

### I Can't Stop Roaming

### Born to Roam

_________

BOOK ONE

### Arnold Mountcastle de Wees

Copyright © 2014 by Arnold Mountcastle de Wees

Smashwords Edition  
This book and all its contents are protected by U. S. and international copyright. All or no part of this book may be reproduced in any matter whatsoever without written permission of the author. Unauthorized reproduction or distribution of its contents is illegal.

Born to Roam is the first book in a four part series. Please look for our other books at Smashwords and other fine retailers.

BOOK TWO

Journey with the Love of My Life

BOOK THREE

In Pursuit of My Dreams

BOOK FOUR

Worldwide Backpacker until Age 84

Dedicated to the loving memory of Jo Ann,  
a glorious companion and adventurous traveler

### CONTENTS

Chapter 1  
Chapter 2  
Chapter 3  
Chapter 4  
Chapter 5  
Chapter 6  
Chapter 7  
Chapter 8  
Chapter 9  
Chapter 10  
Chapter 11  
Chapter 12  
Chapter 13  
Chapter 14  
Chapter 15  
Chapter 16  
Chapter 17  
Chapter 18  
Chapter 19  
Chapter 20  
Chapter 21  
Chapter 22  
Chapter 23  
Chapter 24  
Chapter 25  
Chapter 26  
Chapter 27

### Book One

### I Was Born to Roam

Chapter 1

"A young man's destiny is determined by what he thinks of himself."  
Henry David Thoreau

The year is 1945. I'm fifteen years old, lying on top of my bed fully dressed waiting for my father to start snoring in my parents' downstairs bedroom. I'll get up and run away from home when I think both of them are asleep.

My two brothers are in the bedroom next to mine. John is thirteen. Frank is eleven.

Snoring downstairs is a flutter at first that become vibrating snorts, then a rhythmic rumble, sometimes broken by a fluttering snort.

I wonder if my mother is asleep. It's hard to tell about her because she never snores. I wait a few minutes before arising to scribble a note that I leave on my pillow. I'm leaving because I was born to roam. Then I pick up two packed handbags and a coiled clothesline cord by my bed.

It is quiet in my brothers' room as I emerge into the hallway. Now I must be careful. Some of the floorboards in the hallway squeak. I've rehearsed several times and know which ones do. I'm taking a long step to get across the hall and hugging the wall while taking two steps forward, then sidestepping to the center to take three steps forward and a step over against the left wall. Two more steps and I'm in front of the guest bedroom door.

The door is open. I'm stepping carefully across the threshold searching for boards that don't squeak. I go silently to the window I'd opened before bedtime to minimize noise.

I'm now through the window and on the front-porch roof and making my way carefully to the edge. The rope end is tied to the baggage grips so I can lower the handbags to the lawn and drop the rope.

The porch is high, and it'll be a long drop to the lawn. Jumping off is going to be risky. I must do it right and not break my ankles.

I jump with my feet together. I'm relaxed as my feet sink into the sod. My body collapses into a hunkering position to soften the shock. Nothing is broken.

A white figure approaches across the lawn. It is Caesar vigorously wagging his tail. He comes close and licks my face. He is about the size of a German shepherd.

Caesar is tugging at my trouser cuff and playfully growling while I untie the cord heaped on top of the bags. He is more than two years old and still acts like a puppy. I whisper, "Stop it, Caesar, or you'll wake up everyone."

Maybe I'll need a leash for Caesar in case he wants to run after another dog. He's a silly boy, and there's no telling what he might get up to. I cut a short length from the rope, put it in one of the bags and leave the remainder on the lawn. I grasp the bag straps to stand and whisper, "Let's go, Caesar."

Caesar wants to play. He is growling and tugging at my trouser cuffs while we're crossing the lawn. I put one of the bags down and gently slap his nose, which makes him turn loose of my cuff. I whisper, "Now behave yourself, Caesar."

We're through the gate, and I close it quietly and get on the deep-rutted dirt road going through our farm. It connects with a paved road a mile away. It is a pitch-black night, and I must be careful not to stumble in the deep ruts.

A hoot owl is hooting close by in the woods. Much farther into the woods is the faint howl of a wildcat, which sounds like a crying baby. Caesar growls. "Shut up, Caesar, or I'll slap your ears."

He bounds ahead of me, disappearing into the darkness. Now he reappears to run full speed straight toward me. He brakes and veers at an arm's length away to run circles around me.

Caesar is off again somewhere in the darkness. A screech owl screeches and twitters from a peach tree over in the orchard.

Caesar is back and gone again—back and forth, back and forth until we reach the main road.

"Now I must tie you, Caesar, just in case we need to hide if a car comes along."

It is another four miles to Whitethorn Railway Station. We'll make better time now that we're off that rutted road.

We've walked about a mile, and car lights appear ahead. We head for a deep ditch beside the road. I hold Caesar close to me until the car passes.

We're up and back on the road again. Droning sound of the car fades. All is quiet, except for my footsteps on the graveled road and Caesar's huffing as he strains at the leash.

There is no more traffic on the road for another three miles. A car engine can be heard around a curve ahead of us. We're running as fast as we can to get into a roadside rock quarry and duck behind a pyramid of crushed rocks.

Caesar and I emerge and resume our trudge toward Whitethorn after the car passes. Only a mile and we'll be there.

All house lights are out except in the railroad station where a Western Union man is sitting at a desk in front of his Morse code machine.

Caesar and I are veering away from the station and walking on the track in a northeasterly direction. Walking on the track is difficult in the darkness. So I'm looking for a place to stop for the night.

A river is below the railroad. Caesar follows me down the embankment. Here is a level spot, where I'm placing my bags. I get a bed sheet out of one of the bags to spread it on the ground and position one of the bags as a pillow.

I am under the sheet and resting my head on the pillow. Caesar is making his bed beside me.

I'm dozing. Chu, chu, chu, chu, chu, chu. A train is coming from the direction we had headed. It doesn't stop at the station or even slow down. I'm listening to the music it makes on the tracks. Clackity, lackey, clack, clack, clack.

The train is now past. Clackity music fades. Coal smoke settles down the embankment as I doze again.

I'm awakened at dawn with Caesar licking my face. The sheet crackles as I sit. It is stiff with frost.

I'm standing now to brush my fingers through my frost-stiffened hair. Fog hovers over the river. I can't see the other side.

I take three steps and pee a steamy stream that splatters on frost-crusted spots. I shake my peeter dry, put it back, button up my fly, and turn around.

I'm reaching into the bag for our breakfast. Caesar the Seizer has beaten me to breakfast. The bag was left open all night after I took out the sheet. I had packed a dozen ham sandwiches for both of us.

"Caesar." I speak gruffly. "You've eaten a two-day supply—enough to last us until we get far enough away that no one knows us."

Caesar is sitting and looking at me with his head cocked impishly. I lift the sheet with melting frost and put it on a weed cluster so it will dry faster in the rising sun. Fog is lifting and showing ripple rings on the water—probably carp rising to suck in floating edibles. Too bad I didn't bring fish hooks and line. I was going to but forgot.

The sheet is now dry. I fold it and put it in the bag. One of the bags is lighter now with all the sandwiches gone. Caesar is that much heavier.

Putt, putt, putt. A motor sounds toward the station. It is a motorized railway car transporting railroad workers. I'm flat on the ground and pulling Caesar down with me so we won't be seen. There are four men on the flatbed car. Three of them have children in my high school. The eldest son of the other one was killed last year while fighting the Japanese.

The car is past, the putt, putt, putt fading, and we are scrambling up the embankment.

Fog is gone from the river, and the sun has lifted frost from the ground.

It is a long step from one cross tie to another. Crushed rock is between the hewn timbers. I step like a gandy dancer from one cross tie to another. It is tiring me fast. Now I'm stepping from tie to gravel, from gravel to tie. The loose gravel is tiresome walking, too.

Now I'm in the trackside ditch, where there are blackberry bushes reaching into my path to snag my trousers and bags and scratch my hands, but walking is a bit easier here than gandy dancing on the tracks. Sometimes there are too many briars reaching across the ditch and I must go crosstie hopping again.

My guts are growling. Hunger burns my stomach. My mouth is dry. I stop to drink from my water bottle and to pour some in my cupped hand for Caesar. He wants more. All the fried salt-cured ham has made him thirsty. I give him more water.

The river curves off in a southerly direction and disappears from our view as we keep in our northeasterly route.

There is a house down to the right of the railroad. The vegetable garden is about a hundred yards away from it. Should I go down and ask for something to eat? I am a hobo now. Hobos beg from houses near railroad tracks. It is too close to home, and they know who I am. I'm looking at the garden and thinking that if I tie Caesar to a tree and...but that would be theft. So we keep following the railroad.

My stomach is burning from hunger more and more, and I am feeling weaker as the day goes on.

A spring trickles from the bank on our left. I stop and refill the water bottle while Caesar drinks from a puddle on the ground.

It is evening. Dark rain clouds are forming. "We must find shelter, Caesar, or we'll get wet tonight."

It is almost dark before we find a sheltered place. It is a limekiln that looks like it hasn't been used in a long time. Rain has just started.

My hands are stiff, and my fingers are slow in straightening when I put the bags down.

Rain is coming down hard as I spread the sheet on the floor. "We found this place just in time, Caesar." He tugs at the sheet and growls.

Rain stops before daylight. The air smells fresh as we get back on the tracks. I feel dirty from all of the coal smoke that settled on us yesterday as we hid from passing trains. Caesar's white coat has turned smutty.

My hunger pangs are worse. I'm feeling too weak to spend another day walking the tracks. We passed a few houses yesterday. But I didn't stop and ask for anything to eat. Today I will stop at the first house I see.

It appears soon. We head down the embankment. I tie Caesar to a tree and approach the house. A chained dog barks as I get near. Caesar answers from where he is tied, and a woman appears on the porch.

"I'm hungry, ma'am. Can you give me something to eat?"

"I ain't got nothin'."

"Excuse me for bothering you, ma'am." I turn to go.

"Why don't you go on back home, youngun?"

I lie. "That's where I'm going now, ma'am."

I untie Caesar from the tree and keep the cord tied to his collar for a while because I know he might go to that chained dog if I let him loose.

The near-noon sun makes the air feel steamy after last-night's rain. A house soon appears. I tie Caesar to a tree and go toward the house. There is the smell of something cooking as I get closer. My footsteps make the porch floorboards squeak. A woman appears before I get to the door.

"Ma'am. I haven't had anything to eat for a couple of days. Can you give me something?"

"I ain't got nary a thing."

I go back to Caesar. And we continue our trudge. After awhile there is a mountain in front of us. A railroad tunnel goes through it. Cool air is coming from the tunnel as we reach its entrance. The tunnel must be about a mile long because there is just a tiny bit of light showing at the other end.

Now I have a choice of going over or through the tunnel but I feel too weak to climb over that hill. Besides, this cool air coming out of the tunnel sure feels good.

We're in the cool tunnel. Caesar is on the leash. Suppose a train comes while we're in here? There is a shelf on either side. I'll lift Caesar onto the shelf and climb up with him. My footsteps echo against the walls. I yell, "Hey, ho," and listen to the echo. "Hey. Ho. Hey. Ho." My voice reverberates from wall to wall. The exit is getting bigger and the entrance smaller as we saunter along. I'm in no hurry to get out of this cool spot.

A tremendous gust of wind hits my back and almost knocks me down. There is a muffled chu, chu, chu sound behind me, and I realize that a train is entering the tunnel. I drop Caesar's leash and yell, "Run, boy, run!"

We're outside now, and I'm breathing hard while holding Caesar's collar off to the trackside. My shirt is wet from water that dripped from the ceiling. Caesar's smut is smudged. Cool air being pushed out of the tunnel by the train feels good out here in the sun.

Now the train is emerging. I'm aghast. Boxcars extend over the ledge where I planned to take refuge with Caesar if a train entered the tunnel while we were in there. We'd have been in worse shape than mashed potatoes if that train had caught us on the ledge.

The train passes to leave us shrouded in the dense coal smoke. My knees are weak while sitting here thinking that Caesar and I wouldn't have seen the outside of this tunnel if we'd been in there the same time as that train.

We're up and moving again. My stomach feels like it is on fire. I feel weak. And I don't think I can go much longer if I don't get food.

There is a creek below us. We head down to it. Caesar drinks greedily, then jumps into the water. I strip off my clothes and dive into a deep pool.

Now I'm out of the pool and washing my clothes and draping them over a bush to dry. My ankles are still black from creosote dust coming from cross ties. It takes a lot of scrubbing to get it all off.

My clothes dry some while I splash again in the pool. I'm not going to wait until they get completely dry because they're cooler this way.

We're back on the railroad. Caesar's coat is white again. I feel better with that soot off me. If I could only get some food into my stomach...

There is a house across the creek. We go down the embankment. I tie Caesar to a tree and walk on a rickety bridge to cross the creek.

Two feists come from around the house yapping at my heels as I walk up the porch steps. Caesar is barking back by the tree. A woman appears at the door to see why the ruckus.

"Howdy, boy."

"Howdy, ma'am. I was wondering if you could give me something to eat. I haven't had a bite in a couple of days."

"I ain't got nothin' cooked right now."

"It doesn't have to be cooked, ma'am. I can eat raw eggs. Raw tomatoes. Anything."

"I'll see what I kin find." She disappears into the house and reappears with a brown paper bag. "Here's a half-dozen cackleberries and some tomaters."

Caesar has broken his leash and is in the yard playing with the feists. "That's a mighty big dog. Is he yourn?"

"Yes ma'am. I had him tied to a tree."

I spect he eats a right smart more'n you do?"

"Yes ma'am. He sure eats a lot."

"I'll go and see what I kin find fer him." She goes into the house and returns with another brown bag. "There's biscuits in here. They're all dried out and hard as a rock." She takes out one and throws it toward Caesar. He catches it in his mouth, chomps and swallows it. "He's a mighty purty dog."

"Yes ma'am."

"Er ye hoboin'?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You be keerful."

"I will, ma'am. Thank you a whole lot for all you have given us to eat."

"Aw, that's all right. I jist wish I had somethin' better to give ye.

"It's plenty, ma'am. And I thank you for it." Caesar and the little dogs are on the porch. I get a hold on his collar and start down the steps.

"I'll get these here feists in the house or they're sure to foller after yer dog. Now you be keerful as you kin."

"I'll try, ma'am. And thank you again for helping us."

"It's not much." She goes into the house with the small dogs and closes the door.

We cross back over the creek and head for the shade of a big tree, where I put the two brown bags on the ground. A rock is sticking out of the ground. I remove it to leave a hole half the size of my head. I line the hole with one of the paper bags. Then I crumble half the biscuits into the bowl I've made and break three eggs onto the crumbled bread. Caesar quickly devours it, licks the bag clean and sits drooling while I suck the contents from my three eggs and eat hard biscuits.

I give him my two remaining biscuits and start eating the juicy ripe tomatoes. There are two left when we start to go. I put them in a handbag. I feel much stronger now as we climb the embankment.

We've walked about an hour when the puffing of a train sounds behind us. We go down the slope and conceal ourselves until the freight train passes. It starts slowing down before the caboose disappears around a bend. It must be approaching a station.

Sure enough there is a station around the curve. The train is stopped to take on water and coal for making steam to run the engine.

A man is walking toward the caboose and looking at the boxcar wheels. I circle my fingers around Caesar's nose. We remain hidden until the man passes around the caboose.

The door is open in one of the freight cars. We go quickly to it. I lift my heavy companion into the boxcar. Then I toss up my bags and climb into the boxcar, and we move to a far corner.

There are voices coming from the front of the train. Caesar growls. I clamp my hand over his mouth and give his head a shake. "Quiet, Caesar."

Boxcar doors are being opened and slammed closed. The voices get closer. Caesar starts to growl again, and I muzzle him with my palm.

A head appears at the doorway. On top of it is a duck-hunter's brown hat. Caesar growls loudly and lunges toward the door. He is dragging me as I hold his collar. The man reaches for something. A Smith & Wesson thirty-eight is pointing toward Caesar. The man snarls and shows brown teeth. "You'd better hold onto that there dog of yourn or I'm gonna fill him full of lead. We're deppity shurfs, and we've been sent to git you and take you home."

The other deputy sheriff appears at the doorway. He is chewing tobacco. He turns his head and puckers his lips to squirt a stream of brown juice that looks like a goose with diarrhea.

The deputy in the duck-hunter's hat is still pointing his revolver at Caesar. "Now you come down from outta that boxcar, boy, and don't you let thet there dog loose unless you want him killed."

"I must get his leash from my bag."

"Git it and be keerful what you take outta thet bag."

I drag Caesar back to the corner and take the cord from the bag and tie it to his collar. I manage to get the strap handles of both bags in my right hand while I hold the leash with my left hand. We go to the door where I toss the bags out of the freight car.

The duck-hunter's-hatted one speaks. "Now don't you turn loose of thet there dog when you git down here."

I hold onto the leash and jump to the ground, then lift Caesar down.

The tobacco chewer turns his head and blows the chewed-up wad out of his mouth. It looks like a goose with diarrhea really bad. He digs a partial plug of Brown Mule out of his pocket, gnaws off a piece and starts chewing.

The one still holding the thirty-eight says, "Now tie that dog up to sumthin so somebody can come and git him."

"I'm not going anywhere without my dog."

"Then I reckon we'll hev to put handcuffs on ye. Jim Bob, you go around and git him from behind."

Both of them move toward us. Caesar snarls and lunges toward the one with the revolver. The thirty-eight is raised and explodes. The muzzle blast hits my face. Caesar yelps and falls in front of me, his feet kicking as he lies dying from a bullet in his head.

Rage blinds me. I don't remember anything until I find myself on the ground with shackles on my wrists.

They lead me past the station and put me in a black 1937 Chevrolet to take me back where I started.

Chapter 2

It has been a little more than a month since I tried to run away. I'm heading off to school, so everyone thinks. I must go early to catch the bus into town where my high school is. My brothers will leave later to walk to the primary school in Long Shop.

I'm walking on the road, like I always do when I'm going to catch the school bus. Now I'm a half-mile from where the bus will stop. I leave the road and cut across a field and head in the direction of Whitethorn.

I've gone around the railway station without being seen and am gandy dancing the cross ties until I get well past the first bend. I stop and sit on one of the tracks.

There is a putt, putt, putt sound. It is the railway motorcar coming from the station. I get up and start walking. The motorcar rounds the bend. And I run down over the embankment. The riders have seen me, I'm sure. That's what I wanted them to do.

The motorcar is out of sight. I scramble up the embankment to cross the tracks...and climb the embankment on the other side to get onto Big Hill.

Big Hill is the highest place in this area. It overlooks the road to Whitethorn and the grade school in Long Shop where my brothers go. It is the school I went to before I started to high school three years ago. No one around likes my family. My father insults people, and the kids took it out on me. I could take care of myself in a one-for-one fight because I was big for my age in primary school and strong from farm work. So they ganged up on me.

It is cool up here. A little bit of wind is blowing. I lie on my back in golden broom sage. It blocks some of the wind and is warmer here.

It is so peaceful and quiet up here. Finally I doze. Then I awaken to the voices of children playing on the school grounds during noontime recess. The sun is almost above me and it is much warmer now.

Hunger pangs my stomach. I open my handbag that I always use for carrying books. It is stuffed with tree leaves to make it look full of books when I left home this morning. In the bottom of the bag is a jar of water and a brown paper bag. Inside the brown bag are pieces of fried chicken and some biscuits. I'm taking out a wing and a biscuit and starting to eat.

I've eaten enough. There are still more pieces of chicken and biscuits for my supper. I'm a little drowsy now with a full stomach and being warm under the sun. So I doze again.

Children at afternoon recess awaken me. The sun has moved across me and is reaching toward a western ridgeline.

All goes quiet in the schoolyard after recess ends. It will be a long afternoon for me. I wish I'd brought a book.

Books are what I like most. My grandmother taught me to read and write and some arithmetic before I was three. I always got my school work done sooner than everyone else and spent the rest of my time reading anything I could find.

There was a woman who died a couple of years ago. She lived in a house I can see from up here. She was called Miss Agnes and came from New York many years ago. She wrote a book called The Big Hill. It is about the hill I'm on right now.

Miss Agnes loved books. There were glass-covered bookcases on all her living-room walls. Her house was a lending library. She took in books furnished by the county bookmobile. I was the only one from my school who checked out bookmobile books.

Miss Agnes and I became close friends. She suggested books for me to read. And we talked about the books after I read them. I missed her terribly after she died. She was like my grandmother had been to me and was kinder than my mother.

I don't think my mother likes children or anyone else. She never has anything good to say about anyone except some of her relatives. She is very nervous and often screams at us. "I don't know what I did so wrong that the Lord gave me such mean kids." Sometimes she hauls off and hits us with anything she has in her hand. Once she hit me over the head with a piece of firewood and knocked me unconscious.

My father is even worse. I've never known anyone with such a nasty temper. He once beat me with a leather strap and temporarily paralyzed me from the waist down.

He would accuse me of something and would beat me if I denied it. I would say I did it to make him stop beating me. Then he would beat me for telling a lie in the first place. I was beaten no matter what I said. He is a big bully who weighs about 230 pounds. People are afraid of him.

Caesar was about the only friend I had. My old man made me keep him chained to the doghouse. One day I decided to unchain Caesar. My old man told me to put him back on the chain or he would shoot him. I was fourteen then and was feeling confident to stand up against the bully. "Listen, you son of a bitch," I said. "I'm not going to put the chain on Caesar ever again. I'll kill you if you if you hurt him. I might shoot your eye out with my rifle." He knows I'm a crack shot. "Or I might sneak into your bedroom at night and cut your throat while you're sleeping. I'll kill you some way if you ever touch my dog." I had called the bully's bluff. He hasn't laid a hand on me since.

Life isn't bad on the farm for me now after I called the bully's bluff and after running away from home the first time. I've refused to do any farm chores after they caught me and brought me back. The old man pleaded for me to work and earn my keep. I told him that if he didn't like what I was doing I would be glad to leave home again. Now he doesn't say anything about me not working.

Children babble now as they leave the school to go home. The two teachers drive away in their cars. In another hour or so it will be time for the school bus to return with high-school students. It won't be long until my parents start to wonder why I didn't come home. The old man will get in the 1933 coffin-gray Dodge and go looking for me. He'll find out that I didn't go to school today and will be told that I was seen on the railroad tracks. I've thrown them off my scent. They'll think I'm stupid enough to get back on the same trail where I was caught.

I didn't have a destination in mind when I took off last time...except maybe a vague idea of going to Norfolk and joining the merchant marine. Jack London's and Joseph Conrad's books have made me hanker for the sea.

Now I know where I want to go. I'm heading to Baltimore where I hope to get work on a merchant ship. I could get on the highway and hitchhike in a direct route to Baltimore. But I'd soon be caught and brought back home again.

My plan now is to go in the complete opposite direction that I headed last time, where no one will think to look for me. I'll keep out of everyone's sight until I get into West Virginia. Then I'll hitchhike toward Maryland.

The sun is hovering over a western ridgeline—pretty much in the direction I'll be heading. I'm hungry and devour the rest of the chicken and biscuits. Now I wait for darkness.

The sun is descending fast and is now behind the ridge. Clouds glow pink. Dusk is near.

Dusk comes. Darkness follows soon. I pick up my bag of leaves and start walking down the hill's end, then detour a distance from any houses.

There is a creek. I take off my shoes and socks and wade across. I wipe my feet on my trouser cuffs and put on my shoes and socks.

I go across a field and am on the paved road that leads to the unpaved road going to the farm. I walk softly on the unpaved and rutted road and listen carefully for footsteps. A stomping sound ahead halts me to listen. There is a snort, and I realize it is a cow belonging to the farm joining ours.

I'm now on our farm and angle to my right so I will pass the house from a hill above it. A kerosene lamp shines through the living-room window.

I'm in the woods and angle down to the logging road. I walk on it a short distance and turn off, where I walk through dry leaves until I come to a big oak tree. It has a rotted-out hollow in it, where I have hidden my pack.

It is a pack I have made from a burlap sack. I've cut open another sack and rolled the pieces that I've flattened and sewn to make pack straps that I sewed to the sack. I learned my lesson about carrying handbags. My fingers were stiff several days after I was caught running away the first time.

I scratch through leaves at the base of the tree where I have hidden a bow and three arrows. The bow is made from a springy hickory sapling and strung with a rawhide thong. Arrow shafts are straight dogwood branches. Arrowheads are made from thin metal sheets and filed to needle-sharp points. There are Plymouth Rock hen feathers on opposite ends of the shafts.

In the pack is a change of clothes. There are several slices of uncooked salt-cured ham, a few biscuits, boiled beef and a jar of water. In a small box are fishhooks of various sizes and fishing line. I've brought a map of Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland, and part of Pennsylvania. There is a box of kitchen matches. A lens that was in a pair of my mother's old eyeglasses will start fires if I run out of matches. I've packed a small saucepan for boiling and sterilizing water.

I put the handbag in the hollow tree...put the pack on my back...pick up my bow and arrows and walk on the logging road in a westerly direction away from the farm. I know these woods well and could make my way around any part of them on the darkest night.

Walking on the road is easy in the moonlight this cloudless night. A pair of eyes glows ahead. They might belong to a possum...a raccoon...or a fox. The eyes disappear as the animal scurries off from my approaching footsteps. There is the scream of a wildcat not too far away. It sounds like a crying child.

Now all is quiet except for my thumping footsteps. Roadside silence is broken by a flutter to my left as a bird flies from the top of a tall hickory tree. It's silent again, except for my footsteps.

My footsteps thump on and on. A whippoorwill calls in the distance. Whippoorwill. Whippoorwill. Whippoorwill. Whippoorwill. The whippoorwill stops calling. And the woods around me become quiet again until a hoot owl hoots a shimmering who-o-o. Who-o-o. Who-o-o-o-o. Hoot. Hoot. Hoot. It stops and a screech owl screeches nearby, to be answered by another one from far away. The owls become quiet and only my footsteps blemish the hushed surroundings as I trudge westward. There is a rustling sound in the leaves beside the road. It could be a rattlesnake...a copperhead...a weasel...or some other small creature.

The logging road ends at a hard-surface car road. There is a small mud-daubed log cabin in the moonlight not far off the road. It belongs to Dewey Smith. There are no lights, but I smell the faint odor of wood smoke.

Dewey Smith is an old man with a white beard. No one knows how old he is. He has outlived several wives. He earns his living splitting saplings for weaving chair seats. He sometimes carries a great stack of splits on his back for many miles around to weave chair bottoms at distant premises.

I'm walking on the hard-surface road until dawn. A skunk ambles across the road a distance in front of me and disappears into roadside underbrush.

I get off the road and head into the woods. I've never been in this part of the forest before. Walking won't be as easy because there is no road or even a trail.

My panging stomach is telling me that it is time for breakfast. So I stop to eat some of the boiled beef and two biscuits and drink from my water jar.

I'm back on my feet and going again. Walking isn't easy because there are more saplings and brush than trees. It is tiring, and I am exhausted by the time the sun is overhead. I stop to rest and finish the beef and two more biscuits.

I feel too tired to walk much farther but I keep going because I want to get as far away from home as possible in the daytime. It will be too difficult to make my way at night in woods that I don't know.

The sun is moving westward. And I am following it. It won't be long until dusk.

I hear a familiar sound ahead of me. It is a squirrel gnawing hickory nuts. I am moving quietly toward the gnawing sound. The squirrel is on a branch high in the tree, much too high for a shot. I'm crouched behind a bush. Maybe the squirrel will come down the tree. Leaves rustle in front of me. It is a squirrel headed for the same tree. The arrow notch is to the throng and pulled back ready for the squirrel to stop. It is starting up the tree and stops. I aim at the squirrel's head and let the arrow go. The arrow hits the hard tree trunk in front of the squirrel's nose. The squirrel jumps to the ground. My supper disappears through underbrush.

I'm on my way again through the undergrowth. Chinquapin bushes now surround me. Burrs are open to display dwarf chestnuts. I pick chinquapins and put them into my pack until it gets too dark to see.

How tired I am. I'm looking for a place to sleep. And I find a thick bed of leaves under an oak tree. A screech owl twitters in a nearby tree while I'm breaking open chinquapin shells with my teeth. I eat my fill and lie on the leaves with my pack for a pillow. The last thing I remember is the scream of a wildcat not very far away.

A shotgun report echoing through the woods awakens me at dawn. It is probably an early-morning squirrel hunter bagging breakfast.

There are enough chinquapins and biscuits left for my breakfast. My emergency supply of salted ham will keep me going awhile if I don't find anything else to eat. My water jar is almost empty by the time I finish drinking and get on my feet. Another shotgun report echoes through the woods. I'm thinking maybe I should go back and pick more chinquapins. But I'm anxious to continue my westward trek.

The sun is behind me, not quite overhead. And I guess that it is about ten o'clock when I arrive at a creek where I see small fish. I'm digging into my pack to get out hooks and line. I'm about to look for a good place to dig worms when I see a snapping turtle swimming toward the bank. It goes under the embankment and stirs up silt to cloud the water where it is hiding. The water clears. And the turtle's tail is visible. I take off my shoes and socks and cross the creek and reach into the water to grab the turtle's tail and pull it from under the bank.

I lay its neck on a log. And I'm using my pocketknife to cut off its head. I separate the meat from the shell and skin. Now I use the eyeglasses lens to focus the sunrays onto a pile of crumbled dry leaves. The tender smokes. I blow gently, and it bursts into flame. I add some small dry twigs, then larger ones and have a fire going. I hope no one sees the smoke. I'm using dry wood so it won't smoke too much as I skewer the turtle on a sapling branch.

There is enough meat left over for another meal. I put it in the paper brown bag and drop it into my pack. Then I take out the small saucepan and boil some water after drinking the jar empty. I refill my jar when the pan full of water gets cool enough.

My clothes are now off and I'm bathing in the cold stream. I feel much better when I start to get dressed. There are voices far to my left as I get on the move again.

It won't be easy to keep on an accurate course going through unfamiliar woodland. All I can do is follow the sun and keep in a westward direction. I can't keep my bearings at night and must travel entirely by day, keeping out of sight until I get to West Virginia.

Walking is slow sometimes because I'm going uphill much of the time and through thick underbrush. The sun has disappeared. I'm really tired and will be glad for darkness to come so I can bed down for the night.

There is a thick bed of spongy moss under an oak tree. I stop and take off my pack and eat what is left of the turtle.

Maybe I can catch a rabbit if I set a snare. I'm unstringing the bow and find a springy sapling a short distance from the moss. I'm bending it over and using the bow thong to make a snare and baiting it with a crabapple. All is quiet around me as I go back to the moss and lie down to sleep.

A yellowhammer pecking on a tree awakens me at dawn. I get up to urinate and go toward the snare. The sapling is sprung and hanging at the top is a possum. Its neck is broken. Fresh blood trickles from its nose. It hasn't been dead very long.

I'm skinning and gutting the large male possum. The pelt would be worth a dollar or more on the mail-order fur market. I've never eaten possum before. Only poor people eat them.

There is a thick layer of fat between the skin and meat. I trim off as much fat as I can before roasting it on a fire. The meat isn't bad. It has satisfied my hunger, anyway. And there is plenty left over, which I put into the paper bag and shove into my pack.

The fat meat is heavy on my stomach while I'm walking. There is still some of it left after I have my noontime meal. I pick red teaberries and wintergreen leaves from the ground. The taste is refreshing and eases the heaviness in my stomach.

The fat possum meat smells a little rancid when I take it out of my pack at dusk. I'm hungry and eat part of it and take the rest a distance away and scatter it on the ground. Maybe it will feed a fox.

I bend a sapling and set a snare and bait it with a crabapple with hope of catching a rabbit.

The moss was a fine bed last night. There is none here. I make my bed in oak leaves and immediately fall asleep.

A blue jay's shrill call awakens me at daylight. I get up to check the snare, which has not been tripped. I dismantle the snare and put the thong back on my bow.

I build a small fire and skewer some of the salt-cured ham and drink the rest of my water. I'm still thirsty after eating the salty ham and get thirstier as I walk. Chewing bitter sorrel leaves and eating teaberries helps me bear my thirst a little better. I eat two of the crabapples, which helps even more. I don't want to eat all of my rabbit bait.

The sun is a couple of hours past noon. I'm hungry but don't want to eat more salty ham.

Now I am on the edge of the forest. A flat field is in front of me. And there are some willows. That must mean that there is a stream.

Sure enough there is a creek. And there is a pool. Someone has been fishing because there is a tin can with live earthworms in it. There is a straight tree branch someone has used for a fishing pole on the ground. I fix my fishing line to the tip and tie on a number-six hook and bait it with a worm.

The baited hook isn't in the water long before the line tightens. I yank the pole upward and plop a six-inch redeye to the bank. The rock bass is one of my favorite fish.

My next strike is a four-inch bluegill. Then there's another rock bass the size of the first one. I'm hungry enough to cook them now but I don't want to build a fire here because someone might come. I've caught four more bluegills. The pool tempts me to have a swim and bath. It will be risky, but I take the chance and am having a quick splash in the pool.

Now I'm dressed and moving across the open field with my catch strung on a small willow branch and collecting dry twigs as I go. Now I'm building a fire. I clean the fish while the fire burns down to embers. I skewer half the gutted and scaled fish and put the remainder in my pack for supper. A pot full of water is heating while I eat.

I'm moving into sparse woodland. The sun is well ahead of me. I hear a car far to my left and wonder how close I am to West Virginia.

Dusk comes after the sun disappears. I stop to build a small fire and skewer the rest of my catch. Darkness is upon me before I extinguish the fire.

There are no thick beds of leaves in this sparse woodland. I'm gathering as many leaves as I can find to make my bed.

The sound of a distant car awakens me at dawn. The driver is downshifting. The engine is straining. It must be going up a hill.

I'm hungry but don't want any of the salty ham. I emerge from the woods and look across a field at a wooded bluff ahead of me. There is a house in the distance to my right. I see a car making a cloud of dust on a dirt road near the house.

I stop at the foot of the bluff and look up at the wooded slope to see a movement. It is a groundhog emerging from its den. It sits on its haunches and looks around. It moves low to the ground to the right of the den until disappearing into brush.

I'm climbing the bluff in a wide detour to approach the den. I get into a prone position behind brush to await the groundhog's return.

A couple of hours pass before I hear a rustle of leaves in front of me. The groundhog appears low to the ground. I fix the arrow's notch to the thong and cock the bow. My movements are slow because I know that groundhogs have keen eyesight. It is near the den and on its haunches to look around. I'm aiming between its front legs and let the arrow go.

The groundhog leaps forward and falls. It rolls down the hill kicking with all four legs and comes to rest against a log. It is quivering with its dying breath and is bleeding from the mouth and nose as I get to it. The arrow shaft is broken. I skin and gut the groundhog, then carry it by its hind legs as I climb to the top of the bluff.

There is a flat open field at the top of the hill. There are trees across the field a long distance away.

The big groundhog is a long time cooking over the fire I've built. Sun is overhead by the time I start to eat. It is fat but not as greasy as a possum. This is my first time to eat groundhog, and I like it better than possum.

I'm walking across the field toward the woods with four groundhog legs in my pack. They'll provide four more meals, if it doesn't spoil.

There is the sound of automobile traffic ahead as I walk through the woods. I keep walking in that direction. A car is passing as I get near the edge of the woods. I'm moving cautiously and hide behind trees as I get near the dusty road. I crouch low behind a tree when I hear another vehicle coming. A 1938 Chevrolet pickup truck passes. It has West Virginia license plates. A 1940 Ford V8 is now passing in front of me. It also has West Virginia plates. All the vehicles on the road after that have West Virginia plates.

I wonder if I should start hitchhiking but don't know where the road goes. I remove the bow thong and put it in my pack, then throw my bow and remaining arrows aside and get on the road.

The few cars that pass cover me with dust. One of them is slowing down. It is a black 1940 Plymouth sedan. The driver is grinning. He is about seventeen or eighteen. I take off my pack and get into the front seat and put my pack on the floorboard. He starts moving before he speaks. "Where're ye goin' to?"

"North. Where is the nearest town?"

"Beckley. It's the only town around here close."

I've familiarized myself with my map. I know that Clarksburg is to the north of Beckley. Then there is Fairmont and Morgantown. I'd planned to go that far north and head toward Cumberland and then to Baltimore—or maybe Philadelphia. "Beckley is the direction I'm going. Then up to Clarksburg."

He is still grinning. "Clarksburg is a long piece from here. I ain't never been there."

"Where are you going?"

"Aw, heck. I'm jist out ridin' aroun'. I ain't got no place in mind special. I'll run you up to Beckley. I'd take you a piece more toward where you're goin', except I ain't got much gas left."

"I have a little money. I can buy some gas if there's a filling station nearby."

He's still grinning. "Okay with me, buddy." We're at an intersection. He ignores the stop sign and whips out onto a paved road. An oncoming 1931 Dodge has to swerve to the other side of the road to avoid collision. "That shitass ortta be watchin' where he's goin'."

We're stopping at a gasoline station and come to a stop behind a Model A Ford getting gasoline from the pump. My driver is still grinning. He hasn't stopped grinning since I got into the car.

The Model A starts up, its engine clattering, and drives off, and we start to move up to the pump. Then I see a state trooper's uniform outside the car by the driver's side. "Cut off your motor, bub," the trooper tells the driver. The driver isn't grinning now. He looks scared. I feel that way, too. "Let me see your driver's license, bub."

"I ain't got 'em with me. I left 'em at home."

"Whose car is this?"

"Mine."

"Let me see your registration."

"I ain't got it with me. I left it at home."

"This car has been reported stolen, bub. Git outta the car."

Another trooper is now standing by my side of the car. "You, too, boy." I pick up my pack and get out of the car. "What's in that sack, boy?"

"A change of clothes. And groundhog."

"A groundhog?"

"It isn't a live one. It is groundhog meat."

The trooper looks into my pack. He pulls out the greasy paper bag and laughs.

The policemen search both of us. One of the troopers gets into the stolen car. The other one locks a handcuff on the boy's right and my left wrist and tells us to get into the back seat of the police car.

We're in a highway-patrol station. The boy and I are handcuffed together and standing in front of a desk. A bald-headed trooper is sitting behind the desk writing our names on a report form. He asks the boy where he is from. The boy says his home is in Bluefield. I tell the policeman that I'm from Charleston. "I didn't know this was a stolen car. I was hitchhiking, and he picked me up."

The policeman looks at the driver. "Is that right?"

"That's right. He was thumbin', and I give him a ride."

The policeman is looking at me now. "How old are you, son?"

"Eighteen."

"Let me see your draft card."

"I don't have one."

"You're supposed to be registered for the draft if you're eighteen."

"I'm not quite eighteen."

"You don't look eighteen. Or even seventeen. How old are you, boy?"

"Almost eighteen."

"I reckon we'll have to put the two of you in jail and find out for sure how old you are. You're not really seventeen, are you?"

"No sir. I'm fifteen."

"Why ain't you in school?"

I'm trying to think of an answer.

"Now where're you really from, boy?"

"Virginia."

"Virginia, hunh?"

"Yes sir."

"What're you doin' over here?"

"I was going to visit..."

"You'd better be tellin' the truth, boy. Or we'll lock you up until we find out more about you. You ran away from home. Didn't you?"

"Yes sir."

Another trooper has appeared to unlock the handcuffs and take the driver away.

The bald-headed man behind the desk looks at me. "Have your parents got a phone?"

"No sir. We live on a farm,"

"Now you tell me where you live. We'll get hold of the county sheriff and have him contact your daddy so he can come and git you."

Chapter 3

My sixteenth birthday was a couple of months ago. School summer vacation started yesterday. My father died last month. My mother became hysterical and said that God took him away because I am so mean.

I've been hitchhiking since early this morning. I'm on my way to Baltimore to join the merchant marine.

It is now late afternoon. I'm in Charlottesville standing at a corner traffic light. A new DeSoto stops as I raise my thumb. I see a tennis racket on the back seat while getting into the car. The man is smiling and asks me where I'm going. I tell him that I'm on my way to Baltimore to get work on a merchant ship.

We're through town and on the open road. He drives about twenty miles and says it is where he turns off. I get out of the car and thank him.

The sun is setting. I start walking and turn to raise my thumb each time I hear a car behind me. Dusk comes, then darkness, and no driver has stopped.

I leave the road and head for a tree grove to take out beef sandwiches and my water jar. I'm sleepy after finishing two sandwiches. So I lie on the ground with my head on my backpack and sleep to the hum of road traffic.

It is barely dawn when I awake to eat two beef sandwiches, drink from the jar, and get on the road.

A war-surplus jeep stops about a half-hour later. The driver is an ex-Navy aviator who is enrolled in the University of Virginia. He says he is going to Washington.

We arrive in the District of Columbia in early afternoon. He lets me out in the middle of the city, and I start walking.

Dusk is imminent. I'm sitting on a bench in Lafayette Park across from the White House. My feet ache. I'm tired from walking on concrete while exploring D.C.

I lie on the bench with my backpack as a pillow. A Navy first-class boatswain's mate appears. "You're not going to sleep here tonight, are you, kid?"

"I don't have enough money to stay in hotels."

"Don't sleep here, kid. Someone was killed in this park last week. The YMCA is a cheap place to stay. It's over that way." He points his finger. "Ask people for directions." He turns and walks away.

I'm walking and asking directions and arrive at the YMCA to be told that there are no vacancies.

Now I'm back in the park sitting on the same bench and thinking about the sailor saying someone was killed here last week. I'll just sit up all night. When daylight appears I'll get a couple of hours sleep.

Drowsiness overtakes me and I go to sleep sitting up. Voices awaken me at dawn. I'm lying on my side with my head on my pack.

I eat two chicken sandwiches, go to the water fountain for a drink, fill my jar, and start asking directions to Baltimore.

It is about noon. I'm walking and hitchhiking while devouring a chicken sandwich. A truck stops, and we're in Baltimore a little while later. I've told the driver that I want to get on a ship, and he lets me off near the docks.

Now I'm standing on the dock looking up at a moored ship. It is the first ship I've ever seen. I'm astonished with its size. I decide to go aboard and ask the captain for a job.

