, Monsieur Benoit!" The fat planter pulled his tight alpaca coat into position. Liat met him at the door. She turned her face away. He kissed her on the cheek and handed her the flowers. Cable, watching, leaned against a coconut tree for a long time. Finally b.l.o.o.d.y Mary appeared on the porch. She took a cigarette from her sateen pants and some matches from her blouse. She struck a match. The light glowed briefly in the jungle dark and showed her weather-beaten face.

In the morning Lt. Joe Cable, fully determined to be the best Marine officer in the coming strike, was up early. He checked his men to see that they were ready for the s.h.i.+p that would take them north. He repacked his battle gear twice to make it ready for a landing. At 0900 he took charge of general muster. When he was finished, the colonel and his staff took over for final instructions. Cable saluted the colonel. "All present, sir!" he reported. He clenched his fist. "It's good to be back in the swing," he said to himself.

Cable and his men climbed into one of the trucks heading for the loading dock. There was a mighty thrill in that moment when the old camp died and its men set out for some distant island where a new camp would be won from the j.a.ps and the jungle. The Marines smiled at one another. Cable sat erect among his men.

But when the trucks reached the Tonk village they became involved in a minor traffic jam. During the interval of waiting old b.l.o.o.d.y Mary came down the road with a bundle of gra.s.s skirts. From the first truck one of the Marines started teasing her.

"Fo' Dolla', Fo' Dolla'!" he shouted. The black-toothed woman ignored him. The man was disappointed. b.l.o.o.d.y Mary stared into one truck after another. She was looking for someone. "Fo' Dolla'!" the men cried. "You lose something?" Mary waddled to the next truck. Her eyes brightened. There sat her friend, Lt. Cable.

" 'Allo, lieutenant!" she cried. Cable did not look at her. She addressed the men in his truck. "G.o.ddam fool lieutenant alla time come see my Liat. Bring her things. Lieutenant one bulls.h.i.+t G.o.ddam fool!" She raised her right arm and threw a small object forcefully to the ground. Liat's watch, bought for more than a hundred dollars, crashed into the dust. It flew apart. A wheel rolled crazily down the road, hit a truck tire, and stopped.

"That was a watch!" a Marine gasped. "A good watch!" The men looked at their lieutenant.

"G.o.ddam fool Lieutenant Joe!" the old Tonk screamed. "Come alla time my girl Liat. Make..." b.l.o.o.d.y Mary raised her hands high in the air to form the indecent gesture. A dried head which she was carrying by the hair banged against her elbow.

From another truck an enlisted man shouted, "How much for that head, Mary?" The Tonk turned slowly and walked along the dusty road to her questioner.

"You like?" she asked, waving the head before the man.

"Yeah. How much?"

"Fifty dolla'," the Tonk shouted.

"'At's too much, Mary!" the Marine cried. "Give you thirty." b.l.o.o.d.y Mary spat and leered at the man. "So-and-so you, major!" she cried.

Pa.s.sION.

DR. PAUL BENOWAY of LARU-8 finally recovered from the exposure he suffered during the days and nights he spent on the raft. When he returned to his quarters he tried to write a long letter to his wife. He wanted to tell her about the hours of waiting on the raft, the half-muttered prayers, the mingled thrill and despair of seeing the blood-red sun rise anew each morning.

"On the fourth day, when I saw the sun again," he wrote, "I felt like an Aztec's human sacrifice who waits at the end of the fiftieth year to see whether or not the sun will rise. Like him, I knew that when the sun rises again the world is saved and there is still hope. But like the Aztec I also knew that with the rising of the flaming beacon my individual torture would begin."

Benoway stopped and looked at the words. They sounded phoney. They were not his words. He had never spoken like that to his wife in all of his married life, not even during courts.h.i.+p days. He tore up the offending paragraph.

"Certain men," he mused, "are not able to speak or write that way." And a persistent fear gained utterance, one that had haunted him for several years. "Am I lacking in pa.s.sion? Is my love on a lower level that that of..." The words would not come. In embarra.s.sment he fumbled, even in his own mind. Then, half blus.h.i.+ng, he finished the sentence. "... lower level than that of the great lovers?"

Reluctantly, Dr. Benoway concluded that he had never known the great pa.s.sion that seemed to pulsate through the literature and drama of modern America. He had met Nancy, his wife, twelve years before. She was beautiful and engaged to marry his older brother, Robert. But Paul, who had merely finished internes.h.i.+p, courted his brother's girl and married her. Sometimes at night Paul writhed because Robert had seemed so hurt and yet had done nothing to prevent the theft.

It would certainly seem that a man who had stolen his brother's girl, and before he had a practice, too, must have known something of pa.s.sion. But that was not the case. Nancy was simply a lovely and desirable girl who had retained those attributes into womanhood. But the breathless, flaming love that was supposed to precede and follow events like abducting your brother's fiancee was no part of Paul Benoway.