I walk up the gangway and am standing on the deck of a ship. I can't believe I'm here aboard a ship. There is no one in sight. So I start prowling. I'm about to go through a hatch when a voice sounds. "Hey, boy!" A man is wearing dungaree trousers and shirt and a snap-brim cap. "What're you doin' here, boy?"

"I'm looking for the captain. I want to get a job."

The man laughs. "For one thing, boy, you don't just walk onto a ship and get a job. You've gotta go to the union hall and get seaman's papers. For another thing, you're not goin' to get a job on a ship right now. There is a maritime strike. You'll have to wait until the strike is over before you can even get seaman's papers. You're not supposed to be on here. You'd better get off."

Out-of-work seamen on the waterfront tell me that the strike has just started and might last a long time. I'm strolling and am in awe of the majestic sea-going vessels. An officer is standing at the top of the gangway of a Coast Guard ship. He has the one-and-a-half gold stripes of a lieutenant junior grade. I'm walking up the gangway with intentions of asking the officer if I can look around the ship.

"May I help you?"

"I'd like to go on your ship."

"Why do you want to go aboard?"

"I just want to see what a ship is like. I have a hankering for the sea."

He laughs. "I'll bet you've been reading Jack London's books."

"Yes sir. All of them...and Joseph Conrad's books, too. I've read everything I can about the sea."

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"You can join the Coast Guard when you're seventeen and go to sea. I'm sorry to tell you that civilians aren't allowed aboard Coast Guard cutters."

I'm back on the docks sitting on a bench talking with a man who says he is an out-of-work seaman. His breath smells like beer or something like that. He says his name is Ray and tells me the captain of a Norwegian freighter has promised him work on his ship. He will go tomorrow to sign on as a crewman.

"Do you think there is a possibility of me getting a job on his ship?"

"They're looking for a mess boy."

"That sounds good to me. When can we meet the captain?"

"I know where he hangs out. Maybe we can find him and you can talk with him today."

We're heading toward a building. A neon sign in the window says Cocktail Lounge. I've never been in a cocktail lounge and don't know what to expect.

The place is crowded. And the light is dim. The room is clouded with tobacco smoke. Some of the men holding glasses or beer bottles are unemployed seamen I saw on the docks earlier. I'm wondering which one is the Norwegian captain. Ray says, "Let's go to the bar and have a drink."

We push our way through the crowd to a counter where men sit on stools and have glasses and beer bottles in front of them. There is a mirror on the wall behind the counter. A little old man sitting on a stool next to us is trying to sing. I'm looking at the vast array of bottles in front of the mirror when a man in a white apron appears behind the bar in front of us. "What'll it be?"

"A draft beer for me," Ray says. Then he turns to me. "How about you?"

I tell the man behind the bar that I'll have a Dr. Pepper.

He says he doesn't have any Dr. Pepper.

"Then I'll have a Nehi orange."

He says he doesn't have Nehi, either.

"Do you have Coca-Cola?"

The man brings a Coke for me and a glass of beer for Ray. "Twenty cents," he says to Ray.

Ray fumbles in his pocket. Then turns to me. "I left my money at home. Do you have any?"

I say that I do. I have a ten-dollar bill and forty-two-cents change. And put a dime and two nickels on the bar.

Ray says. "We'll go to my house for dinner. And I'll pay you back then."

The little old man is trying to climb off his stool and falls onto the floor. Several men laugh loudly. Two of them try to put him back on the stool. "He's had enough," the man behind the bar says. The two men guide the little old man through the crowd toward the door.

I ask Ray where the Norwegian captain is. He says he hasn't shown up yet. But he should be coming soon. He points toward our empty glasses, and the bartender brings another beer and Coke. I put four nickels on the bar. That leaves me with two-cents change and my ten-dollar bill.

We've been here a long time. Ray still hasn't seen the captain come in. My bladder is full. And I ask Ray if there is a toilet. He points toward a door with a sign that says men. I go through the door and piss in the urinal that has vomit in it.

Ray is ready for another beer when I get back to the bar. I tell the bartender that I don't want anything more to drink. And he brings a glass of beer to Ray.

Ray's speech is slurring. The captain still hasn't appeared, and I'm wondering if I should leave.

Ray falls off his stool onto the floor. A man and I try to put him back on the stool. The bartender says, "He's had about enough."

The man helps me guide Ray to the door. It is dark when we get outside. Ray falls onto the sidewalk. "I don't know where he lives," I say to the man.

The man searches Ray's pocket and pulls out a wallet. He looks in the wallet and takes out a driving license that has Ray's address on it. The man puts the wallet back into Ray's pocket and hands the license to me. "You stay with him, kid, and I'll wave a cab down."

A taxi stops. The man and I put Ray into the taxi. I show the driver the driving license and tell him to take us to the address on it.

I pay the driver when he stops at the address. He helps me get Ray out of the car, and we get him to the door. The driver leaves me with Ray who is crumpled on the doorstep. I press the doorbell button and wait while Ray moans something I can't understand.

A woman about my mother's age opens the door to put her hand over her mouth and gasp when she sees Ray in a heap on the step. "I'll help you get him inside."

A girl is in the living room. She looks about fourteen. "Sally," the woman addresses the girl. "Go into his room and turn back the bedcovers so we can put him to bed."

Sally disappears into a room. Her mother and I guide Ray into it and sit him on the bed's edge. The woman removes his shoes, and we lift his legs onto the bed and roll him to the middle of it. He has pissed in his trousers. "I'll get him undressed," the woman says to Sally and me.

The girl precedes me back into the living room. She gestures toward the sofa. "Would you like to have a seat?"

"Thank you." I sit on the sofa. She stands in front of me, neither of us speaking.

The woman appears. I stand and extend Ray's license toward her. "We took this out of his pocket so we'd know his address."

The woman accepts the document. "Thank you. And thank you for bringing him home. Where did you find him?"

"I was on the docks this afternoon and started talking with him on a bench. He said he's a seaman and is going to sail on a Norwegian ship in a couple of days. He said he could probably get me a job on the ship as a mess boy. He took me to a place to find the captain of the ship."

She looks skeptically at Sally. "What kind of place was it?"

"It was a cocktail lounge. I'd never been in one before. We waited a long time. The captain never came."

"Did Ray ask you for any money?"

"He borrowed some from me."

"Oh, dear. Was it much?"

"Not much. Just a little bit."

"Have you had anything to eat?"

"No, ma'am. Not since about noon."

"Sally and I have had our dinner. There is some leftover meat loaf and mashed potatoes, if you don't mind that."

"I don't mind, ma'am. I like meat loaf and mashed potatoes. But I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"It won't be any trouble. Come into the kitchen."

I follow them into the kitchen. She takes meat loaf and mashed potatoes out of the refrigerator and puts them in the oven. "I'll get you some milk while the meat loaf and potatoes heat." She takes a bottle of milk from the refrigerator, pours milk into a glass, and puts it in front of me.

"Thank you, ma'am."

She and Sally take seats on the opposite side of the table. She asks me my name and where I've come from.

I tell her about the farm I lived on in Virginia and about my two attempts to run away from home. "My father is dead now. I decided to go off and get a job on a ship and earn my own living. My mother is going to sell the farm, and she and my brothers will live on what she gets from it."

She arises and takes the meat loaf and potatoes from the oven while Sally places a plate and silverware in front of me. The woman says, "Help yourself. Eat all you want."

They sit again opposite me. "Are you staying in a hotel?"

"I don't have enough money to stay in a hotel."

"Where had you planned to sleep tonight?"

"I can find a bench. I can sleep on the bench on the dock where I met Ray."

"You can't sleep on the docks, of all places. It is too dangerous. I'm sorry that I don't have any money in the house to repay you for what Ray borrowed from you. We don't have a spare bedroom, but you can sleep on the sofa, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind, ma'am. I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"It's no trouble. I have to go out for a while. Sally can entertain you while I'm out."

I'm finished eating. Sally puts the remaining meat loaf in the refrigerator. I've finished the potatoes. She clears the table and puts everything in the sink. "I'll help you wash dishes, Sally. Do you want to wash or dry?"

"You can dry if you want to. Do you have to wash dishes at home?"

"My mother used to make me dry them sometimes. I'd take a whole handful of knives, forks, and spoons and roll them around in the dishtowel to get the job over with quicker. My mother would jump on me for doing it that way."

She giggles. "I do it that way too sometimes."

Dishes are finished. We go into the living room where we sit on the sofa a little distance from each other. "Were you afraid that a bear or something would bite you when you slept in the forest?"

"There aren't many bears left down where I come from. About the biggest animal down there is a wildcat. It's a lynx. I've never seen one. They only come out at night. They sound like a baby crying."

"I've never been in a forest. Not really. Will you come back to Baltimore some day?"

"When my ship gets back from Norway, if I get a job on it. Maybe I'll travel all over the world like Ray."

"My brother hasn't gone abroad."

"He told me he is a seaman."

"He's not. He doesn't do anything now except get drunk. My mother stopped lending him money, and he started stealing from her...and me. No matter where we hide money, he always finds it. My mother's wristwatch disappeared. He must have sold it. Have you tasted beer? Or whiskey? Or wine?"

"No. I'm never going to drink any alcohol."

"I'm not either. You must miss your dog?"

"Caesar was the best friend I had. He and Kaper. Kaper was my first dog. I had him since he was nine-weeks old. I was only nine weeks old then, myself. I don't remember him then. My parents told me that we played like two puppies. He would bite my toes and make me cry. I'd bite his ears and make him yelp."

Sally is laughing.

"Kaper went with me wherever I went. I had a red wagon that I pulled. I'd tap on the wagon, and Kaper would jump in and ride. He'd jump out when I got to the top of a certain hill. I'd let the wagon roll down the hill. It would hit a fence post and jolt me. I hit the fence post so many times that it finally fell down.

"Kaper was a smart dog. We always fed him rabbit heads and the lower part of the legs. Sometimes he would catch a rabbit. He'd bite off the head and the part of the legs we gave him and would bring us the rest of the rabbit."

"What happened to him?"

"Someone shot him with a shotgun. We kept him in the barn. My father came from the barn one day and told me Kaper looked much better. I went to the barn with a piece of liver to feed him. He was dead. I went back to the house crying, and my father laughed at me."

"Did you have any other pets?"

"I had a black-and-white cat named Billy when I was little. He slept in the cellar. One of the first things I remember was my father putting me in the dark cellar to make me stop biting my nails. Old Billy would curl up against me and purr. I never felt afraid down there in the dark with Billy. I once had a collie and a bulldog...and two beagles, Buster and Nancy, and another black-and-white cat named Spot. Kaper and Caesar were my favorites."

"I've never had a pet. Someone offered me a kitten. But my mother wouldn't let me have it. Someone once offered me a puppy. My mother wouldn't let me have it, either. She doesn't want animals in the house."

"I don't think I want any more now that Caesar is dead."

"It must be fun living on a farm."

"It is a lot of work. I was working since I was knee-high to a June bug."

"What did you do?"

"A little bit of everything. I worked along with the men pitching hay up into a tall wagon. That was hard. Thinning corn was hard, too. We planted too much corn in case some of it didn't come up. Then we had to pull out the extra ones. It was hard on the back bending over so much. Cutting corn was easier but the corn worms would sting. I didn't like thrashing time very much because it was so dusty and sticky wheat chaff would get into my shirt and itch. The thing I liked best was chopping firewood."

"Did you have any time to play?"

"I played mostly in the woods, climbing trees and looking for mushrooms and all kinds of things. I did my school homework after dark. Then I would read until I finished a book. I read a book a day."

"I read a lot, too. I can't imagine doing the work you did on the farm."

"I'm through with that. I'm sixteen now. "

"I turned fifteen the second day of this month. How long are you going to stay in Baltimore?"

"Well. Since what Ray said about the Norwegian ship might be a fib...I don't know. No one knows how long the maritime strike will go on. Maybe I'll go to New York and see what's going on there. I'll think it over tonight."

"Do you have a girlfriend in Virginia?"

"Yes. But I don't see her often. She lives in the country a long way from me. I'd get a driver's license but I don't have a car. My mother sold the Dodge after my father died."

"What is your girlfriend's name?"

"Edith."

"How old is she?"

"Sixteen. Two months younger than I am."

"What did you do when you went to see her?"

"We would sit in the living room and talk...and I guess a few other things."

"I suppose you kissed her?"

"Yes."

"A lot?"

"I guess so. Quite a bit I guess."

"I've never kissed a boy. Not like they do it in the movies."

"Would you like to."

"Sometime."

"Want me to show you how?"

She bobs her head and is blushing.

I scoot close to her and put my arms around her. Now our lips are together, and we stay that way a couple of minutes. I ask, "Did you like it?"

She bobs her head and smiles.

"I know another way that's even better. Want me to show you?"

Our lips touch again, and I try to insert my tongue but her teeth are together. "You have to open your mouth a little bit so we can touch our tongues together."

"Is it really better that way?"

"I like it better. Want to try?"

"I'll try it once."

My tongue is inserted into her mouth. There is a rattle at the door. I scoot away from Sally. Her mother enters. Sally is blushing a little bit. I guess I am, too, because my face feels a little hot.

"Did Sally keep you entertained?"

"Yes, ma'am. We've been talking. I told her about wildcats in the woods."

"I got some money from Sally's aunt to pay you back for what Ray borrowed. How much did he borrow?"

"I'm not sure. It wasn't much. I don't want you to pay me back."

"You must take it."

"No, ma'am. I can't take it from you after you've treated me so good."

"I wish you would take it."

"No, ma'am. I just can't."

"You must be tired after traveling?"

"A little bit."

"Sally and I are going to bed. You may take a bath if you like. The bathroom is that way. I'll get a towel for you. Sally, if you will get sheets for him...and a pillow."

They return to the living room at about the same time and spread sheets on the sofa. "I hope you're comfortable sleeping there. I'm sorry we can't offer you a proper bed."

"This is fine. Thank you for going to so much trouble."

"It is no trouble at all."

They take turns going into the bathroom. We say goodnight to each other. Sally blushes when I steal a wink to her.

I count my money and have $6.75 cents left. I remember what Sally saying about Ray stealing money and put my wallet under the pillow.

I'm the first one up at dawn. I go into the bathroom for a bowel movement and to brush my teeth. I'm folding the second sheet as the woman appears in the living room. "Did you sleep well?"

"The best sleep I've had in a long time."

"What are your plans now?" she asks just as Sally appears.

"I've decided to head for New York. Maybe the maritime strike will be over by the time I get there."

"And if it isn't?"

"I don't know. I'll have to figure out something."

"Let's go into the kitchen and have breakfast." I follow them into the kitchen. "Do you drink coffee?"

"No, ma'am."

"Sally, if you'll get milk out of the refrigerator while I prepare breakfast."

Sally brings a bottle of milk, pours a glass full and places it in front of me. I wink at her and say, "Thank you."

She smiles. "You're welcome."

We have a breakfast of fried eggs and sausage and buttered toast with some kind of jelly I haven't tasted before. We finish breakfast and arise from the table. "I'd better be getting on my way and try to hitch a ride."

The woman hands me a brown paper bag. "I've made some sandwiches for you from the rest of the meat loaf."

"Thank you, ma'am. But you didn't have to do that."

"Be careful, wherever you go or whatever you do."

"I will ma'am. I want to thank you a whole lot for everything."

"And we thank you for bringing Ray home. I still wish you'd take the money." There are tears in her eyes.

"It wasn't much, ma'am." I put the bag of sandwiches in my pack and head for the door.

"Perhaps you can come back to see us some day."

"Yes, ma'am. If my ship ever comes this way."

I say goodbye first to the woman. I wish I could have had a chance to give Sally a goodbye kiss. She is blushing a little bit when we say goodbye to each other.

Chapter 4

It is late afternoon. The truck driver who picked me up in Philadelphia is letting me off on the Manhattan side of the Holland Tunnel. "Watch your step here, kid. You never know what to expect in New York."

"Thanks and thank you for giving me a ride."

"That's awright, kid."

I'd asked him to let me off close to the docks. He said that he didn't know New York City very well. He guessed that where he let me off is the closest.

I'm standing on the crowded sidewalk being jostled and pushed and sworn at for being in people's way. It is the noisiest place I've ever been. The street is packed with cars, most of them with horns honking. I don't know which way to go. What I must do first is find a place to stay. I told the truck driver that I slept on a bench in Washington. He said I'd probably be killed if I tried it here.

There is a little stand where a man is selling newspapers. Maybe he can give me directions. I go to it. "Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me where the YMCA is?"

"I ain't no information bureau, Mack." He talks like his mouth is full of dry bread. "I sell noozpapahs for a livin'."

I step back and am thinking that people here aren't very friendly. A man buys a newspaper and turns around. "Excuse me, sir? Can you tell me where the YMCA is?"

"The closest one is a long way from here, Mack. It's over on Thoid Street. Why don't you go to the Mills Hotel? It's a lot closer and a lot cheaper than the Y. You can stay at the Mills for about fifty cents a night."

"Where is it?"

"Walk over that way about five blocks to Sixth Avnuh. Turn left on Sixth Avnuh. And keep walkin' until you see Bleecker. When you get on Bleecker, ask someone where Sullivan Street is. Mills is near Sullivan Street." He repeats his directions.

"Thank you, sir." I start moving in the direction the man pointed. The man was a little hard to understand because he also talked like his mouth was full of something but he was friendly and helpful. Maybe all of the people here aren't like that man selling newspapers.

It is dark by the time I get to Mills Hotel. There are a lot of men in the lobby. Most of them are old men in dirty clothing—men who haven't shaved in a few days...or washed their faces. Some of them are weaving or staggering. One man passes a bottle to another.

There is a desk with a man sitting behind it. I approach it. "I'd like to have a room."

He shoves a sheet of paper across the desk. "Put your name and address on here, Mack."

I write my name and address on the paper and hand it back to him.

"How many nights?"

I hesitate, not having given any thought to how long I will stay. Maybe I'll get on a ship tomorrow. "One night," I say to the man who is beginning to look impatient.

"Gimme fifty cents, Little Abner."

I hand him a dollar bill. He gives me a quarter, two dimes and a nickel change, and a key. "Which room is it?"

"Thoity three, Little Abner. On the thoid floor." He talks like he has his mouth full of something, like people who have given me directions.

I start up the wide stairs and make my way past men just standing there doing nothing. There are men leaning against the banister on the second floor—some of them passing bottles...half-pint bottles, pints, quarts. It is the same on the third floor. One man has clotted blood on his forehead.

My room is near the middle of the hall. I unlock the door and enter the room that is very small with only a bed against the wall and a small sink in the corner. The sheets look fresh and clean. Nothing else does. The floor looks like it has never been swept. There is an unpleasant odor—something that smells sour.

Someone is constantly coughing and gagging in the room next to mine.

There are two cans of Spam in my pack and three cans of sardines. I'm sitting on the edge of the bed eating greasy Spam and wishing I had bread to go with it. It doesn't taste very good while eating it in this sour-smelling room. The greasy meat and the sour smell are making me nauseous.

I'm tired and think I'll go to sleep early so I can get up early and try to find the maritime union hall. I take my toothbrush and toothpaste to the sink. There are particles in the sink that look like vomit. I run water into the sink to flush the mess. Loose particles disappear. Some large specks remain sticking to the sink. I step away from the sink and turn my head while brushing my teeth.

I'm getting undressed while standing on the bed to hang my clothes on a wall peg to avoid putting my bare feet on the dirty floor. The man in the next room is still gagging and coughing and keeps me awake most of the night.

There is no window in the room. I'm awakened by the sound of voices in the hall and guess that it is morning. There is still that sour smell in the room. I start to get a can of sardines from my handbag but decide to get out of this foul-smelling room before I eat. I felt a little sick most of the night after eating the greasy Spam with the sour smell around me.

I brush my teeth and go into the hall that is crowded with men passing bottles. I have to go to the toilet and find it down another hall. There is vomit on the floor and in the urinals. I go into a cubicle where there is shit in the toilet. I press the handle for flushing. But nothing happens.

I'm leaving Mills Hotel, feeling sick enough to vomit on the sidewalk. I swallow hard and start walking back in the direction from where I came.

Now I see a place where there are a few benches. I go to one and eat a can of sardines. A man sits on the other end of the bench just as I finish my breakfast. I ask him if he knows where the docks are from here. He's telling me to get on Hudson Street and walk downtown to the end of Hudson and ask someone directions to the docks. The man speaks clearly without a muffled voice like his mouth is full of something and he hasn't called me Mack. I thank him and follow his directions to Hudson Street.

Some of the out-of-work seamen in the maritime hall are sounding disgusted with the strike. One of them says he is going back to driving a trailer truck for Mundy Motor Lines if he can't get on a ship soon.

Now I don't know what to do. I'm walking not knowing where I'm going. There's no need to ask directions because about the only thing I've heard of in New York is Coney Island. Maybe I'll just see some of the city today and look for Coney Island tomorrow.

My feet are beginning to ache a little after walking on cement for hours. I see a subway entrance and head toward it. I've heard of subways and wonder what it is like to be on one. Now is my chance...and an opportunity to rest my feet.

I ask someone how much money I have to put in the slot to get through the turnstile. He says the slot doesn't take coins and that I must buy a token. He points to a lot of people lined up at a window and says that is where I must go to get tokens.

The subway car is crowded. I get a seat between a man reading a newspaper and a woman knitting blue wool. Many of the passengers are sleeping and awaken when the train approaches their stop. I don't know how they do that. The train is amazingly fast and noisy. It makes scraping sounds like the cars are rubbing against the tunnel walls.

I'm wondering where to get off. A few people are getting off at 125th Street. I follow them off the train to find my way above ground and start walking.

It is late afternoon. I can now see water with large boats on it. I head for a bench ahead where a brown-haired woman is sitting and looking down toward the boats. "Excuse me, ma'am."

She is now looking my way. "Oh, hello."

"Hello, ma'am. I was wondering if you can tell me where Coney Island is."

She is smiling a little bit. "It is very far away. Over in Brooklyn. That way." She points in the direction from which I have come.

"Where is this? Where we are now?"

"Do you have a map of the city?"

"No, ma'am."

"This is Riverside Drive, on the upper West Side of Manhattan. That's the Hudson River. The Bronx is that way." She is pointing in the opposite direction as Brooklyn. "Is this your first time in New York City?"

"Yes, ma'am. I've come from Virginia to get on a merchant ship, but there is a maritime strike now."

"Yes. I hear about it on the radio news. What were you doing in Virginia?"

"I was in high school."

"Do your parents know where you are?"

"Yes, ma'am. I mean my mother knows that I'm trying to get on a ship." I'm telling her about running away twice before my father died and about my stop in Baltimore and about being kept awake by someone coughing in the next room last night.

"When was the last time you ate?"

"About noontime. I ate a hotdog and drank an orange drink that was something like Nehi."

"That was awhile ago. You must be getting hungry again?"

"Yes, ma'am. A little bit. I thought I'd look for a place to get a hotdog or hamburger. Is there any place around here where I can get a hotdog or hamburger?"

"There isn't anything close."

"That's all right. I still have two cans of sardines left and a can of Spam. I don't think I want any more Spam for a while after last night."

"I'm getting a little hungry myself. Let's go to my apartment and see what I can find for us to eat."

"Thank you, ma'am. I don't want you to go to any trouble."

"It won't be any trouble. Stop addressing me as ma'am. My name is Gloria. What are you called?"

"You can call me Arnold or Mountie."

We're walking away from the direction of the river until we arrive at a big building. Her apartment is on the first floor.

"Put your luggage down anywhere. And make yourself comfortable while I get dinner started."

She has the most books of anyone I ever knew, except Miss Agnes. She appears behind me while I'm looking at her collection of shelved books. "Lamb chops are being broiled. Do you like lamb chops?"

"Yes, ma'am. I like about everything." She is tapping fingers on the top of my crew cut. "Don't address me as ma'am. It makes me feel old."

"How old are you, Gloria?"

"Thirty six. And you."

"Sixteen."

"Have you read any of those books?"

"Quite a few."

"Do you read a lot?"

"A book a day while I was in school."

"And who is your favorite author?"

"It's hard to say. I like Dostoyevsky. And Balzac. I see that you have Lost Illusions. I like Tolstoy. And I've read The Complete Sherlock Holmes twice. It was 1,323 pages. I guess I like most books. You have a lot of books. You must like to read, too?"

"I do. I teach literature."

"High school?"

"College."

"You're a professor?"

"Yes."

"There is a college across from my high school. They let us use their library. I worked in the natural science laboratory there during summer vacation—washing beakers and stuff like that...and running errands around the campus. I liked running errands. I'd go into some of the buildings where there were all kinds of interesting things. There was an unborn baby pickled in a jar. There was a whole human skeleton in a glass showcase."

"Excuse me while I check the chops." She disappears into the kitchen. In a couple of minutes she calls, "Dinner's on the table." She has lamb chops, boiled potatoes, and green peas on the dining-room table. "Help yourself, Mountie."

"Thank you..." I stop just short of saying ma'am.

She asks me how I got interested in reading. I tell her about my grandmother tutoring me before I started to school...and about Miss Agnes.

"You were fortunate that they took interest in you."

"I guess so."

"How about your education? Have you thought about furthering your education?"

"I've thought about it. I wanted to be a doctor. I like science."

"You'll need four years of undergraduate studies and four years of medical school."

"I know. Maybe some day. Maybe after seeing some of the world."

"It's understandable you wanting to get away from home after the way you were treated."

"It's a little more than just getting away from home. I want to see what the rest of the world is like—China and places like that."

"Which country do you want to see most of all?"

"China. I've always thought about seeing China some day."

"Finish the rest of those chops."

"Thank you, Gloria. I've had enough."

"Let's sit somewhere a little more comfortable."

"I'll help you do the dishes."

"They can wait."

I follow her to the living room. She sits on the sofa. I sit in a big chair across from her. She picks up an Old Gold pack. "Do you smoke?"

"No. I'm not going to start smoking or drinking."

She lights an Old Gold with a match from a matchbook. "You look very athletic. Did you play sports in school?"

"A little bit of football. A little bit of baseball. Some basketball. And track. Track was the only varsity sports I played. I liked track best because I could go out on the cinder path and practice by myself. I bough a pair of track shoes and sometimes practiced at home."

"You must have been a good sportsman?"

"I was better at track than anything else. I was pretty good at the two twenty, the four forty and the eight eighty...and not too bad running the mile. I didn't always do very well at the hundred-yard dash. I was best at the eight eighty. I was a pretty good high jumper and broad jumper...and not bad at throwing the shot put and javelin...and discus."

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Yes. Her name is Edith."

"Do you have a picture of her?"

"Yes. Right here." I take my wallet out and go to the sofa to sit beside her and show her the picture.

"A pretty girl."

"She's a good basketball player. So is her older sister."

Do you miss her while you're away?"

"Not too much. She lives a long way from me. And I can't spend much time with her." I put the picture back in my wallet and return the wallet to my pocket.

Gloria takes hold of my hand and looks at it. "Why do you bite your nails?"

"I don't any more. I haven't bitten them one time since I left. I didn't bite them while I was away the other two times. It's only when I'm at home." I tell her about my father putting me in the dark cellar when I was little to make me stop biting my nails, and putting liniment on my fingers and pinching them with pliers.

Her hand is resting on her lap, still holding my hand. "I can't imagine someone treating a child like your parents treated you."

I'm telling her about taking refuge in the woods and spending a lot of time with my dogs. She is still holding my hand. "You must be tired after walking so much today?"

"A little bit."

"Were you planning to go back to that hotel where you stayed last night?"

"I don't want to go back there. I thought I'd find a YMCA. Or maybe ride around on the subway and sleep. I could ride around all night sleeping on the subway."

"You don't need to do that. You can sleep here."

"I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"It isn't any trouble. I've enjoyed your company this evening."

"I like talking with you, too. I've felt good just talking with you."

"Good." She squeezes my hand. "If you want to take a shower, the bathroom is that way."

"I feel pretty dirty, especially after being in that hotel. It was the dirtiest place I've ever seen. I'll take a shower. You don't need to put any sheets on the sofa for me."

"You don't have to sleep on the sofa. There's a bed for you. You can have your shower now if you like. There's shampoo. And a clean towel on the rack. Leave your clothes on the bathroom floor, and I'll put them in the washing machine."

I'm standing. "Thank you for everything. You don't have to go to all that trouble of washing my clothes."

"It'll be no trouble. Your bed is in that room. That way. If you want to go to bed after you finish showering."

"Thank you, Gloria. I'm pretty tired. I think I'll go to bed after I have a shower." I pick up my pack and head into the bathroom.

This is going to be something new for me. Our house didn't have running water. There was a hand pump over the kitchen sink that brought water from the well from behind the house. We heated water over the kitchen stove and took baths standing in a galvanized clothes-washing tub.

I brush my teeth, strip off all my clothes, and take a change of clothes from my bag. I transfer my wallet and loose change from my dirty clothes to the pockets of my clean trousers and step into the shower stall.

The shower is steaming hot. The water pricks my skin like needles. It is getting hotter and becomes too hot for me to bear. I feel like I'm being scalded while turning off the faucet. I turn the other knob just a little bit and am being sprinkled with cold water. Then I turn the left knob just a little bit and the water is getting warm. There is a bottle of shampoo in a wall rack. I've never used shampoo before but have always washed my hair with soap. I take off the bottle cap to pour shampoo in my hand and rub it onto my crew cut. There is an amazing amount of suds. Suds in my eyes are burning and blinding me. I put my face to the prickling stream and flush the suds from my eyes. Now the shower feels good. And I stay under it for a good while before turning off the faucets. Then I step onto the mat beside the stall and dry myself with a big towel folded on a wall rack.

Now I'm in clean underwear. I pick up my pack in one hand and take my clean shirt and trousers in the other and open the door just a crack to peek into the living room but don't see Gloria. I guess that she is in her bedroom.

I open the door and dash into the bedroom she pointed out to me. There is a dim lamp lit on a bedside stand. Gloria is sitting on the bed in her nightgown. I stop in the middle of the room

Chapter 5

It is daylight when I awaken. There is the smell of coffee and cigarette smoke and the sound of a man's voice from another room. I wonder who it is. The voice drowns in static, and I realize it is a radio.

I'm about ready to get out of bed when Gloria appears in the doorway wearing a white bathrobe. She is smiling as she comes toward the bed. "Did you sleep well?"

"The best I've had in a long time."

"How do you feel?"

"Really great. What time is it?

"A little after ten. I didn't want to awaken you. Let's have breakfast. You must be hungry now?"

"I hadn't thought about it but I guess I am a little bit."

"It's late for breakfast, so we'll have brunch. What are your plans today?"

"I guess I should go down to the maritime union."

"The strike is still on. I heard it on the radio news this morning."

"Then I guess there's no need to go down today. Would you like to go to Coney Island?"

"I've never been to Coney Island."

"You haven't?"

"I want to go with you. It'll be better if we wait until tomorrow. We can get up earlier and make a day of it."

I've dressed in the bedroom. Gloria is in the kitchen, still in her bathrobe, frying bacon and eggs.

I'm really hungry as we sit at the kitchen table. I eat four eggs, several slices of bacon, and six slices of buttered toast. "Do you want to do anything special today?" she asks.

Anything is okay with me."

"I'll get dressed and perhaps we'll take a little walk. How does that sound?"

"Okay with me."

She leaves the kitchen, and I wash and dry the dishes. I'm looking at her bookshelves when she emerges from the bedroom. "Are you ready to go?"

She is standing in the middle of the living room when I turn my head and is wearing a green-plaid skirt and brown blouse. Her hair is hanging loose over her shoulders. "You're pretty," I say.

She smiles.

An elderly woman is entering the apartment building as we make our exit and gives us a disapproving look. "She's an old busybody who lives on the third floor," Gloria says when we get outside.

We're walking by Riverside Drive and arrive at the bench where we met. "Our bench," she says smilingly as we sit. We sit silently a long time. She is the first to speak. "I've been thinking that we wouldn't be sitting here together now if you had come yesterday a couple of minutes later. I had thought a few minutes previously about getting up and going back to the apartment. For some reason I lingered on a little longer."

"I saw a bench before I got here and started to sit but changed my mind. We wouldn't be together now if I had done that. I wouldn't feel like I do today."

"How do you feel?"

"Light. Light like a balloon floating high off the ground since last night. I've never felt this way before. How do you feel, Gloria?"

"Happy. Really happy."

"I guess that's how I must feel. Really happy. I've never felt this way before."

"You've never been happy?"

"Well. Yes. But not the same as now. When I was in the woods with my dogs or with my big grandma. I had a big grandma and a little grandma. My little grandma is still living. I don't like her. She takes turns staying with my aunts or us since my granddad died."

"What was your big grandma like?"

"She was part Cherokee. She taught me how to make Cherokee things—things like frog chairs and cricket cages. She helped me learn to read. I was reading and writing and doing a little bit of arithmetic when I was three."

"Did your big grandmother live with you all the time?"

"Just sometimes. My grandfather ran away with all of the money when my father was nine. He had five sisters and four brothers. Everyone had to work and never got to finish school. Big grandma would take turns living with my aunts and uncles and us sometimes. My mother didn't like her, and she didn't stay with us very much."

"Has she been dead a long time?"

"Six or seven years. My granddad on my mother's side died about four years ago. Their farm was next to ours. I liked him. Everyone liked him. Everyone said he was the most intelligent person around. There was no person to make me feel happy but Miss Agnes after my big grandma and my granddad died. Then Miss Agnes died. All I had left was Caesar until that deputy sheriff shot him."

"It was awful for him to do that. Do you want to walk awhile?"

"Yes."

We stand and start walking. "It is hard for me to imagine the life you've had...the way you were treated and living a primitive life in the country. I've always lived in a city and haven't spent much time in the country."

"I must be a dumb hick to you?"

"Not at all. You're experiencing new things. You told me how you lived in the forests when you ran away from home. I wouldn't know how to do what you did."

"Coney Island tomorrow will be a first for both of us."

I've heard of Coney Island but never had any idea of what it is like. Now here I am walking with Gloria amidst the spectacle of arcade games and thrilling rides.

First we're on the merry-go-round, bobbing up and down on our wooden horses to the tune of calliope music.

Next we're getting into a roller-coaster car, the first time for both of us. The train climbs slowly to the top of the track. Now it is rumbling rapidly on a downward slope. Passengers scream. My arm is tightly around Gloria. Her fingers are burying into my flesh while I try to pretend to be less scared than what I am. Up the train goes again and is rumbling down, snaking up and down and around sharp turns. We have both arms around each other now. Her face is pressed against my chest as the train climbs and dives and twists and turns.

The train finally slows and stops. We're giddy as we get off. "Let's stand here a moment," she says, "so I can swallow my stomach back down."

We're having a great time at the arcades and at the shooting gallery. I'm showing Gloria how to shoot at the moving toy ducks.

We've ridden the Ferris wheel and gone on all the spinning, jolting, and jerking rides and settled our giddiness eating cotton candy while going through the arcades again.

Now we're nibbling hot dogs as we walk along the boardwalk and looking down at the crowds of people on the beach. "There's mustard on your face," she says and laughingly licks it off. "Too bad we didn't bring bathing suits so we could have a swim."

"The only place I've ever swum was in creeks and a river."

It is late afternoon when we get on the subway to head home. She strokes a teddy bear I won in the shooting gallery. "I'll keep him always to remind me of all the fun I've had with you today. I never thought I'd go to a place like Coney Island, and I'd never have gone without you. It has been a lot of fun for me."

"For me, too."

"Do you want to choose a name for my teddy bear?"

"How about Teddy?"

"So be his name."

Gloria looks happy. Finally she dozes and her head plops onto my shoulder.

We're back in her apartment, standing in the middle of the living room, when the phone rings. Her voice is a subdued volume as she speaks into the mouthpiece while I occupy myself scrutinizing her book titles. She finishes her phone conversation and appears beside me.

"Mountie, there is something I have to tell you. Mountie," she says and hesitates a long time.

I'm waiting for her to continue.

"Mountie. Mountie, I haven't been honest with you."

"You haven't been honest. You've done lots of things for me. And I'm the happiest I've ever been."

"So am I, Mountie. Now there is something that I have to tell you." She pauses.

"What, Gloria?"

"Mountie I have a husband."

"Where is your husband?"

"He has just called to say his ship is about ready to leave Hawaii, and he wants me to meet him in San Francisco."

"Will you go to San Francisco?"

"Yes."

"This is painful for me, Mountie, and I hope you aren't hurt."

"Don't worry. I'll be all right."

"I know you'll be all right. You'll get what you want. Come, Mountie, and sit beside me."

I move from the window to sit with her.

"Mountie, I could see when we met that you're no ordinary person. You're a person who is going to get a lot out of life."

"You've given me more than anyone else has ever given me. Now I feel like it was just a dream."

"Tell me, Mountie; now that it has happened the way it has, would you rather that none of it had happened?"

"No. I'm glad that what has happened has happened, except the bit about you having a husband. You said something about his ship. Is he in the Navy? Or is he a merchant seaman?"

"Navy."

"What rank is he?"

"Commander."

"That's pretty high. It's the same as a lieutenant colonel."

"I'll always have loving memories of everything we've done together."

"I guess nothing lasts forever."

"Except memories. A bit of us will always be together, as long as the memories last."

"Then we'll always be together, Gloria, because I can never forget being with you."

"You'll meet someone else. You'll meet someone special some day who will love you and make you happy."

"When must I leave?"

"A few more days...less than a week. I'm supposed to be in San Francisco a week from now. Is there anything special you want to do in the few more days we'll have together."

"Just be with you. That's all I want."

"We can see some movies and go back to Coney Island, if you want to?"

"I'd like that, except I don't like for you to pay all the time."

"Never mind that. We'll have another day at Coney Island and see a different movie every night. Did you go to the movies with Edith?"

"No. I lived several miles from town. She lived several miles on the other side of it. I didn't have any way to take her to the movies. She has been to the movies a lot with her mother and father."

"Did your parents take you to movies?"

"No. Never. The first movie I ever saw was when I worked a summer in town. They sent me on an errand, and I sneaked off to a matinee. It was a war movie about Spitfires and German fighter planes in dogfights. After I got the best of my old man and could do anything I wanted to, I would hitchhike or walk into town and go to movies. Most of them were cowboy movies."

"There is a movie I'd like for us to see together, if you haven't seen it. It is Gone with the Wind. Have you seen it?"

"No. But I heard about it. Have you seen it?"

"Yes. It is a marvelous film. I'd like to see it again and with you. I'll find out where it is playing. Perhaps we can see it tonight."

"I'd like to."

I follow her into the kitchen where she searches through the cupboards and refrigerator. "We're about out of everything. We can go grocery shopping tomorrow. Here's some cheese...and bread. How about a grilled-cheese sandwich?"

"Okay with me."

"Put a record on if you like, on the phonograph over there by the book shelves. Put on whatever you like."

I'm standing by the record player looking through her stack of records and choose Brahms's Symphony Number Four because I don't think I've heard it before. Now I'm looking at the electric phonograph trying to figure out how it works. The only record player I know anything about is the Victrola at home with the crank to wind it up.

The record is playing, and I'm back in the kitchen as Gloria is putting our sandwiches on plates. "Good choice," she says. "I like Brahms, too. Do you listen to much music at home?"

"Yes. On the radio, when there wasn't too much static."

"What kind of music do you like?"

"Music like this, whenever it is on the radio. I have my Aunt Gertie's records after she died. I also have her books. She had the kind of records I like listening to and the kind of books I like to read."

"Were you close to your Aunt Gertie?"

"I didn't know her very well. My mother said she was a dirty woman because she lived with a doctor in town and wasn't married to him."

"How did she die?"

"She hanged herself in the insane asylum."

"Why was she there?"

"I don't know. She never seemed crazy to me. I always liked her and wanted to know her better. She sometimes talked about what she thought people should eat and shouldn't eat. She said she didn't think it was good to eat a lot of bread, and she didn't like to eat meat."

We're listening to more records after we finish our sandwiches. "Tomorrow," she says, "we'll go shopping. Then we'll find a good movie, if that's okay with you."

"Okay with me, except that I don't want you to pay."

"Never mind that. Have you had enough music tonight?"

"I guess so."

It is five days later, and our last day together. Gloria won't go to San Francisco for another two days. I have to leave today because her sister is coming down from Connecticut late this evening and will stay in the apartment while Gloria is away.

I'm sitting at the kitchen table watching her prepare the last meal we'll have together. I'm trying to think of something to say but no words come.

There are now lamb chops on the table with mashed potatoes, canned peas, and bread and butter. Gloria takes a seat opposite me. She reaches across the table to squeeze my hand and gestures at the food. "Help yourself, Mountie."

I'm feeling like I'll choke while I try to eat. Gloria is silent and looks like she is also having trouble getting her food down. I quit chewing and just sit looking at her. "Eat," she says.

"It's very good but I'm not hungry."

"This is all so difficult for both of us. I shall be heartbroken when you go."

"I'll write to you, and I'll come back when it is okay."

"It is best that you don't write to me, Mountie. If my husband should be here and intercept your letter, I'll have a lot of explaining to do."

"Then we won't ever hear from each other again?"

"Phone me and let me know what you're doing. We'll see each other again when the time is right. Hang up the phone, Mountie, if a man's voice answers. I'll tell you that you have the wrong number if I answer the phone and can't talk."

"Maybe my ship will come into New York."

"Call me from wherever you are. I'll want to know how you're getting along. I want to be with you whenever it is possible. Now I'll make sandwiches to get you started. Will salami sandwiches be all right? And cheese?"

"Fine. But don't go to any trouble."

"No trouble at all. I wish I could be of more help to you."

"I'll be okay."

"I know you will, Mountie. You're a strong person in so many ways."

"I feel guilty about you paying for everything. You've paid for everything—that day at Coney Island. I've seen better movies than I've ever seen before, and the fancy restaurants you've taken me to. When we get back together, I'll have money, and I'll insist upon paying for everything."

"Don't feel guilty, Mountie. I've enjoyed everything we've done together, just as much as you have. You won't have to feel guilty if you think of it that way. Okay?"

"Okay. I guess I'd better get my things together."

I go into the bathroom to get my toothbrush and razor, take them into the bedroom to put them into my backpack, and take the bag into the kitchen.

She hands a large brown paper bag to me. "Salami and cheese sandwiches. And the leftover chops. They should keep you going a little while. I've written my phone number on the bag. Call me before I leave for San Francisco, and let me know what you're doing."

"Thanks, Gloria. I'll call you."

"And here's something else to keep you going until you get on a ship or find work." She extends two ten-dollar bills toward me.

"I can't take it, Gloria. You've done so much for me."

She stuffs the two bills in my shirt pocket. "I would like for us to say goodbye at the place where we met. I'll be ready to go after I go to the bathroom."

I quickly open my carrier bag and rip a piece from the brown paper bag and scribble a note. Gloria, please don't think I don't appreciate your offer. You've been so good to me. I just can't take this. I take the two tens from my pocket and put them with the note under the full ashtray on the table so she will find them when she empties the ashtray.

I hear the toilet flush. She soon reappears with her lips freshly painted. I'm ready to go, Mountie, if you are"

I pick up my pack, and we walk toward Riverside Drive. We hardly say anything to each other as we walk.

We're sitting on the bench where we met. I can't think of anything to say and, Gloria is silent.

"Mountie, we shall soon say goodbye in this spot where we first said hello to each other. I'm now thinking how strange life is...and the turns it sometimes takes."

"Life will never be the same for me after this time I've spent with you."

"Nor will it be for me either, Mountie. I shall always cherish the memories of you when I saw you that first time and will always be grateful for what you gave me in this short time since then."

"You've given me a lot, and I haven't given you anything back."

"Mountie, you've given me more than I can ever tell you. Words can never express how much happiness you have given me. The times we've spent together have been the happiest days of my life."

"Mine, too. Now they're about to end."

"Mountie, what we've shared won't be left here on this bench after we say goodbye. We'll go our separate ways and will take some of each other with us."

"I know I'll always remember all that we've done together."

"Serendipity brought us together, Mountie."

"What does serendipity mean?"

"You left home and came here looking for work on a ship. You didn't come here to find me. We had never existed to each other before that day when we first saw each other. I was here on this bench and was about ready to get up and go and had no way of knowing that you would appear and bring such a change into my life." She takes a pack of Old Golds and a booklet of matches from her handbag. I take the matches from her fingers and move so that I shield her from the breeze while I light her cigarette. "Mountie, serendipity is a tremendous experience that comes in an unsuspecting way. Serendipity is like life, itself. It comes in strange ways. Sometimes it brings something that doesn't seem good at the time. Sometimes the worst of experiences bring revelation that will affect us for the good. Sometimes it brings us a heavy burden. And each of us will carry the burden in a different way. How we carry our burden will make us what we are to become. Buddha said..."

"Who is Buddha?"

"He was a spiritual teacher. Buddha said devils might be angels in disguise. Some of the worst things that happen to us can be the most valuable lessons."

She tosses away her partially-smoked cigarette and opens her handbag. "I've brought something with me I want to give to you now." She withdraws two small books and hands them to me. They are The Prophet and The Return of the Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran. "You'll come to a passage that I hope will some day have meaning for you. 'Of the Good in you I can speak, but not of the Evil. For what is Evil but Good—tortured by its own hunger and thirst? When God is hungry it seeks food even in dark caves, and when it thirsts, it drinks even of dead waters.' That passage, Mountie, is something I always want to remember."

"Thank you, Gloria." I look at the book covers a moment before putting them in my pack. "I'll remember that passage. And when I think of it, I will think about you giving it to me."

"I must go back and tidy the apartment before Julia arrives."

We stand and I take her into my arms. We stand a long time, holding each other tightly, neither of us speaking. A gust of wind whips a tress of her hair to make it tickle my cheek. Gloria starts to sob softly. Tears are in my eyes. I reach with my hand to brush them away so she won't know that I have been crying. Gloria stops sobbing, and we stand a long time longer holding each other tightly, neither speaking. My throat feels so choked that I couldn't speak even if I could think of something to say.

Her cheeks are wet with tears when we finish our last kiss. "I hope that some day, Mountie, there will be many more of those and many more good times like we've had together."

"I'll call you every chance I get, and I'll always try to get on a ship that will stop in New York. I guess I'd better get going," I say, and pick up my pack while my other hand tightly holds hers.

"May serendipity be always with you, my precious Mountie."

I walk a couple of dozen steps in a downtown direction and stop to turn around. Gloria is still sanding where I left her. She raises her hand and waves. I wave my hand to start walking again. I walk a couple of dozen more steps before I stop. Gloria is still there looking in my direction. I wave to her. She waves back. Maybe she will call me back. So I wait a little longer. She waves again. I raise my hand slowly to wave and turn to walk a few steps before taking an oblique turn away from the direction of Riverside Drive and don't look back any more.

I'm keeping in a downtown direction and have walked about an hour. There is a little diner on the corner. I go into it and speak to the pimple-faced boy of about eighteen behind the counter. "I'm looking for a job."

"I only work here. I'll get the boss." He turns and goes into the kitchen. Then he returns with a round-faced man wearing a dirty and greasy apron.

"I'm looking for a job," I say to the man.

"We ain't got no vacancies."

I've been walking a long time and have been stopping at all the eating places and grocery stores and even a men's clothing store to ask for work.

It has been dark a couple of hours, and I am getting a little tired. There is an IRT subway entrance. I head toward it to go down the stairs and buy a token and go through the turnstile. The platform is crowded. A rumbling and scraping sound can be heard. The train appears and stops at the platform. People are swarming off the train while people from the platform are pushing their way through the door. I get through the door just in time before it closes.

People get on and off the train at each stop. I get an empty seat before someone else does. A man beside me is sleeping with his chin lolled on his chest. A man on the other side of me is reading a newspaper. I glance at it and see a headline saying there is no settlement of the maritime strike. I try to steal a peek at the article, but the reader turns the page. The train stops and the sleeping man to my left suddenly awakens and gets off at his stop. A heavily perfumed woman takes his vacant seat.

More people are now getting off the train than getting on. I lean back and try to go to sleep. The noisy lurching train keeps me awake.

Now I'm the only person in the subway car. I get up and move to an end seat to lean diagonally into the corner with my pack on my lap. I'm hungry and take out the chops to gnaw them all to the bones.

The car is almost full when I awaken. The man sitting next to me wears a wristwatch. I ask him what time it is. He says it is eight thirty-five. I get off the train at the next stop with my neck a little stiff from the way I've been sitting while sleeping.

I'm out of the subway station and am eating a salami sandwich as I walk. I see a newspaper kiosk and go to it where I stand long enough to spot a small headline saying that the maritime strike is still on.

I start walking again to go into stores and restaurants and ask for work.

I've walked hours and come to a restaurant with a sign in the window that says a dishwasher is wanted. The manager tells me that I can start to work tomorrow morning.

I'm feeling much better now knowing that tomorrow I will start to earn money.

Now I'm just walking and wondering what to do when I see a U. S Marine Corps recruiting station. There is a poster on the wall with a picture of a Marine in green uniform and the words Travel, adventure, and education. Only 100,000 may serve in the U.S. Marine Corps.

I go inside where a buck sergeant in dress blue uniform is sitting behind a desk. "Where can I go overseas if I join the Marines?" I ask.

"There are Marines in Japan, the Pacific Islands, Cuba, China, and a lot of places."

"China?"

"Yeah. There are Marines in China. Marines have been in China since the Boxer Rebellion."

"I'd like to join and go to China."

"How many years do you want to join for?"

"I'm not too sure."

"The shortest enlistment is for two years. There won't be any choice of duty on a two-year enlistment. The best thing to do is join for two years. Then you can extend your enlistment another two years after you get out of boot camp and get a guaranteed choice of duty."

"I'll sign up for two years."

"You've gotta be seventeen years old with parents' consent, or eighteen without it. How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"Have you got a birth certificate?"

I have my birth certificate in my pack that I've brought for getting in the merchant marine where the minimum age is sixteen. "I don't have a birth certificate," I lie to the sergeant.

He takes papers from his desk. "Here're some forms. Fill them out. And get your parents and a witness to sign this one to say that you're eighteen."

"My mother is in Virginia. Can I take these papers to a recruiting station near home?"

"Sure."

I thank the sergeant and go back out onto the sidewalk to look for a telephone booth.

I've walked about fifteen minutes before I find a phone and dial Gloria's number. "Hello," a voice answers.

"Gloria?"

"I'm Julia. I'll call her." I hear her calling Gloria's name.

"Hello," Gloria speaks.

"Hey, Gloria! Guess what!"

"Mountie! Where are you?"

"I'm not too sure. Guess what, Gloria!"

"I'll never guess. You sound excited about it, whatever it is."

"Gloria! I'm going to China!"

"That's wonderful, Mountie! But, Mountie...Mountie, the maritime strike is still on."

"Gloria, I'm joining the Marine Corps. The recruiting sergeant said that if I join for two years and extend my enlistment another two years I can have a choice of where I want to go overseas. So that's what I'm going to do. I'm going in for two years, and I'm going to extend after boot camp. I'll have to pass the physical and all of that."

"You'll have no trouble. Your physique is faultless. But, Mountie...You're not old enough to join the military service."

"I know. I'm supposed to be seventeen with my mother's consent or eighteen without it. I'm going back home and will ask my mother to sign a paper saying I'm old enough."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then I guess I'll have to sign her name on the paper."

She laughs. "It isn't something I'd discount after what I found under the ashtray. You're a naughty one, Mountie. I know you hardly have any money left. Where did you sleep last night?"

"In a subway car. I didn't get much sleep because I couldn't stop thinking about us being together."

"I didn't sleep much last night either for the same reason. You should have kept the money so you'd have something to live on for awhile."

"I still have a few sandwiches left. I won't starve. Thanks to you, Gloria."

"When are you going back to Virginia?"

"When I finish talking with you."

"You talked a lot about wanting to go to China. I'm delighted to hear that your wish is about to come true. There's something else, Mountie, that I hope you do. I hope you finish your education someday."

"Someday I will."

"And someday, Mountie, I'd like to see you in your Marine uniform."

"Yes. I would like for us to get together again someday, when the time is right."

"Yes, Mountie, when the time is right. Now I am..."

The phone starts making strange noises and clicks off. I think about dialing her number again but I only have twenty-eight cents left from the ten dollars I started off with. I might need it for some emergency. Gloria will understand why I didn't call back.

I hang up the receiver to step out of the booth and start asking direction to Holland Tunnel.

Chapter 6

The troop-transport ship I'm on is the first place where I have had enough leisure time to think a lot about Gloria. Boot camp at Parris Island, South Carolina, and infantry and advanced training at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, kept me hopping.

I tried to call her from North Carolina, but her phone was disconnected. Maybe she moved to San Francisco. She said that her husband hoped to get shore duty there. I spent some time on Treasure Island while waiting to embark on a China-bound ship. While on liberty in San Francisco, I wondered what would happen if I saw Gloria with her Naval-officer husband.

Most of my time on this ship has been on topside decks looking upon the deep-blue sea and thinking about the blissful few days spent with Gloria. I can still hear her voice and can still feel her trembling while sobbing when I held her tightly those last hours we were together.

Sally has appeared in my thoughts a couple of times. I didn't stop in Baltimore on my way back home because I no longer had her address and doubted that I could find her house not remembering the address. The piece of paper with her address that her mother gave me was in the watch pocket of my trousers. Gloria put my dirty trousers in her washing machine the first day we were together. Sally's address became obliterated into an ink-stained paper wad.

I've written to Edith a couple of times. We saw each other once after I returned from New York and three more times while on leave after boot camp. I don't feel the same about her after meeting Gloria.

Ground swells are high in the Yellow Sea. A junk is sailing some distance off our starboard beam. Its batten-spaced square sails disappear behind each rising swell. The junk is my first Chinese sight. I'm standing on the bow, holding onto the lifeline as the bow rises when our ship climbs to the top of a swell, then plunges downward when it reaches the crest. I'm being showered with salty water each time it plunges while keeping my eyes on the junk until distance finally takes it from my sight.

Albatross that followed us across the Pacific Ocean have turned back. Seagulls take their places. It is a sign that a port is near when albatross go and gulls come.

Land is still not in sight. But off our port bow are more Chinese sights. Sampans wallow in the swells. I'm soaked from drenching swells and chilled from stiff wind while standing with my field jacket zipped to my throat and watching the little fishing fleet as we get closer to it.

We're close enough now to see men struggling at single sculls that propel and guide little boats which have tunnel-shaped shelters. I am awed with this sight of the little boats enduring the rough sea away from the sight of land.

They're getting closer. Families are on the little flat-bottomed boats. One of them is really close now. A woman squats with a baby and stirs something in a deep pan over a little fire.

There are sampans rolling in swells in all directions as far as I can see. I'm amazed that they can be out here in this rough sea and not get submerged under high waves.

A shadow appears on the horizon in front of our ship. I suspect that it is land and keep my eyes fixed on it. The sea is getting a little calmer as we get nearer. The closer we get the more I can see that land is in sight. Shoreline is becoming more prominent and a mountain looms above it.

No one told us which port we're headed for. Scuttlebutt starts going around that we're heading into Shanghai.

Sampans are still everywhere around us as our ship plows ahead toward shore. A city is now in view.

We're close enough now to see clearly. A jetty juts out from the shore. A pagoda is at the very end of it. An old gunnery sergeant is standing at my side. I know that he served in China before World War Two. "Gunny, is that really Shanghai?" I ask.

"No, lad. That ain't Shanghai. That's Tsingtao in the Shantung Peninsula. That's Pagoda Pier there. That mountain is the Laoshan. It's the second highest mountain in China. The best beer in China is made in Tsingtao." He tells me that Tsingtao was once under German domain and was later occupied by Japanese.

We're close enough to the docks now to see people. The ship reduces speed as it nears docks. Navy tugboats move toward us. Sampans converge toward the ship, and some are alongside us. People in the boats have buckets and baskets on the ends of bamboo poles. They're poking them upwards toward us and chanting. "Cumshaw! Cumshaw! Cumshaw!"

The ship makes a starboard turn so portside is toward the dock. Sailors have high-pressure water hoses turned onto the begging sampans to drive them away so they won't be crushed between the ship's hull and the dock.

Now the ship is moored. A sampan sailor starts to climb up the anchor chain. A blast from the hose knocks him back into his boat.

It is awhile before the gangway is lowered to the dock so we can disembark. Navy shore patrolmen and Chinese police are at the foot of the gangway trying desperately to drive back hundreds of beggars converging toward us as we file down the gangway with seabags over our shoulders.

My feet are on Chinese soil at last. A dream has been fulfilled. There isn't time to stand marveling about it. The sergeant major is yelling above the cumshaw din for us to fall into ranks.

We're marched away from the dock and loaded aboard trucks. The trucks are taking us through town. Chinese people in black quilted clothing converge toward us every time the trucks have to stop. Arms are upstretched and they're chanting, "Cumshaw! Cumshaw! Cumshaw!" Many are women with babies strapped onto their backs.

My eyes rove the streets where there are dozens and dozens of rickshaws and a few of the tiniest cars I've ever seen. All alongside the streets are little stalls where people are selling goods. I'm teeming with anticipation of riding a rickshaw and walking on those streets, despite the whole place smelling like a sewer.

We're now through town where there is less stink. A sentry waves us through the gate of the Marine compound. The trucks stop. We disembark and fall into ranks. The platoon I'm in is marched to the base gymnasium, and we're told that this is where we will sleep tonight. There are no beds or even any mattresses. And we must spread our blankets on the deck.

Scuttlebutt goes around that we can't go off the base tonight and that we'll be sent back to Guam tomorrow. I'm feeling disappointed with prospects that I won't walk Chinese streets after all.

A gunnery sergeant is now telling us that we can go ashore tonight, but we can only go off the base if we go with someone who has been here awhile and knows the town.

Six of us head toward the main gate and get with two privates first class who have been on the base three months. "Where are you from, Joe?" one of the PFCs asks me.

"Virginia."

"I'm from Noo Joisey."

"I hitchhiked through New Jersey on my way to New York."

I'm now in my first rickshaw. It is following the rickshaw of the two PFCs. The closer we get to town the more it stinks. "Where is all this stink coming from?" I call to the guy from New Jersey.

"It's shit. They shit in buckets. It's collected and put on gardens."

"Where're we going?"

"To the house of a thousand assholes. It's the biggest whorehouse in town."

Hordes of ragged-and-dirty cumshaw-chanting children follow our rickshaws. We're well into town and turning into a side street. More children join the mob of rickshaw followers.

The rickshaws have turned onto another street that is even narrower, then onto a wider street. There is a commotion on the street ahead. About a half-dozen American sailors are fighting a large mob of Chinese. "C'mon, youse guys!" the New Jersey guy yells. "Let's help dem swabbies out before dem rickshaw boys beat the shit outta dem."

We jump out of our rickshaws while they're still moving and rush toward the battling mob. A sailor is on the deck, and a rickshaw puller is beating him with a bicycle-tire pump. The rickshaw boys see that they no longer outnumber the sailors. They break away from the fight scene and run for their rickshaws. We're running after them and dragging their rickshaws to a halt. All of the rickshaws are overturned and abandoned by the Chinese fleeing and disappearing among street pedestrians and rickshaw traffic. They've all disappeared and the Americans start regrouping. One of the Marines suggests that we turn the rickshaws upright and take turns pulling each other into town. A sailor tries to take one of the rickshaws. A fight starts—Navy versus Marines.

A sailor's forearm is around my neck from behind. I grab his sleeve with my left hand and upper arm with my right to twist my body and hump my hips, just like I've been taught in judo training, to send him tumbling over my head.

Police whistles sound. Marine military police, Navy shore patrol, and Chinese police are on the scene blowing whistles. Sailors and Marines run in all directions to escape the raid.

I'm in an alleyway and running as fast as I can. I turn into another alley and keep running until I come to a wide street. I dash through rickshaw traffic and nearly get hit by a small taxi while dashing across the street and disappear into an alley to keep running until I come to a narrow street.

I'm breathing hard. I stop running and start walking with the pedestrian crowd. There are no Americans in sight as I continue walking and not knowing where I'm headed.

A young boy tugs my sleeve and speaks to me in English. "Piece ass, Murn?"

"No."

"She clean girl, Murn."

"I don't want a girl."

"She virgin. She fuckee fuckee velly good, Murn."

I ignore him and keep walking. He's still following me as I walk with the pedestrian crowd and take in the sights of the street-side stalls. Corkscrew-shaped bread sticks hang above stalls. Smoke billows from small fires where women are frying in deep pans something I don't recognize. I ask one of them what she is frying but she doesn't understand me.

I'm at the end of the street and am entering a wider one that is full of rickshaws and a few small cars. There are lots of noisy street-side bars with droves of sailors and Marines going in and out of them.

I'm glad to have been separated from the gang I went off the base with because I want to discover China alone my first day here. I keep on wandering and have no idea of where I am, except that I'm on the edge of town.

There are two Chinese soldiers squatting and working with something. I get closer and see that they're skinning a dead dog.

The road I'm on leads into a village of small mud huts. It stinks here as much as it does in town—maybe even more so. Begging children flock toward me and follow me until I turn and head back into town. I wish I knew how to speak Chinese. I'm going to learn the language when I find someone to teach me.

A military police jeep stops beside me. One of the MPs asks, "What are you doing out here?"

"Just walking."

"How long have you been in Tsingtao?"

"I got here today."

"You shouldn't be walking in out-of-the-way places alone. It's almost curfew time. You'd better get back to the base. Chinese police will shoot anyone on sight after curfew."

"How do I tell a rickshaw boy that I want to go back to the base?"

"Say, Dachalu. That's the name of the road that goes into the base."

The jeep leaves me standing. I walk until I see a rickshaw and wave to it. The puller trots to me and drops the traces so I can get in. "Dashalu," I say. It is the first Chinese word I've spoken.

I've had a good sleep, even on the gymnasium deck without a mattress. We're marched to chow. After chow we go behind the mess hall to empty leftovers into a GI can. Then we wash our mess gear in a soapy GI can and rinse it in two others. There are Chinese civilian workers on the base. Two of them are bending over the garbage can of leftover food garnished with cigarette butts and shoveling it with their hands into their mouths.

We straggle back to the gym and have less than a half-hour's leisure before a gunnery sergeant comes in and tells us to pack our seabags. Scuttlebutt immediately starts that we're going back to Okinawa. My ship stopped in Okinawa and about all that I saw there were Quonset huts and lots of mud.

We're loaded onto trucks that take us through town to the Marine air base where we board twin-engine C-47 transport planes. Scuttlebutt has changed. Now word circulates that we're going to Japan.

I'm airborne my first time. Bucket seats line both bulkheads and face inboard where there are piles of mail sacks. I'm lucky enough to be seated by a porthole so I can see villages on the city peripheries.

The mountain called Laoshan disappears behind us. I know we're not going to Japan or to Okinawa because we are flying away from the ocean and not over it. We're flying low over the landscape that is clustered with villages, presumably mud-hut villages like the one I saw on the edge of Tsingtao.

The ride is bumpy. The plane seems to be dropping great distances. A crewman says it is because we're hitting air pockets. He says there are more air pockets flying over China than any place he has flown.

Now we're circling and losing altitude. There is a city that is surrounded by mud-hut villages and there is a river. We're getting low enough to see people on the ground. The air crewman says we're landing at Tientsin.

Trucks wait for us at the airfield. Scuttlebutt says that this is only a stopover before going onward to Shanghai. I don't believe it because Shanghai is in the opposite direction from Tsingtao as Tientsin.

Chapter 7

Trucks take us to a compound and we're assigned to barracks. A proper bunk with a mattress is welcome after sleeping on the hard deck in the Tsingtao gymnasium.

We've hoped to get liberty for going off the base but there isn't any tonight. Someone who has been here a couple of months says that we're in a compound that used to be British military quarters.

My barracks is in a building with the back wall beside a street. I'm lying in bed listening to someone playing a string instrument and singing a Chinese song as he walks on the street past the barracks. It is the first Chinese song I've ever heard. It is an intriguing weird sound, and I'm enchanted with it. I'm awake a long time teeming with anticipation of seeing the city.

Liberty is granted my second day here. I'm heading off the base with two guys who have been here a few months. They insist upon going to the nearest bar to get charged up on vodka before going to a whorehouse. One the guys says that Russians who escaped the Red revolution came to China and that there is a thriving vodka industry.

I'm drinking a non-alcoholic lime drink while they swill vodka sours. We have a few drinks at that place then go to another bar where we have a few more. They're getting noticeably drunk by the time we get to the third bar and don't notice me making my exit to explore Tientsin by myself.

I'm fascinated with people in the street. Men and women are dressed in kimonos or padded trousers. Many women have tiny feet that have been bound since infancy to retard growth, just like I read about in Pearl Buck's novels.

Rickshaw boys solicit me as a passenger, wanting to take me to whorehouses. I'm refusing their offers and choose to discover the city on foot.

I'm walking over the bridge to cross the river and keep on walking. Sometimes begging children flock around me and follow a few blocks. Elderly-looking women with children strapped on their back come to me with outstretched palms. "Cumshaw, Murn. Cumshaw, Murn." Sometimes I give them a little money, which usually attracts even more beggars. I can't give to everyone and I'm feeling bad about not being able to give more than I am.

I've heard that that children have swollen bellies when they're starving. There are plenty of those here. Children are everywhere with bloated bellies, just like I saw in Tsingtao.

I've walked a long time and still haven't come to the edge of the city. Tientsin is bigger than Tsingtao and stinks just the same.

Now I'm in an outdoor market that covers a vast area. Some stalls sell clothing or material for making clothing. Others sell everything from cooking ware to bicycle parts.

There are stalls where food is being fried in deep pans over small charcoal fires. I'm anxious to have a taste of Chinese food. A woman is frying something that looks like a chicken leg. It is turning golden in the hot grease and looks delicious. I remember seeing the Chinese soldiers skinning a dog in Tsingtao and move to another stall where a woman is frying a small fish and vegetables. She puts some in a bowl for me and hands me a pair of chopsticks. I buy a corkscrew-shaped bread stick and move aside to sample Chinese food the first time.

The bread stick is easy enough to bite but I can't get the chopsticks positioned properly in my fingers to pick anything out of the bowl. I watch a man in a black kimono eating something with chopsticks and study the way they are positioned in his fingers. It looks simple enough. Just rest one of them across my middle finger and grip the other between my thumb and forefinger – similar to holding a pencil. It works most of the time. With a little difficulty I manage to empty the bowl.

I've walked so far away from the base that I don't see any Marines. I'm taking random directions wandering through alleys and small streets, not knowing whether I'm going toward or away from the Marine compound.

Now I'm on a wider street. A military police jeep stops beside me. A double-hash-marked buck sergeant says, "You shouldn't be this far away from the base alone. You never know what could happen."

"Which way is it back to the barracks. I'm at the old British quarters."

"How long have you been here?"

"Two days."

"You'd better get in a rickshaw." He waves to a rickshaw. And says something like, "Ingwawa impwah."

"Thanks, sergeant," I say and get into the rickshaw that has the traces lowered the ground. The rickshaw boy is not a boy but is a grizzled man. He picks up the traces and starts trotting along the wide street toward the base. I've decided that one of my priorities is to learn the Chinese language.

There is a language school near the Marine compound. I enroll and go to Mandarin classes most evenings that I have liberty to leave the base. I always hang back after class and talk with the teacher who knows a lot of Chinese history. He tells me that much of Tientsin's architecture is from colonial days when an opium trade flourished into the nineteenth century. I tell him that much of the architecture in Tsingtao didn't look very Chinese either. He said that Tsingtao had been taken over by Germany as ransom for the death of some of their missionaries and that some of the buildings are European.

I go into the city after class to practice what I've learned and to learn new words as I explore.

The only sexual relief I've had since coming to China has been during my wet dreams. I'm in a bar with a bunch of guys from my barracks and drinking a non-alcoholic lime drink. I'm the only one of the bunch who is sober. One of the guys suggests that we go to a whorehouse.

We're in rickshaws and going down a narrow street. The rickshaw convoy turns into an alley and enters another narrow street. There is a banner stretched across it saying in English that the area is off limits to American military personnel.

The convoy stops in front of a building. We dismount from the rickshaws, and I follow the gang inside where we bargain with an old woman for the price of a short-time fuck.

We've agreed on twenty-five cents for a girl. The old woman is about to take our money when the alarm sounds that military police have arrived.

I start to dash into the hallway but change my mind and duck under a table just as four MPs converge into the room. "You're all under arrest!" the sergeant in charge says. "Line up there facing the wall."

I sprint from under the table and dash into the hallway. One of the MPs is after me and yells for me to stop as I race for the door leading into the street.

He's still after me on the narrow street and yelling for me to halt. I quickly change directions to cut through a narrow alley that leads to another narrow street. I cut into another alley that enters a street and run a short distance before spotting another alley. The alley takes me to a wider street that is full of rickshaw traffic and a small taxi. I wave at the taxi. It stops, and I get into the small car that has the steering wheel on the right side. I'm telling the driver in the best Chinese I know to take me to a good whorehouse and one that the MPs aren't likely to raid.

He blows his horn to scare pedestrian and rickshaw traffic out of our way and drives several minutes before stopping in front of a building. I'm practicing the language in arguing about the fare. We agree on the amount, and he escorts me into a building. I've learned that rickshaw boys and taxi drivers get a pimp's commission for bringing customers to whorehouses.

The driver says he will wait outside for me. I tell him that I don't want him to wait but will find my own way back to the base.

The whorehouse madam says a short-time fuck is fifty cents. I say that the going rate is a quarter in other brothels. She says that this is a better place and that the girls are cleaner. We settle on a price of thirty-five cents. And she escorts me into a room where there is a woman smiling to display gold teeth.

The taxi driver is waiting for me outside and asks me where I want to go. I tell him that I don't want a taxi but want to find my own way around town. He says he'll give me a cheap price, but I insist upon walking.

I'm aimlessly walking back in the direction of the base hoping I'm not seen and recognized by the MP I escaped from at the other whorehouse.

I've been assigned as train guard to protect supplies being sent to the American Legation in Peking. I'm standing in the doorway of a boxcar. My tank jacket is zipped up to my neck. A loaded Thompson submachine gun is slung over my right shoulder as the train moves out of Tangku to continue its slow journey toward Peking. It suits me to be on a slow-moving train because it affords a view of mud-hut villages and the countryside where men, women, and children toil in the fields.

Embassy trucks meet the train in Peking. All of us in the train-guard detail board the trucks to provide security until they are unloaded in the Legation compound.

There isn't much time for us to spend in Peking because we have to take the return train to Tientsin. But the quick look I've had of the city has impressed me as being the most fascinating architectural intrigue I've ever seen. I'm coming back and spend some time here even if I have to go absent without leave to do so.

The corporal in charge of the train-guard detail says it is possible to get long weekend passes to ride the train to Peking. That's what I'm now planning to do.

Chapter 8

I've had to wait two weeks to get a long weekend of liberty and permission to travel to Peking. It is stipulated with my pass that I have to go with a group. There are four of us in the group boarding the train.

Bicycle-pulled rickshaws converge upon us when we disembark from the train. We select a rickshaw each and go on a harrowing ride to the Peking Hotel. There are few automobiles. That's lucky. The ride is dangerous enough with our rickshaw weaving in and out of rickshaw traffic and whipping across tracks in front of trolley cars. I'm thinking that if there are ever as many cars in Peking as there are rickshaws that traffic jams in New York will be mild in comparison.

We arrive at the Peking Hotel. The rickshaw drivers say they will be waiting for us when we come out of the hotel to take us wherever we want to go.

We've checked in at the hotel. One of the guys in the group suggests that we go into the hotel bar before going to our rooms. Everyone else orders vodka sours and I a lime drink. Sitting on my left is a woman who is beautiful. I'd tried my luck with a woman, half Samoan and half Caucasian, in Honolulu who was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. This light-complexioned woman sitting to my left is equally as beautiful. My advances toward the Hawaiian woman had resulted in a slap across my face.

The woman on my left and I exchange greetings in Chinese. Then she asks in English, "What is your name?"

"Mountie. What is your name?"

"Ling."

I ask her if she will have a drink with me. She says something to the bartender, who pours an amber liquid from a bottle into a glass for her. She takes a sip from the glass and asks, "Do you want a girl for your room?"

"Will you go to my room with me?"

"I go to your room if you pay me."

"Will you stay all night with me?"

"I stay all night with you, if you pay me."

"Will you go places with me?"

"I go with you. I do what you want to do."

We finish our drinks and go to my room where I leave my change of underwear and toilet articles. My rickshaw driver is waiting when we go outside. I hire another rickshaw for Ling so she can take me on a tour of this spectacular city.

It is early evening by the time we've had a rickshaw tour of Peking so I can admire the swayed roof ridges with upturned ends. I ask Ling where there is a good place to have dinner. She says that the best place is at the Hotel Du Nord. "It is more expensive than other places. But it is good place to eat," she says.

We have tiny frog legs crisply fried in batter. I'm looking at Ling across the table. She is a pretty woman with graceful and refined manners. It is difficult to imagine her as a prostitute after seeing what I have in the two whorehouses I've visited.

The waiter comes with the check written in English. It is twenty-five cents each, which is about four times the price I've paid for a meal in Tientsin restaurants.

Our rickshaws are waiting outside and take us back to the Peking Hotel. Two of the guys I came here from Tientsin with are staggering out of the bar as Ling and I enter the hotel lobby.

We're up early in the morning and have breakfast in the hotel restaurant. Ling says she wants an American-style breakfast. Both of us order bacon, eggs and toast.

Our rickshaws are waiting outside the hotel as we emerge. We're off to what is to be a busy day of seeing as many ancient sights as possible. Our first stop is at the Forbidden City. By the end of the day we've been through the Summer and Winter Palaces, have taken a rowboat across a lily-covered lake to a concrete boat to have lunch. The boat is an extravagance of the Empress Dowager Cixi of the Qing Dynasty. The boat is too heavy to float and rests on the bottom of the shallow lake and is used as a restaurant. Now we're standing at the bottom of the Temple of Ten Thousand Buddhas. Some of the Buddha figurines are chipped off the monument. The monument was used for pistol practice during the Boxer Rebellion.

Ling says we will have time to go to the Great Wall of China before I have to get on the train for my return to Tientsin. My head is spinning with the joy I've had in two days of seeing historical sites I'd read about and daydreamed of seeing some day but never imagined that I would ever be able to. I'm feeling like it is all a dream.

I'm still feeling like I've just awakened from dreamland as I board the Tientsin-bound train. I wave goodbye to Ling on the platform, who says she wants to be with me again when I make my next journey to Peking.

Chapter 9

I'm seventeen years old now and guarding cargo loaded up to the gunwales of the LST moored at the Hai River docks. All crewmen and officers of the landing ship are ashore. I'm alone here with a loaded M-1 rifle.

We've been loading the LST a couple of days and know we're going somewhere but don't know where. Scuttlebutt has been going around that we're going to Shanghai. I've learned to ignore scuttlebutt and just make the best out of whatever surprises that may come from secret moves.

I'm excited with the prospect of discovering a new place. At the same time am disenchanted about leaving Tientsin. I'll miss being close enough to Peking for weekend visits.

I've taken every opportunity I could get for weekends and long weekends in Peking. Ling has been my companion each visit. I've developed a fondness for her. She says she likes me better than her other paying clients. But I don't know whether or not it is true. I've found Chinese to be secretive and hard to figure out, and I never know when they're telling the truth.

I'm leaving without having an opportunity to say goodbye to Ling. She has always been secretive about where she lives. I've wanted to find out, but she always managed to hedge away from the subject when I approached it. Our only contact point has been at the Peking Hotel bar.

I'll go back to Peking some day. I've been tinkering with the idea of enrolling in Peking University when my four-year enlistment ends.

We're loaded aboard the LST and take our places on top of the cargo. I'm on top of a stack of hand-grenade crates piled high enough above the gunwales so I can have a clear view of the Hai banks as we dodge through busy sampan traffic. I think that if I were Chinese I would have a sampan and live as an aquatic nomad.

Mud huts are abundant along the shoreline. There is the occasional cluster of green bamboo. It is my first time to see bamboo growing. I'm enthralled with the gracefulness of the tall trunks that form a gentle curve from the weight of the foliage cluster on top. Farm families toil in shoreline fields and seem unmindful of our flat-bottom ship churning down the muddy river.

We're coming to the end of the Hai. A muddy tongue of the river stretches out into the blue of the Bo Hai Gulf. We're now sea-borne and still surrounded by sampans.

Our flat-bottomed ship is giving us a rough ride over rising ground swells. It doesn't plow into breakers like a normal ship but climbs to the top of a swell and drops off the crest with a magnificent slap. Open-deck cargo creaks and grumbles with the erratic motion of the vessel. We're holding onto the nets that fasten the cargo into place.

We're heading toward a Navy troop-transport ship rolling between high ground swells. A cargo net is draped over the starboard side.

Our flat-bottomed little ship draws up alongside the big vessel. We prepare to climb the cargo net. I had amphibian training at Camp Lejeune, but Atlantic ground swells were mild compared to these.

We're carrying field-transport packs which weigh about ninety pounds including bedding roll and shelter half wrapped like a horseshoe over the top. My M-1 rifle weighs nine pounds. The cartridge belt around my waist is full of ammunition. And there are two bandoleers of ammunition slung around my shoulder.

I've been ordered to hold the bottom of the net away from the big ship while others climb up. My turn comes to climb up the side of the troop-transport ship. There is no one left to hold the bottom of the net. The big ship takes a starboard roll and piles the foot of the net down onto the cargo of the LST. I'm grabbing two vertical strands of the rope net. The big ship heaves upward on a swell and rolls to port to jerk the net above cargo level. All of us on the net are slammed against the hull of the ship we're boarding. The ship descends in a starboard roll to bang us back on top of the cargo while we cling tightly to our vertical strands. Up we go again and bang again against the ship's hull. It beats anything I've ridden in Coney Island.

Now I'm aboard the big ship. Someone says we're on a tactical operation and will make an amphibian landing on a beach somewhere to attack communist forces. I'm thrilled with prospects of going into battle, although I'm skeptical that it is just scuttlebutt.

There are sampans and the occasional junk in sight as our ship plows through high swells. I'm on the bow. It is my favorite place to be on a ship because I like being showered with salt water as the fo'c'sle submerges into a swell. I'm holding onto a capstan to keep from being washed overboard. There's nothing on Coney Island as good as this.

My sleeping compartment is aft and is my least favorite place on a ship. Twin screws beat the top of the water and vibrate the after end when the bow plunges downward and raises the fantail.

There aren't many in the mess hall morning chow line because a lot of guys are seasick. Chow this morning is navy beans and plain cake.

I'm finished eating chow and am climbing the ladder to emerge from a starb'rd hatch on the quarterdeck. I struggle to keep my sea legs while making my way to my favorite part of the ship.

Two junks are sailing alongside each other off our port bow. There are bobbing sampans all around us as far as I can see.

A silhouette is appearing on the horizon in front of me. I can make out the image of a mountain as we get closer. It looks like my first sight of Laoshan when we headed into Tsingtao.

The image of a city is coming into view. It seems like we may be heading toward Tsingtao but I can't be sure.

Sampan traffic increases around us. Many of the little boats are near enough to see families aboard. There are wisps of smoke from the little craft where the morning meal is cooking.

Now I see Pagoda Pier and know that we're heading toward Tsingtao. Are we landing on the beach? Or will we enter the harbor? I'm wondering if we really are on a tactical mission. It won't be long until we find out.

We're heading into the harbor. Sailors use water hoses to battle off begging sampan families. The ship's engine shuts down. Tugboats take us into tow. And the ship is mooring at the same dock where I landed my first time in Tsingtao. Military police, shore patrol, and Chinese police push back the besieging flocks of beggars on the wharf as we troop down the gangway.

We're in formation on the quay and being marched a short distance where six-by-six trucks await our boarding.

The trucks take us to the Marine compound that was once a university campus. It is the same compound where I was the first time. I'm back in the same gymnasium and bedded down on the floor again without a mattress. Liberty to leave the base hasn't been granted for tonight. Scuttlebutt is going around that we're being flown back to America tomorrow morning. Most of the guys head off to the base slop chute. I stay in the gym to write a letter to Edith and spread my bedding roll on the hard floor for an early night's sleep.

Reveille sounds at 0530 hours. A gunnery sergeant is yelling for us to hit the deck and stand by for chow call. The same gunny appears again after chow and tells us to pack up our packs and fall out into formation.

Separate ranks are formed as our names are called. The new formation I'm in is marched to the front of a barracks. The platoon sergeant in charge of the formation says we're being assigned to an infantry battalion. My name is called again, and I'm put into another formation. Six of us in the new formation are told by the corporal in charge that we're now in an anti-tank platoon.

There are four men in a thirty-seven-millimeter gun crew. Corporal Tacklet is the squad leader in charge of my gun. PFC Mouzritz is the gunner. He is an enormous guy about six-foot-five and built like Charles Atlas. Everyone calls him Mouse. The assistant gunner is PFC Spalding. He is a guy about my size, or maybe even a little smaller. I have the tail-end job in the crew. I'm the ammunition passer.

A thirty-seven is a small flat-trajectory cannon mounted on wheels with 616 tires and weighs 912 pounds. It has a muzzle velocity of twenty-eight-hundred feet per second and chamber pressure of fifty-two thousand pounds per square inch.

We're on a field exercise on farmland outside of Tsingtao. It stinks out here, too. Farmers dip human excrement from a wooden keg and put it into furrows. The manure cask is affectionately known as a honey pot.

The four of us are running and pulling our gun across the shit-strewn field. Tires are rolling in shit-filled furrows. We're stepping in puddles of shit. Gun and crew smell of Chinese excrement. Farmers are mouthing angry Mandarin at us because our gun trail bumped a honey pot and knocked it over to splash crewmen, our gun, and farmers with liquefied shit. Mouse says the whole goddamned country is suffering from diarrhea. Spalding says, "The whole goddamned country ain't nothing but shit."

The gun is across the shit-puddled field. Now we must get it up the hillside. There isn't any vegetation on the hill—not even a blade of grass. It has been raked clean. Women spend all day on hillsides to scratch up a handful of grass or weeds, which they use as bedding or whatever needs padding.

There are plenty of big rocks and deep ruts on the hill. Thrauster, the platoon sergeant, is yelling for us to get our asses moving and to get those fuckin' guns up to the top of the hill. It wouldn't be so difficult if there weren't so many ruts and rocks. We're struggling to get our gun over a rock. Mouse and Spalding are swearing at each other for being in each other's way. Mouse gives Spalding a backward shove, grabs the right wheel and with a mighty heave lifts it over the rock. Spalding is back on his feet and threatening to kick the shit out of Mouse for knocking him over. Tacklet snaps at Spalding to shut up and get back on the gun.

We're exhausted by the time we get the thirty-seven to the top of the hill. But there is no time to rest. Sergeant Thrauster is yelling for us to dig our guns in. We're using our entrenching tools to dig a gun emplacement.

The emplacement is dug. The thirty-seven is in it and in firing position. Tacklet tells us we can take a break and that the smoking lamp is lit. I take a pack of Luckies out of my pocket and light one with my Zippo.

I'm smoking my cigarette and looking down the forward slope. There is a mud hut and a vegetable garden. A man is hooking a donkey to a wooden-wheeled cart. A woman pulls a bunch of scallions from the garden. She goes into the hut and returns with a handful of something and tosses it into the wok with the onions she has chopped and begins to stir. A child emerges from the hut and stands gaping at the wok.

"Wonder what that is in the pot with the scallions?" Mouse muses.

"Probably shit," Spalding speculates. "That's about all there is in this country."

Tacklet has wandered a few paces away from the emplacement and is standing by a pile of small rocks. "Holy fuck! Hey, you guys! Come here and look at this."

We go to where the squad leader is standing. He points to a small object in the rock pile. It looks at first like the torn-off arm of a doll but there's dried blood on it. It is a baby's arm. I bend over it for a closer look. It must be from a newly born baby because the fingernails haven't formed. "I wonder how it happened," I say.