He was reluctant to admit that there was any deficiency in either himself or his wife. He was not given to introspection, but the fears that arose now, when he was trying vainly to write out a pa.s.sionate avowal of his love, well, those fears made even Paul Benoway consider his s.e.x life. Coldly, he concluded that he was normal. That was all. He halfway apologized to himself for having brought the subject up.

"I don't know what it is," he said to himself. He was in his Dallas hut looking out over the Pacific. It was early evening. He turned out his light. No use trying to work any more tonight. He'd finish the letter tomorrow. Anyway, it was almost done and, if necessary, could be mailed just as it was. He had at least explained that he was safe and with no lasting injuries.

"Nancy is a lovely girl," he mused in the darkness. The waves beat upon the coral in endless symphony. "She's as fine a wife as a man could have. She's beautiful. She loves her children. She's an adornment. And she's not too slow-witted, either! No brainstorm, of course..." He banged himself on the knee. "d.a.m.n it all," he muttered. "What right have I to a.n.a.lyze my own wife? If this wretched war..."

That was it! If this wretched, rotten war had not intervened, millions of people like Paul Benoway could have masked or m.u.f.fled their uncertainties. They could have postponed admitting to themselves that their loves were bankrupt.

"But my love is not bankrupt!" Paul cried aloud to himself. "It's... that..." He rose from his chair. "How did I ever get into this mood in the first place? What the h.e.l.l has pa.s.sion to do with life on this rock?"

His revery was interrupted by a knock at the door of his hut. "May I come in?" a cheery voice inquired.

Paul peered into the darkness toward the insomniac ocean. "Oh! Come in!" he called. It was Lt. Harbison.

"Thanks, Paul. Lovely night out, isn't it?"

"Yes, a true tropical night. Those palms against the moon make it look like a calendar, don't they?" Harbison was wearing a pilot's flight jacket, a pilot's baseball cap, and an expensive pair of moccasins. He was still very brown from exposure on the life raft.

"I was hoping you hadn't gone to the movies," he said. "Have a request to make of you."

"What can I do for you, Bill?" the doctor asked. He liked to help Harbison out. Everybody liked to work with Harbison.

"Well, Paul, it's this way," the lithe young man said, draping himself into a chair, tapping against the wall with his well oiled moccasin. "I have been approached by the chief censor with a d.a.m.ned tough problem." He tossed a letter on Benoway's table. It had not yet been sealed, nor had it been stamped with the censor's stamp. It was a thick envelope.

"What have I to do with it?" Dr. Benoway asked.

"It's not ordinary censors.h.i.+p, Paul," Harbison replied, somewhat ill at ease. "It's a much tougher problem than that. And," he said in the low confiding voice that made even enlisted men want to work for him twice as hard, "you're about the only fellow who can help us. The only officer."

"That's flattering, I'm sure, Bill. State the case," and the doctor a.s.sumed a clinical att.i.tude which he would never lose as long as he lived. He was the consulting physician again.

"There's no case to state, Paul," his visitor said. "It's all right there," and Harbison pointed to the letter. "Want me to read it?"

"Yes, I do. But I'd rather you'd read it when I'm gone. If you don't mind?" And Bill rose to his feet, coughed in a little embarra.s.sment, and smiled. "Just read it and tell me if we ought to take any action against the boy." Harbison bowed himself out. His cheery voice sounded from the path leading down to the sh.o.r.e: "I'll walk down here and be back in about an hour. Form your own opinion."

Dr. Benoway picked up the envelope. Another was lying beneath it. He ran to the door of his Dallas. "Bill!" he called. "You've left two letters here!"

He heard running footsteps in the darkness. Harbison hurried back into the hut and looked at the second letter. "Of course," he laughed in his clear tones. "That's my own. Brought it over for you to initial and stamp. I'd like to make the early boat with it and get it on the plane." He smiled at the doctor.

"I'll have it for you when you get back," Paul a.s.sured his friend. Harbison left once more and Benoway started to read the letter.

The envelope was dirty and addressed in a rough hand. The letter was apparently from Timothy Hewitt, a motor mech third cla.s.s. He was attached to the doctor's own unit. Funny, he'd never heard of Hewitt. Must be a new man.

The letter appeared to be addressed to Hewitt's wife, or it could be to his mother. "Mrs. Timothy Hewitt, 3127 Boulware Boulevard, El Paso, Texas." It was, like almost all the mail Dr. Benoway ever saw, an airmail letter. V-mail hadn't caught on very well in the South Pacific, and you could say that again.