"Maybe an animal tore it off," Mouse speculates.

"It couldn't've been an animal," Spalding says. "The Chinese eat all the animals they can get their hands on except their donkeys, and there ain't that many donkeys around."

"Maybe it was chopped up with a sharp rock," Tacklet says as we head back to the emplacement.

Spalding laughs. "Maybe the rest of it is what is in that pot with the onions."

We clean the thirty-seven and put it in the gun shed after we get back to the base. There is time to shower and change clothes before chow time. Tacklet suggests that we skip chow and go ashore together.

The four of us get into rickshaws and go to the center of town. We stop our rickshaws in front of a large building. It is the Navy Enlisted Men's Club. I've been here a couple of times with my crew. I've been drinking Coca-Cola while they drink whiskey and Coke. Spalding always gets falling-down drunk, and Mouse has to carry him to a rickshaw and help him from a rickshaw back onto the base and dump him into his sack. Tonight I think I'll have a couple of Cokes. Then I'll sneak off and prowl around the city on my own.

The waiter appears at our table. I've been a little curious about whiskey since I've been going ashore with my gun crew. I start to order a Coke. Then I change my mind and order a whiskey and Coke.

The taste isn't too bad. I like the glowing sensation as it goes down. I'm feeling relaxed and a bit woozy by the time I finish my drink. I change my mind about sneaking off and order another whiskey and Coke when the waiter comes.

I don't remember leaving the EM Club. There are short snatches of memory in the rickshaw going back to Dachalu. I'm staggering and can hardly stand when I get out of the rickshaw. Tacklet slings my arm over his shoulder to keep me on my feet while going through the main gate. I don't remember anything else until I am undressed down to my underwear and am in my sack.

I'm in the bottom bunk. The room spins, and the bunk above me swirls. It feels better than being on a Coney Island merry-go-round.

A bugle sounding reveille awakens us at 0530 hours. My tongue and palate feel parched, and I'm still feeling a little drunk and dizzy as I get on my feet and get into field uniform.

Chow is greasy sausage and fried eggs. Thoughts of eating this greasy stuff makes me want to puke. I know that I'd better force it down because we're going on a thirty-mile hike today. I won't last five miles if I don't get some chow in my stomach.

I'm swilling strong black coffee from my canteen cup while looking at my mess kit full of greasy chow. The cup of joe is foul-tasting, but it is wetting my parched mouth enough so I can swallow my first bite of sausage and eggs.

I eat about half of what is in my kit. Mouse eagerly finishes it and wolfs down all that remains in Spalding's kit and looks over the table to grab pieces of bread or anything else anyone has left over. I'm feeling a little stronger after getting the chow and black joe in my stomach but I still don't feel like going on a thirty-mile hike.

Platoon Sergeant Thrauster is yelling for us to get our asses outside and into formation. Spalding looks about as bad as I feel as we fall into ranks. Tacklet looks considerably better than either of us. Mouse is pert as a cricket. It is amazing because he drank as much as all of us last night.

The company is marched through the rear gate and we head in a direction away from the city. My dungarees are soon wet with sweat. My mouth feels dry as gunpowder. The first thing I do when we stop for our first break is take a mouthful of water from my canteen. I swish it around in my mouth before swallowing it. I want more but know that I must make the quart of water last the entire march.

The company gunny passes the word that the smoking lamp is lit. I take out my pack of Luckies and light one. It tastes about as foul as the one I lit after chow. Mouse is peeling an orange. He looks at me and grins. "How do you feel?"

"Awful."

"No wonder. You got shitty as a bull last night. Spalding, you were even worse. When are you guy going to learn how to drink?"

Spalding growls, "Shut the fuck up, Mouse."

Mouse is laughing. "The way your eyes look, Spalding, someone will have to put a tourniquet around your neck to keep you from bleeding to death."

"If you don't shut up, Mouse, I'm going to poke a handful of knuckles into your big fuckin' mouth!"

The gunny yells, "The smoking lamp is out! Fall in!"

I take another quick swig of water, and we're moving again. I've sweated out most of the whiskey by the time we take our noon break. My C-ration spaghetti isn't as revolting as my morning chow was. Mouse is disappointed that Spalding and I have finished ours. He's been eyeing us to see if we have any leftovers.

My canteen is empty, and my mouth is still dry by the time we return to the barracks. I'm exhausted and stinking from body perspiration. I've decided that I'll hit the sack early tonight, maybe right after evening chow.

Being drunk is fun but I sure don't like next day's effects.

Mouse catches up with Spalding and me on the way back from the shower. "What're you guys up to tonight?"

"I haven't given it any thought," Spalding says.

"How about you, Mountie?"

"I'm going to clean my carbine. Then I might write a letter to my girlfriend and hit the sack."

"Tacklet and I are going down to the Pirate's Cave. Want to come along?"

I say that I don't think I want to. Spalding says he'll have to think about it.

The four of us are dressed in khakis and in rickshaws heading downtown. We stop the rickshaws on a street where there are several bars in sight. We go into the Pirate's Cave on the corner. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the subdued lighting. Three sailors are at a table. Two Marines are at another table. I follow my gang up to the bar.

"What're you guys having?" Mouse asks.

"A beer," Tacklet says.

Spalding says he'll have one, too.

"How about you, Mountie?"

"Beer."

Mouse orders four beers, and we carry them to a table close to the one occupied by the two Marines. The beer is refreshing in my parched mouth. I like the crisp taste and wonder how I've managed to go so long without discovering something as good as this.

We have another two beers each before Tacklet suggests that we go somewhere else. The parched sensation in my mouth is gone, and my head is buzzing as we leave the Pirate's Cave and head into a bar next door called The Bosun's Locker. "I'm having a vodka sour," Mouse says. "How about you guys?"

"That's what I'll have," Tacklet says.

Spalding says he'll have one also and I have the same.

I'm feeling really good after two vodka sours on top of the three beers. Mouse suggests that we go to a whorehouse. All of us agree and go outside to hail rickshaws. Mouse and Spalding are arguing about whether we should go to a small whorehouse or The House of a Thousand Assholes. They're still arguing when we get into rickshaws. Several minutes later we're in The House of a Thousand Assholes.

It is a large building that looks like it may have been a hotel at one time. There are balconies on each floor. Prostitutes are looking over the railings at us as we enter the lobby and pay the madam for the price of a short-time fuck.

Mouse and Spalding race up the stairs to get first choice of a prostitute. Mouse selects one. And Spalding grabs her and whisks her into a room. Mouse goes into the room, and I can hear them arguing about who is to have the catch.

The door opens. Standing in the doorway is a corporal with an MP brassard on his left arm and a holstered forty-five on his right hip. "You're under arrest," he says. "Get out into the hallway."

Tacklet, Mouse and Spalding are in the hallway with several Marines and sailors under guard of two MPs. The MPs tell us to go to the bottom-floor lobby and to fall into two ranks. Four more MPs come down the stairs with several sailors and Marines they've apprehended and order them into ranks with us.

The sergeant in charge marches us single file out of the whorehouse. Military Police personnel-carrier trucks are parked outside. We're loaded aboard and driven to the central MP station in the middle of town. Our identification cards and liberty cards are taken from us, and our names are recorded.

It is two days after the MP raid that I'm dressed in khaki and am in the regimental sergeant major's office waiting to be taken before the commanding officer. Tacklet, Spalding and Mouse are there, too. So are all the Marines in my regiment who were caught in the same raid.

My turn comes. The sergeant major calls my name and escorts me into the CO's office. I'm standing at attention in front of a bird colonel. He has my service-record book open on his desk. "You were apprehended by the military police in a brothel."

"Yes sir."

"What would your mother think about such behavior?"

"I don't know, sir."

"She wouldn't approve, would she?"

"I doubt that she would, sir. Anyway, sir, I hadn't planned to tell her."

"This is your first offense. And I'm giving you a warning. You will face disciplinary action if you are apprehended again in an off-limits area. That is all."

I take two steps backwards, do an about face, and exit from the colonel's office and go back to the barracks. Tacklet, Spalding, and Mouse return a little later. Tacklet and Mouse have also received warnings. The old man has given Spalding two weeks restriction to the base because it is his second offense.

Spalding says, "I can go to the slop chute and get drunk even if I can't go out and get laid."

Mouse is laughing. "You can always get a blowjob from a weed monkey while you're on guard duty."

"Not me."

Tacklet, Mouse, and I decide not to go ashore tonight and go with Spalding to the base enlisted men's club. It is a huge Quonset hut across the parade ground. The slop chute is crowded by the time we arrive. We find a vacant booth close to the bar. Tacklet is the first to go to the bar and buy a case of Schlitz.

We're stacking our beer cans against the wall in a pyramid as we empty them. The pyramid tumbles down as Mouse goes to the bar for another case. We start restacking the empty cans. But they tumble again. We give up and call the Chinese helper to remove the empties.

Mouse returns and places his case of beer in the middle of the table. Then he goes back to the bar to get four tin cans of salted peanuts. The tins are olive-drab color like C-ration cans.

Spalding is the third one to buy a case of beer and salted peanuts, and he is boisterously drunk by the time we finish his case of beer. I go to the bar to buy my case. Spalding and Mouse aren't at the table when I return. Tacklet says that Spalding has challenged Mouse to go outside and fight. They return a few minutes later with mud on their khakis. Mouse has a bloody lip.

My head is hazy before we finish the fourth case of Schlitz. Mouse and Spalding go outside to fight again and return even muddier. We've just managed to finish the fourth case by closing time and I have on-and-off memory of staggering across the parade field to the barracks.

It is the AT platoon's turn for guard duty the next day. Tacklet is the corporal of the guard for the watch that Mouse, Spalding, and I have. Mouse is being posted on the docks to guard Navy warehouses. Spalding and I are on the ammunition dump. Our first four-hour watch is from noon until four, and we're back on post again from midnight until four.

The ammunition dump is on a hillside. My post is at the top of the hill. Spalding is posted at the bottom.

I click off the safety catch of my carbine when I hear a rustle on the other side of the barbed-wire fence that encloses my post. "Hey, Joe." It is a woman's voice.

"What's your name?" I ask in English.

"Me nameuh piece ass. Fuckee fuckee, Murn." I continue to walk my post. And she calls again, "Blowjob, Murn."

She keeps calling me all during my four-hour watch. I'm relieved from watch at four o'clock. Spalding asks when I get into the relief truck, "Did any weed monkeys proposition you?"

"One kept calling to me all the time asking me if I wanted a fuck or blowjob."

"Yeah. They always do. While they're sucking your prick through the barbed wire there'll be a bunch of 'em coming across the fence and carting off ammo and selling it to the communists. Your ass will be mud if anything gets swiped while you're on post. They'll lock you up in Portsmouth and forget about you."

Mouse was guarding a Navy warehouse of food supplies. He returns to the barracks with a gallon can of turkey hash and a large box of crackers after our twenty-four hours of guard duty ends.

We're skipping evening chow so we can get an early start at the slop chute. Mouse is carrying the turkey hash under one arm and the box of crackers under the other. We're early arrivals and not many booths and tables are occupied. We select a booth. Mouse puts the gallon tin on the table and starts opening it while I go to the bar to buy the first case of Schlitz.

They're shoveling the hash out with their hands when I return to the booth. Spalding nods toward the tin. "Dig in, before Mouse pigs it all up."

"I'm the one who swiped it," Mouse blabbers with a mouthful of turkey and crackers. "And I'm the one who should be entitled to most of it."

"You're a one-way son of a bitch, Mouse. Who was it that supplied us with goodies while I was on mess duty?"

"Yeah. What did you bring? A bunch of hotdogs with maggots in 'em?"

"They were cooked. There's nothing wrong with eating maggots that have been cooked."

"I'll have my turkey. You can eat your fuckin' maggots."

"How'd you like for me to dump that whole fuckin' can of turkey guts over your head."

"Up your ass."

"Up yours, sideways, you big stack of shit."

Tacklet snaps. "Knock it off, you guys!"

It hasn't taken long to empty the gallon can. Mouse picks up the empty can. "Here's a hat for you, Spalding." He turns it upside down. Gravy dribbles onto the table. He reaches toward Spalding with the can. Spalding slaps the can. It flies to the middle of the room and bounces off a table.

The duty NCO, a corporal, appears at our booth. "What's going on here?"

"Nothing," Mouse says.

"Who threw that can?"

"I dropped it and it rolled over there." Spalding says.

"That looks like something that might have been swiped from the galley. Where'd you get it from?"

"It is a present from the Navy," Mouse says. "A swabby gave it to me."

"Don't try to shit me. You swiped it from one of the warehouses on the docks. You guys had better knock off your shit, or I'll run up the whole bunch of you."

The corporal leaves. Mouse looks into the beer case and finds it empty. "Whose turn is it to buy the suds?"

Spalding says, "Yours."

"Fucked if it is. I was the one to buy last time."

"Horse pussy. I bought the last round last time."

"I'll do it," Tacklet says and arises.

"Get some goobers while you're at the bar," Mouse calls after him.

Everyone except Mouse is staggering drunk after we've had our twenty-four beers each. Spalding wants to get a fifth case but it is almost closing time, and the bartender won't sell him any. Spalding is starting to get boisterous with the bartender. Mouse pulls him away before the duty NCO appears.

Spalding is now trying to fight Mouse as we go outside. There are two other guys outside rolling on the ground and pounding each other. Spalding wants to join in their fight. Mouse pulls him away just in time before the duty NCO appears outside.

Spalding is still being boisterous when we get back to the barracks. The barracks duty NCO threatens to put him on report if he doesn't shut up. He starts another loud commotion when we get into our squad bay. Thrauster comes out of his room in his skivvies and tells Spalding that if he hears another peep from him he will put him on shit detail for a month and will restrict him from even going to the slop chute.

I'm up at reveille with a hangover and back from chow feeling a little better. Spalding and Tacklet don't look much better than I feel. Mouse is showing no after effects from the case of beer he consumed last night.

Thrauster comes into the squad bay and tells us to get into field uniform. He says we're going on fleet exercises.

My squad is in the jeep that is prime mover for our gun. Tacklet is in front with the driver. Mouse, Spalding, and I are in the rear seats. And we get into convoy for our ride to the docks.

A boom swings over the side of the ship we are to go aboard. Our anti-tank platoon is standing by to attach lines to our guns so they can be lifted and lowered into the number-two cargo hold.

The anchor is hauled up and mooring lines cast off, and the ship begins to drift sideways away from the dock through sampan congestion. Two yard tugboats ease up against our ship and nudge it seaward. The troop-transport ship gets far away from the quays to maneuver independently, and the YTBs withdraw toward the harbor.

Sampan traffic is heavy around us. A junk plows through the water a distance from us as it keeps in a shoreline direction. I stand watching the junk to admire its simple beauty. I've been fascinated with junks since my first sighting of one my first time to head into Tsingtao. I'm thinking that someday I would like to have a junk and spend my life going from one country to another. I'll happily settle for a sampan if I can't have a junk.

Land is no longer in sight. There is no longer a cesspool smell in the air. I'm breathing clean sea air and feeling invigorated out of my hangover. Ground swells increase. More ships begin to rendezvous. A destroyer off to our starboard beam is lobbing depth charges over the side at simulated submarines. Our ship feels the vibration as the ash cans explode under the sea surface and send up geysers of water. Guns are firing from all of the ships in formation. Twin forties on our ship are keeping a rhythmic pom, pom, pom, pom firing tracer shots at a sleeve towed by an airplane. Three-inch fifties and five-inch thirty-eights are firing and shaking our ship.

Ground swells are getting higher. Some of the ships in formation disappear behind rising breakers. I'm on the bow until late at night and time to go below to my compartment. I'm fortunate that my compartment is forward and just aft of the fo'c'sle. Anywhere is better on a ship than being in an after compartment that vibrates when the fantail rises and screws beat the water surface. I've put my gear on a top bunk. Bunks are stacked eight high. I've learned to take the top bunk at sea. I don't get seasick but lots of guys do and sometimes puke over the side of their sacks to splatter those below.

Our ship has stopped and is rolling heavily in the lofty swells when I go topside after morning chow. Land is in distant sight. A cargo net is draped over the port beam. Landing craft, vehicle, personnel boats (LCVP) are approaching from the port quarter. Our gun crew is the first on the cargo net. The coxswain is holding his boat as steady as possible alongside the ship. There is no one else in the boat to hold the bottom of the net away from the side of the ship. The ship takes a port-side roll and swings the net away from the ship's hull. Then a starboard roll slams us against the hull. I'm near the bottom of the net. A gigantic roll lifts me several feet above the boat. The ship rolls to port and piles the net with several of us into the landing craft.

The boom is swinging our gun over the side and lowering it toward the boat. We have to be alert to keep the gun from crashing onto the deck of the flat-bottomed landing craft. Tacklet is handling the muzzle to keep it level so it won't plunge into the deck. I am holding the trails to keep the gun from swinging. Mouse and Spalding hold a wheel each to keep the weapon from spiraling. They're arguing and accusing each other of being slack on the job.

The thirty-seven is now settled in the heaving LCVP. We remove the lines and the boom swings back over the ship's deck to make ready for picking up another gun for deposit in another boat. Our boat is now full of riflemen, mortarmen and machine gunners. The cox'n eases the boat sideways away from the ship so another LCVP can take its place.

The cox'n guns the engine and crashes the LCVP headlong into rising swells. It drops down off each swell with a hard slap. Some of the guys are sick as we go in wide circles to rendezvous with the other landing craft. Spalding and Mouse are vomiting. Tacklet and I are ragging them about it.

We've been circling the rendezvous area a couple of hours before the signal is given to head beachward. Tacklet says, "I hope the cox'n can get this boat up to the beach before he drops the ramp. It'll be a son of a bitchin' job getting these guns ashore if he doesn't."

Our gun has been placed aft in the LCVP. Spades are facing forward toward the ramp. We're jolted as the boat hits the beach and the ramp starts going down. Troops storm over the lowered ramp and run toward the beach. Mouse and Spalding each have hold of a trail. Tacklet and I are on each side of the barrel and pushing against the apron. The gun has just cleared the ramp when the cox'n starts raising it and is backing the boat away from the beach.

Thrauster has landed from a boat alongside ours and is yelling for us to get the gun up past the high-tide mark. The gun isn't hard to move near the water where the sand is wet and packed. The higher we get it on the beach the softer the sand is and the harder it is to move the piece. The wheels have sunk almost to the axle in the soft white sand. Mouse and Spalding are straining at the handholds on the trails to pull the gun and swearing at each other all the time. Tacklet and I are pushing with all our strength as our feet sink into the soft sand. I feel like I can't push much longer. Thrauster is yelling for us to get the gun above the beach and set it up into firing position.

The four of us are about ready to drop by the time we get the piece past the high-tide mark. Tacklet orders us to turn the gun around so the muzzle points inland. Thrauster is yelling for all three guns to get into firing position and dig in.

We've landed on the beach that is used for recreational purposes by the Marine base. Farther down the beach is a sector used as a swimming area for Chinese. The Russian beach is beyond the Chinese swimming area.

Mouse says, "Maybe we could take turns going down to the Chinese beach and get a piece of ass...or maybe latch onto one of those big Ruskie blonds."

"No one is to leave the gun position," Tacklet says. "Besides, Mouse, you know fuckin' well that the Chinese and Russian beaches are out of bounds."

We've just dug in our gun. Thrauster appears to tell us to move it up two-hundred more yards and dig in again. We're laboring with the piece to get it farther inland. Riflemen are firing blanks on our right and left flanks. Our aggressors are firing blanks at us from the distant hillside. We're just starting to dig into the new position. Thrauster gives the order to advance another two hundred yards.

Dusk is upon us. We're a couple of miles inland now. The order is given to dig in for the night. There are crackles and orange flashes from small arms to our front. We're in our gun pit returning blank fire with our carbines.

Firing stops out front, and all becomes quiet. Word is passed that we're to be on three-quarter alert. Tacklet says, "They'll probably send infiltrators around our flanks and approach us from the rear. Spalding and I will keep watch to our front. Mountie, move back about fifty yards and set up a listening post. Come back and report any activity you hear or see. Mouse will take the first turn sleeping. He'll go back and relieve you in two hours."

I move quietly in a crouched-over position until I've gone an estimated fifty yards and take a seat on the ground. A half moon casts a silver sheen on the ocean waves in the distant background. All is quiet around me.

I've been sitting here about an hour and am beginning to feel a little sleepy. I get to my knees to do some body twists and settle back into a sitting position. Now I see the silhouette of someone approaching from beachward direction. I get up and move quietly in a crouched-over position back toward our gun. Tacklet challenges me in a low voice. "Who is it?"

"Mountie."

"Massachusetts," he gives the password.

"Chicken soup," I return the countersign.

"Okay."

I'm still crouched over when I approach the gun emplacement.

"What is it?" Tacklet asks.

"Someone is coming toward us."

Tacklet reaches to touch Mouse's shoulder. "Wake up, Mouse. There's an infiltrator to our rear. Spalding, keep a lookout to the front. Mouse, you and Mountie come with me."

We're moving beachward on our hands and knees and can see the silhouette getting close. We get into prone positions and wait with our carbines at the ready. The person is about ten paces from us when Tacklet says in a low voice, "Who is it?"

"Piece ass."

"It's a sheeba-sheeba girl," Mouse whispers.

"It might be an infiltrator playing a trick," Tacklet says.

"Fuckee fuckee, Joe."

The figure is still advancing toward us. Tacklet jacks a blank round into the chamber of his carbine. Mouse and I do the same. We can now clearly identify the figure as a Chinese girl. "Fuckee fuckee, Joe."

The girl stops.

"Let's have a gang-bang," Mouse says.

Tacklet snaps, "Knock off your shit, Mouse!" Tacklet stands to approach the girl and thrusts his carbine muzzle toward her. He tells her in Chinese to go away or he will shoot her. Then he calls over his shoulder, "You two get back to the gun while I chase this cunt off." Tacklet shoves the girl backwards. And Mouse and I withdraw back to our gun position.

Tacklet returns to the emplacement. Mouse says, "We could have had a fuck—probably for about a nickel apiece."

Tacklet growls, "Any more of your shit, Mouse and I'm going to ram my boondocker up your ass. Spalding, take up the listening post to the rear. Mouse, you take Spalding's place here while Mountie gets a snooze."

Chapter 10

I've been in China two years now and am feeling salty about it. I'm no longer going to Mandarin classes but practice it in the city and villages. I can handle the language better than most guys I know on the base.

My name is on the list to take leave in Peking. I'm eager to be with Ling and to explore that magnificent city again.

I'd hoped to get off the base this Saturday afternoon without going with anyone from my platoon. I sneak away whenever I can and head out alone because I've become bored being with the same people all the time. Mouse and Spalding are in the liberty-card queue ahead of me. So are Eckbert and Fernandez from another gun crew. They get their liberty cards and wait for me to get mine from the duty NCO. Nomels and Pulman from the mortar platoon join us as we make our exit from the barracks and head toward the main gate.

We stop the rickshaws in the middle of town and go into a bar that is packed with sailors. Spalding says, "Let's throw these fuckin' gobs out so we can have the place to ourselves."

"C'mon," Mouse says. "Let's turn on 'em."

"Let's go to another bar," I suggest.

The others reluctantly agree, and we find another place that has about a half-dozen Marines in it and no Navy guys. We've been here about a half-hour when a few sailors enter. One of them is staggering drunk and has to be helped onto a stool by one of his buddies. I can see that Spalding and Mouse are itching for a fight and suggest that we move on.

All the guys I'm with, except Mouse, are showing signs of getting drunk by the time we've gone into two more bars. Mouse and Spalding are arguing with each other. The others are talking with "B" girls. It is my opportunity to make the slip.

I'm in a rickshaw and heading toward the racecourse area. Two Chinese soldiers are standing guard outside a Kuomintang military compound. There is a bicyclist about a hundred yards in front of my rickshaw. A large bundle is strapped to the back of the bike. One of the sentries calls for the cyclist to halt. The cyclist keeps peddling. The soldier raises his bolt-action rifle and fires a single shot. The bicycle wobbles and falls. The soldier runs toward his victim and quickly searches him. Then he picks the bicycle up and pushes it toward his guard post.

I'm out of my rickshaw and running toward the cyclist writhing on the ground in a pool of blood. He is making gurgling sounds and blood is frothing from his mouth. I want to help him but there is nothing I can do. The bullet has pierced his lung. He's making choking sounds while drowning from his own blood. He lifts his head from the ground like he's trying to sit and makes a gagging sound before he falls back dead.

The shot has attracted more soldiers to the guard post. A half-dozen of them are rummaging through the bundle they've removed from the bicycle. I'm angry with the soldier for murdering and robbing an innocent civilian and would shoot all of them if I had a weapon.

My rickshaw puller has disappeared. Maybe he was afraid the soldiers would shoot and rob him, too. I start walking in my intended direction and am beyond sight of the murder scene. My rickshaw appears. I get in and the puller starts trotting toward the racecourse.

The racecourse is a fair distance from town. There are a few bars here. White Russians own most of them. There are stables out here, and horses can be rented. I'm thinking that I might rent a horse and ride around awhile.

I might as well have a couple of drinks before I do. I go into a Russian bar and order a vodka sour. I'm the only customer. A hefty blond Russian "B" girl has been sitting on a stool at the end of the bar and sidles up to a stool next to mine. "You buy me dlink?"

"What are you drinking?"

"Champagne cocktail."

I know that it isn't champagne but is a watered-down something else. Or that it may be a non-alcoholic drink so she can pour down as much as any fool will buy for her to get a commission on the drinks she cons.

I tell the bartender to give her a drink. She clinks her glass against mine. "What part of Russia are you from?"

"My mudder and fadder come from Russia after revolution. I was born in Tsingtao."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-two."

I finish my drink and get off my stool. I know that after closing time she might change her role from bar-girl hustler to prostitute and will go to bed with me, if I have any money left after buying drinks for her all night.

"You buy me anudder dlink?"

"Maybe later. I'm supposed to meet some friends at another place."

"You come back with your friends?"

I nod affirmation and put on my fore 'n' aft cap that we call a piss cutter or cunt cap, and head for the door. I'm standing outside wondering whether to go to the stables now or to have another drink before I go. I start walking and stop in front of a bar to look through the doorway. Chinese "B" girls are sitting on bar stools waiting for customers.

I'm in no mood for a bunch of hanging-on hustlers and think that I'll find the stables. I've passed two more bars and am about to pass another one. It is a bar I've been in many times. There are girls in upstairs rooms.

The owner is a fat Chinese man who always boasts about all the property he owns and says he likes western food more than Chinese grub and likes to eat fried chicken with his hands. "Hello Mister Mountie," he greets me in English. "It is long time you no come here."

He gives me the first drink on the house, and the girls upstairs come down to the bar. The best-looking one takes a stool beside mine. I ask her in Mandarin if she would like to have to have a drink. She says she'll have a champagne cocktail.

I've had three beers and am no longer interested in riding a horse. I tell the girl I want to be with her the entire afternoon. We have another drink and go upstairs to her small room.

It is dark when we come back downstairs. We have a drink, and I put on my piss cutter and start to go. "You go so soon?" the bar owner asks.

"I'm going somewhere to get something to eat. Maybe I'll be back later."

"You stay and I give you food. I fly chicken for you."

"I'd rather have Chinese food."

He laughs. "I like American food. You like Chinese food. I give you Chinese food."

I tell him to bring something for the girl and me. And while I'm drinking my third vodka sour he brings two small bowls of soup and two bowls with wheat-dough envelopes that are filled with meat and vegetables. I ask the girl what kind of meat it is but I do not understand the Chinese word. The bar owner tells me in English, "It is pig. You like?"

"Better than fried chicken."

I've had beer with my meal and switch back to vodka sours after eating. Marines are now drifting in and out of the place. The girl and I go back up to her room, and she brings a pot of green tea.

It is getting late by the time we get back downstairs. I don't want to be caught by a trigger-happy Chinese policeman on the street after curfew and go outside to hail a rickshaw after having two vodka sours. They wouldn't shoot American personnel if they recognized them but there's a chance of them cranking off a round before scrutinizing their target.

I stop the rickshaw not far from the base where we usually stop for a bite to eat before going back aboard. A notice signed by the base provost marshal is on the door saying the establishment has been put off limits to American personnel. I get back in the rickshaw and go to another place nearby.

Mouse, Eckbert, and Fernandez are in the place eating sandwiches. Mouse is the only one sober. Chinese occupy another table. One of them is a young naval officer who is drunk. He is the first Chinese I've ever seen drunk except when they celebrate their New Year.

"Hey, Mountie!" Mouse chirps. "Where'd you disappear to?"

"I ended up at the racecourse. What're you eating?"

"It's supposed to be roast beef. I haven't seen any cows since I've been in China. Your guess is as good as mine what's between this bread."

I sit and order a sandwich. Mouse orders another one. I say that I stopped at the other place but it has been put out of bounds.

"Yeah," Mouse says. "The MPs probably caught 'em serving rat meat again."

"If they find out what we've been eating in here tonight this place will probably be out of bounds tomorrow."

"Yeah. You missed all the fun, tonight, Mountie. Spalding picked a fight with a bunch of swabbies. The son of a bitch was too drunk to stand and a coupla gobs were about to beat the shit out of him. The rest of us turned to. A helluva brawl started and the MPs and SPs came. The three of us got away. Spalding and the two guys from piss tubes are probably in the brig now."

Mouse and I finish our sandwiches and are about to arise from the table. The Chinese naval officer is staggering toward our table. "I hate Americans," he says in English. "I will kill Americans."

Mouse grabs him by his necktie and lifts him off the floor and tosses him across the room. Then he picks up all the remainder of sandwiches on our table that the others have been too drunk to eat. Fernandez is too drunk to walk to the rickshaw, and Eckbert and I have to help him. Mouse is gobbling the leftover sandwiches as he precedes us out the door.

We put Fernandez in a rickshaw. He starts vomiting. Eckbert says, "Hey, Mouse, you're not going to let that go to waste, are you?"

"Catch it in your piss cutter," Mouse muffles with a mouthful of sandwich.

Hordes of begging children follow our rickshaws to the main gate. Mouse and Eckbert help Fernandez through the gate. And Mouse slings him over his shoulder and carries him back to the barracks.

All hands are in the squad bay except Spalding. "I'll betcha he's in the poogie," Mouse says.

Spalding is still missing at morning muster. Thrauster gets a report after chow that Spalding is in the base brig on disorderly conduct charges.

We're on the parade ground with the thirty-sevens for a morning of gun drill. I'm acting as assistant gunner in Spalding's absence. The three guns are lined up about fifty paces apart on one end of the parade ground. Thrauster is standing about two hundred paces out front. "On this line, action!" he yells.

We push the half-ton guns at full running speed onto line where the platoon sergeant is standing, spread the trails and get them into firing position. "You're too slow," Thrauster says.

He goes another two hundred long paces out front and yells again, "On this line, action!"

We're running the guns back and forth across the parade ground all morning and setting up into simulated firing position. Fernandez is with the gun to our left. I can see that he is suffering from last night's drunk. I'm glad that I didn't get that drunk last night or I'd be just as hung over today.

I've been thinking more about taking leave to Peking. Thrauster gives me permission to see the company first sergeant. The top tells me that I'll have to put my name on a list and wait until there is a planeload of applicants so we can be flown to Peking from the Marine air station.

Peking and thoughts of seeing Ling again preoccupy my mind while I wait for my leave time. Ling is the nearest to being like a girlfriend since I've been overseas.

A truck load of us go to the air base. We get aboard a C-47 for a turbulent ride while flying low over the mountainous landscape densely populated with mud-hut villages. Air-pocket drops are great fun.

Hundreds of bicycle-drawn rickshaws surround us after we get off the plane at the airport. We board rickshaws and the other pullers disburse to let us get on our way for a wild and scary ride to the Peking Hotel.

I head straight to the hotel bar even before checking in. Ling isn't there. I ask the bartender if he has seen her. He says she hasn't been here for six months, maybe longer. I ask him if he knows where she lives or where I can find her. He says he doesn't. A woman approaches me as I turn to go. "I be your girl while you stay in hotel," she says in English. I tell her in Chinese that I'm not interested in a girl and leave the bar and go into the lobby to check in.

I'm in my room lying back across the bed and wondering what to do next.

Now I'm back in the hotel bar. The woman who had spoken to me earlier is now talking with one of the guys who arrived on the plane with me. I down two vodka sours and go outside where my rickshaw is waiting and tell the peddler to take me to a bar, any bar.

He takes me to a bar that has a beer garden surrounded by a bamboo fence. There are no Chinese customers. People with Caucasian faces occupy a few tables. I select a table and order a pitcher of beer. There are two men sitting at a table next to mine. One of them asks me, "Where are you from, Marine?"

I tell him that I'm from Virginia and am now stationed at Tsingtao.

He introduces himself as Fred says he was stationed at Tsingtao before he went back to America to get his discharge from the Marine Corps and that he is now a student at Peking University.

I say that I, too, have plans to enroll at the university here when my enlistment ends. They invite me to join them at their table, and I move my pitcher and mug over. The other guy introduces himself as Lionel. He is also a student in the university. His father is a Peking-based missionary. Fred says there is a lawn party at the American Embassy tonight and asks me if I want to go.

"Will they let me in without an invitation?"

"There's no reason why they shouldn't. You're an American. It is supposed to be open house to all Americans."

The atmosphere is great within the bamboo fence drinking beer and eating a light meal of noodles and some kind of meat until time for the party. My rickshaw follows theirs. We're on the edge of an enormous square that looks like a big parade ground. There are large tents on the other side and loud commotion inside them. "That sounds like a holy roller tent meeting like the ones back home," I say to Lionel, whose rickshaw is alongside mine.

"That's exactly what it is. The Pentecostal movement is taking roots here, too."

The party is well underway by the time we get to the Legation. People are dancing on the lawn to the music of a Russian band. A waiter passes with a cocktail tray and I snatch a drink. It is some kind of punch and tastes like it has very little alcohol, if any, in it. I go back outside the compound to my rickshaw and tell the peddler to take me to the nearest bar. We return a few minutes later. I go back inside and empty four bottles of 150-proof vodka into the punch bowl. "Naughty, naughty," a voice sounds behind me.

I turn to see a smiling plump woman who is probably in her thirties. "That punch was weak as water. I thought I'd goose it up a little. Here. Let me fix you up." I pry her cocktail glass from her hand, dump the contents on the lawn, and refill it from the spiked concoction. I get an empty glass and fill it for myself.

She clinks her glass against mine. "To your health."

"Here's wind in your sails."

"What's your name?"

"Mountie."

"I'm Sandra. Most people call me Sandy."

"Do you work in the Legation?"

"I'm a tourist. Are you an Embassy guard?"

"I'm stationed in Tsingtao. It's in the Shantung Peninsula."

"I know. There are supposed to be good beaches there?"

"There are." We're now drifting away from the punch bowl. "And there's the Laoshan in Shantung."

She sits on the lawn. I sit beside her. "It's the second tallest mountain in China?"

"That's what I've heard. My language teacher told me."

"So you speak Mandarin."

"A little bit."

"Have you been on Laoshan?"

"A few times. I've gone dove hunting up there."

"Why do you shoot doves?"

"Because they're so hard to hit. I've hunted quail on our farm in Virginia. They flare up in front of you and level off. Shooting quail is like shooting chickens in the barnyard compared to shooting doves. They're very fast and they zigzag when they fly. That's not the only reason I like to go up there. It's fantastically beautiful with all the pagodas and shrines and being up high looking out on the ocean."

"Can you take me up there if I go to Tsingtao?"

"It's a matter of putting my name on the list and checking out a shotgun and going up in a jeep with more guys. I don't know whether I could arrange to take a civilian. I could take you to the beach. Here. Let me refill your glass." I return to her with refilled glasses. "The punch bowl has been emptied, and they've refilled it with that watered-down stuff. I'll duck out to a bar and get something to spike up ours."

"I'll go with you. If you don't mind."

My waiting rickshaw approaches as we emerge from the compound. There are passing rickshaws, and I hail one for Sandra. And we're off to the nearest bar.

We're inside the bar. "Want to have a drink here before we go back?"

"Sure."

I steer her to a table. A waiter appears. "What'll you have?"

"What are you having?"

"A vodka sour."

"That's what I'll have."

The waiter brings our drinks. "This is better than the stuff they have at the party."

"It was kind of a dull party. Do you like to dance?"

"I'm the world's worst dancer. I've never been able to get the hang of it."

"What do you like to do?"

"Lots of things. Most things, I guess, except dance."

"Do you have a girlfriend in Tsingtao?"

"No."

"You must have a girlfriend back home?"

"My girlfriend in high school and I...We haven't been writing to each other in a long time. I kind of suspect she has someone else now."

"Does that bother you?"

"We weren't really that close.

"You must have had more girlfriends?"

"Not many." My drink is finished. And I call the waiter. "Down the hatch," I say. "Let's have another."

She's looking like she's getting high by the time we have two more drinks each. I say to her, "I know a really good place. I'm all for skipping out on that party. How about you?"

"I'm with you. Lead the way."

Most of the tables are occupied in the bamboo-walled beer garden. We find a vacant one in a dimly lighted corner. "This is a quaint setting," she remarks as we seat ourselves. "How did you find it?"

"I asked the rickshaw boy to take me to a bar, and he brought me here."

"How long have you been in China?"

"Two years." I tell her about being in Tientsin and coming to Peking on weekends and say that I want to study in Peking after my enlistment ends.

"Why do you want to study here?"

"Because I became attracted to Peking the first time I saw it. It has fascinated me more than any other place I've seen."

"What do you want to do when you finish your studies?"

"I haven't decided what kind of work I want to do. I want to travel as much as I can. I want to see all of the world."

"You've made a good start. How old are you?"

"Eighteen. How old are you?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

"Let's have another drink."

"Okay. You like to drink, don't you?"

"I guess so."

"Do you ever get drunk?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes when I go out with guys from the base."

"Where are you staying while you're here?"

"The Peking Hotel."

"That's where I'm staying. I'm on the second floor."

"I'm on the third."

We have a few more drinks. I'm feeling drunk and can see that she is just as drunk or drunker. My PX watch indicates it is nearly curfew time. "We shouldn't be on the street after curfew," I tell her. "One night when I was on guard post in Tsingtao, when it was foggy. A policeman yelled for someone to halt. The person kept walking. The policeman pulled a Nambu out of the holster and started shooting. The guy fell and was groaning. The policeman went over and searched his pocket. Then he walked off and left the guy lying there."

"I guess we'd better not take a chance. I've been warned before not to be out after ten."

"What do you say I get a bottle of champagne, and we can have a drink back in the hotel?"

"Can you can get champagne in China?"

"There is a French monastery here. I wasn't drinking when I was here before. But someone told me it is damned good champagne."

I call the waiter to pay the bill and tell him to bring two bottles of champagne.

"Two bottles!" Sandy exclaims. That's a lot of champagne."

"I don't think champagne is very strong." The waiter brings me the two bottles and charges me ninety cents for each one. It is four times as expensive as vodka. "Now we're ready to roll," I say to Sandy.

"To get rolling drunk, you mean."

Not many people are on the streets as our rickshaws head in the direction of the hotel. We're within a block of the hotel. An armored vehicle patrols the street. A policeman is behind a machine gun mounted on top. "Meiguo," I yell to him. They've become more serious about curfew enforcement since I was here two years ago.

We go to her room on the second floor. "I'll call room service for some ice," she says.

"It isn't advisable to put ice in drinks. You can get dysentery or something worse. I got a good dose of Bilharzia. That was no fun, I can tell you."

"You don't put ice in champagne, silly boy. You cool the champagne in a bucket of ice. You haven't been drinking very long, have you?"

"Almost two years."

She picks up the ornate phone receiver and speaks English to order a bucket of ice and two glasses. Then she puts the receiver back on the cradle. "I like this French telephone."

"So that's what it is? I thought it was very unusual. Have you been to France?"

"Once before the war."

"I want to go to Europe some day. Maybe after I finish my studies."

Sandy is now sitting on the bed and leaning back against the headboard. There is a knock on the door. I open it to admit the room-service boy and give him a nickel tip for bringing the ice and glasses. I put the ice bucket and glasses on the bedside stand and pick up one of the bottles to study the top of it and wonder how to go about the ritual of opening champagne. I've seen it done in movies and know that it happens with a popping sound.

"First we'll have to chill the bottle." She scoots across to the other side of the bed and pats the side she has left vacant. "Sit here and I'll show you."

We're both sitting propped against the headboard with the bucket of ice and a bottle of champagne between us. I put the bottle in the bucket and start to sit the bucket on the bedside stand.

"Twirl the bottle and it'll chill faster." She smiles while I carry out her instructions. "It should be chilled enough now. Now loosen that wire. Give me the glasses first. Remove the wire and loosen the cork."

The cork pops out and bounces off the ceiling. Champagne is fizzing out on the bed cover. "Into the glass, sweetie."

I fill both glasses and she tips hers against mine. "Santé," she says.

"Wind in your sails."

"This is god champagne. It is excellent, in fact. I love champagne. It makes me feel sexy."

"Is it making you feel that way now?"

"Sweetie I've been feeling sexy all evening."

"I have, too."

My mouth feels dry, and my head is hazy like I'm still drunk when I awaken and awaken her. "I need a drink to drown the butterflies in my stomach," I say.

"I'm starving. Do you want room service to bring us something? Or do you want to go out?"

My watch says it is twelve-thirty five. "What do you say we go down to the bar for a beer? Then we can think about having breakfast or lunch or something."

The restaurant isn't very crowded, and we're soon served a beer each. "Do you want to eat something here or go somewhere else?" she asks. "How about us having a bite here and going out for some sightseeing?"

"A little air might clear my head. I still feel drunk. How about you?"

"What do you say we go back up and have a quick nap? And then come back down for something to eat? And then go sightseeing?"

"I'll get a liter of beer to take up to my room."

We emerge from my room into the hallway after about an hour. A voice calls from down the hall. "Hey, Mountie!" His name is Hardy. He is a flamethrower man from my battalion. He approaches us. "Hey, Mountie, we're having a party tonight. Want to chip in?"