Dr. Benoway opened the envelope and pulled out the sheets. There were six of them. They were very thin. Hewitt's writing was large and clear. "Dearest, Darling, Gorgeaous, Adorable Bingo!!!" started the letter. Dr. Benoway cleared his throat. "There's pa.s.sion for you!" he muttered. But there was no ridicule in his voice, nor in his thoughts. "There is pa.s.sion!" he thought. "That's just what I mean!" He resumed the reading: My own dearest, darlingest wife how I miss you and how I long that you were here right beside me in this small and dark tent what a time we would have and how I would long to kiss you as you have never been kissed before we would spend all night kissing and other things if you know what I mean and I'll bet you do (ha ha) we would wake up in the morning laughing and everthing would be fine wouldn't it my own darling, my adorable wife when I get up in the morning there is only an emptiness about my heart that never goes away all day long even when I am eating the awful chow they serve here and which they call food for a fighting man with me it is like when I first saw you in Louisville that wonderful day four years ago I can see you as plain as if you was right here and thet's just where you are forever and forever throughout all eternity right here in my arms and if I ever thought another day would dawn without you with me forever I would die right now I'm sitting in my tent as usual thinking of you I am in my shorts and as I have had a haircut today there are streaks of my hair all over my shorts which looks very funny I can tell you I know you would laugh it were here but tonight 1 am there with you my adored darling in who I see everthing good and kind that can ever be I'm right there with you and it is almost time for bed You say come on Tim lets go to bed we've got to get up in the morning and I laugh like always and say I know what you want to go to bed for and you laugh and say don't talk like that Tim and I catch you and pull you over to the davenport and start to take off your stockings and you squeal and wiggle and say turn out the lights Tim what will the neighbors think, and I finish undressing you, you turn out the lights and we are all there alone in the darkness, but I can see you very well for a little light comes in from the Abraham's kitchen and there you are...

Dr. Benoway was perspiring. Young Hewitt's letter continued with an intimate description of his wife, her attributes, her various reactions, the manner in which she partic.i.p.ated in s.e.xual intercourse, and his own emotions throughout the act. Dr. Benoway had never before read a letter quite like it. "The d.a.m.ned thing's absolutely clinical," he said to himself. He looked at the last page again. It ended in an orgy of pictures and words.

"No wonder the censors don't know what to do! I don't know what to do, myself." He carefully folded the many sheets of the letter and returned them to their envelope. He was tapping his left hand with the letter when Harbison reappeared.

"May I come in?" the lieutenant called cheerily from the darkness.

"Glad you're back," laughed the doctor, pouring them both a shot of whiskey.

"Judging from your tone, you've finished the letter," Harbison observed.

"And what a letter, too!" Benoway tossed it over to his guest.

"Don't give it to me, Paul," Harbison laughed. "You're the doctor!"

"I don't know what a letter like that means," Benoway countered, picking it up again. "I'm no psychologist."

"I realize that, Paul," Harbison replied persuasively. "But you see our problem. Is a sailor like that likely to get into trouble with other men? The old phrase, conduct prejudicial to the welfare of the Navy, or something like that? Is the boy likely to go off balance some night and wind up with a broken face and some pretty serious charges against him?"

"I can't answer that, Bill. You should know that. Any young man is likely to write a letter like that once in his life. Most girls are good enough to burn the things and never speak to the boy again. Such letters are Epi-"

"You don't understand, Paul," Harbison interrupted. "Hewitt writes two or three letters like that every week. Sometimes five in one week. Always the same!"

Dr. Benoway indulged in an unprofessional whistle. "How can he find the energy? G.o.d, what kind of man is he?"

"That's what has us worried. Every censor who has. .h.i.t one of his letters immediately rushes it in to the chief censor. He says that he can tell when a new man hits one of Hewitt's letters."

"Who is this man Hewitt? Why didn't I hear of this before?"

"A new man. Came aboard while we were out sunbathing on the raft. The censors waited until I had recovered a bit before they presented me with the poser. I waited until you started seeing patients again. I don't think we'd better wait much longer on this baby. He needs some kind of treatment."

"I'd like to see the fellow, Bill," Dr. Benoway suggested.

"Right now?" Harbison asked.

"Yes! Right now! Will you break him out?" Dr. Benoway did not want to go to bed.

"Shall I bring him over here? Or to the office?"

"Make it here." In civilian life Paul Benoway treated many of his most complex cases in his own home. It gave the patient a feeling right from the start that "the doctor" was taking a personal interest in him. Nancy never objected. Sometimes in women's involved neurotic cases Paul would say, "Wouldn't it be a good idea if my wife joined us for a few minutes? You know Mrs. Benoway, don't you?" And nine times out of ten the patient would agree to this most unprofessional procedure, for everyone knew Mrs. Benoway.

And there stood Timothy Hewitt, motor mech third, and that was his personal record in the folder on the desk. "Shall I see you later?" Harbison's pleasant voice inquired, half suggesting that he would like to stay, half offering to go.

"Yes, Lieut. Harbison," Paul replied in his business voice. "I'll see you later."

"You may return to your quarters as soon as the doctor releases you, Hewitt," Harbison said to the perplexed sailor. "Goodnight!" His cheery smile put the young man at ease.

"Be seated, Hewitt," the doctor said. "Excuse me for a moment while I study these papers."