"What kind of party?"

"Here in the hotel. Somebody said the monks sell champagne for sixty cents a bottle over at the monastery. That's thirty cents less than from a bar. Some of the guys are going over to the Peking Brewery and get a load of beer. We'll get some vodka and all the other stuff we need. Want to chip in?"

I ask Sandy, "Want to go to the party?

"Why not?"

"Okay. How much money do you want?"

"About three bucks apiece should keep us going awhile."

Sandy has six dollars out of her purse and hands it to him. Then she turns to me and says, "Now let's eat lunch."

Lunch with some more beer makes me feel better. Our rickshaws are waiting outside for us. Sandy says she hasn't been to the Great Wall, and I tell the rickshaw peddlers to take us to the edge of the city.

Sandy is telling me the history of the wall while we stand on top of the fortress that is as wide as a two-lane road. She says that construction was started about 200 B. C. "We're seeing only a little of its greatness here," she says with a wave of her hand at the twenty-five-foot-high structure snaking up the mountainside. "It goes for hundreds of miles and was built with slave labor." There are no other people within sight on the wall as we walk on it holding hands.

It is almost sundown by the time we descend from the wall and is well past dark by the time we arrive at the bamboo-fenced beer garden. We sit at a table and order beer. "Want to have something to eat?" I ask.

Sandy reaches across the table to take my hand. "Right now I just want to feast my eyes on you." She smiles while holding my hand. "Mountie, it has all been so lovely since we met just yesterday. It is amazing how something wonderful can suddenly start happening."

"Like serendipity."

"Yes. Serendipity. There I was. You appeared. Here we are now. I don't want it to end."

"We'll just keep making the best of everything while it lasts. Let's get something to eat. Then we can go up and see what's going on at the party."

"I'm in favor of going to my room and see if we can get something going there before we go to the party."

"Good idea. Right now I'm hungry. Let's eat."

It is near curfew time by the time we finish eating and go to our rickshaws. An armored vehicle is rumbling down the street. I wave to the jingcha in the open hatch with a machine gun in front of him. There isn't even a glimmer of response from him as the menacing vehicle rolls past us.

It is no problem finding the party on the third floor. Sandy and I head for the room where there is the most noise. Hardy, the flamethrower man, raises his glass as we enter. "Hey, Mountie! I thought you got lost. Grab a drink."

"What is there to drink?"

"Champagne. Beer. Vodka. Champagne and vodka together make a good boilermaker. Vodka is on that table. Everything else is in the bathroom."

There are more than a dozen Marines in the room and just as many prostitutes. Two of them are Russian. Both are blond. One has the typical Russian boxcar build. The other one is younger and slender.

"Let's get a drink," I say to Sandy.

"I'll have champagne."

"There should be some glasses somewhere," Hardy says.

We find two glasses with a little bit of something in them and take them into the bathroom. A beer keg and several bottles of champagne are in the bathtub full of ice. A Marine is pumping air into the keg with a rickshaw tire pump that has been stolen, borrowed, or bought. I lift a bottle of opened champagne from the ice while Sandy is washing the glasses at the sink.

Sandy and I go back into the room. I pour the two glasses almost full of champagne and put the bottle on the table where there are several bottles of vodka. "Hey," Hardy says, "lemme spike 'em up for you." He picks up an opened bottle of vodka and pours into Sandy's champagne. Then he tilts the bottle over my glass while hers is fizzing over onto the floor.

People are sitting on the bed, and all the chairs are occupied. Some guys are sitting on the floor with prostitutes. Sandy and I sit on the bed together.

It is pitch dark when I awaken and roll over. My hand touches a woman's body and begins to explore the sleeping form. The body is slender and has none of Sandy's flab or her sagging knockers. It couldn't be the Russian boxcar or a Chinese girl. The tits are larger than any Chinese tits that I've seen or felt. It must be the slender Russian woman whose name is Beba.

She rallies and says something in Russian. Bedside lights are suddenly turned on. Sandy is screaming at me and pulls me away from Beba. Sandy gets on me and is slapping my head. I thrust her aside and roll off the bed. She dives on Beba and is pulling her hair. I separate them and wrestle Sandy to the floor. She is kicking and screaming and trying to get her fingernails at my face. I get a grip on both her wrists and pin her hands to the floor and let her struggle until she's exhausted.

Then I let her up. We're standing facing each other. "How could you with that filthy whore?"

"I mistook her for you."

"How could you mistake me for that wretched slut?" She raises her hand to slap me. I catch her wrist and spin her around and push her. She lands on top of Beba and starts trying to pull out her hair.

I decide to cut out. Marines in various states of dress and undress are lying all over the place. Most are still passed out. The commotion has rallied some of them. Frightened Chinese prostitutes cower against the wall. There are empty bottles all over the floor that is wet from melted ice. The Russian boxcar is passed out with one leg over the chest of a machine gunner named Ronini and her other flabby leg on the floor.

Sandy and Beba are pummeling and snatching at each other while exchanging boisterous English and Russian as I head toward the door. Then I turn to dash into the bathroom to grab the last bottle of champagne out of the bathtub of melting ice. On the way out of the room I snatch a half bottle of vodka from the table.

Here I am now in my room behind the closed door. I sit on the bed and pour a good dollop of vodka in a glass, then open the bottle of champagne and finish filling the glass with champagne. There is a loud knock on the door as I'm taking my first slug. I open the door. Sandy is standing in the hallway. There are bleeding scratch marks on her left cheek, forehead and chin. I start to close the door. She thrusts her palm to brace it. "Mountie. Please let me come in."

My hold on the door releases and she steps inside. "Mountie, how could you do what you did with that whore?"

"Don't start any more of that shit, or I'll put your ass out in the hall. I told you it was a mistake. Besides, I didn't do anything."

Sandy starts crying and wraps her arms around me. "I'm sorry, Mountie."

"Here. Have a slug of this."

She takes the glass from my hand and sips. "I need this after all of that."

"Your face is bleeding. Let's go in the bathroom, and I'll clean it up."

A horrified gasp emits from her breath when she sees the condition of her face. "That rotten whore. I can't go out looking like this."

"It won't look so bad after I wash the blood off. Let's have a bath."

Her arms are around me again while she cries and apologizes. "I love you, Mountie, and I don't want anyone else to have you. Not that dirty bitch, of all people."

"Sandy!"

"I'm sorry, Mountie. Let's have a bath."

"I'll pour a drink for you while you get the water running." I go to the bedside table and fill her glass with vodka and champagne. When I return to the bathroom she is attending to the faucets. "Let's drink while the tub fills." We sit on the edge of the tub and finish our drinks by the time the tub fills. I refill our glasses and put them on the ledge of the tub and get in the bath with her.

I sit behind her at the opposite end of the tub. "Do you care about me, Mountie?"

"Of course I do. I wouldn't be in a bathtub with you if I didn't." I hand her drink to her and take a sip from mine.

"I'll go to Tsingtao to see you and will stay as long as I can."

"That'll be good."

"It's getting daylight."

"Yeah. I guess that bunch is still passed out from the party."

"I don't want to go back in there, Mountie."

"Okay."

"What shall we do today?"

"Maybe get a little more sleep first of all. I feel like I still need some."

"I do, too."

Sandy braces her hands on the tub ledges and starts to stand. Her feet slip, and she falls backwards with a gigantic splash in the tub. I can't get enough traction in the tub to stand, and my head is underwater. Sandy's heavy ass is on my chest, and I'm trying not to swallow any more soapy water while desperately struggling to get from underneath her. I place a palm under one of her hefty buttocks and push upward to roll her on her side. I'm surfaced but Sandy isn't. Bubbles are surfacing where her head is underwater. I'm now out of the tub. Sandy's head bobs to the surface while she tries to get traction with her feet in the slippery tub, and her head goes underwater again. I get my hand under her neck and pull her head to the surface. She is gagging and coughing out soapy water. "Don't try to stand, Sandy. I'll hold your head up and let the water out."

She has stopped coughing by the time the tub empties. "I thought I was gone, for sure."

"It washed all the blood off your face. You don't look so bad now. Be careful in this soapy tub while I help you stand." Water has been sloshed all over the bathroom floor. Our drinks have been knocked off the tub's edge, and there's broken glass on the floor. Sudsy water beside the tub is turning crimson from a bleeding cut on my foot. "Just a second, Sandy. I'll put a towel on the floor so you won't step on the broken glass."

There are plasters in my shaving kit so she can bandage the small cut on my foot and stop the bleeding. "I don't think all that Chinese bath water we swallowed could be too good for us. It is probably full of amoeba."

"And Bilharzia."

"What's that?"

"A fluke that comes from water snails. I've had it since I've been in China. I thought I was going to shit myself to death. Let's down a glass of 150-proof vodka. That ought to kill off anything that's inside us."

We're in bed and swigging straight vodka. I'm feeling drunk and drowsy.

It is nearly noon when I awaken. Sandy is soundly sleeping with her scratched face contorted. The vodka bottle is empty. The open champagne bottle is more than half full. My mouth is dry. I swig from the bottle. The stuff has lost most of its fizz but refreshes my thirst.

"It's been awhile since we've eaten," I say when she awakens. Want to go out and get a bite?"

"Suits me. My clothes are a mess. I'll go to my room and change."

"Let's meet in the bar."

"Okay."

While she is putting on her rumpled clothes, I say, "I'll call for room service to pick up our laundry and to send someone to clean up the bathroom mess." She leaves, and I get into clean khaki after calling the hotel desk.

The two rickshaws are waiting for us when we emerge from the hotel after having lunch and washing it down with a pitcher of beer. "Where're we going?" she asks.

"We've both been to all the historical attractions a few times. Let's just ride around and stop at bars when we get thirsty."

"You have an incessant thirst."

"You're pretty good at putting it away, too."

The rickshaw men have my instructions to give us a tour of the city. Off we go with Sandy's rickshaw in front.

We're now alongside the open field where the holy-roller tents are still on the opposite side. There is a mob of people within the square on our side of it. I yell for Sandy's puller to stop. I dismount and go to her rickshaw and say, "Let's see what the attraction is."

Not far from the mob of onlookers are four men kneeling to the ground with hands tied behind their backs. There are signs with Chinese writing pinned to their backs. Chinese policemen are a few paces behind the kneeling men. "What do those signs say?" Sandy asks.

"I can't read Chinese very well." I ask an elderly man in the mob who the kneeling men are.

"Gongchanddarng."

"They're communists," I tell Sandy.

One of the policemen with a Nambu in his hand is approaching the kneeling men. Sandy presses her face against my sleeve as the jingcha levels the pistol's muzzle near the neck of the man on the left flank. The muzzle blast and bullet impact knock the man forward on his face.

I put my arm around Sandy and navigate her back to the street. The fourth shot sounds just as we're getting into our rickshaws.

Chapter 11

It has been almost a month since I came back from Peking. Mouse got leave to go there a couple of weeks after I got back to Tsingtao.

I'm coming out of a downtown bar and meet Spalding. "Mouse is back," he says.

"How come? He has about another week of leave."

"I saw him as I was leaving the base. He was on his way to sickbay. The son of a bitch got a dose in Peking and had to come back on a mail flight so he can check into the clapshack."

"If there's any clap around Mouse will get it. How many times has he been in the clapshack?"

"Two. This makes the third."

"I'll go over to sickbay and see the fucker tomorrow and have a good laugh at him."

Mouse is talking with the guy in the next sack when I enter the ward. He grins sheepishly when I walk in laughing. "Where did you get it from, Mouse? Off the toilet seat?"

"I got it from an American, believe it or not."

"What was her name?"

"Sandy. She said a Marine gave it to her. She said she had a boyfriend on leave from Tsingtao, and she caught him with a Russian whore."

I don't tell him that I'm the one Sandy caught with the blond Russian.

It is now 1949. It has been a year since I had my leave in Peking. I've applied for another trip there. I want to check with Peking University and apply for entrance when my enlistment ends next year.

Today is Sunday. And I'm making bar rounds alone in the mid-town area. I've quit going to the House of a Thousand Assholes and the other big brothels. There doesn't seem to be as much risk being caught by MPs and SPs in smaller cathouses and in bars that have rooms for women to privately entertain customers.

There is a small whorehouse toward the dock area, and I'm walking in that direction now. A man approaches me and asks if I have a watch to sell. I pull my shirt cuff back and show him my PX watch that I paid less than six dollars for. He says he'll give me thirty dollars for it. My pay is just a little over ninety dollars a month, including overseas pay. I can't turn down a third of a month's pay for a cheap watch.

Chinese are notorious for their card tricks and magic stunts. I'm not going to let this guy pull one over on me and keep my eyes riveted on his hands while he counts out thirty American dollar bills.

We exchange my watch and his neatly stacked bills, and he quickly disappears. I start to put the stack in my pocket but decide to savor the sight of my newly found wealth. There are twenty-eight of the old Chinese Nationalist Currency bills sandwiched between two one-dollar bills. The CNC is absolutely worthless since Gold Yuan recently replaced it. GY started off as an exchange of four to a dollar and within a few days it was more than a hundred to a dollar.

There's no chance of catching the son of a bitch or even seeing him again. I'd like to shove this stack of worthless CNC up his ass. I take it from between the dollar bills and give it a toss so it can flutter off with the breeze.

Now I'm walking in the direction of a little whorehouse I've found beyond the center of town. I've been going there for a few weeks and always insist upon being with a certain girl.

Two sailors are leaving the place as I enter. An American voice sounds from another room as I talk with the madam. She asks me if I want to be with Haiying. And I say I do. I have to pay twenty-five cents extra for the privilege of being with Haiying and another quarter for being taken to a hidden room.

The madam precedes me upstairs carrying a small ladder and props it against the wall under a discrete trapdoor to the attic. Haiying is eating something from a bowl and asks me if I want to share it. I tell her that I had chow before I left the base. She finishes eating, and I dig into my jacket pocket to withdraw three packs of Wrigley's spearmint chewing gum, a roll of Life Savers, and four Hershey bars.

Haiying is giggling like a little child when I hand them to her. She is unusually plump for a Chinese girl. Also she is about the only Chinese person I've seen laughing and smiling. She opens a gum pack and peels the wrapper off a stick and crams it in her mouth and starts giggling again.

American voices sound below us. "MPs," she whispers.

I stay in the attic with her until the trapdoor opens, and the madam's head appears to say that it is time for me to go. After the madam descends from the ladder, I give Haiying a dollar. She hugs me and giggles with delight and asks me in Chinese if I will be back soon. I promise her that I will and say that I will bring a special present for her when I come.

It is dark when I emerge from the brothel and start walking in a mid-town direction. I'm thinking of how fortunate I am to have found that place, not only because of the hidden attic room but also because I like Haiying. She has been much more fun than any other Tsingtao prostitute I've had. I'm thinking that I might try to get her out of the whorehouse and find a place for her to live so she can be my girlfriend and I can spend most nights with her.

Now I'm in a large cabaret that is only partially filled with sailors and Marines. The band is getting ready to play another number as I enter. The leader is a violinist named Piotr. He sees me and nods. Then the band starts playing the Blue Danube waltz. I've become friendly with Piotr. He knows I like Strauss waltzes. Now I don't have to request them. He always starts the band playing them for me when he sees me.

Gloria and I listened to waltz music during the time we were together in her apartment. She tried to teach me to waltz, but I could never tune myself up to it.

The band finishes the Blue Danube and starts playing Tales of the Vienna Woods. It is break time when they finish it. I pick up my drink and approach the bandstand to shake hands with Piotr. He tells me that his eighteen-year-old daughter is studying in Shanghai and will come to Tsingtao in the summer. "I think you will like her. I will tell her that there is a young American gentleman she might like to meet. I will show you a picture of her."

Piotr shows me a picture of Tonja, who is a slender blond girl. "She is very pretty, Piotr."

"I think you will like each other."

"I've wanted to study Russian. This will be a good reason to learn to speak some Russian before she comes."

"Ah, she can teach you when she comes."

"I'll learn some Russian before she comes so we can talk with each other."

"No problem about speaking. She speaks Chinese and a little English. She will like for you to tell her about your country. I am sure you will have many things to talk about."

"Maybe I can get leave to visit Shanghai and meet her before she comes to Tsingtao."

"Yes. I give you her address before you go to Shanghai so you can visit her. I will send a message to her that perhaps a young American gentleman will look for her in Shanghai. She is staying with some of my family and you will meet them. They will like to meet you."

Piotr told me previously that he once lived in Shanghai. And that during hot Shanghai summers he and his family would come to Tsingtao. He said that one summer they came during the Japanese occupation of the Shantung Peninsula. When Russians were on the beach the Japanese officers would remove their clothing and ride horses out into the surf to embarrass them.

I'm overjoyed with prospects of meeting that pretty blond girl as I leave the cabaret and step out into the cold night to hail a rickshaw. I hope that we will like each other and that she can become my girlfriend. I'm going to ask Thrauster tomorrow to let me see the first sergeant so I can apply for leave in Shanghai. I'm really excited about it.

At Monday-morning muster we're told to get into dungarees after chow. Then we're loaded onto six-by-six trucks and taken to the docks where there are several Liberty and Victory ships moored. We're standing in ranks on the docks when more trucks arrive loaded with cargo. The order is given for us to fall out of formation and start loading the cargo aboard the merchant ships. Scuttlebutt starts going around that we're going to Okinawa. By the time our noon chow is delivered in thermal containers, the scuttlebutt has changed. Now they say we're going to Japan.

I'm hoping that we'll get liberty tonight so I can see Haiying. I want to be with her as much as possible before we go, if we are going. There is no certainty that everyone is shipping out. But judging from the amount of merchant ships tied up here it looks like a lot of stuff is going.

I'm down in number-one hold of a liberty ship with several Marines and Chinese laborers. Booms are lowering cargo on wooden pallets down into the hold, and we're taking it off the pallets and stacking it by bulkheads.

It is evident that there will be no liberty tonight because trucks have arrived with our evening chow. We're back in another hold to work through the night. Mouse is on my work team. He sneaks up to the ship's galley during a short break and returns with a greasy face and a bunch of fried chicken breasts that were left over from the crew's mess.

The chow truck appears at breakfast time and again at noon. We're staggering with fatigue by the time trucks appear to take us to the base for evening chow. I'm too tired to even think about going off the base after chow. I take a shower and hit the sack to sleep soundly until reveille and am in a six-by-six truck after morning chow and headed back to the docks.

Our crew is assigned to dockside this time. We're unloading trucks and putting cargo on pallets so booms can lift it from the dock and lower it into holds.

Scuttlebutt now has it that we're shipping out to Guam. Chinese workers helping us load the ships say we're going back to America.

Our crew is working on through the night. The relief crew comes in late afternoon. The Chinese crew is relieved at the same time. They aren't allowed to leave the docks until they have submitted to body search for stolen cargo items. They all stink like they've never had a bath when they lower their quilted trousers and open their jackets.

We're back on the base just in time for evening chow call. I want to see Haiying, but I'm too tired to make the effort and take a shower after chow, then hit the sack.

Reveille sounds. We're in formation marching to morning chow.

After chow we're in formation being told by the company gunnery sergeant that we're to disassemble bunks and everything in the barracks. We pack up all our personal gear and load everything on trucks.

The squad bay looks sadly stripped after we finish. What used to be a lecture room in the former Tsingtao University and last the home of an anti-tank platoon is now being deserted. None of us know whom this room will shelter next.

Now we're berthed on a troop-transport ship and spend the day loading the remaining base cargo on merchant ships. No one is certain of whether or not we can go ashore tonight. I'm hoping we can because I want to say goodbye to Haiying and Piotr.

Mouse and I are working in the number-two cargo hold of the merchant ship. We go topside for a smoking break. A cook is going toward the starboard side to throw a big tray of leftover pork chops into the drink. Mouse makes a dash and snatches the tray.

Mouse is left devouring chops while I am in the galley asking a cook if he has a bag any kind of bag. He gives me an empty sugar bag. I shake out the remaining sugar grains and go back to where Mouse is gnawing a bone. "Don't take 'em all, Mountie," he says as I start putting some of them in the bag.

The cook appears again, this time with a pan full of leftover cake. He asks us if we want it before it is thrown over the side. Mouse greedily reaches for it. Then we divide it. I put my share in the bag with the chops.

The company gunny falls us into formation on the dock after we finish work and marches us down the dockside to our troop-transport ship. We're not back aboard very long until word is passed that we can go ashore tonight but must be back aboard at ten.

Hopefully the officer of the deck at the top of the gangway won't demand to see what is inside the sugar bag. I salute the OD and ask permission to go ashore. "Granted," he says. I salute the flag on the fantail and trot down the gangway.

The whorehouse madam gets the ladder from behind a curtain. She precedes me upstairs and places it against the wall so I can go through the trapdoor into the attic. Haiying has been sleeping and awakens when the trapdoor slams shut. "Haiying. Wansharng hao. Nee hao ma?"

"Hen hao, syèh-syeh. Nee ner?"

"Hen hao."

Haiying giggles when she sees the bag and grabs it to quickly open it and view the contents. She is giggling with delight while alternately eating a pork chop from one hand and a wedge of cake from the other. She gets even more excited when I start unloading chewing gum and Hershey bars from my pockets.

She asks me if I am going back to America.

I tell her that I'm leaving Tsingtao but don't know where I'm going but may be going to an island called Guam.

She says all Marines are leaving Tsingtao and going to America. Then she asks me if Guam is in America. I say it isn't but is a long distance from America.

Haiying insists that we're going to America and starts crying. It is the first time I've ever seen a Chinese cry. I take her into my arms and hold her tightly while she says that she will never see me again and there will be no more cumshaw.

"I will come back to China when I get out of the Marines," I tell her. "And I'll come to see you and bring something special for you."

"What will you bring?"

"It will be a surprise, a better surprise than anything else I've ever brought to you."

She wipes her eyes with the back of her greasy hand and smiles. Then she starts giggling and plunges her hand into the bag to withdraw a chop and bites into it. Then she pulls out a cake wedge and takes a bite from it. She finishes the cake slice and gnaws the pork-chop bone clean. Then she wipes her greasy hands on a rag.

A couple of hours later I think that I had better get going so I can see Piotr before time to get back to the ship. I take a big stack of yuan from my pocket that is worth maybe three dollars and give it to Haiying. She giggles delightedly. Then her smile fades. "You will come back some day?"

"Yes. I will come back some day after I finish my service time."

Haiying is gnawing another pork chop while I'm putting on my jacket and piss cutter and knocking on the trapdoor to call the madam. I embrace Haiying's chubby body. The hatch opens. "Dzi jyen, Haiying."

"Wan an. Dzi jyen." There are tears in her eyes as I lower myself from the loft.

An empty rickshaw is passing on the other side of the street as I emerge from the brothel. "Lí!" My call brings the rickshaw man trotting over to me. I tell him to take me toward the docks. About a dozen children are following with their cumshaw chant.

The cabaret is crowded with Navy personnel. About half of them are Filipino commissary stewards. I'm the only Marine in the place. Some of the sailors are dancing to a slow tune with "B" girls. I go to the bar and order a vodka sour.

I've finished three drinks by the time the band takes a break. I order another drink and with it in my hand approach the bandstand. Piotr sees me and smiles. "Hello, Mountie," he greets me with his fluent English. "I didn't see you come in, or I would have played some of the music you like."

We shake hands. "That's okay, Piotr. Another time."

"So you're going back to America?"

"Eventually. I don't know where we'll go after we leave here. There are all kinds of rumors going around. I'll just have to wait and see where our ship goes."

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Then we shall not see each other again."

"We'll see each other again." I tell him about my plans to enroll in Peking University when my enlistment ends next year. "I'll come down here whenever I can to see you. I'm very anxious to meet your daughter."

"I will tell her about the American who will study in Peking. I am sure she will like to meet you." He says he might not be working in this cabaret when I return.

"Let's exchange addresses and keep in contact with each other."

Break time is up for the band, and I go back to the bar and drink vodka sours until time for the next break. I'm putting on my piss cutter as I approach the bandstand. "I must leave soon, Piotr, and get back to the ship before ten."

"I'll go and get a paper and pencil so we can exchange addresses," he says.

"And the address of your daughter so I can write to her from wherever I go."

"Of course," he says and disappears through a door behind the bandstand.

Suddenly there is the sound of a broken bottle across the dance floor. A brawl has started between the Filipinos and the other sailors. Chairs and bottles are flying. A liter beer bottles shatters when it hits the edge of the bandstand. All of the band members and "B" girls are disappearing.

I keep my back against the wall so no one can get behind me as I make my way toward the door. A bottle shatters near my feet. A chair bounces off the wall above my head. There is a fury of flying bottles, chairs and fists as I continue scooting my back against the wall while heading for the door.

Now I'm through the door. There are trails of blood to the street where several rickshaws are parked. I get into a rickshaw and say, "Kwì dyen, wormen dzo ba! Dao mato!" Sirens can now be heard and several shore patrol and military police jeeps appear as my rickshaw man trots away.

Several begging children are behind my rickshaw. I take all the GY notes from my pocket, keep enough for rickshaw fare, and toss the remainder behind the rickshaw. The little kids dart and dash frantically to snare the fluttering bills.

The ship starts making ready to get underway not long after morning chow. I'm topside to get a last look at the Shantung Peninsula. The mooring lines are cast off. Sailors standing on the fantail are using high-pressure water hoses to chase begging sampans away from our ship so tugboats can maneuver between the dock and our ship and nudge it seaward.

YTBs (large harbor tugs) start turning back toward the docks after getting our ship far enough offshore. Sampans keep dogging close even while being blasted with the powerful hoses until we pick up enough speed to leave them in our wake.

My eyes become fixed on Pagoda Pier. It gets smaller with the increasing distance and finally disappears. Finally Tsingtao dissolves from sight. Only the looming Laoshan is evidence of the Shantung Peninsula that will soon be only a memory.

Now I'm making my way forward so I can stand on the bow, my favorite part of the ship at sea. A junk is crossing our path a distance ahead. Ground swells rise as we get farther out in the Yellow Sea. Those plucky little sampans can be seen in every direction wallowing between mountainous waves.

It has been my good fortune to be assigned a mid-ship compartment. Mouse and Spalding aren't as lucky. They're in the aft compartment and have to put up with all the vibration when the fantail rises above the surface and the screws churn the top of the water.

I manage to get a top bunk and am sleeping eight bunks high. The worst part about being this high up is that the PA-system speaker is near my head. I get a loud blast of the bo's'n pipe when announcements are made but that's better than seven guys in bunks above me puking down on the bottom bunk if it gets stormy.

Mouse's voice sounds below me. "Hey, Mountie! Come up topside. We're heading for a port."

Sure enough a city can be seen dead ahead when Mouse and I get to the bow. Scuttlebutt has started that we're landing in Japan. Sampans are all around our ship and more appear as we get closer to shore. "Mouse," I say, "it looks like we might be going into Shanghai."

"Yeah. Yeah, it sure does, Mountie. I'm about ready for a good piece of ass. There are lots of Europeans here. Maybe I'll find a good piece of French pussy."

Piotr's daughter is in Shanghai. Here I am heading into it and don't have her address.

Chapter 12

It isn't until we get to San Diego that we learn that communist have taken over the Chinese Mainland. The Kuomintang government has been overthrown and its remnants ousted into Taiwan.

Trailer busses pick us up after we disembark from the ship and take us to Camp Pendleton at Oceanside. The units we knew in China have been dissolved and we're all reassigned. My old anti-tank platoon no longer exists. All of the platoon members have been sent in various directions to Marine and Naval bases throughout the country. I'm the only one of them assigned to a Camp Pendleton unit.

I'm now a flamethrower man. Carrying a filled flamethrower on infantry exercises in Camp Pendleton's desert heat is hardly any easier than toiling to get an anti-tank gun over rugged Chinese terrain. The training I like best is when we go out to sea for amphibian exercises and land on beaches.

I've heard about Tijuana and tequila and am anxious to get down into Mexico and try some.

A pimp approaches me soon after I arrive in Tijuana, and I'm in bed with a prostitute who has the bushiest crotch I've ever seen. She tells me that we must make it fast before the police come. I'm leaving the place vowing that this will be my last whorehouse.

I don't dare get too drunk across the Mexican border. There are tales about sailors and Marines getting into trouble over there and spending months in dirty Mexican jails.

Spalding gave me the address of a woman in Long Beach before he was sent to Brooklyn Navy Yard. He said he had laid her before he went to China. Spalding is far from being a good-looking guy, and if a woman would screw him she'd probably screw about anyone. I'm anxious to get some action outside a whorehouse and head off the base in high spirits.

There is more than a two-hour wait for the Long Beach-bound bus to leave Oceanside. There is no shortage of bars and I select one around the corner from the bus station and order a beer.

The buzz I got while waiting for the bus is gone by the time I arrive in Long Beach. Two beers later and my head whirrs again as I get into a taxi and show the driver the address Spalding has written.

The house at the address Spalding has given me has a sign in the window saying there are rooms to rent. I ring the bell. A middle-aged woman opens the door. "I'm looking for Thelma Thompson," I say.

"She doesn't live here any more."

"Do you have the address of the place she moved to?"

"I have an address she gave me to forward her mail to in San Francisco. It's been about two years since she moved. I don't know whether or not she's still there. Come in and I'll get the address for you."

"That's okay. She's a friend of a friend of mine, and I thought I'd look her up while I'm down here. Thanks anyway, ma'am."

"You're welcome."

I'm in a bar drinking a beer and wondering what to do next and decide to get a bus over into Los Angeles after I have another beer.

Now I'm in LA and don't know which part I'm in or where I want to go so I start walking. Maybe if I cruise the bars I'll have some luck and pick up a woman. There's a cocktail lounge just ahead there. Might as well start there.

There is dim light inside, and I have to let my eyes readjust after coming in from the sun-lit street. "A Schlitz," I say to the bartender.

"Let me see something with proof of your age." I take my ID card from my pocket and hand it to him. He looks at it. Then he goes to the cash register where there is a small lamp and holds my ID card under it. Then he puts an opened Schlitz and a glass in front of me.

There is another bar a half block down the street from the one I emerge from. "A Schlitz," I say to the bartender.

"We don't serve beer here."

"Then I'll have a whiskey and soda."

"Do you have an ID card?"

He glances at my ID card and hands it back, then pours a whiskey and soda for me.

I'm startled with the price and know I'll be broke in no time if I stay in here. So I finish my drink and start walking. There is a cocktail lounge on the next block, and I enter and go through the ID ritual before getting my beer. It costs more than double the price I paid in Oceanside.

It occurs to me that I may be in an expensive part of town and keep walking after finishing my beer. I've walked more than an hour and decide to go into the next bar I see. There is one across the street, and I jaywalk over to it. The price of beer in here is the same as in an Oceanside bar.

My first thoughts when I awaken are that I'm in a bottom bunk, and the bunk above me has no mattress on it. My eyes open wider, and I realize that there is no bunk above me. I'm looking at a window with bars in it. I've awakened in jail.

My mouth feels parched while I'm lying here trying to recollect what happened last night. All I can remember is going from bar to bar. In one bar I was trying to strike up a conversation with a woman sitting on the stool next to mine. That's about the last thing I remember.

There are other bunks in the cell, but mine is the only one occupied. I feel dizzy when I get out of the bunk and stand. A policeman appears and unlocks the cell door. "Why am I in here?" I ask.

"Drunk and disorderly."

"I don't remember doing anything."

"I'm not surprised with the condition you were in when you were brought here." Then he tells me to come with him. I'm standing in front of a sergeant's desk being told that they will release me if I pay twelve dollars bail bond.

I reach in my pocket for my wallet but it isn't there. "It's here," the sergeant says and hands me my wallet. I take out a ten and two singles and hand them to him. He writes a receipt and hands it to me, along with everything else that was in my pockets, plus my shoelaces and belt that had been removed from me.

Here I am on the sidewalk, free again but with not much more than enough money for bus fare back to Pendleton. What I need most of all now is a cold beer to flush this wretched taste out of my mouth.

All my weekends are being spent in the Los Angeles area with hopes of scoring with a girl. I'm getting horny and have nothing but wet dreams to relieve me. It has occurred to me to take a weekend in Tijuana. I'd vowed the last time I was over there to not go to any more whorehouses, but I'm getting desperate.

It is a Friday afternoon. I'm on a San Diego-bound bus and with thoughts in my mind to hop over into Mexico and get laid and then figure out something else to do. Maybe I'll have a look around while across the border and see if there's any place better than T-town.

I get off the bus at the San Diego bus station. There is almost a two-hour wait before the next bus leaves for the Mexican border at Chula Vista. I get my ticket and go to a seat in the waiting room and am thinking about going to a bar to pass the time. A brunette woman comes into the waiting room and takes the second seat to the left of mine. She holds a handkerchief over her mouth and nose and sneezes for several minutes. "Excuse me," I say, "if you press your finger under your nose like this it might stop your sneezing."

"Like this?"

"Yes. Press hard."

"I think it's working."

"Keep your finger there awhile."

"It's working for sure. How long do I have to keep my finger here?"

"It should be stopped by now."

She drops her hand. "It really did work. Where'd you learn that?"

"In night training. You don't want to get a sneezing fit if you're trying to sneak up on someone."

"It's a handy thing to know. I have allergies, and when I start sneezing I think I'll never be able to stop."

"Are you waiting for the bus to Tijuana?"

"No. I'd thought about making a surprise visit to Riverside to see a friend. But there's nearly a five-hour wait for a bus. I'm trying to decide now whether I want to wait or go somewhere else. There's a bus leaving for Pasadena in less than three hours. I have a friend there, too."

"Would you like to have a drink with me while you're making up your mind?"

"I guess so. I thought busses would be running more frequently. It'll be late when either of those busses get there."

"Let's have a drink."

She rises from her seat, and I hold the door open for her to exit from the station. "Are you waiting for the Tijuana bus?"

"Yes. It leaves in less than two hours. There's a bar over in that direction."

"Have you been to Tijuana before?"

"Once."

"What was it like?"

"Seedy but interesting. It's different to any place I've been on this side of the border."

"I've thought I'd like to see what it is like some day."

We enter the bar and take seats at a table. A waitress appears. "What'll you have?" I ask.

"A Coke."

"And a Schlitz for me."

The waitress leaves. "My name is Ruth. Ruth Wall."

"Mine's Mountie."

"What are those ribbons you're wearing?"

"This one is the Good Conduct Medal. This one is a World War Two Victory Medal. I wasn't in the war but anyone who came into the service before December 1946 is entitled to wear one. This one is the China Service Medal."

"So you've been in China?"

"Three years. I'd hoped to go back and go to Peking University when I get out of the Marine Corps in July. But there is no way I can get back in the country now that the communists have taken over."

The waitress brings our drinks. Ruth pours her Coke into a glass and raises it. "To your health."

"Wind in your sails. And no more sneezing."

She laughs. "Your trick really worked."

I take a pack of Chesterfields from my pocket and extend the pack toward her. "Cigarette?"

"No, thanks."

"Will it bother you if I smoke?"

"No."

I light the cigarette with my Zippo and flip it closed with my thumb.

"China must be an exotic place?"

"Exotic is right. There is no place like it."

"You must have liked it if you want to go back and go to university there?"

"It is a stinking and terrible place in many ways. But it is the most interesting place I've been to."

"I've heard that Tijuana is interesting but can be a little tricky."

"There are lots of hustlers but there have been lots of those in some places I've been to."

"Then Tijuana must be easy for you?"

"I didn't have any trouble when I was there. Have you always lived in California?"

"I'm from Tacoma. In Washington State. I've only been down here a little while. I wanted to get away from the place I grew up and got a job with an insurance company down here. Where is your home, Mountie?"

"Virginia."

I signal the waitress and order another round of drinks. "Do you like living in San Diego?"

"The weather is better than in Washington. It rains a lot there. Have you ever been to Washington?"

"Only Washington, D.C." I tell her about some of the places I've seen.

"You've been to lots of places. I've never been to any state outside Washington, except Oregon and California."

"Hey, what do you say we go together to T-town, since you're not too sure about where you want to go."

"Well, I suppose..."

"C'mon. It'll be fun. And something different."

"Okay. It'll be good to practice Spanish that I learned in high school."

"Let's go and get your ticket before they sell out."

Ruth gets her ticket, and we take seats in the waiting room near where we first met. She immediately starts sneezing and presses her fingertip to the tip of her nose as I had instructed her. "It worked again. There must be something in here that I'm allergic to."

"Maybe it'll be better for us to change spots."

"I'm okay now. Your trick worked like magic."

"It's not my trick. It was something I learned in training."

"What are you going to do when you get out of service, now that you can't go back to China?"

"I'll enroll in the University of Virginia next fall. I took examinations for a scholarship and managed to pass."

"What'll you study?"

"Pre-med and then go to medical school. I've always liked science and have been thinking about becoming a doctor."

"You already know how to keep people from sneezing. That's a good start."

"Maybe I'll specialize in sneezeology."

Both of us laugh.

It is time for us to board the bus. Ruth takes a window seat, and I sit in the seat beside hers. "I can't believe I'm on a bus going to Mexico with someone I've just met. It seems like I've known you much longer."

"Yeah. That's how I feel."

"When you asked me if I wanted to go I just said yes without thinking about it. I think I had a feeling that I'd be safe with you over there."

"I'll do my best to protect you from banditos and desperados. There are lots of hustlers in Tijuana, but I got used to dealing with them in China."

"What'll we do over there?"

"Maybe just look around and see what there is for us to do."

"Do you have a girlfriend back in Virginia?"

"My girlfriend from high school got married while I was in China. Do you have a boyfriend in Tacoma?"

"Not now. There was a boy I knew in high school. We went out some after we graduated. Then we broke up. Did you have a girlfriend in China?"

The question catches me off guard. I can't tell her the truth. Not about whorehouses and all of that. "There was a girl in Peking?"

"A Chinese girl?"

"There was a Chinese girl when I first went there. Then there was an American woman but not for very long."

"How old are you, Mountie?"

"Twenty-two. How old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

"Did you come to San Diego right out of high school?"

"Not right away. I worked a little while in Tacoma."

It is a short bus ride from San Diego to the border. We're in Tijuana and being besieged by hustlers trying to sell trinkets, soliciting taxi passengers, trying to get us on donkeys for pictures, and kids offering to guide us to hotels. About the only thing different from my last trip is that there is no pimp trying to get me into a whorehouse. "The first thing we should do," I suggest, "is check into a hotel so we won't have to carry our bags around."

"In separate rooms."

"Okay."

A boy is insisting upon taking us to a hotel. "Eet ees clean hotel. Eet does not cost much mowney."

I tell the boy that we will look at the hotel and decide if we want to stay in it.

"You come weeth me. Eet ees good hotel."

It is a small hotel. We're allowed to inspect a room, and Ruth is satisfied that it is clean enough. We go back to the desk, and I say it looks okay and we want a room.

"Dos habitaciones," Ruth says to the desk clerk.

We're emerging from the hotel after depositing our belongings in our individual rooms. "I'm getting a little hungry," I say. "How about you?"

"Yes."

"Do you like Mexican food?"

"I've had it in San Diego. It is a little hot but I like it okay. Do you know any good places?"

"I found a place last time I was here. Now we'll see if we can find it."

The excursion off to the hotel has disoriented me. I'm getting hungrier and suggest that we stop in the first place that looks okay. I'm also getting thirsty because the two-beer buzz in San Diego has long worn off. I guide her into a bar.

There are no other customers, and we seat ourselves on bar stools. The bartender asks in English, "What do you want?"

Ruth looks at me. "What do you suggest?"

"Have you ever tried tequila?"

"No. Is it good?"

"I had some last time I was over here. It's not bad."

"I'll try it."

"Two tequilas," I say to the bartender. He places our drinks in front of us. I explain the ritual of licking salt off the back of the hand and sucking a lemon wedge to cut the sharp sting of the tequila. "How do you like it?" I ask.

"I like it. It's not like anything else I've ever had. Does it make you drunk?"

"Enough of it would. I didn't get drunk when I was over here."

After another tequila we leave the bar and spot a small restaurant not far away. "Want to give this one a try?" I ask.

"Sure. I'm hungry. My head is also a little giddy from that tequila. Do you feel anything?"

The tequila has given me a little buzz, but I pretend that I don't feel any effects from it. We enter the restaurant and see two couples sitting at a table. They were in the same bus we came in. They're wearing those big Mexican sombreros. I steer Ruth to the opposite side of the room as the occupied tables.

A waitress appears with a menu that is in Spanish and English. Neither of us has heard of anything on the menu. Ruth orders Yucatan-style fish, and I select fish in chili sauce. "What'll you have to drink?" I ask.

"I'm having a beer."

"That's what I'll have."

We've had two beers each by the time we finish eating. I don't tell Ruth that I'm feeling a little drunk when we get up to leave. I suspect that she is but don't ask her.

There are bars in all directions. Ukulele and guitar music can be heard coming from some of the bars. "Do you like Mexican music?" I ask.

"Yes. I listen to it on the radio. Do you?"

"That sounds good in the bar over there. Let's see what it's like."

Several tables are occupied. Musicians stroll from table to table. Ruth and I find a vacant table and take seats. The waitress appears. "Want to try some more tequila?" I ask Ruth.

"Sure."

After two tequilas we decide to check out the music in another bar. The bar we enter is dimly lit and only three tables are occupied. I navigate Ruth to a table in a far corner. My head is spinning, and I know she must be just as drunk as or drunker than I am. I take her hand in mine when we sit. "This is lots of fun," she says after the waitress brings our tequilas. "Don't you think it is romantic being in Mexico listening to Mexican music and drinking Mexican tequila?"

"Yes. Very romantic." I scoot my chair against hers and put my arm around her."

"You're a romantic guy. It's fun being in Mexico with a romantic guy listening to Mexican music and drinking Mexican tequila."

Now we're kissing, and my hand slides under her skirt. Then it slips between her thighs and moves upward to her crotch. Her hand is now stroking my leg. I take her hand and move it upward and place it on my erection. "It's really hard," she says. "I never felt one of those before. I want to see it. I've never seen one. Take it out and let me see it."

"Not in here. Let's go to the hotel. And I'll show it to you there."

"Can I see you completely naked in the hotel? I've never seen a naked boy."

"We can see each other naked."

"A boy has never seen me naked. I'll get naked for you if you'll get naked for me."

"Let's go."

Ruth is unsteady on her feet, and I put my arm around her to steady her when we get outside. I wave my hand to an approaching taxi and tell the driver to take us to the hotel. We're in the back seat kissing. She is squirming while my finger tickles her crevice.

Now we're standing in the middle of my room kissing with our tongues darting. Ruth is panting. "Let me see you naked."

I've already begun unbuttoning and unzipping her clothes. While she is standing in her panties and brassiere I start removing my clothes and throwing them toward a chair. All of my clothes are now off, and I remove her brassiere and toss it across the room. "Let me see you naked," she says.

I release her and she backs away. "That thing. It is standing straight up. I want to feel it."

I advance toward her and push her back across the bed and pull off her underwear. I lift her legs onto the bed and lie beside her. "Let me feel it," she says and reaches to squeeze my erection. "It's so hard. I didn't know these things get hard like this."

A crowing rooster awakens me at dawn. My mouth is parched from last night's tequila. Ruth is fully dressed and sitting on a chair and is looking in my direction. There is a glum look on her face. "Good morning," I say.

"Do you know what you did to me last night?"

I'm trying to think of an answer.

"You got me drunk. Then you ruined me. I wouldn've let you do it if I hadn't been drunk. I've never done it with anyone else."

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"It hurt some."

"I'm sorry if it hurt. I think it is supposed to hurt a little the first time. It shouldn't hurt the next time."

"I'm not going to do it again." She starts crying. "I want to go home."

"Okay. I'll go with you to the border so you can get on a bus."

"You're not going back with me?"

"I'll go with you back to San Diego if you want me to." I arise. Her eyes follow me as I get out of bed and go to the chair where I have thrown my clothes while getting hastily undressed last night.

"I feel so cruddy."

"A hangover makes me feel that way, too, sometimes."

"It's not just a hangover that's making me feel that way. It's what you've done to me that's making me feel awful."

"Maybe if you take a bath..."

"I've had a bath. And I still feel cruddy."

I go to her side and kneel and start to put my arms around her. She shrinks back away from me. I stand. "I think I'll have a quick bath." I get my shaving kit from my bag and pick up my clothes to head into the bathroom.

Ruth is still sitting on the chair when I emerge dressed from the bathroom. "There's some blood on the sheet. What will the hotel people think?"

"I'm sure they're used to it."

"They'll know what we did."

"Okay. If it'll make you feel any better we can take the sheet into the bathroom and wash out the bloody spot with cold water."

I go to the bed and yank off the bottom sheet. She follows me into the bathroom. I gather the middle of the sheet where the blood spots are and hold it under the cold-water faucet. She takes the sheet from my hands and rubs it under the running water. There is only a faint stain left after she wrings out most of the water.

The stain is barely visible after we get the sheet back on the bed. "Look. No one will notice it. It'll be as good as new after it comes out of the laundry."

"You act like it's nothing. You don't know how bad this makes me feel."

I take her into my arms. She doesn't try to withdraw. I kiss her on the lips, and she doesn't respond."

"Let's go and get some breakfast. Then you'll feel better."

"I don't want anything to eat. I feel awful."

"I have a little bit of a hangover, myself. A beer or two will make us feel better."

She is crying again. "Nothing will make me feel better after what you did to me last night."

"We'll leave our things here while we go out. Maybe a little fresh air and something to eat will make you feel better." I open the door, and she precedes me out of the room.

There are only a few people on the street when we emerge from the hotel. "I feel like everyone is looking at us and that they know what we did last night."

I take her hand and give it a slight squeeze. She doesn't pull her hand away, and we start walking. There is a bar across the street, and I navigate her across to it. Two men are sitting on bar stools. We go to a table and seat ourselves. There doesn't seem to be a waitress or waiter. I stand and ask, "Do you want a beer? It'll be good for your dry mouth,"

"I guess so."

"Two beers," I say to the bartender. "And do you have tortillas?"

"Si."

I take the two beers to our table and return to the bar for the plate of tortillas. "Drink your beer. It'll make you feel better. And eat some tortillas."

We sit without talking and sip our beer and nibble the crisp fried tortillas. I get up from the table and go to the bar to order two more beers and another plate of tortillas. When we finish those I suggest, "Let's go out and get a little fresh air."

Soon we're in another bar where we order a beer each and a plate of tacos, then another beer each before we get up to go outside. Ruth hasn't mentioned going back to the hotel to get our bags for crossing back over the border.

"Where to now?" she asks when we emerge into the bright sunlight, and she takes hold of my hand.

"We can walk around awhile."

Soon we're in another bar where we order beer and two plates of tamales. Ruth has stopped giving me the silent treatment and is starting to smile again.

After emerging into the street we pause a moment, and I put my arm around her waist. Her arm is now around my waist, and we're strolling down the street in the mid-day sun. Guitar and ukulele music can be heard from some of the bars we pass. Ahead of us is the place we were in last night. "Want to go back in there and listen to some more Mexican music?" I ask.

"If you want to."

Only two tables are occupied, and we go to the table where we sat last night. We're holding hands when the waitress appears. "What'll you have?" I ask Ruth.

"A beer."

"A beer and a tequila," I say to the waitress."

"I thought you weren't going to drink any tequila today," Ruth says as the waitress starts to depart.

"I thought I'd have just one."

"I want one."

I call to the waitress and when she returns I say, "Make that two tequilas."

"Two tequilas and a beer?"

"No beer. Just two tequilas."

Ruth is starting to glow after we've finished two tequilas each, and I have ordered another round. She is stroking my thigh and takes her hand away quickly when the waitress approaches with our drinks. The waitress puts our drinks on the table. I pay her and she leaves. Ruth says, "Sit closer to me, Mountie, and kiss me like you did last night."

Her hand is into my trousers, and her fingers wrapped around my swollen dick while I'm fingering her crevice and kissing her with my tongue in her mouth. She is quivering with excitement, and I ask her if she wants to go back to the hotel. She says she does and I arise. My hard-on is protruding noticeably, and I hold my barracks hat in front of me to conceal it as we emerge into the street to hail a taxi.

The driver is watching us in the mirror while we're kissing and fondling each other on the way to the hotel. I get out of the taxi and go into the hotel with my hat held in front of me to hide my bulge.

The room is dark when she awakens me to say she wants me again.

Dawn is flooding the room when I awaken again. Ruth is sleeping on her side and facing me. She rallies slightly when I start to stroke her hip. Now her eyes are open. She has a startled look on her face and quickly withdraws from my touch. "You did it to me again. You got me drunk again and brought me into bed with you."

"You wanted to come back to the hotel."

"I wouldn't have if I hadn't been drunk."

"I didn't force anything down you. Don't start giving me that stuff again about me getting you drunk."

She is crying now. I scoot closer to her and reach to stroke her shoulder. "Don't," she says. Then she starts crying again.

"Let me hold you," I say and pull her close to me and hold her tightly.

"We shouldn't be doing it."

I'm getting tired of hearing her go on like that and release my hold on her and start to sit up.

"Come back, Mountie. Don't leave me. I want you to hold me."

I take her in my arms again.

"Keep holding me like that, Mountie."

It is a little past noon when we awaken and arise from bed. She uses the bathroom first. Now I'm in here to brush my teeth and shave before getting under the shower.

Ruth is dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed when I emerge. I reach for my skivvy shorts. "I shouldn't be watching you like this."

"No one is making you do it."

"You're the only one...You're the only man I've ever seen without clothes on. I wouldn't be here right now if you hadn't've got me drunk."

"Listen! No one poured anything down you. I'm tired of hearing you go on about it. So you got your cherry busted. You go on like you're the first girl to lose it."

She is crying now. "You don't know what it has done to me. I'm ruined now. And I'll never be able to get married. You've ruined me."

"Ruth, get your gear together! I'll go to the border with you and let you go back to San Diego."

Ruth is wiping her cheeks and sniffling. "Won't you go back with me?"

"I want to stay over here the rest of the day. Now if you'll go into your room and get your gear..."

"I think I want to go out and have a cup of coffee or something first. How about you?"

"I need a beer. We'll go out and get something. Then we'll come back."

She comes over while I'm tying my necktie and puts her arms around my waist and leans her head against my chest. "Are you mad at me, Mountie?"

"I soon will be if you keep going on."

"Put your arms around me, Mountie."

I take her into my arms. Her arms are around my waist. "Let's go out and get some breakfast," I say.

There isn't a person in sight when we emerge in the bright sun and start walking. We're walking without speaking until I sight a bar in the distance. "There's a bar over there. Maybe you can get your cup of coffee there."

There are no other customers in the place, and we seat ourselves on stools at the bar. "Un cafe con leche," Ruth says to the bartender."

"A beer for me. And some tortillas."

"I'm a little hungry," Ruth says while reaching for one of the crisp corn fritters. "We forgot to eat last night."

"We'll have a good lunch before we go back across the border."

"So you're going back with me?"

"Yeah. I'll go back with you. I want to walk around awhile and have a few more beers to drown the butterflies in my stomach."

"I'm not going to drink anything today except coffee."

"Okay. Let's look for a place to eat after we leave here."

There is a little restaurant around the corner from the bar. There are no customers, and we take seats at a table and wait for the waitress to bring the menu. "Have you tried huevos rancheros?" Ruth asks.

"No. What's that?"

"Eggs with tortillas and a sauce. I had them in a Mexican diner in San Diego."

"I'll try some."

"I'll have some, too."

We're now back in the hotel after strolling a couple of hours in town. I'm a little giddy from the beer stops we've made. "I'll meet you in your room after I put my stuff in my bag," I say.

Ruth is sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter her unlocked room. I drop my bag on the floor beside hers. I sit on the bed and put my arm around her. She doesn't budge. "We don't have to be in any hurry to get across the border," I say.

"I don't want to go out drinking before I go back. I don't want to look like I'm intoxicated when I go back and let my landlady see me that way."

"We don't have to drink any more. We can just stay in here until we're ready to go back."

"Mountie...Mountie, I feel awful about what we did last night. And the night before."

I get off the bed. "There you go again!" I head toward the door. "I'm going back downtown. You can go back to the border or do whatever you want to."

"Mountie! Don't go. Don't leave me." She starts sniffling.

I return to the bed and put my arm around her shoulder. "What do you want to do?"

"I want you to stay with me."

I turn her head to face me and kiss her unresponsive lips. Now I'm pushing her back onto the bed and kissing her. Her arms are now tight around my neck.

Ruth uses the sheet corner to mop sweat from my forehead after our climax. "Did you like it this time?" I ask.

"I liked it all the times, but I still think I did wrong to let you do it to me."

I put my fingers over her lips.

"I won't go on any more. I promise. There's one thing, Mountie. What if I should get pregnant."

"How can you get pregnant? We've been using protection." I'm not telling the entire truth. I haven't put on a condom every time.

"Then I should be all right? You don't think I have anything to worry about?"

"There's no danger."

"Mountie, can we stay here together for awhile before we go back?"

"Sure. There's no hurry."

It is nightfall when we exit from the hotel. I suggest that we eat before making the crossing. But she is anxious to be safe on the other side and says she'd rather wait until we get into San Diego.

There isn't much conversation between us while we sit holding hands on the crowded bus.

Now we're in a restaurant close to the San Diego bus station. We've ordered hamburger steaks and French fries and sit facing each other in a booth. Finally Ruth says, "There's not much more time for us to be together."

"No."

"You're not mad at me...I mean for the things I said. Are you?"

"I was a little bit then but I'm not now."

"Come and sit beside me, Mountie."

I get up to take a seat beside her and take hold of her hand. "Was it fun for you being over in Tijuana?"

"Yes. I liked everything we did. Mountie, I wouldn't have done it with anyone else. You probably think I would have done it with someone else."

"I didn't think that."

"I wouldn't have. No matter how drunk I got. Will you come down from Oceanside to see me?"

"If you want me to. I can come down on weekends."

"I want you to. Will you come next weekend?"

"Yes."

"Promise?"

"I promise. I would like for you to be my girl."

"I feel like I am your girl. It will seem like a long time until next weekend. Kiss me, Mountie."

Our hamburger steaks and fries arrive while we're kissing. Ruth is blushing. The waitress leaves, and we start eating and don't say much to each other during our meal. When we finish I look at my watch and say, "It isn't long until my bus leaves."

"Before we go I'll give you my address."

"Oh, yes. I'll need your address."

She writes it on a paper napkin. "This telephone number...It is a pay phone in the hall. Will you call me soon?"

"Yes. Maybe tomorrow."

"I'll be waiting to hear the phone ring."

I fold the napkin and put it in my pocket and arise from the booth. We walk back to the bus station holding hands. There are only ten minutes remaining before my bus leaves, and we go to the platform to wait for departure time. Passengers are loading on the bus while Ruth and I stand tightly embraced. "Promise me you'll call, Mountie."

"Tomorrow night."

"Mountie, I think I love you. How do you feel?"

"I'm not sure. I'd better get on the bus."

We kiss and I get on the bus. I'm in an aisle seat but can see her standing and waving on the platform as the bus starts moving. I wave back until the bus makes a turn and she disappears.

It is late when I get back to the base. I'd thought about phoning Ruth but decide it is too late. I'll call her tomorrow evening.

Ruth answers the phone when I call the number at her rooming house and sounds excited to hear me. "I've been thinking a lot about you, Mountie. I've never thought about any other boy the way I'm thinking about you. I couldn't sleep last night thinking about you. I think I'm in love with you, Mountie."

I'm trying to come up with something to say but can't.

"Have you been thinking about me, Mountie?"

"Yes. A lot."

"Do you like me?"

"Of course."

"Do you like me a lot?"

"Sure."

"You don't sound like you do very much."

"I do."

"Do you think you love me a little?"

"I suppose I do. We've been pretty busy today running through the obstacle course and doing some bayonet practice."

"How about when you got home last night? Did you miss me being in bed with you?"

"Yes."

"A lot?"

"Yes. A whole lot."

"I missed you that way, Mountie. I woke up this morning, and it seemed strange that you weren't there beside me. I wanted to wake up in your arms like I did when we were together. Did you miss that?"

"Yes."

"You're not mad at me are you? I mean for the things I said."

"I guess I was a little bit then. But I guess it was natural for you to feel that way since it was your first time."

"I'm glad now that my first time was with you because you are the only boy I've ever thought as much about as I think about you. Is that the way you feel? I mean has it been different for you than it has with any other girl?"

"Definitely."

"I'm sure glad to hear you say that. I get all excited when I think about us being nude together. How about you?"

"For sure."

"Next time I'm not going to drink so I can remember every little bit of it."

"Okay. I won't either. Or not much, anyway."

"Mountie, I think I want you to give me a baby."

"We'll have to think about that."

"I'd like to have a boy that looks like you. Mountie, will you send me a picture of you? So I can put it by my bed. Do you want me to send you a picture of me?"

"Yes. You can give me one when I come to see you next weekend. I'll see if I can find one of me."

"Will you really come to see me next weekend?"

"For sure."

"Where'll we go?"

"We can get a hotel room."

"I'd rather we didn't in San Diego. Someone might find out about it and..."

"Then we can go back to T-town."

"That'll be better. But I'm not going to drink."

"I'm almost out of change now. I'll call you tomorrow."

"I'll be here when the phone rings."

"Goodbye, Ruth."

"Goodbye, Mountie."

My head is swirling after I hang up the phone. I start to go back into the squad bay but change my mind and head off to the slop chute. I'll have a couple of beers and think about what I might be getting into.

All the way over to the slop chute I'm thinking that I might have put one in her pod, just like a guy I knew in Tsingtao who knocked up his girlfriend when he got back. Her parents got the base chaplain on his ass, and he ended up having to marry her.

The slop chute is filling up by the time I get there. I push my way through the crowd to the bar and order a Schlitz. A voice sounds behind me. "Hey, Mountie!" It is a guy I knew in Tientsin. "Come on back and slurp up a few with some old China hands."

Ruth promptly answers the phone when I call her Thursday night. "Mountie! I thought you weren't going to call me. I've been waiting in my room every night listening for the hall phone to ring."

"I've been pretty tied up. I had guard duty and a bunch of other stuff."

"You didn't have just a little bit of time to call me?"

"I tried to a few times but a bunch of guys were lined up waiting to use the pay phone in the barracks."

"Are you coming down this weekend?"

"I can't. My company is going on a thirty-mile hike in the desert this weekend. We're going to bivouac out. It'll be late Sunday before we get back to the barracks. I'll call you when I get back."

"That's not fair," she says in a fretting tone.

"Try telling the company commander that. It's not my fault."

"I've been so excited about us having the weekend together. It's all I could think about."

"I've been looking forward to it, too."

"Have you been thinking about me?"

"Yes."

"A lot?"

"A whole lot."

"How about next weekend, Mountie? Will you come next weekend?"

"Yep. There are some guys waiting to use the phone. I'll call you after I get back from the field. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, honey."

Ruth is waiting on the platform when my bus pulls into the San Diego station. She is dressed in a floral pink blouse and blue skirt and is standing on her tiptoes trying to catch sight of me. I'm on the other side of the bus, and she doesn't see me until I dismount. She dashes toward me. Disembarking passengers jostle us while we're tightly locked together and kissing. I pull her aside and stand at arm's length with my hands on both her shoulders. "You sure look pretty."

"I bought this outfit just for our weekend together. Do you like it?"

"You sure look pretty in it."

"I wondered how you'd look in civilian clothes. That brown shirt and the gabardine slacks suit you. I liked you in your uniform, but you look more relaxed like you are now. What do you want to do this weekend?"

"You'll never guess."

She laughs. "I'll bet I know."

"I thought we might go back over to Mexico. Tijuana is the closest, and we won't have to spend a lot of time riding a bus."

"I'm all for not wasting any time."

"Let's go and get a bus to T-town."

This time we go to a different hotel and register as husband and wife. We're kissing as soon as we step into the room. And I'm fumbling to bolt the door at the same time.

"That one was the best ever," she says after I roll off her. "Was it for you?"

"The very best."

Ruth is mopping my wet face with the sheet and kissing my face, chest and shoulder. "I know one thing for certain now, Mountie. I really love you. I thought all the time I loved you. Now I know for sure. Do you love me, Mountie?"

"I sure do."

We lie clasped together a long time. And she gets up to go to the bathroom. She comes out of the bathroom and is smiling broadly as she gets back into bed. "A lot of stuff is dripping out of me. That's the stuff that makes babies, isn't it?"

"That's the stuff."

"I was reading a book in the library about how it travels up inside and fertilizes a tiny egg and it keeps growing into a baby. Do you think that is what is happening right now?"

"Maybe not."

"But it could be, couldn't it?"

"I guess it could."

"Mountie, would you be happy if we made a baby together?"

I'm trying to think of an answer.

"Would you, Mountie?"

"I haven't really thought that much about it."

"Would you marry me if it happened?"

"I haven't thought about getting married."

"But if we made a baby...you would, wouldn't you?"

"If that happened I guess it is what we would do."

"Mountie, I want you to put a baby in me."

"I don't think I should, not on purpose, anyway. My pay as a PFC isn't much and pretty soon I'll be a student and getting just enough to get by with."

"How long will that take?"

"Four years until I get my bachelor's degree."

"Four years. That's a long time."

"Then there'll be four years more in medical school."

"That makes eight years."

"Yeah. Eight years."

"I can work during that time. What do you think of that?"

"I guess so. Let's not think about all of that right now. Let's just have a good time this weekend."

The sun has gone down as we appear on the street that is becoming alive with people. "I'm not going to drink anything this weekend," she says.

"I won't either, except maybe a couple of beers."

Ruth's arm is linked in mine as we walk toward the town center.

A voice sounds from behind us. "Hey, Mountie!" I turn to see two guys from motor transport I've drunk with in the slop chute. They approach and I introduce them to Ruth. "Let's go and have a drink together," one of them says.

The four of us go into a bar and take a table. Ruth says she'll have a Coke when the waitress appears. The two guys order tequila. I say I'll have a beer, but the guys insist that I have tequila. "Tequila for me," I say.

Ruth tastes my tequila after the waitress has served us. "That's good."

"Do you want one?" I ask.

"I think I will."

I call the waitress back and Ruth says to her, "Una tequila para mi."

The tequila is buzzing my head after we've had three rounds. I don't want to spend the whole evening with these guys so I wink at Ruth and say, "We're supposed to meet someone."

There is a restaurant in sight and we head for it. Ruth is holding my hand tightly. About half the tables are occupied and we select one and a waiter appears and gives us a menu that is in Spanish and English. We order an avocado and tomato salad. Ruth says she'd like to try the pork with pineapple. I say that I'll have beef with cactus pieces. "What're you having to drink?" I ask Ruth.

"What're you having?"

"Beer."

"I'll have one, too."

We've had two beers each with our meal. "What would you like to do?" I ask Ruth.

"Maybe just walk around awhile."

Ruth is hugging my arm as we start walking. Ahead of us is a bar where we've been our last weekend here that has the guitar and ukulele music. "Want to go in and listen to some music?" I ask.

"Sure."

A waitress comes to our table and I ask Ruth what she wants to drink.

"I'm feeling a little woozy. I'll just have a Coke."

"A Coke and a tequila," I say to the waitress.

"Ruth says, "I think I'll have a tequila, too. I'm just going to have one."

It is late at night when we go staggering and laughing back to the hotel.

Mexican voices outside the window awaken me. My mouth is parched from last night's tequila. What I wouldn't give for a cold beer right now. Ruth is still asleep and is lying on her back with her head facing me. She looks so young and innocent. My clothes are on the floor beside the bed, and I reach into my shirt pocket and fish out a Chesterfield pack that is almost empty. I light a cigarette, but it tastes so bad that I crush it out in the ashtray after a few drags. "How do you feel?" I ask when she awakens.

"My mouth has a terrible taste."

"A beer will make it better. We'll have a shower and get dressed and go out and have a beer."

It is almost midnight when we get back as drunk as we were last night. The next afternoon finds us in a bar drowning our hangovers with beer until we finally decide to start back toward the border.

My arm is around her while we're riding the bus back to San Diego. "Ruth, there is something I have to tell you. I didn't want to tell you earlier because I didn't want to spoil your weekend."

"What is it, Mountie?"

"Ruth...Ruth, I have my orders to go to Washington—not your Washington but D.C. I have to leave tomorrow."

"I don't want you to leave me, Mountie."

"I must. I'll get my discharge in July. And I don't have to be at the University of Virginia until fall. I'll come back and spend that time with you."

She presses her face against my shoulder and starts crying. "Mountie, I love you, and I don't want you to leave me."

"I don't want to leave you, baby, but I must."

Chapter 13

Here I am at Henderson Hall in Arlington, Virginia, on the fringe of Washington, D.C. Henderson Hall is a small Marine base that billets personnel associated with Headquarters, U.S. Marine Corps. I'm in a company that provides security for the Department of the Navy.

Most of the personnel on the base are office workers at Marine headquarters in the Navy Annex of the Pentagon. There is a company of Women Marines on the base. We call them BAMs for Broad-Ass Marines.

Ruth doesn't know my address. I was going to write a letter to her. Then I thought I'd better think it over before I let her know where I am. I didn't use condoms for all of our flings, and I don't want her to know where I am so she can point a finger at me if she has cargo in her hold. Sometimes I get a guilty conscience from ducking out on her and think that she's a nice girl and doesn't deserve to be hurt. Sometimes I think that I should write to her, but most times I think it is my best bet to keep her guessing.

Maybe I can make a surprise visit to San Diego after I get discharged in July. Maybe I can stay out there until I go to Charlottesville in the autumn to start at the University of Virginia. That's a few months ahead, and there's no sense in worrying about it now.

Whoever it was who said that there is a lot of pussy in the Washington area wasn't lying. I've decided that I'm going to get as much of it as I can before my discharge. There's definitely no shortage of women here. Females definitely outnumber males several to one. There are WAACs, WAVES, and WMs and girls who have come from all over the country to work in government offices.

I've been on the base about a week and have become a drinking buddy in the slop chute with a WM from Gary, Indiana, whose name is Irene. She's a big woman. She's as tall as I am and is as solid as a boulder. She can also drink as much beer as any trooper on the base.

Irene won't let me get into her pants. She'll let me smooch with her but that's as far as she'll let me go. I'm getting frustrated. One of the guys on the base has a Navy girlfriend and has lined me up with a Saturday blind date.

I go to the WAVE barracks not far from Henderson Hall to meet my date, whose name is Judy. Judy appears after being paged by the duty petty officer. She is less than five feet tall, and is plump. Actually she is a little more than plump. She is fat. She looks jolly, anyway, with a smile on her round face.

"Where are you from, Judy?" I ask as we leave the Navy compound.

"Kansas. Close to Wichita. Where are you from?"

"Virginia. A little more than two hundred miles west of here."

"Where are we going?"

"We can have dinner later. I thought we'd start off by going to church."

"Church?"

"Yeah. The Saint Regis."

"Are you Catholic?"

"No.".

"Saint Regis. That sounds Catholic."

I laugh. "The Saint Regis is a Marine hangout on Pennsylvania Avenue. We call it the church."

Judy laughs. "You had me worried. I thought you would try to convert me."

"No worry about that. Saint Regis is the only church I go to. My parents made us go to a Lutheran Sunday school just to get rid of us on Sunday, but I never got hooked on any religion."

"I come from a Methodist family, but I haven't been to church much since I joined the Navy a year ago. How long have you been in the Marines?"

"It'll be four years in July when I get my discharge."

"Are you shipping over?"

"I'm getting out of the Corps to finish my education."

We get on a D.C. bus, and she tells me that she wants to finish her education after she gets out of the Navy but she hasn't made up her mind what she wants to study.

A few barstools are occupied in the Saint Regis. Judy and I seat ourselves at a table across the room. "What'll you have?" I ask her.

"What're you having?"

"Bourbon on the rocks."

"Whiskey is too strong for me."

"You could mix it with something. Something like ginger ale."

"Okay. I'll try it."

The waitress appears, and I say to her, "A bourbon and ginger and a bourbon on the rocks."

It is obvious that Judy isn't much of a drinker because she shows signs of getting drunk after just three drinks. Maybe that's a good sign. If she gets a little drunker it might make her cooperative when I make my move.

I make my first move after we've started on our fourth drink. She doesn't react one way or another when I take her hand. Then my other hand starts rubbing her knee and starts migrating up her smooth nylon-sheathed thigh. "You shouldn't be doing that," she says.

A voice sounds close behind me. "That's right, scrounge! You shouldn't be doing that. You told me you're on duty this weekend. I can see what kind of duty you're trying to perform."

The next thing I know is that my chair has been tilted backwards. I'm lying on my back on the deck looking up at Irene, who is in the initial process of tilting Judy's chair backwards. Judy and I are now both on the deck. Irene dives on her and has her hands on Judy's throat. I scramble to my feet and am trying to pull Irene off Judy. Irene let's go of Judy's throat long enough to turn and drive her fist into my groin.

Jeezus. I'm sure she's busted one of my balls, if not both of them, and I'm standing clutching my crotch with both hands. Judy has taken advantage of the break to start getting onto her feet. She's soon on her back again with Irene on top of her and her hands back on her throat.

The bartender jumps across the bar and tries to pull Irene off Judy. Irene gives him a swift jab in the midriff and doubles him over. Two customers leave their barstools and rush to our table and show badges to identify themselves as off-duty metropolitan police. Both of them try to pull Irene off Judy. Irene gives one a push and propels him backwards over a table and then sends the other one reeling sideways over another table. Judy is on her feet but not very long. Irene has her back on the deck and is going for her throat again. Now both policemen are pulling Irene away and have wrestled her to the deck.

Judy is still on the floor. I get her hand to pull her to a stance. "Let's get the hell outta here," I say and start toward the door with her. We make our exit while the two cops wrestle with Irene.

A taxi is coming down Pennsylvania Avenue, and I wave to it. It stops and I open the door. Judy gets in and I start to follow her. "Don't get in here with me!" she screeches. "I don't want to see you any more!"

Now I'm back at the base slop chute wondering if I did the right thing in running out and leaving Irene, even if she was the one who started the fight. She'll be locked up for sure. If she doesn't get back to the base on time Monday morning she'll be court-martialed for being AWOL. I can be a witness and say that Judy attacked her first but that wouldn't be fair to Judy. Shit! I don't know what to do.

Someone should go to the police station and bail her out of jail, and it shouldn't really be me. If those two cops see me they might throw me in the clink. I'll have to find a guy who is willing to do it. The slop chute is almost empty, and I don't see anyone from my company. I'll have another beer and think this thing over.

Just as I'm arising from the table I see Irene coming toward me with a bottle of beer in her hand. She's smiling. That means that she's taking delight with thoughts of breaking the beer bottle and thrusting jagged glass into my face. I position my feet into a judo stance and await the attack.

Irene is laughing now that she is a couple of paces away from me. "Hey, Mountie, did you see how I decked those cops?"

"I saw you shove one of them over a table but it looked like they were getting the best of you when I checked out."

"Getting the best of me! Like shit they did! The bastards were trying to handcuff me, but I dumped both of 'em on their asses and got the fuck outta there as fast as I could." She's rocking with laughter.

"That's good. I'm sorry about ducking out."

"Never mind that. You had to save your ass. Now what I want to know is who that fat little chick was?"

"Just someone I met and was just having a conversation with."

"Conversation, my ass! Don't try to shit me, Mountie. I saw you with your hand up her skirt. Let's sit and talk about this."

"I'll get a beer."

I'm thinking about the possibility of taking off to the barracks to escape the prospects of an encounter but change my mind and get my beer and return to the table.

Irene is looking squint-eyed at me as I sit. "Well, Mountie, what do you have to say?"

"Irene, I don't think you understand how it is for a guy. I've been getting all worked up when we're together. I've been getting all hot 'n' bothered but haven't been able to do anything about it. Okay. So I was going to try to do something about it."

"I suppose you think women don't get hot pants. Maybe you think I didn't get steamed up all the times we've been smooching."

"I wondered..."

"I probably get as worked up as you do, Mountie. The difference is that a woman can get a bun in the oven."

"No danger of that. I always carry protection."

"Hunh! That's what a guy told a friend of mine. He told her he was going to use something, and she ended up getting a belly as big as a blimp."

Two couples we know are approaching our table, and we invite them to sit. I'm feeling fairly drunk by the time they leave about two hours later. It's hard to tell about Irene. Alcohol doesn't seem to affect her like it does most people, but she can be unpredictable whether or not she's had anything to drink."

"Want to take a walk?" she asks.

"Yeah. We can go for a walk off the base and maybe stop for a bowl of chili at that joint by Columbia Pike."

We're veering away from the streetlights and are entering Arlington National Cemetery. Irene pulls me to a halt and spins me around, gets me in a tight hug and we start smooching. There are now voices nearby, and we break contact and start walking into the depth of the cemetery. It is now quiet, and we stop to smooch some more. Irene is breathing heavily. "Do you have any of those things with you, Mountie?"

"Rubbers, you mean?"

"What do you think I meant, a pocket full of peanuts?"

"I have some rubbers here."

"Give me one."

"I'll put one on."

"Give it to me. I want to make sure that it is put on."

My pole is standing up when I drop my trousers and skivvy shorts. She takes the condom from me and is trying to open the packet. "Here," I say. "I'll do it."

While I'm rolling on the rubber she takes off her panties. Now she's lying on her back with her skirt up and her legs spread. "Now you can poke it in."

The cemetery has become a nightly excursion until one evening when we're in the slop chute and Irene is furiously scratching her hips. "Mountie, I got a rash on my ass. I went to sickbay today, and the doctor said it is poison ivy. I don't think we should do it in the cemetery anymore."

A guy we know is being transferred to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, and is letting a 1935 Chevrolet go for a cheap price. Irene and I pool our money and buy it. We pass the Virginia driving test and get our first driver's licenses.

There is a parking lot near the WM barracks and that's where we keep the old Chevy parked when we're not driving it. We don't have to use the cemetery any more now that we have the back seat of our car. It is a place where we can go for a quick one after an evening of drinking in the slop chute.

Weekends that I don't have guard duty we're out riding around in the Arlington, Falls Church, and Alexandria areas looking for beer joints. It is a Saturday evening. Irene and I have been over to Falls Church drinking beer all afternoon. I'm behind the wheel going up Columbia Pike. We're now close to Henderson Hall. Irene says, "Let's stop for a bowl of chili," as we approach the joint where all of us from the base stop to sober up on coffee and something to eat before going back to the base.

"Okay." I swerve the Chevy off the Pike and hit the brakes in the gravel-topped parking lot. The Chevy skids to throw gravel and pepper the windows of the coffee shop. It stops about a hand's width from the wall. The old car has knee-action front suspensions that cause it to bounce a lot. It is still bouncing up and down by the time I turn off the ignition. It is just about on its last bounce when a state trooper stops his car on my side.

"Get out of your car," the policeman says.

I have to be careful not to stagger when I get out of the car and go around to the driver's side of the police car. I put my hands on top of his car to prop myself so I won't reel. "Is there something wrong, officer?"

"Do you know what the speed limit is through here?"

"Twenty-five."

The trooper now has a ticket book in his hands. "I clocked you going seventy-eight miles an hour on the Pike. Give me your driver's license." He copies my name from my permit and says, "So you're a Marine at Henderson Hall?"

"Yes."

"Well, buddy, you're lucky I'm an ex-gyrene or you'd lose your license. I'm going to write you up for going thirty in a twenty-five zone, and you'll only get a small fine. If I catch you speeding again I'm not going to be so easy on you."

Irene and I go into the coffee shop, and I say to her, "We'll have to drive a lot faster from now on. He said he didn't want to catch us again."

The twenty-five-dollar fine is a lot of beer money. But it hasn't slowed us down. Irene likes to drive as fast as I do. The old Chevy gets pushed for all she is worth, no matter which one of us is behind the wheel.

Most of our off-duty weekends are now spent in Baltimore or going down to Fredericksburg. This weekend we discover a great spot. There is a lot of woodland off the road to Fredericksburg. We see a dirt road leading off the highway into the woods. Irene is driving. "Let's turn in there and see where it goes to," I say. We're now past it. Irene hits the brakes, skids to a halt and reverses to the turnoff.

The road ends beside a large creek or small river that makes rushing sounds spilling over large rocks. "Wow!" Irene says. "This is a great place for a picnic."

One of my buddies is on mess duty in the chow hall and has smuggled out a box of fried chicken for us to eat on our way to Furburg, which is what we call Fredericksburg. We've brought along two cases of Schlitz in case we get thirsty on a stretch where there are no beer joints.

We get out of the car and open the trunk. Irene gets the box of chicken. I lift out a case of beer. Irene makes sure that there is no poison ivy or poison oak where we select a spot to sit on the edge of the stream to eat chicken and drink beer.

The chicken is finished, and the beer case half empty. Irene takes a pack of Luckies from her pocket and extends it toward me. I light our cigarettes with my Zippo. Irene exhales a cloud of smoke and says, "This is a great place to fuck, except that someone might drive down here and catch us."

"How about if we go downstream out into the woods? We can hear anyone walking in the leaves."

"Don't forget the fuckin' rubbers."

"I have some in my pocket."

"Let's keep on a lookout for poison ivy."

This has become our favorite weekend recreational spot. Next weekend I'll be on guard duty. But this weekend is free. There are dark clouds as we leave the base. Sprinkle starts by the time we get on the highway. "Shit," Irene says. "It's going to be too wet to have a picnic."

"How about having one in the car? We can go on to Furburg after we finish?"

"Okay."

It is raining hard by the time we get to the dirt-road turnoff. I drive the car close to the edge of the stream and turn off the engine. Irene stays in the car while I get out to remove a box of pork chops and a case of beer from the trunk. I'm soaking wet when I get back behind the wheel. We've finished most of the pork chops and have drunk three beers each. I take a pack of Chesterfields from my pocket remove the ones that got wet at the opened part of the pack and throw them out the window. I light two dry ones and pass one to Irene.

Irene is stroking my neck. "You know something, Mountie? I feel like I'm getting attached to you."

"We always have a good time together."

"It's the best time I've had in my life."

"No one will be coming down here for a picnic in this rain. Let's get in the back seat."

We throw our half-smoked cigarettes out the window on my side that is rolled down just enough to let in some air. Irene climbs over the backrest, and I pass the beer case over to her and climb into the back. The beer case is on the floorboard, and she is busy with the church key opening two beers. She scoots over against me and hands me a beer.

Our opened cans are on top of the case and we're smooching. Her panties are now off, and I toss them over the backrest into the front while she is unbuttoning my trousers. It is raining so hard that we can't open the door to let our legs stick out. Her skirt is hiked above her waist while I'm rolling on a condom. "Now let me sit on top of your flag pole. We'll have a good fuck for Old Glory."

There are only short lulls in the downpour throughout the night so we can go out and relieve ourselves of the beer we've drunk. It isn't until early hours in the morning that we finish the second case of Schlitz and go to sleep in the back seat. I sleep partially sitting while she leans against me.

A knock sounds on top of the car. My eyes open. Daylight is filtering through the steamed up windows. The windows are so fogged that I can just barely see that someone is standing outside. I roll the window down and see a state trooper in a raincoat. "You're going to be floating down the river if you don't move your car," he says.

I stick my head out the window and see that the stream has risen and is lapping at the front bumper. "Thanks a lot, officer," I say. He turns and goes to his police car. "I'd better back up, Irene, or we'll be floating down the river like the man said," I say as I scramble over the backrest into the front seat.

Irene climbs into the front seat as I start the engine. I reverse a short distance from the stream and stop. "Where to now?" Irene asks.

"We're out of beer and pork chops."

"And I'm hungry. Let's get on the road and head for Furburg."

It is Wednesday when we meet in the slop chute. "Mountie, I have my orders for Cherry Point, North Carolina."

"When do you report in?"

"Monday. I've checked on a flight. There's one leaving Sunday afternoon. You have guard duty this weekend, and you can't take me to the airport."

"I'll swap weekends with someone. A couple of guys owe me a swap."

"I'll miss you, Mountie."

"I'll miss you, too. I get out of the Corps in two months and you know what? I can go to North Carolina and spend some time with you before I have to go to Charlottesville and start fall classes."

"That'll be great, Mountie. I'll be looking forward to more fun in the back seat of the Chevy."

"I'll give you what money I can now for your half of the car and send you the rest payday."

Today is Sunday, the 25th of June. Irene and I have been apart almost a month. I'm driving back from Alexandria with two guys from the guard company. The radio is playing, and a music program is interrupted by a news bulletin. North Korea has invaded South Korea. American military personnel have been ordered to report back to their stations.

"Hot shit," Willis blurts. "Looks like we might get some action."

"Yeah," Ruller says. "But where'n hell is Korea?"

American troops stationed in Korea became involved immediately during the initial attack. Now a United Nations force is being formed. Some of the guys at Henderson Hall are getting transfer orders. I go to the first sergeant's office and extend my enlistment and put my name on the volunteer list for Korea.

Some of the guys from the base have been shipped off to Korea. Ruller, one of the guys in the car with me when the attack on Korea was announced, has been sent to Korea. We learn a short time later that he has lost both legs in the country that was completely unknown to him until the war started.

Irene's transfer has left me feeling a bit lost. I'm not getting much satisfaction going out on drinking rounds with a bunch of guys. So I've started prowling around looking for another girlfriend. There is a waitress in Fredericksburg who was friendly with me. I have her phone number and when I called her she agreed to go out on a date with me this Saturday after she gets off from work.

The Chevy is cruising down the highway. My foot gets heavier on the accelerator and pushes it all the way to the floorboard. The Chevy engine is roaring and the body vibrating. There is an exploding sound in front, and I realize that there is a tire blowout. I'm gripping the steering wheel to keep it from wrenching out of my hands and to keep the car straight on the highway while trying to brake to a halt. The car is trying to leave the road, and I'm fighting the wheel to keep it straight. It starts to skid and is off the road headed toward a tree grove.

It runs head-on into a large oak tree. I'm thrown against the steering wheel so hard that it knocks air out of my lungs. The windshield is shattered, and the front seat is littered with glass. The steering wheel is broken. Steam pours from under the bashed hood. I can see through the knocked-out windshield and steam that the hood is covered with birds' nests, leaves and twigs.

The engine is no longer running. I know that even if it will start again that it won't run long with an empty radiator. I get out to look underneath the front. I can see that the chassis is badly bent. The radiator is busted for sure.

Here I stand wondering what to do and decide to hitchhike to the nearest phone and call a tow truck. A state-police car has stopped on the highway shoulder. "What happened?" the trooper asks.

"Blowout."

The trooper looks at my damaged car. "From the looks of your skid marks back there on the highway and the damage to your car and the dent in that tree I'd say you were going pretty fast."

"I was right on the speed limit."

"Have you got a driver's license?"

"Right here." I take it from my wallet and hand it to him.

He writes my name and address on a notepad and copies my license-plate number. "What are you intending to do with your car?"

"I was just getting ready to hitchhike to the nearest phone and get it towed back to Arlington so I can get it fixed."

"Okay, buddy, I'll get on the radio and have a wrecker sent from Arlington. It looks to me like there ain't much they can do to get that car back on the road."

The trooper was right. The foreman at the garage where it was towed says the chassis, steering mechanism, radiator, and a few other things have been damaged so badly that it isn't worth thinking about a repair job. He offers to take it for spare parts and junk to cover towing cost.

So be it now that I am without wheels and have to rely upon public transport. It is too much trouble to go by bus to the places I usually drove to. So I'm spending off-duty evenings in the slop chute getting drunk and trying to score with WMs. So far I haven't attracted any interest from any of the girls in green. I'm not doing any better on weekends in D.C. There are supposed to be many more women than men in this area, but I haven't been able to make any headway with any of them. It isn't as easy as some places to pick up women in bars here because they have some stupid rules. An unescorted woman can't sit at the bar. One isn't allowed to move a drink from one table to another. The rule is that if you come in stag you leave stag.

It has been awhile since Irene left, and I'm beginning to get hot nuts in the worst kind of way. There must be other places to pick up girls besides in bars. Wherever it is I haven't found it. It's not even worthwhile trying to pick one up in a D.C. bar with all of their crazy laws.

I'm in the first sergeant's office again on Friday to see if I've been selected as a volunteer for Korea. He says, "No overseas orders yet for you."

Today is Saturday, and I'm walking down from New York Avenue on my way to the Saint Regis to meet some of the guys. A dark-haired woman is opening the trunk of a 1940 DeSoto. The rear tire near the curb is flat. I approach her from the rear. "Looks like you have a flat."

She turns, startled at my voice from behind her. "I sure have. I was just about to start looking for all the things to fix it with. I've never changed a wheel before."

"I'll do it for you."

"Oh, thank you."

"No problem. Now let me see if I can find your jack and lug wrench."

The job is now finished, and I'm putting the tools back in the trunk. "You got your hands all dirty. All I have is a package of Kleenex. Will they help?"

"I think I'll need some soap and water. There's a bar up the street. I can clean up in their men's room. Would you like to have a drink with me?"

"Thank you and thanks for changing the wheel."

"A pleasure. Don't forget to stop at the nearest service station and get the flat tire fixed. It wouldn't be funny if you had two flat tires and no spare."

"I'll do that."

We're walking up the street. "My name is Mountie."

"My name is Arlene."

"Have you always lived in D.C.?"

"No. I've been here less than a year. I grew up in a small town in Ohio. I'm a civilian employee in the Pentagon for the Army."

"I've had a good bit of guard duty in the Pentagon but in the Navy section."

"Are you a sailor?"

"Marine."

"And where are you from, Mountie?"

"Virginia. A little more than two hundred miles west of here."

I'm holding the door open for her to enter the bar. We go to a table and sit until the waitress appears. "What'll you have, Arlene?" I ask.

"I don't usually drink alcohol. What could I have?"

"Try a bourbon and ginger. That's pretty mild."

"Okay."

I tell the waitress to bring bourbon and ginger and double bourbon on the rocks for me. The waitress is at our table with the drinks as I return from washing my hands. Arlene tastes her drink. "It's mild. It doesn't even taste like it has whiskey in it. I like it."

"I thought you would. Do you live over in Arlington?"

"No. I rent a room near Rock Creek Park."

"What did you do in Ohio before you came here?"

"I worked as a bookkeeper in a department store. Are you going to stay in the Marines?"

"Just until the war ends. I was supposed to get out in July but I extended when the shooting started in Korea and put my name on the volunteer list to go there."

"Why did you volunteer for the war?"

"Just to see what war is like. I'd hoped that World War Two would last long enough for me to get into it, but it didn't."

"Aren't you afraid you'll get hurt?"

"That's a chance I'll have to take."

Arlene's face is turning pale by the time she starts on her third drink. She is rising from her seat. "Mountie, I think I'm going to get sick." She puts her hand over her mouth and dashes toward the women's lavatory. She returns a few minutes later with her breath smelling sour. I guess she has puked.

"How do you feel now, Arlene."

"Better. I'm not much of a drinker. I should have told you that I sometimes get sick."

"Would you like to have just a Coke or something like that?"

"I think I'd like to go home."

"I'll drive you home and take a bus back."

"Thanks. I'm feeling a little giddy."

The car is now parked in front of the house she lives in. I hand her the keys after locking the doors and start to walk toward the house with her. "I'd invite you in but my landlady won't let us have men visitors."

"There's a place I've been to before I totaled out my car. It is a great place for a picnic. It's in the woods, and there's a good spot by a stream. Would you like to have a picnic next weekend? I won't even bring any beer for myself. What do you say?"

"I can prepare some sandwiches."

"Don't worry about the chow. I'll get one of the guys in the galley to put together a box for us."

It is Monday and only a few weeks after I became involved with Arlene. The first sergeant calls me into his office. "Here are orders for you," he says and hands me a sheaf of papers. "You are to report to an infantry training regiment in Camp Pendleton before shipping out to Korea."

Chapter 14

Our battalion has recently moved from a mountaintop up near the Thirty-Eighth Parallel at the North Korean border. Our new location is in lower terrain toward the east coast. It was winter when we arrived near the North Korean border and very cold. We have winter sleeping bags that are supposed to be adequate. Try telling that to any of my troops who have slept outdoors when the temperature was thirty degrees below zero Fahrenheit. Many times I've slept in my bug bag with thermal boots on. The high mountains were fantastically beautiful when ice covered the trees. Sunlight reflecting off the ice made the mountains look like gigantic chandeliers.

Our new location is different over here where we are now in the mountains toward the west coast, a day's jeep ride from Seoul and Inchon. Mountains aren't as high here, and it isn't as cold but is cold enough for anyone living in an unheated bunker. We're close enough to the Panmunjom no-fire sector that we can see helicopters daily taking the American military team for peace negotiations with North Korean military delegates.

I was assigned as leader of a machine gun section when I arrived but soon became the platoon sergeant of a rifle platoon. So many second lieutenants have become casualties that the officers' basic school in Quantico can't graduate young officers fast enough to fill vacant platoon commander spots. So here I am now the acting commander of a rifle platoon.

My company is on the front lines now. I'm standing outside my Second Platoon's command-post bunker with seven-fifty binoculars resting on the parapet. They're focused on a hill out in what is supposed to be no-man's land. The hill is called Gumdrop because of its shape. Battalion intelligence has informed us of suspected enemy presence on the hill.

I've just returned from the company command post (CP) for a final briefing to take my platoon up on Gumdrop tonight for a reconnaissance patrol. I picked up the platoon's mail while I was at the CP. There was a letter for me from Arlene. I wait to get back to my bunker to read it.

We were married two weeks before I went to Camp Pendleton for my final infantry-training phase. I'd never felt that she was very special to me and now I realize that I married her because I felt a need for someone to come back to after my war service. I don't know why she consented to the marriage.

The main line of resistance (MLR) is on the forward slope of a hill. I'm looking down the slope at a rice paddy that goes stair-step fashion on the hill. It is getting its springtime-green blush. The valley below our MLR and Gumdrop is a huge rice paddy. It is a beautiful scene, though I know that there are plenty of land mines buried out in the paddies between the dams. Both the Chinese and our troops use the dams as patrol routes. Normally the dams aren't mined, but sometimes they are.

I'm waiting for the platoon sergeant and three squad leaders and machine gun section leader to join me. Haderson, the platoon guide and now acting platoon sergeant, and Altin, the machine gun section leader are the first to appear. Kafer, the first squad leader comes next. Ricks, third squad leader, comes next and is followed by Dusty Rhodes, the second squad leader. "Don't bunch up too tight," I say to them. "Let's stay spread out as far as we can and still hear each other."

A seventy-six round screeches and explodes in the first-squad area. It is immediately followed by another round that explodes a little farther away.

Kafer says, "The first today. I thought they might give us a quiet day."

Three more rounds explode in quick succession in the third-squad sector.

"I've just had another briefing by the skipper," I say. "There's nothing new from S-2. They still don't know how many are deployed up there."

A seventy-six makes a zwo-o-op sound directly over our heads and explodes about fifty yards up the slope. We duck down in the trench. Two more rounds zwo-o-op overhead and explode about twenty-five yards closer.

"Our orders remain the same, but I'll go through the drill again. We keep our eyes and ears open for any listening posts they may have set up between our lines and the hill. It is my guess that they'll have the base of the hill surrounded by listening posts. We have strict orders to not open fire on anything unless we're fired upon first. We hope to get up there to take a good look and get back without having to fire a shot."

Two seventy-sixes explode in the First Platoon area near where they are tied in with my platoon.

"We'll have to be careful from the time we leave here until we finish our mission and check for mines and trip flares. I think we should have enough time to feel for them all the way to the top. We'll take the platoon up the slope facing us. When we get to that ravine half way up I'll leave the platoon with you, Haderson, while I go up and take the Third Fire Team of the Third Squad up for a look. Stay put where you are even if there is a firefight. Don't move up unless we send up a green parachute flare. I'll send up a red flare to signal for artillery support if we need it. Are there any questions? Okay. Ricks, send your Third Fire Team to me for a final briefing."

More seventy-sixes are exploding in the First Platoon area as my NCOs depart.

Corporal Veltrad soon appears with his fire team. "Keep your distance apart," I tell them. "I don't have any change of plans but just want to go over our original orders. All of us in the reconnaissance party will carry carbines with grenade launchers. Each of us will carry two red parachute flares and two green ones. I'll give the order for when we fire a flare and what color. Red flares are to be fixed to your belt on your left and green on your right. Green flares will signal for the platoon to move up if we need help. Red will signal for artillery support if we need it."

There is a spitting sound that sounds like a lit cigarette's hiss when it is dropped into a toilet bowl and is instantaneously followed by a loud crack as an eighty-two millimeter mortar shell falls on the slope below us. Large chunks of shrapnel make swishing sounds going loopity-loop through the air. Two more rounds land above us and a piece of shrapnel swishes over us.

"At no time on this mission will we fire unless fired upon. The hill is likely to be mined. The platoon point fireteam will check for mines as we move up in column. Then we'll leave the platoon and continue upward in column. I'll be in front checking for mines. When we get near the top, I will give the signal to get into skirmish line. I'll be in the middle. Veltrad will be on my left with Showalter. Bingan and Krull will be on my right. We'll keep a double-arm-length interval. We'll each check for trip wires and detonator prongs. When I think that we are close enough to the top, I will signal for everyone to get on the deck and keep me covered while I go farther up for a closer look. Any questions?"

"What'll we do if we see listening posts on the way?" Veltrad asks.

"If we can get past them without being seen, we will. Otherwise we'll have to turn back. We have strict orders from the skipper to not engage in a firefight unless we're fired upon. Any more questions?"

There are no more questions, and the fireteam members go back to their positions.

A platoon from a company in battalion reserve appears before nightfall to plug in the gap my Second Platoon will leave vacant tonight. We have camouflage paint on by the time the relief platoon arrives. It is getting dark by the time Haderson and I set them up, in position and I brief Lieutenant Mertz, their platoon commander.

Now we're going through an opening in our barbed wire and getting onto a rice-paddy dam leading to the direction of Gumdrop. I'm in front of the main column. A point fireteam is well ahead of me to check for any signs of mines and to scout for any enemy activity. We're at four-pace-intervals apart and moving slowly and quietly, listening and looking for any activity to either flank.

Gumdrop is now about a hundred yards in front of us. A crouched-over figure is moving on the trail toward me. "Veltrad," the point fire-team leader identifies himself.

"What's happening, Veltrad?" I whisper when he gets close.

"There are a lot of 'em close to the base of the hill. They're acting like they're on a picnic or something. They're talking and laughing. One of them let a loud fart, and they all started laughing."

"It's a decoy. They're trying to suck in any patrol that's coming from our side. There'll be an ambush waiting to open fire on anyone who engages with them. How many do you think there were?"

"At least a squad."

"Okay. We'll move the platoon up a little closer. Then I'll go with your fireteam to see what we can find out."

I pass the word back through the column to move in a crouched-over position. We're about twenty-five yards closer to the hill base, and I pass the word to halt and get on the deck and to keep the point and me covered while we move ahead.

I'm crouched low while moving ahead of Veltrad's fireteam. Now there are faint sounds of Chinese voices and occasional laughter. I turn and whisper to Veltrad, "Let's move forward on our hands and knees. Keep your eyes and ears open for anything on either flank. I'll check for mines and trip flares. They're bound to have something planted on this trail."

I'm moving slowly on my hands and knees and alternately passing the palm of my hand over the ground in front of me to feel for three-pronged detonators and gently feeling an arm's length above me for any trip wire that might be across the path.

My fingertips touch a taut wire stretched across the path a few inches from the ground. It is hooked to the firing mechanism of either a trip flare or bouncing-betty mine. It is most likely a mine that will be blasted from a tube placed in the rice paddy on either side of the path and will explode a few feet above the deck.

It can be assumed that there is an ambush waiting on one of the dams on either side of the one we're using as a patrol route. I back away from the trip wire and flatten myself on the ground and listen. I'm listening not only to both flanks adjacent to where I lie but am considering that the device is between the ambush and the decoy ahead. They are most likely waiting for a patrol to be well into the trapped area before they open fire. The rice paddy will be mined on both sides of our path. It will be disastrous for any patrol to be ambushed and try to deploy in the paddy.

The first sound I hear to my left and to the rear is a thump, probably a weapon or other equipment knocking against something. It is followed by a Chinese voice that is barely audible. Maybe it is the ambush leader reprimanding the man who was careless.

I turn and crawl quietly back to Veltrad. He whispers, "I heard something back there to my left."

"Yeah. It's an ambush. There's a wire across the path. Pass the word for the fireteam to move back. Move on your hands and knees."

I wait for him to pass my order and follow on my hands and knees as the four men start reversing their direction. There is a slight rustling sound as we get adjacent to the ambush and no other sound.

Haderson is in front of the column at the main body of my platoon lying prostrate on the path when we return. "There's an ambush in the paddy to the left," I whisper to him. "A trip wire is across the path between them and that decoy at the foot of the hill. Pass the word to move back to the MLR."

There is the sound of laughter from the decoy position as we start withdrawing. We're escaping a trap that was calculated to get a patrol caught in crossfire from the ambush post in the paddy and the decoy ahead. My platoon would have been butchered if we'd fallen into their gimmick.

It is soon after dawn. I'm at the company command post behind the hill's crest above the main line of resistance. Captain Morley and I are standing in the trench leading into his CP bunker. There is a zwoop over us and a seventy-six explodes in the valley behind us. "Any idea how many of them were on the decoy post?" he asks.

"It was too dark to see anything, sir. Judging from the voices we heard, I'd say there were about a squad. I don't have a clue about how many were set up in the ambush. It has been my experience, skipper, that they usually operate with squad-size ambushes."

"It looks like they're pretty intent on keeping us off that hill. Two squads laying down crossfire on an area where a mine or trip flare is set off can do a lot of damage to a platoon on the trail."

"That's the problem, Captain. It is suicide to deploy off paths. The rice paddies are full of mines between the dams."

"Okay. I'll relay your report to S-2. Return to your platoon, and I'll let you know battalion's reaction."

"Aye, aye, sir."

A few days later I am in the company command post with Captain Morley. "I've been in conference with both S-2 and S-3," he says. "Looks like you'll get your chance to go up and take a look at that hilltop, after all."

"It'll mean that we have to find a way around their trap at the bottom of the hill."

"Exactly. Battalion agrees that to engage the decoy and ambush would make them suspicious of our intentions to go up the front. S-3 has plans for you to take your platoon up the rear slope. Let's go outside and take a look."

We're standing in the trench on the crest that leads into the company CP and overlooks the main line of resistance and terrain in front of it. "You'll have to take a broad reach around the hill," he says.

"There's only one route we can take to do that, skipper. That dam going by that little tree over there to the left is the only continuous path going past the hill."

"That's right."

"The problem is, sir, that if we take that path it will take much longer to work our way behind the hill and go up the rear slope. That won't leave us much time to check for mines going up and getting back to the MLR before daylight."

"S-2 thinks there are less probabilities of it being mined back there than on the front facing us."

"Sir, if I were setting up an outpost up there I'd have all-round security but I'm in agreement with S-2 that primary consideration would be on the enemy's side. They're not quite as likely to have it mined back there because of the distance factor for us and also because they'll be traveling to and from that side to their territory beyond."

"That's the logic that battalion has used and I agree."

"But, sir, it could still be mined with clear paths for them to use."

"Can you think of any other way to get up there?"

"The only other way I can think of, sir, is not to take my entire platoon up there but send a fireteam-size recon patrol. They could go to the far side of the hill base and camouflage themselves in a paddy. It would mean staying put all next day and continuing their mission next night. But that would be very risky, sir."

We duck down in the trench while several eighty-twos explode around the CP.

"There's no cover, sir, and camouflage would be extremely difficult. It would be about impossible to completely keep hidden from their daytime patrols behind the hill and from anyone scanning the paddies with binoculars from any of the hills in their territory. Also, a small unit without nearby support of a squad or platoon wouldn't have a chance if they got into a fight."

"So that leaves out that option, doesn't it?"

"Yes sir."

"So it looks like your only choice is to risk the chance with mines."

"We'll be able to do a little checking for trip wires but there won't be enough time to check thoroughly for detonator prongs."

"Okay. Go back to your platoon, and I'll let you know when I've worked out a time with battalion for you to carry out the mission."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The night has come for my platoon to carry out the mission. We start off on the path we took when we had to abort our mission. Then we turn left on a cross dam leading to the main dam that we are following now to get past the hill. I am at the front of the main body. A point fireteam is well ahead of me making a fast check for mines on the trail and listening for ambushes on both flanks.

Now we're past the hill and flanking to get behind it. It is all unfamiliar territory now that we are starting to ascend the slope. I've spent hours with binoculars studying the side of the hill facing our MLR. The only clue I have to this rear side is from a Japanese-made contour map.

The slope is steeper back here than in front of the hill. There are loose rocks on it, and we must be careful not to dislodge any to make a noisy tumble down the hill. Faint sounds of Chinese voices can be heard to our left. I signal the platoon to stop so I can listen. It sounds like they're around the hill. Maybe it is a patrol or relief unit going to or descending from the hilltop. It'll be a stroke of luck for us if that side over there is their normal route rather than us coming face to face with them over here on the route we're on.

I'm in front of the point fireteam laboring up the slope. There isn't enough time to feel thoroughly in front of me for detonator prongs protruding from the ground. I'm waving a limber twig up and down in front of me to feel for trip wires.

Keeping my sense of direction is important. I'm aiming for a ravine-like indentation that shows on the contour map. Now we're in it. This is the spot where I am leaving my platoon while I go toward the top with the point fireteam. Haderson has my orders to keep the platoon here until our return or until we send up a green parachute flare as a signal that we're in trouble and need their help.

The point fireteam is in column at close interval behind me. There are faint voices up there and the sound of digging. I signal for my scouts to get down, and I lie here listening and looking for silhouettes. There are silhouettes moving back and forth against the skyline and rustling sounds toward the top. No doubt there are listening posts down the slope below their entrenchment on top. That's what I expected to find up here.

My arms are spread to signal the column to form a skirmish line on both sides of me. Veltrad is at double-arm's-length interval to my right. Spizer is the same distance from me on my left. We're moving upward slowly while crouched over.

I'm just about to signal for the team to get on the deck and keep me covered while I crawl upward to infiltrate between the listening posts and get a close look at activities on top. There is a deafening explosion on my left. My left ear is ringing and my left cheek is stinging from being peppered by blown-up soil from the blast of the mine Spizer has stepped on.

I'm flat on the deck. Grenades are raining on the ground around our short skirmish line. The hillside above us is ablaze with small-arms fire. Bullets are kicking up dirt and make twoing sounds as they ricochet over our heads.

Spizer is groaning faintly. Veltrad is groaning on the other side of me. Grumlan to my far left says that he's hit. I call to Pivlah on the right flank, "Are you okay, Piv?"

"I'm hit! I can't get up."

I must get these men down the hill and out of grenade range and down under the curve of the slope so they will be out of the enfilade of small-arms fire. I scoot over to Veltrad and pull him about three yards down the slope. Then I crawl back up to Spizer and drag him down the hill. It isn't until I drag Grumlan and Pivlav down that I can make preparations to signal for artillery support. I take one of the red parachute flares from my belt on my left side and fix it to the grenade launcher on my carbine muzzle. I fire the flare straight upward, but it doesn't ignite. I fire another, and it also fails to ignite.

We're just beyond grenade range now but ricocheting bullets still dig up dirt around us. I must get these men farther down the hill before I can think any more about firing flares.

I've alternately moved each man down the hill until we're below the slope's curve enough that small-arms fire is passing overhead. Sixty-one-millimeter mortars are now pounding the slope around us. I take both red flares from Veltrad's belt and fire them in quick succession. Neither ignites. I fire all the red flares carried by the other three men and they're all duds.

Now I discover warm blood on my hand and tightly wrap a bandage around it.

I'm now alternately dragging the four men farther down the hill to clear us from the mortar bombardment. While I'm taking a breather I start firing green flares to signal the main body of my platoon to rescue us. All the green flares are duds.

I'm feeling for wounds and bandaging them the best I can in the darkness. I've used all the bandages we have and resume my task of getting the wounded men farther down the hill. At the same time I'm yelling for Haderson to bring the platoon up and help me with the wounded men.

Haderson is now answering my calls and assuring me that they're coming to help us. Doc Johnston, the medical corpsman, gets busy right away checking the wounded when the platoon arrives. Mortars have tracked us down the slope, and one round explodes not more than three or four paces from me. Shrapnel swishes by my head.

"Break radio silence," I say to the radioman, "and tell the skipper to throw some 105s on the top of the hill. Tell him that we're on our way back and ask him to have corpsmen standing by on the MLR when we get back."

Luckily we've brought just the right amount of litters to carry the four wounded men. We can only hope that no one else will get hit on our way back.

I have the platoon reorganized now and am leading it back down the hill. "The Chinese know which way we're headed now," I say to the platoon. "Keep quiet and stay on the alert for ambushes."

We're moving single file and quietly down the slope. It won't be long until dawn. I don't want us to be caught on the trail by Chinese observers when daylight comes. I'm moving ahead of the platoon as fast as I can and still maintain silence. They might mine the trail that we must take going back to the MLR, but we don't have time to check for mines on the path and will have to take our chances.

Sixty-ones fall all around us. Word is passed up to me that a man in the second squad is hit in the leg. I signal for the platoon to get on the deck while Doc patches up the wounded man.

Sixty-ones still pound the slope after we get on the paddy dam that we used to get to the hill base. The Chinese know that the dam is our only viable route back, and they're now trying to hit it with eighty-twos. There is a spit sound to my left and a projectile explodes in the rice paddy and showers me with mud. Another hits the trail between the point fireteam and me and leaves a crater on the hard path. More of them explode in the paddies on either side of our column. Word is passed up that there is a fatal casualty in the third squad. I pass the word back to pick him up and keep moving.

Dawn is breaking. We're about two hundred yards from the MLR. Chinese observers see us. It is no surprise that they're directing seventy-sixes at our return route. "Move fast!" I yell and start running.

There is a zwoop and a seventy-six hits the left side of the dam about ten paces in front of me. Shreds of shrapnel whirr over my head. Eighty-twos spit and explode on and off the trail.

The mortars and mountain guns have chased after us all the way back to the MLR and are now trying to hit the trench in my platoon's sector to which we have returned. "Pass the word to get the wounded men up to the company CP. Tell Haderson to give me a casualty report."

"Haderson is dead," Ricks says. "He stepped on a mine on the trail." Haderson was bringing up the rear of the main body on the way back. He'd detonated a mine on the trail that most of in the platoon had stepped over or stepped on.

"Pass the word to Kafer that he is now acting platoon sergeant and that I want him to get a casualty report to my CP."

Lieutenant Mertz is emerging from my CP bunker when I get there. "My men should be back in position by now, whatever there is left in my platoon. You can start withdrawing your platoon now."

"There were lots of fireworks out there. How many men did you lose?"

"I'm waiting for a casualty report from my new acting platoon sergeant."

Kafer appears at my bunker after Mertz has withdrawn his platoon. "Everyone is in their positions," he says, "except the men we lost. Eight wounded and two dead are on their way up to the company CP."

Chapter 15

The company is off the main line of resistance now and in reserve awaiting new replacements. Captain Morley has loaned me his jeep so Kafer and I can go back to Inchon and visit our wounded men on the hospital ship. I'm feeling ill as we walk down the gangway to leave the USS Repose.

Both of Pivlah's legs have been amputated above the knees. Valdrad is missing an arm and a leg. Grumlan is paralyzed from the waist down from a burp gun blast in his middle. Spizer is the most heart-breaking case of all. The landmine he stepped on has blinded and deafened him. Both his arms have been amputated. All that remain of his legs are two short stumps dangling from his lacerated torso.

Kafer says when we get to the bottom of the gangway, "If I ever get it as bad as Spizer, I'd like for you to promise that you'll shoot me dead."

"I would have done it for Spizer if I'd known how bad he was. Which way is it to that warehouse where a buddy of yours works?"

"That way."

"Do you think he can fix us up with a jeep load of beer for our platoon?"

"No doubt about it. Maybe we can get a few crates of good Japanese suds."

Replacements arrive the day after my visit to the USS Repose. Kafer will have to stay on as acting platoon sergeant because a new staff NCO didn't arrive with the replacements. Dusty Rhodes is now acting platoon guide. A new buck sergeant named Morgan is stepping in Dusty's spot as leader of the Second Squad.

Kafer gets the new men settled in. No one knows how long we'll be in reserve, and it is important for us to set up some platoon-level night exercises before we have to go into action. The skipper also has plans for some company-level day and night training exercises.

We've had a week of hard training in platoon and company exercises. Captain Morley calls all the platoon leaders to his tent and announces that tomorrow the company will fall out at dawn and launch a simulated attack on a hill that is a two-hour hike from our bivouac area.

"Tell the troops to sack out early tonight," I tell Kafer, "so we'll be in good shape tomorrow."

It is pitch-dark when we're awakened. I look at my watch. It is about ten minutes past two in the morning and I'm wondering whether my watch has stopped or if the skipper has changed his mind about waiting for dawn to get the troops out for the day's exercise, or if we're being called into emergency action up front. The second hand of my watch is moving and I ask Finch, the First Platoon leader, what time he has.

"Ten past two. Looks like the captain may have had a restless night and has decided to get us out early."

"Either that or we're headed for action."

Mason, the company gunnery sergeant, is mustering the company and has the troops filing by the ordnance shack to draw four grenades each and ammunition bandoleers. It is obvious now that we're not getting ready to go on a training exercise but will soon be headed to the battlefront.

Six-by-six trucks are loaded with troops. I get in the front seat with the driver. All that anyone knows is that the convoy is to follow the skipper's jeep. One thing for certain, we're going into action. It isn't my first time to be yanked out of reserve camp and trucked to an unknown destination. Maybe there has been a breakthrough somewhere in the MLR. Maybe we're plugging in a spot on the MLR that will be left vacant for a company to go into attack. Maybe we'll be the ones who will launch an attack into enemy territory. Or maybe we're being sent to occupy a hill in no-man's land that has been taken over by a Marine company. It has to be something hot for a company to be shaken out in the middle of the night.

I pull a pack of Camels from my pocket and scratch a waxed match and light my cigarette and sit smoking without any conversation with the driver, who is keeping his interval from the truck in front of ours. There isn't much to be heard from the portion of my platoon that is under the canvas canopy that shelters the back of the truck I'm riding in.

I've just lit my third cigarette by the time we start to hear the artillery barrages in the distance ahead. The convoy stops. Word is passed back from the front for drivers to go into blackout and that the smoking lamp is out. There is a shower of sparks out the window when I flick off the burning end of the cigarette with my middle fingernail. I throw out the dead butt and settle back for a slow ride on the bumpy road with all headlights out. The artillery barrages are getting louder as we move slowly in the pitch-black night.

The sound of artillery is getting progressively louder. We round a bend, and there are blinding muzzle flashes and loud explosions from a battery of one-fifty-fives a couple of hundred yards off the road to our left.

Sounds of howitzer blasts are gradually fading behind us as we move slowly in the dark. There are muzzle flashes a long distance ahead of us, and the thunder of another battery can be heard. It gradually gets louder as we get closer. Now we're passing a battery of sending a fusillade of high-trajectory shells into enemy territory. Enemy one-twenty-twos are retaliating but overshooting their target and exploding in the rice paddies to our right. We're in dangerous territory. Any rounds landing near or on the road could make a mess of our truck convoy.

We're past the howitzers, and I'm feeling a bit relieved that we're distancing ourselves from the potential impact area of the Russian-made field pieces.

Incoming and outgoing blasts are becoming progressively less audible. Flashes and reports ahead are perceptibly increasing and more intensively than what we have passed. There is a fixed line of flashes with duller reports to indicate that it is an eighty-one-millimeter mortar unit. Random flashes and louder blasts within the proximity are no doubt from enemy guns, probably one-twenty-two howitzers and eighty-two-millimeter mortars.

Enemy guns aren't zeroed in on their targets and are dropping within a circumference of several hundred yards.

The convoy is now adjacent to the mortar section on our left, and it is passing within the boundaries of wildly placed incoming projectiles. Shells are exploding at varying distances on each side of the road we're traveling.

A shell explodes not far from the road adjacent to the truck I'm in. I can hear a commotion of voices in the truck ahead and assume that there is a casualty from a piece of shrapnel ripping through the canvas. I smell whiffs of acrid high-explosive smoke from that nearby incoming burst.

It is still dark when the convoy stops. The company gunnery sergeant is yelling for the company to disembark from the trucks and to spread out. We're behind a company CP overlooking the MLR. Enemy mortars and seventy-sixes are aiming at the CP area and some of the overshot rounds are exploding on the reverse slope where we are disembarking. A Marine in his blood-soaked field uniform is being removed from the truck ahead of mine. He has been the victim of shrapnel from the round that exploded close to his truck.

Captain Morley calls for his platoon leaders to follow him to the top of the slope. We're in the trench leading into the CP. The commander of the company on the MLR below us emerges from the CP and ushers us inside his bunker.

"You'll have to take your company down through a ravine over to our left in my First Platoon sector," he tells Morley. "You can stay in the trenchline down there until time to move out to the hill. I understand that you'll be going out at dawn."

"That's right, Jack," Morely says.

"It won't be safe to go out now. The company out there has been under attack all night. They're firing a perimeter of defense to keep infiltrators from getting around the hill and attacking it from the flanks or rear. You'd be cut down by their fire if you tried to go out before daylight."

There is a loud explosion as a projectile lands close to the bunker.

"My First Platoon will open a sector of the barbed wire at dawn so you can get on the trail that goes to the hill. You'll have to move out fast when you get on that path. They have it zeroed in with seventy-sixes and eighty-twos. What is left of that company out there is on the crest of the hill. There's no trenchline out there...only foxholes. They were under attack all night long, and we've been supporting them with our sixties. Battalion has been giving support with eighty-ones and a battery of 105s and 155s. A squadron has been flying sorties."

Two more rounds land close to the bunker.

"You'll have to keep in radio contact because the phone line keeps getting blown apart. Radio contact is going to be difficult because the enemy is doing everything they can to jam our channels. Daylight will come in about an hour. My runner will guide you down through the ravine."

My new acting platoon sergeant reminds the platoon that no one is to be addressed as sir or by rank after we leave here.

An intense incoming barrage starts on the hill we are to occupy as we leave the CP. We duck down in the trench when a seventy-six swoops over our heads and explodes far back on the reverse slope. It is followed by three eighty-twos. One of them explodes on the forward slope about twenty-five yards in front of us. Another one hits somewhere to our right and the third explodes about twenty-five yards behind us. "How about ammunition out there?" Morley asks the other company commander.

"Men have been constantly running supplies out there. They bring casualties back on their return trip."

Now we're down on the MLR and huddled in the trench. Morley has his three platoon leaders near so he can give final instructions when enough daylight comes to see the hill out front.

It is now daylight enough for us to get our first glimpse of the hill we are to occupy and defend. Morley addresses his platoon commanders. "First Platoon will take the lead going out. Go along the base of the hill after we get across that rice paddy and take up position on the right flank at the top of the hill. I'll be with your platoon on the way there. Second Platoon will follow and plug in the middle. Third Platoon will bring up the rear and take up position on the left flank on the top. We'll move out at double time across that paddy. Let's go and start moving out."

Morley precedes the three of us going through the trench and is talking over his shoulder to us. "Battalion says the Chinese had the hill occupied and a company overran it three days ago. They occupied the hill and got almost wiped out the first night. The company that's out there now came out and relieved them yesterday. It is a long run across that paddy. Tell your men to take salt tablets. We can't afford any heat casualties."

I find Kafer and tell him to make sure that everyone in the platoon takes a dose of salt tablets and that we are to follow the first platoon across the paddy. "We'll be double-timing on the trail. They're bound to be shooting at us all the way across, and there might be casualties on the way. We can't stop for anyone who gets hit. Keep a ten-pace interval."

A squadron of Corsairs circles in formation above us as I take position in front of my platoon and start following the First Platoon toward the opening in the barbed wire. The enemy anticipates a relief company will be going to the hill and their mortar crews are zeroing in on the MLR and the trail going to the hill. A round explodes above the trench several yards to my left. Another one is closer. Projectiles explode ahead to the left and right as I lead my platoon through the trench. One lands in the trench in front of me so close to the tail-end man of the First Platoon that it blows him completely out of the trench. "Keep moving!" I yell over my shoulder to my platoon.

The enemy sees the First Platoon emerging from the MLR. They're throwing intense barrages of eight-twos and seventy sixes at the trail across the rice paddy by the time my platoon starts running through the barb-wire opening in front of the MLR. Some of them are landing in the rice paddy on both sides of the trail and showering us with mud. There are direct hits on the trail, and I'm starting to pass dead and wounded men from the First Platoon ahead of me. Shells explode behind me, and I can only assume that there will be casualties in my platoon before we reach our destination.

I've seen several dead and wounded from the platoon ahead of me by the time I get across the rice paddy. The First Platoon is now running along at the base of the hill's reverse slope. I follow them until I estimate that I am about midway at the base and head up the slope. I ask a Marine in a foxhole on the crest where his Second Platoon CP is. He points and says, "That way."

Seventy-sixes, eighty twos, and sixty-ones are pounding the hill as I go in search of the platoon commander I am to relieve. There is a swoop sound, and a seventy-six hits the crest to my right. I hit the deck, and before I can get back on my feet, there is a spit sound like a cigarette being extinguished in water and an eighty-two explodes about ten yards in front of me.

Corsairs are in attack formation above us. One of the gull-winged giants peels out of formation to make a low run over the hill and drops a load of five hundred-pound bombs in front of the hill.

The commander of the incumbent platoon is dead, and the platoon sergeant taking his place is going with Kafer and me to get my platoon set up on the crest. There is less than a squad left in his platoon after last night's enemy counterattacks. Stretcher bearers carrying supplies to the hill are beginning to arrive and will return to the MLR with the severe casualties. Kafer reports to me that three of our men were felled on the trail on the way here. I can only hope that they'll be picked up alive.

Kafer and I are busy organizing the platoon after we relieve what is left of the company that defended the hill last night. We're setting up a fire plan to cross fire out front with the First Platoon on our right and the Third Platoon on our left. Each squad and fire team is set up to fire a crisscross pattern out front and to the rear for a perimeter of defense. Dead Chinese soldiers we saw on the reverse slope while we moved into position are evidence that some enemy troops got around the hill last night and were trying to attack it from the rear. We can't expect anything less tonight.

Corsair pilots have unloaded all their bombs and rockets in enemy territory. One of them has just peeled out of formation for a low swoop over our heads, and we hear his machine guns chattering as he makes a strafing run out front. One by one they swoop over our heads to expend their machine-gun ammunition at Chinese troops and climb back up into formation. One of them can't make it back up. Black smoke billows from the powerful engine after a hit from enemy ground fire. The pilot is headed back toward friendly territory and desperately trying to gain enough altitude to clear the hill behind the MLR to the rear of the hill we're defending. It crashes and bursts into flame midway up the slope between the MLR and the company observation post.

The Corsair squadron has completed its first mission and has disappeared, either for relief by another squadron or to replenish its ordnance for more sorties. The crashed plane is no longer flaming and is a smoking ruin.

Dead enemy soldiers are decomposing. Some of the short rounds fired at us are blowing up the bodies of dead Chinese in front of our foxholes. Some overshot rounds landing on the reverse slope are tearing up bodies of enemy soldiers who tried to flank around the hill and were cut down in the perimeter of defense. Shreds of rotten flesh shower my troops. A hand-size slab of rotten flesh slaps my radioman's face and sticks. He is puking after peeling it off.

Either the Corsair squadron has returned or another one has replaced it to make sortie runs on enemy positions out front. We can hear the crackle of ground fire trying to knock down the gull-winged giants with each low swoop they make over enemy ground.

My platoon is all set up for tonight. There are two cases of twenty-four fragmentation hand grenades in each foxhole, flares, rifle ammunition, C-rations, and a canteen of water, plus first-aid supplies.

Three of my men were lost on the trail across the rice paddy. Another four men have been hit by shrapnel from today's mortar and artillery bombardments and have been evacuated.

The dive-bomber squadron has made its final runs for today and is in formation heading back over friendly territory. They can only effectively make their low-level attacks in daytime. We'll have to depend entirely upon artillery and mortar support after nightfall.

It is after nightfall now. There is an increase of incoming rounds trying to hit our positions. I'm in a foxhole midway in my platoon. The radioman is in the foxhole on my right. The hole to my left is occupied by the medical corpsman. Kafer is on the extreme left flank of my platoon where it connects with the First Platoon. Dusty Rhodes is controlling our right flank where we tie into the Third Platoon.

Our sixties are dropping parachute flares not far out in front of us. Our howitzers and eighty-ones are lighting up enemy territory in the distance. My binoculars are propped on the parapet of my foxhole so I can scan the frontal terrain. It seems at first that the descending parachute flares are causing flickers on the ground to play tricks on my vision. I keep my seven-fifties focused on the area where there seems to be movement and become convinced that the movement out there is real—that Chinese troops are coming our way.

I twist the crank on my field phone, and the company runner answers. "Dillon, put me on to the six, if he's there."

"Yes," Morley's voice sounds on the other end of the line.

"Mountie here. I see troop activity about eight-hundred yards out front."

"I can see them. How many do you estimate?"

"At least a company."

"That's about how many I estimate. They'll be the first attack wave. There'll be more waves behind them. I've just called for an artillery strike."

His words are hardly over the wire before we hear the swooshing sound of slow-moving 105-millimeter projectiles passing over our heads. There are blinding flashes of the exploding shells. I crank my phone and tell Morley, "They're hitting about a hundred yards short from what I can see from here."

"That's what I see. I won't have them adjust their fire. We'll just let the enemy walk into it."

Incoming artillery and mortars are pounding our hill with greater intensity. A half-dozen burp guns are firing at wide intervals apart not far in front of us. They're a small unit going ahead of the frontal-attack formation to draw our fire. Our troops are observing fire discipline well. They've been instructed to hold their fire until the order is given.

Morley has begun to adjust the artillery fire out front as the Chinese continue toward us. Our eighty-ones are now dropping projectiles on the first wave, which is now about three hundred yards out front. A second wave of Chinese can be seen about four hundred yards behind the first, and they're being fired at by our 105s that Morley has directed upon them.

There is a severely intense barrage of seventy-sixes and eighty-twos pounding us as the advance attackers get closer. Our sixties start laying down support fire in front of us just as the front wave starts its frontal assault and the command is given for us to open fire.

Everyone on the hill has been tensely awaiting that command. All our small arms erupt like a single burst at our attackers who are now blasting at us with burp guns and bolt-action rifles.

Enemy incoming artillery and mortars have tremendously intensified in an attempt to pin us down so the first wave of infantry in front of us can charge up the slope and overrun us. We can't let that happen. All of us will die if we let them do that. We have to keep firing into that hoard charging up the slope. "Keep firing!" I yell. "Keep in your field of fire!"

The atmosphere around us and out front under parachute-flare light is dense with acrid gunpowder and high-explosive smoke. There is so much smoke that I can no longer see Chinese soldiers coming up the slope. Only the muzzle flashes of their small arms can be seen in the heavy cloud of smoke.

There aren't many of the attackers firing at us now, and I assume that the first wave is about wiped out. Incoming artillery and mortars are still intensely pounding us to keep us softened up for their second wave of attackers.

Now there are no more small-arms flashes on the slope in front of us. The command comes from the company CP for us to ceasefire and to stand by for the second attack. We're at a disadvantage now with heavy smoke obscuring our view down the slope. We won't see the second wave coming. Those of us who have been in situations like this before know that the second wave will take advantage of the smoke screen. Right now they're bound to be crawling up the slope. They'll want to get as close as they can before they attack and hope to overrun us before we know what is happening.

I call to my radioman to my left. "Get on the phone, Belini, and get a casualty report from squad leaders." There is no answer from him. "Belini," I call again. And there is still no answer. I boost myself out of my foxhole and crawl over to his position. He is sunk to the bottom of his hole, and his head is slumped forward. His body feels lifeless when I touch his shoulder. "Rogers." I say to the man to his left. "Take Belini's radio."

I crank the field telephone but it is dead. Incoming projectiles have cut the line to the company CP. "Check for a broken phone line in your sector and fix it!" I yell. "Pass the word for squad leaders to give me a casualty report!"

The words are hardly out of my mouth when a fusillade of small-arms fire erupts a short distance down the forward slope. "Fire!" I yell without waiting for the command from the company CP. "Rogers, call for sixties to lay in on the forward slope close to the crest."

I'm back in my foxhole and firing short bursts down the slope with my carbine. "I can't get through to piss tubes," Rogers calls to me. "All channels are jammed with Chinese babble."

"Keep trying!" Now I'm yelling to my platoon, "Start throwing grenades!" I reach into one of the cases at my feet and withdraw a fragmentation grenade, pull the safety pin and heave the heavy missile. I'm repeatedly chucking grenades down the slope. I've just heaved one over the parapet when muzzle flashes start erupting less than ten paces in front of us. "Standby for bayonet contact!" I yell.

Blazing burp guns are getting closer and incoming artillery and mortars are intensifying. I can only hope that we don't have many casualties and that there are not a lot of gaps in our perimeter of defense.

There is a blinding muzzle blast from a burp gun within arm's reach directly in front of me. I lunge as far forward as I can with my bayoneted carbine and feel a jolt when it hits its target. I get only a brief glimpse of the soldier under the twinkle of flares as he staggers backwards to disengage from my bayonet. Lots more muzzle flashes are up nearly close enough for bayonet contact. They're so close now that we're no longer set up in our pre-planned field of fire. Now we're firing point-blank at the muzzle flashes in front of us.

A blazing burp gun is going past my left in the gap left when Belini was hit. I swing my carbine muzzle around and fire a burst a bit short of his muzzle flashes. The soldier is on the ground now and still firing. I aim and fire short bursts until his gun stops blazing and swing my carbine muzzle back around to my front just in time to get a very short burst at a blinding flash in front of me.

My magazine is empty, and I remove it and toss it outside my hole and pick up another one from the step in the bottom of my foxhole and insert it into the receiver. My carbine is back into action just in time to let off bursts at two muzzle flashes in front of me.

Now there are no muzzle flashes in the dense smoke out front. The command comes from the CP to cease fire and only shoot at visible targets. But enemy mountain gunners and mortar crewmen are still pounding us. Maybe this is a good time for me to check my platoon and get a casualty report.

"Keep your eye peeled to the front while I'm gone, Rogers, and sound the alarm if you see anything," I say as I start to boost myself out of my hole. "And pass the word for squad leaders to pick up ammunition from the dump."

Burp-gun bursts erupt down the reverse slope. They're infiltrators who have made their way around our flanks to harass us and divert our attention from the next attack wave. The fire is immediately returned by troops who are assigned to the rear sector of the perimeter of defense.

I haven't gone ten yards from my foxhole when the command is sounded to fire. I make a quick dash toward my hole. There is a flash and explosion in front of me. A mortar shell has fallen in my foxhole a split second before I was to reoccupy it.

I jump into Belini's foxhole on top of his dead body and lift him up and push him back over the reverse slope. Fortunately he was armed with a carbine and I have his weapon and ammunition supply. The mortar shell that landed in my foxhole destroyed my ammunition supply.

The incoming bombardment is increasingly fierce now, and there is a prolific eruption of muzzle flashes down the forward slope. I still have all of Belini's full carbine magazines left, but I'm wondering about my platoon's ammunition inventory since we didn't have enough break to replenish our supplies in between the second and third waves.

The attackers are about half way up the forward slope now. I yell, "Rogers, call for our sixties to lay in close to the crest!"

"All channels are jammed."

"Keep trying to get through!" I yell and resume my firing at muzzle flashes within my sector of fire."

My platoon is almost out of ammunition by the time we fight off the third wave. Dusty Rhodes has put men to work delivering bandoleers from ammunition pits on the reverse slope. The fourth wave hits before the deliverymen have finished.

Dawn comes in about a half hour after we finish with the eighth wave. The hill is stinking with the smell of blown-up rotten Chinese flesh, picric acid, and TNT and gunpowder smoke that still hangs heavily in the air all around us. The soldier I shot beside my foxhole is shredded by an artillery or mortar direct hit. Belini's body has also been mutilated beyond recognition after I removed him from his foxhole and rolled him over the crest behind us. Nothing above ground has been immune from destruction by last night's continuous bombardments. Not even a blade of grass has been left standing.

My platoon has suffered more than 75 percent casualties. About two-thirds of casualties have been fatal ones, including Kafer, whose position as platoon sergeant has been taken by Dusty Rhodes. Casualty calculations within the entire company are about the same as in my platoon. I'm the only platoon commander still alive.

Litter bearers have begun to arrive with ammunition and other supplies and return to the MLR with wounded men on their stretchers. Many of our wounded died waiting for the litter bearers to arrive at daylight. It would have been suicide for anyone to approach the hill from the MLR during the nightlong counterattacks. They would have been cut down by our perimeter of defense that was necessary to repel those Chinese soldiers who got around our flanks and tried to attack us from the rear. The litter bearers will remove the wounded first and leave the dead until last. They have a hard daylong job ahead of them.

Morgan, my new Second Squad leader who arrived with the last replacements, has had his head blown off from a mortar or seventy-six while firing from his foxhole. For many of the other new replacements, this hill is to be their first and last battle. The young face of one of them was ripped away by a burp gun burst. The Chinese soldier who burp gunned him is lying in front of the foxhole parapet with the young Marine's bayonet buried to the hilt in his abdomen. The Chinese soldier must have started shooting as the bayonet was thrust into him.

A Corsair squadron is overhead and getting into attack formation for swooping on enemy troop deployment while I am inspecting my platoon sector. I pass the order, "Search as many dead Chinese as you can get to and collect anything you can for evaluation by S-2. Pick up as many of their weapons as we can carry back for the boys in intelligence. Check for live enemy soldiers because they'll be valuable as prisoners."

There have been direct hits in some foxholes, and the occupants scattered over a wide radius. Bits of me would be scattered among theirs if I had jumped in my foxhole a few seconds sooner last night before that mortar round dropped into it to blow up all my hand grenades and carbine ammunition.

Everyone in the company who isn't seriously wounded is busy bringing the wounded and dead from their positions and putting them well down the reverse slope so they will be easier access for the litter bearers.

The incoming bombardment has shifted from our hilltop to the trail leading to and from the MLR. Another company is coming to relieve us. We're bound to see some of their men alongside the trail who will have been cut down before they reach the line of battle. And some of our men who have lived through the nightlong horror no doubt will fall on the way back.

Chapter 16

The company has been back in reserve about three weeks. New replacements arrived two weeks ago. Staff Sergeant Olinger, the new platoon sergeant, and I have been busy getting the new platoon ready for our next combat encounter.

It is now past four thirty in the morning. We're loaded with bandoleers of ammunition and fragmentation grenades and on six-by-six trucks headed up toward the front. Sounds of exploding artillery and mortar shells are getting louder as we progress slowly in the moonlit night toward our destination.

We're going after something big, I guess, because we're heavily reinforced. Heavy machine guns, bazookas, and flamethrowers are going up with us. I'm in command of 117 men on this mission.

Seventy-sixes are hitting close to our disembarkation area. "Olinger, get the platoon well spread out," I tell the platoon sergeant.

Lieutenant Marsh, the new company executive officer, appears and says, "The skipper wants to see all platoon leaders."

Captain Lundy, our new company commander, is conferring with Lieutenant Schiller, commander of the company emplaced on the MLR. Lundy speaks when all of his platoon leaders are in the CP bunker. "Gentlemen, today's mission is to attack and hold a hill close to the MLR. The Chinese overran an outpost on it. They're well set up out there, and S-2 says they have replacements and support units approaching. They've obviously found the hill a good place to mass a heavy concentration of troops to break through the MLR. We have to kick them off the hill before they can do that. There is no way we can attack from the flanks or the rear. Gather around me, gentlemen, so we can look at this map that Lieutenant Schiller has drawn."

We circle our skipper at the desk that is made from a stack of ammunition crates.

"This is a branch trench leading from the MLR. It ends about two hundred yards from the foot of the hill we have to attack. Each platoon will jump off from the end of this branch trench. We will dash across that open space in single file between here and the foot of the slope over there. They're well dug in over there, and they're bound to hit the strip with crossfire."

Captain Lundy continues. "An air squadron will hit the hill while we move the company through the branch trench. When they've finished making their runs I'll call for artillery to saturate the hill until we're ready to jump off. I'll lift the artillery barrage when I'm ready to give the jump-off signal. We'll have to make a frontal assault because the terrain isn't conducive to envelopment. Caruthers..."

"Yes sir."

"Take your First Platoon to the base of the hill on the left flank. Take up position and lay down covering fire for Mountie to follow with his platoon to lay down a base of fire for Van Beek's platoon to make a dash across the strip. We must move fast across that strip because the enemy will be hitting it with small-arms fire. The heavy machine guns sections attached to your platoons will be deployed on the parapet of this branch trench as we start moving out here to the jump-off point. They will provide covering fire while we're crossing that strip. Mister Schiller made extra overlays. These circles represent known bunker apertures that are well camouflaged. Each of you will give an overlay to the heavy machine gun section leader attached to your platoon. The first section will cover the left portion of the hill. The second section the middle and the third section the right. I've drawn pencil lines to divide the map. I'll cross the strip behind the First Platoon. Lieutenant Marsh will follow the Second Platoon. When all three platoons are in position we'll attack. After we've overrun the hill we'll move to the crest and set up a hasty defense and pursue the enemy by fire. I'll have someone launch a green flare to signal the heavy machine guns to come across so they can be deployed with the platoons they've been assigned to. Any questions, gentlemen?"

"Skipper," I say.

"Yes."

"I've experienced a lot of dud rifle-grenade flares. May I suggest, sir, that if the flare doesn't ignite that someone throw a smoke grenade down the slope as a secondary signal."

"Good idea. Marsh, you will stay with the company while I go with the platoon leaders to the end of the branch trench so we can have a look at the hill when it gets daylight enough to see. Bring the company down the forward slope to the MLR and deploy them in the trench and have them ready to go by the time we get back from our reconnaissance."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"A man from Lieutenant Schiller's company will guide you down. Lieutenant Schiller will go with my reconnaissance party. Okay, gentlemen, let's get on our way."

A barrage of seventy-sixes pins us to the deck a few minutes after we emerge from the bunker. There is a constant bombardment on the MLR where we are headed. Our artillery shells are exploding out in enemy territory.

Acrid smoke from enemy high-explosive shells hangs heavily over the MLR. We follow Schiller through the trench while eighty-twos and seventy-sixes constantly explode everywhere. Schiller turns around and says, "Now we're going to enter the branch trench that goes out to your jump-off point. It is a shallow trench. No one has had an opportunity to do much digging in this ground that is almost solid rock. You'll have to get on your hands and knees to keep your head below ground level."

Dawn is now appearing through the haze of smoke hovering over the trench by the time we get to the end of it. There are two loud screeches overhead followed by enormous explosions on the slope above us. "Sounds like they're starting to throw in some heavy stuff," Captain Lundy remarks."

"One-twenty-twos," I say. "And from the sound of the blasts I'd say they're charged with picric acid." I'm the only one in this group with Korean-combat experience. Captain Lundy was in the Okinawa landing during World War Two but is new in Korea. The leaders of the First and Third Platoons are recent graduates of Officers Basic School in Quantico.

A squadron of Corsairs are circling over the hill while a squadron of AD-4 Skyraiders are getting into attack formation to hit enemy troops deployed in the rice paddies.

We're huddled down in the end of the branch trench looking at the hill we are to attack. There is a two hundred-yard flat strip of ground between our trench and the bottom of the hill. Captain Lundy is scanning our objective with his binoculars.

The Skyraiders are beginning their sorties on the rice paddies out in enemy territory. The Chinese expect an attack and have started heavy bombardments with 122-millimeter howitzers and 82-millimeter mortars on the MLR and branch trench we're in.

Captain Lundy says, "Take your bazookas, light machine guns, and flamethrowers across the strip with you. Brief your supporting-arms section leaders before we start moving through this trench. Make sure they familiarize themselves with known targets on the sketches. After all three platoons get into position at the base of the hill, I will give the command to attack. We'll make a sweep up the slope facing us. Then we'll deploy in defensive positions on the crest of the hill to repel any enemy counterattacks and will hold the hill until we're relieved. Any questions, gentlemen?"

There are no questions.

"Okay," the skipper says. "Take a few minutes to scan the hill before we go back to get the company."

My knees are sore and bleeding from loose-gravel abrasion after the return trip on hands and knees through the shallow branch trench. I say to Olinger, "Tell the troops to wrap empty bandoleers, empty sandbags or anything they can find around their knees. There is gravel in the shallow trench we have to go through on hands and knees. Bring the squad leaders and all the supporting-arms section leaders to me for a briefing."

Enemy howitzers and mortars are intensely slamming at the MLR as we start moving through it in a crouched-over position toward the branch trench. The air is getting dense with stifling picric-acid smoke. Stretcher-bearers are evacuating dead and wounded men from Lieutenant Schiller's company. A 122 screeches and explodes on the trench's reverse parapet in front of me. The helmet flies off one of Schiller's men standing in the trench. The top of his head has been grazed off. The man is still standing with a stupefied expression on his face while bloody brains dribble over his shoulders. He falls. His limbs are lurching as I crawl over him.

A Corsair formation is circling above the hill we are to attack. A Skyraider squadron is pounding enemy troop movement in the rice paddies in Chinese territory. One of the AD-4s is headed back toward friendly territory. There is a black-smoke wake from the starboard engine that has been hit by ground fire. None of us will know whether he is to find a suitable landing spot in the hilly and rough terrain behind our MLR.

Heavy mortar and howitzer shells are hitting at the branch trench when we get to it. "Get on your hands and knees!" I yell to my platoon behind me.

Now we're stopped in the trench waiting for Captain Lundy's jump-off signal. I yell, "Pass the word for heavy machine guns to get into firing position and start firing on targets!"

Lundy gives the signal, and the First Platoon starts moving in front of me. An eighty-two explodes in the trench ahead of me so close that I am showered with falling gravel. One of the men I crawl past is dead. The other is severely mutilated and bleeding profusely. He will have to lie there until someone from Schiller's company can evacuate him after all of our company has jumped off. We are not to stop and give aid to any wounded while moving into the attack phase.

Captain Lundy is behind the First Platoon. He disappears from the trench end and I move up to the jump-off point. Enemy machine-gun crossfire is kicking up dust on the strip we are to dash across and mortars are pounding it. Many of the First Platoon have fallen victim of the intense fire and bombardment on the strip. Getting across the strip through the hail of machine-gun bullets and mortar fragments seems as remote as dashing across a street in heavy rain without getting wet.

I get into a sprinting position and yell over my shoulder, "Let's go!"

Bullets twang and kick up dust around my feet and deafening mortar shells dig craters as I dash toward the hill. I'm jumping over fallen Marines and get a glimpse of Lieutenant Carruthers lying on his back with blood streaming from his throat.

I'm across the strip and take up position at the bottom of the hill. I deploy the First Squad on my left and the Third Squad on my right so that I am in the middle of the platoon with the Second Squad. There isn't time to get an inventory of casualties crossing the strip. Mortar and howitzer shells explode all around us. The skipper is to my left watching the strip and is on the radio telling our artillery and mortars to lift their fire so we can attack. When the Third Platoon has cleared the strip, he yells, "Stand by!" I relay his command, and it is passed on to the Third Platoon.

Friendly artillery and mortars have stopped hitting our objective so we can attack. "Attack!" Lundy yells. His command is relayed down the ranks, and we're starting to move up the slope.

The bunker defenders have shifted their fire from the strip to the slope we're ascending and pin our company to the deck. There is a tremendous concentration of seventy-six and mortar fire hitting at us. Exploding shells are deafening. Stifling smoke from our small-arms fire and exploding enemy shells hangs heavy. "Advance by fire and maneuver!" the skipper yells. His command is relayed through the ranks.

Muzzle flashes come from a bunker directly ahead of me. Bullets from our heavy machine guns behind us in the branch trench kick up dirt in front of the bunker aperture. I yell to the Second Squad leader, "Morgan! Have your bazooka man take a shot at that bunker aperture up there!"

It will be a long shot for the bazooka that is inaccurate even at closer range. I see the bazooka's back-blast and watch the missile going toward the bunker. The projectile hits the ground and explodes a couple of feet in front of the aperture and silences the machine gun inside the bunker. "Move up!" I yell to my platoon.

The Third Squad is laying a base of fire while my other two squads move up the hill and get into cover position for the Third Squad to move up. The machine gun in the bunker ahead is now firing again. Chinese soldiers in foxholes up the slope are ricocheting bullets off the ground all around us. "Morgan!" I yell. "Get another bazooka shot at that bunker!"

"The bazooka got knocked out with a direct hit!" Morgan yells back.

"Get your flame thrower up!" I yell. The Second Machine Gun Section is firing into the bunker aperture to keep the enemy gunner quiet while the flame-thrower man moves up the slope. Burp-gun slugs kick up dirt all around him. Bullets knock him backward.

A machine gun is firing from another bunker farther up ahead of the First Squad. I yell to the squad leader, "Denz!" I yell to the squad leader. "Get a bazooka shot at that bunker in front of you!"

The slow-moving bazooka missile goes through the aperture and explodes inside the bunker.

Morgan's squad fires rifle grenades at the bunker in front of the Second Squad. All the grenades that hit the ground in front of it or go through the aperture are duds. "Keep shooting at the bunker, and send a man up to throw a grenade inside!" I yell.

A man named Krulik from the Second Platoon is crawling up the slope toward the left side of the bunker while the remainder of my platoon keeps directing their fire at bunker apertures on the slope and foxholes on the crest. Our eighty-ones are pounding the hilltop while enemy mortars and howitzers continue with heavy bombardment on our company.

Krulik is now adjacent and on the blind side of the bunker. He jumps to his feet and dashes toward the bunker with a grenade in his hand. He pulls the pin and chucks the grenade into the aperture, then starts running back toward his squad. Rifle and burp-gun bullets kick up dirt around him, and he falls after taking only a few strides.

The bunker explodes and throws sandbags and timber into the air. The concussion grenade has detonated an ammunition supply stored in the bunker. The effect is like a Hollywood war movie that has exaggerated the explosive effect of a grenade. "Move up!" I yell.

We're crawling as fast as we can up the slope. Now the Third Squad is close to a bunker on the slope ahead of them. All the rifle grenades being fired by the Third Squad are duds. "Maller!" I yell to the squad leader. "Get a bazooka shot into that bunker!"

There is a loud back-blast from the bazooka on my left. The missile hits above the aperture and explodes to lift off a layer of sandbags. "Let another round go!" I yell.

"Direct hit on my bazooka!" Maller calls back.

"Send your flame thrower up!"

The flame-thrower man is crawling laboriously up the slope with the heavy tank on his back. Bullets ricochet all around him. A mortar round explodes so close enough in front of him to send him tumbling back down the slope. "Maller!" I shout.

"Maller's dead!" the First Fireteam leader answers.

"Arcenaux, take over the squad and get a man up there with a grenade!"

The man hasn't crawled very far up the slope before an enemy bullet stops him.

"Send up another man, Arcenaux!"

Another man crawls up the slope. Bullets hit the ground all around him. He has worked his way up adjacent and on the blind side of the bunker. Now he is on his feet and running toward the bunker while bullets dig up dirt around his feet. He pulls the pin and tosses the grenade into the aperture and turns to run away from the bunker. A bullet knocks him down just after the grenade explodes with a muffled sound in the sandbag bunker.

"Move up, Second Platoon!" I shout.

We're crawling, one squad at a time while the others cover, up the slope through the enemy artillery and mortar bombardment and ricocheting bullets. Casualties are depleting my platoon, but there is no chance to stop for the wounded. I've concerned that we will run out of ammunition by the time we get into the final attack phase, and I've ordered the platoon to expend ammunition at a slower rate.

Now we're close to the top of the hill that is being bombarded by our 82s, 4.2s and 105s. Captain Lundy stops the company advance so he can give the signal to lift our barrages on the crest so we can attack. "Standby for the final thrust!" I shout.

The skipper shouts, "Charge!" There is loud explosion and bright flash in the spot where the captain was and pieces of him are strewn in all directions from the direct hit of a mortar shell. Pieces of him splatter my jacket.

"Pass the word to five that six is down," I yell so Marsh will know to take command of the company.

We're on our feet and firing our weapons at defenders on the crest as we charge up the slope. Enemy howitzers and mortars chase us up the slope while ricocheting bullets try to stop our advance. Men are dropping on both sides of me.

Enemy mortars and howitzers are still hitting at us on the hilltop. We're finishing off the enemy crest defenders with point-blank small-arms fire, bayonets, and grenades and dragging out the dead bodies so what is left of our company can occupy their foxholes and prepare for an enemy counterattack. A smoke grenade is signaling heavy machine guns to leave the branch trench and move up to take up defensive positions with us.

"Squad leaders, give me a casualty report!" I call to my platoon.

Only one of my heavy machine guns arrives. The other two were knocked out with direct hits in the branch trench. Olinger is out of action and Dusty Rhodes has taken his place. All my squad leaders are out of action and senior fire-team leaders have taken over their squads. There are only 34 of my men left out of the 117 men I started with. I'm moving from foxhole to foxhole to check fields of fire set up by squad leaders to defend ourselves against enemy counterattack.

The Corsair squadron is no longer in sight. Skyraider pilots have expended their ordnance, and the squadron is heading back to its base for recharging or relief by another squadron.

Lieutenant Marsh is on the skipper's radio directing artillery fire on massive enemy deployment advancing in the distance across the rice paddies. We're almost out of ammunition. I tell the acting squad leaders to send men back down the slope to take bandoleers from fallen members of our platoon and to collect weapons and ammunition from dead enemy soldiers. My medical corpsman was knocked down during the assault. I tell the acting squad leaders to have their men care for our wounded on the slope when they go down for ammo.

The Chinese are determined to annihilate our entire company to make their task easier for reclaiming this hill. Their artillery and heavy mortars are pounding us with ferocious intensity. Flying shrapnel is whooshing and whining through the air that is shrouded with choking picric-acid smoke.

Aircraft can be heard above the thundering artillery and mortar bombardment. An AD-4 squadron appears from over the hilltop and gets into attack formation to hit at the oncoming Chinese infantry with bombs, rockets, and machine guns.

I'm scanning the forward slope, which had been the enemy defenders' reverse slope. It seems that there might be camouflaged bunkers about fifty yards down the hill in my platoon sector. I tell the squad leaders to each send a man in front of their sectors to look for bunkers. Lieutenant Schiller's map overlay doesn't show anything. It is my guess that the enemy built supply bunkers since they overran the hill. "Keep on the lookout for mines around any bunkers," I tell the squad leaders. "Throw a couple of grenades in the aperture and move away fast just in case there is an ammo dump inside."

I'm in my foxhole looking down the forward slope while spooning meat and noodles out of a C-ration can. A new man from the Second Squad is down the hill directly in front of me and is approaching the rear of a camouflaged bunker. He's doing it right. His rifle is ready while he moves cautiously and glances occasionally at the ground to look for trip wires and detonator prongs. He's alongside the bunker now with a grenade in his right hand while his rifle is cradled in the crook of his left arm. He peeks around the bunker and tosses the concussion grenade into the aperture, then quickly grabs another from his flack vest, pulls the pin and tosses it through the port. The man turns to run back on his approach path and throws himself face-forward on the ground only a few paces from the bunker just as the first grenade explodes. Detonation of the ammunition dump lifts two torn-apart human bodies in the air with sandbags and timber. The man is back on his feet and continuing his search the moment debris stops falling.

There is another explosion down the hill in front of the First Squad from another detonated ammo bunker and another one in front of the Third Squad area. A muffled blast sounds in front of the First Squad.

Enemy mortarmen are walking eighty-two barrages across the ridge. A barrage is now concentrated around the area of my foxhole. My head is below the parapet. The ground is trembling from the deafening explosions that are followed by swooshing and whining shrapnel flying through the air. My foxhole is full of acrid picric-acid smoke, and I feel like I'll suffocate if I don't get my head above ground for a gulp of air.

Now the barrage has moved and is concentrated in my First Squad sector to my right. My head is now above ground, and I'm breathing the foul-tasting smoke that hangs heavy around me. There has been a direct hit in the hole to my right and also the one to my left that was occupied by the company gunnery sergeant. I can't see Lieutenant Marsh though the smoke cloud and call to him. "Marsh! Are you okay?"

"Okay. How about you?"

"Okay."

"A relief company is on the way. Let's start taking our wounded down to the end of the branch trench so Schiller's men can pick them up. Then if we have any time left before our relief gets here we can take our dead down for evacuation."

I pass the order to my acting squad leaders and climb out of my foxhole. A 122 screeches and explodes not very far down the reverse slope. Another one explodes closer to me, and I'm back in my foxhole waiting for the barrage to end. One hits so close to my left that I feel the instantaneous shock wave sweeping over my foxhole. Another shell hits about the same distance away on my right.

The barrage continues but is now hitting farther away to my right. I climb out of my foxhole. The Skyraider squadron is gone. Maybe they've gone back for more ordnance or to take a break while another one appears on the scene.

I'm now on the reverse slope with the detail of men looking for casualties. Dead and wounded litter the hillside. I look for my fallen medical corpsman and find him dead. I take his medical bag and start looking for wounded men to treat.

The Chinese now see activity on our reverse slope, and they're harassing us with eighty-twos and seventy-sixes while I bandage the wounded so men from my platoon can carry or drag them down the hill and across the flat strip to the branch trench.

Most of my casualties are fatal. We start dragging dead men down the hill after getting all the living wounded in the branch trench. An eighty-two explodes close to my left, and I hear someone moaning with pain. A rifleman named Markle is lying beside the corpse he was dragging down the hill. The left leg of his trousers is shredded and bloody. I slit his trouser leg with my bayonet and see that a large chunk has been ripped from the muscle in the lower part of his leg. I put a compress bandage on it and bind it tightly. Then I sling him over my shoulder and start running down the hill.

There is an intense seventy-six bombardment on the flat strip as I race across it to the end of the branch trench. "Corpsman!" I yell and lower the casualty to the ground and dash back across the strip.

Four of the men removing casualties have, themselves, become casualties. After all of our casualties have been removed, I tell squad leaders to give me a casualty report. There are only 24 left out of the 117 men I brought on this operation.

An AD-4 squadron is appearing over the rice paddies out in enemy territory as I return to my foxhole. Now our acting skipper is passing the word that a company is now coming through Lieutenant Schiller's company sector to relieve us.

I'm looking down the reverse slope at the Marines emerging from the branch trench and dashing across the flat strip that is being pounded by eighty-twos and seventy-sixes. Relief for the First Platoon arrives first. Next is the platoon that is taking over my sector. The platoon commander, who introduces himself as Bob Gofran, and I are moving through the Second Platoon sector so I can brief him on our fire plan. He says his platoon sergeant was knocked down on the way up the hill.

His platoon is in place, and their last platoon has cleared the strip and is racing up the slope amidst heavy artillery and mortar bombardment. Marsh sounds the order for us to stand by to evacuate and to pick up any wounded from our relief company. The First Platoon is to go first, and my platoon is to follow.

Chinese gunners aren't letting us have an easy time getting off the hill. Mortars and seventy-sixes chase us to the branch trench. The branch trench is being hit by 122s as we crawl over dead and wounded men from the platoon that is ahead of mine.

There is a blinding and deafening explosion that knocks me unconscious.

Chapter 17

Today is my fifth day after we reclaimed the hill from the Chinese. There is a constant ringing in my left ear. The 122-millimeter shell blast that knocked me unconscious has reduced my hearing on that side. The high-velocity howitzer missile hit the upper side of the shallow trench we were crawling through. A piece of shrapnel tore off part of the left foot of the First Platoon's platoon sergeant, who was crawling about ten yards in front of me. Another piece of shrapnel penetrated the helmet of the acting leader of my First Squad, who was behind me, and killed him instantly.

Only 16 returned alive from the 117-man reinforced platoon that I took on that operation. I am the seventeenth who can count myself lucky. Of the survivors, there are only seven, or eight including myself, who isn't still in a field hospital or on the hospital ship, USS Repose.

My platoon wasn't the only one that sustained high casualties. Only sixty-four men of our reinforced company returned alive. I am the only platoon commander to survive that battle.

Rhodes and I have been training the platoon hard since replacements arrived. We could be yanked out of reserve and find ourselves on the front lines or in front of it on short notice. These new men have to get as much experience as possible working together before we go into action. We're on training exercises right after morning chow and headed across the rice paddies on night training immediately after troops return from evening mess.

We've only had less than two weeks to put the new platoon together before we take up positions on the MLR. Tied in with us to the right of the valley is a Korean Marine Corps company. A British unit is to the left of our company.

We arrived up here two days before Christmas, and I've been sending patrols out every night. The enemy took advantage of our holiday sentimentality on Christmas Eve to play Christmas music over a loudspeaker from a few hundred yards in front of us. Interludes between songs were filled in with propaganda tirades telling us we were in a conflict that we can never win and that if we don't surrender we won't live to see another Christmas.

My parka is zipped up to my throat while I stand in the trench outside my CP scanning enemy terrain with seven-fifty binoculars. Rhodes appears with Sergeant Sprawer, the new First Squad leader. "See anything interesting," Rhodes asks.

"No movement anywhere out there."

"Looks like it might snow. It'll be better for Sprawer's squad out there tonight if it doesn't. It'll be just that much harder to keep quiet walking in a fresh snow."

"Right," I agree. "It should take about four hours to get out there going at a cautious pace. What do you think?"

"About that, I guess."

"Four hours for Sprawer to get his squad out near the base of the hill. It'll take a couple of hours to get a couple of men up for a good look and another four hours coming back. Sprawer, it looks like you have an all-night job ahead of you."

I hand my seven-fifties to Sprawer. "Follow that main rice-paddy dam that goes all the way out to the foot of the hill, and you'll see two trees to the left of it."

"I see 'em."

"Okay. Take note of that dam on this side of the trees, the one running perpendicular to your route out. Set up your squad as cover at the end of that tier. Send two men up for reconnaissance. Don't get into any firefights if you can avoid it. But if the recon men get into trouble you can keep the enemy diverted until your men get back to you.

"They'll most likely have mines along the bottom of the hill and men on listening posts. Send a man up each flank. Estimate how many are on the hill and how they are deployed. Get a cross-section compass fix on any gun flashes you see. Then get back without them knowing you've been out there."

"Right."

"Check the path as carefully as you can for mines going out. Keep a sharp lookout for listening posts and ambushes on your way out. Have your squad ready to move out as soon as it gets dark."

Sprawer takes his leave. Rhodes remains beside me. "It's getting a lot colder," I say.

"For sure."

"But it's nothing like as cold as it was when we were up near the Thirty Eighth Parallel."

Rhodes chuckles. "I've still got mud in my sleeping bag from sleeping in it with my thermal boots on while we were up there. Anyway, you'll be going home soon."

"Another month or so and I should be packing up and leaving here."

"I'll be a month behind you. Maybe we'll be stationed some place that's warm. Somewhere like California."

"Maybe."

"Think I'll go over and check on Sprawer. It should be dark enough for him to head out in less than an hour."

"Right."

Rhodes disappears around a curve in the trench and leaves me standing to look out into enemy territory at terrain we haven't had time to become completely familiar with. An eighty-two explodes on the slope directly above me. It is the first round they have fired at us since a two-hour, seventy-six barrage pounded my platoon's sector not long after dawn. Another round lands closer down the slope. There is a spit sound immediately followed by an explosion so close to me that I am showered by gravel while chunks of shrapnel make swooshing sounds over my head. Now the mortar crew is traversing along our trench line. "Corpsman!" someone yells. I wonder who has been hit this time.

I call to the man in the foxhole to my left. "Tyler, go and find out who it was."

He disappears around the bend and reappears within a few minutes. "It was Poolman in the second squad. It almost tore his right arm off. Doc is patchin' him up so they can take him back over the hill."

Another young Marine will go home mutilated. He arrived with the last consignment of replacements and spent Christmas spooning cold C-rations from a tin can while listening to a recorded Bing Crosby crooning about a white Christmas over a Chinese loudspeaker.

It's getting to be a heavier burden for me. Each mutilation or death brings more pain to me. How many men have I lost during the months since I arrived in Korea? I've lost count now. They were teenagers who depended upon my leadership to save them in situations where I was powerless to do so. I've done my best, but I can't help feeling that I could have done just a little more to save more of them.

It is nearly dark now. Sprawer's squad will be ready now to go out for a prowl in the unknown, not knowing what kind of surprises await them, not knowing if their next step will be on a land mine and will be their last step. They could get ambushed or caught in a mortar barrage. I've been out in front of the MLR enough times to know the tight apprehension they must endure every split second of their mission.

We've been up here a week and will probably stay three or more weeks. There are hills out in enemy territory. I'm dreading the thought of full-scale encounters on any of them these last weeks before I am due to go home. Dread increases with each day nearer to my departure from the battlefield. I came to Korea eager to fight. But each battle has diminished my zest for conflict. I'm losing confidence I once had for putting myself up front as a shining example of a warrior and leading men into battle.

Snowflakes are starting to fall while mortar-shell bursts continue to crack sharply in the crisp atmosphere and echo from the hillside over the barren valleys. I pull my parka hood up over my helmet to keep melting snow from running down my neck. There are only a few more weeks of constantly being miserably cold before I get relieved of my command, a few more weeks of only being able to get a few minutes of warmth when I infrequently have to go to the warmed company CP bunker to confer with the skipper.

I'm scanning enemy terrain trying to spot flashes from that eighty-two that is traversing across my sector. There are no flashes in the dusk. The mortar is behind one of those hills high enough to hide the flashes from us.

It is dark now, and the mortar flashes still don't show as they continue to pound our positions. Sprawer's squad will be heading out now. There is nothing I can do but hope that he returns safely.

Now I'm inside my CP bunker out of the snow. I light a candle. Mellon, my runner and radioman, is sacked out to get a few winks before he has to get up and go on watch. I rummage through a C-ration case and withdraw a can of spaghetti and a can of chicken and gravy. I had spaghetti at noon and am not in the mood for chicken hash. I put the can aside to search more and take out another can. It is meat and noodles. I light a heat tab. And Rhodes enters. "What're you havin' for chow?"

"Meat 'n' maggots. Want to join me?"

"What else is there?"

"There's spaghetti. And chicken 'n' guts. I don't know what else there is in that case."

My unopened can is over the heat tab. The can top bulges from the heat inside. I pick it up with the tail of my parka and give it a couple of shakes. Then I put the opposite end over the heat and wait for the end to bulge before removing it. I shake the can and tilt it while puncturing the top with the can opener to let out the steam pressure. Rhodes puts a can of spaghetti over the heat tab. "Snow is startin' to stick to the ground," he says.

"It's not the best night for Sprawer to be out there. But the skipper wants to know what's happening on that hill. I won't be surprised if we don't have to set up an outpost out there. It is my guess that the Chinese are set up out there. It is close enough to us for them to keep a good lookout on us. It's an ideal place for them to have forward observers to coordinate their mortar and artillery fire."

"They might even have some eight-twos set up behind the hill."

"I've been looking for mortar muzzle flashes but haven't seen anything. I still can't see any flashes from that seventy-six that has kept us ducking during daytime. My guess is that they have one permanently set up on one of those hills beyond the one Sprawer is going to. But I haven't been able to pick up any muzzle flashes with my binoculars."

"They're probably camouflaged pretty good."

"We need something more powerful than binoculars—something like a long-range spotter scope. I'll get on the phone to the skipper and ask him if he'll loan us his BC scope. We can keep someone on it all day and every day to see if we can pick up any activity on those distant hills."

"Good idea. It sure would be good to get rid of that seventy-six. We can't make a move without being shot at. I think I'll shove off now and see how everything is going."

"Okay, Dusty. Let me know right away if there's any sign of Sprawer's squad getting into any action."

"Right."

An eighty-two explodes beside my bunker the moment that Dusty makes his exit. I go to the doorway and call, "Rhodes, are you all right?"

"Okay."

I pull my parka hood up over my helmet and venture out into the trench and stay close enough to hear the field-phone bell. Snow is still coming down, and the ground is covered with a thin layer of it. I'm wondering how Sprawer is progressing. He should be about half way to the hill. It is fortunately a dark night and hopefully they won't be seen going across the snow-covered rice paddies. White clothing would be ideal for a patrol on a night like tonight, but we haven't been issued any and always have to do the best we can with what we have.

Our country has sent us into a war we're not adequately equipped to fight. There have been frostbite casualties because we haven't been clothed properly for going to war in cold climate. Our enemy is better equipped for this kind of war than we are. Our World War Two vintage infantry weapons aren't right for this kind of war. Their Russian-made burp guns are far superior to our small arms for night combat at short range. They have a faster sustained rate of fire than anything we have. With their simple blowback operation the burp gun is more reliable than our M-1 rifle, M-2 carbine, and Browning Automatic Rifle. I'd feel much better with a burp gun on a raid than with anything in our arsenal.

Our country has not only pitted us against enemy infantrymen with better equipment for the kind of war we're fighting but also with more heavy weapons. It was estimated that in the last battle I was in that the Chinese pounded us with sixteen battalions of artillery. Only four of our howitzer battalions supported us. We lost most of our company, including our CO. We would have suffered even more had we not had air superiority.

There has been no evidence of our enemy having ammunition shortages. Very seldom has an enemy round landed in our territory and not exploded.

Our ammunition has been rationed many times. Much of the stuff we get is World War Two surplus that has gone bad. I've learned to never trust rifle-launched flares or rifle grenades. Hand grenades have been a little more reliable and so has small-arms ammunition. But many of our sixty-millimeter mortar shells have failed to explode when we depended upon them for close support. I don't think our eighty-ones are any better. There have been several reports of dud howitzer and tank-cannon projectiles.

I stand in this trench on this cold and snowy night thinking of the sacrifices we've made. Our country sent us here unprepared to defend another country most of us had never heard of before. I came here gung ho and about as naïve as anyone else. But that's changed after nearly a year and a half of realization that people back home aren't concerned about our welfare and that our government isn't supporting us.

It isn't like World War Two when government propaganda kept people aware of the war effort. Everyone's effort was concentrated toward giving moral and material support for men risking their lives at war. School kids collected their metal-foil, chewing-gum wrappers and picked up scrap metal on roadsides for the war effort. Comic-strip characters were getting into uniform. Boys could hardly wait until they were old enough to wear military uniforms.

That war ended. This one started five years later. Some of us who were too young for the past war now rejoiced with the chance to serve our country in another war. It wasn't long after getting here that we realized that our government and folks back home aren't concerned with giving adequate support to men over here trying to repel communist invaders. They give us weapons, clothing and equipment designed for past wars...and worthless old ammunition. I've seen many lives lost because we weren't adequately equipped. I can only hope that my men out on that patrol tonight won't die because they are easy targets in dark clothing on a snowy night and their clunky M-1 semi-automatic rifles no match for those fierce Russian-made burp guns that spit out 920 rounds per minute.

A 155 howitzer makes a swooshing sound going from one of our batteries in the rear toward an enemy target area. A few seconds and there is a flash in the distance when it explodes. Another few seconds and I hear the dull report. There is another flash to its left.

I turn and go back into my bunker to unsling my carbine and lay it across my bunk and take a seat beside it. Steinberg, the medical corpsman, enters in his snow-covered parka and heads toward the C-ration case. "Think I got Poolman fixed up well enough with compresses so he won't lose too much blood before they can get him back to the hospital."

"Good going, Doc. It'll be a good idea for you to hit the sack so you'll have some sleep in case Sprawer should return with casualties."

"That's what I was thinking." He lights a heat tab and places a can of beans and frankfurters over it.

The phone rings. I lift the receiver out of the case and flick the butterfly switch. It is a man from the Third Squad saying the corpsman is needed to take care of a wound that doesn't look too bad. I hang up and say to Steinberg, "Casualty in the third squad."

He removes his partially cooked can from over the heat tab and grabs his medical bag to dash from our bunker.

I get the phone receiver out of the case and ring Rhodes's bunker. Lemming, the platoon guide, says Rhodes has gone to check on the casualty. I tell Lemming to have Rhodes call me when he gets back. I replace the receiver to get a packet of instant coffee from the ration case.

Rhodes enters just as I am filling my canteen cup with water. "Want a cup of joe, Dusty."

"Might As well. You make yours and I'll take over the tab."

"Who was hit?"

"Bandy got a crease across his shoulder. Doc says he'll be okay after he gets him patched up."

Mellon is sitting up in his bag and rubbing his face with his hand.

Rhodes says, "Get your ass out of the sack, Mellon. The boss probably wants to get some sleep."

"I'd been thinking about that," I say. I want to be on deck at about four. You have my cup of joe. I don't want to get out of my bug bag to go out in the snow and piss." I lay my carbine beside my sleeping bag with the muzzle pointing footward.

"Mellon, you take the cup of mud. I think I'll go back to my bunker. Wake both of us up if there's any firefighting out front," he says as I remove my boots and get into my sleeping bag.

"Right, Dusty."

I'm in my cold bag with the top tucked tightly around my neck to hold in my body heat for warming my chilly bed. An eighty-two explodes down the slope close in front of my bunker. Another round explodes on the slope above us as I am drifting off to sleep.

Mellon is shaking my shoulder. "It's 0400. There's a cuppa mud ready for you."

"Thanks," I say and start getting out of my bag. Doc is asleep in his bag. I'm now fully dressed and am sipping from a canteen cup and smoking a cigarette. I drain the last drop from the cup and say to the radioman, "I'll leave you here to listen to the phone while I go out for a stroll."

"Right."

My parka hood is pulled up over my helmet as I leave my bunker. About six inches of snow covers the ground, and it is still snowing lightly. I hope it keeps snowing all night to cover any footprints left by Sprawer's reconnaissance patrol. I boost myself out of the trench to go a few paces up the slope and piss on the snow-covered ground.

Eighty-twos explode down at the left end of my platoon sector. Something heavier than an eighty-two explodes on the upper slope about a hundred yards to my right. I guess it is a 122.

My platoon is standing watch at extended intervals to fill the gap left open by Sprawer's squad. Watchstanders shiver in their foxholes as I slowly make my way through the trench toward our right flank. I ask each if he has seen the flash of the 122. No one has. I tell each one that if there are any muzzle flashes to take a compass sighting so I can call counter-battery fire on it.

Now I'm at the end of my right flank and stand looking into the darkness out front at flashes from our 155s exploding far out into enemy territory. Another 122 explodes somewhere in the area of my platoon CP as I head back in that direction.

Mellon is sitting beside a lighted candle and holding a canteen cup of coffee when I enter. "A big one hit pretty close a couple of minutes ago. It came down between here and the barbwire."

"I heard it while I was in First Squad sector."

"Wanna cuppa joe?"

"Not right now. Think I'll head down toward Third Squad area."

Another 122 lands—this time close to the trench about twenty-five yards in front of me as I am heading toward my platoon's left flank. A large piece of shrapnel makes swoop-swoop-swoop sounds as it whirls loopity-loop not very far over my head.

Our 155s are swooshing high over my head and exploding far out into enemy terrain. There are faint orange flashes over a wide patch of ground. Sounds of the explosions become audible to my ears a few seconds after the flashes.

An eighty-two explodes on the slope above me and showers me with snow and gravel. Shrapnel whines, whooshes and whishes over my head.

I chat a moment with each shivering watchstander as I make my way through the trenchline. These new men have never experienced a firefight. They have seen enough blood caused from enemy incoming shells mostly from the precisely accurate flat-trajectory seventy-six that takes shots at us during daytime. They have had their turns on reconnaissance patrols and setting up ambushes in the rice paddies but they have never had direct confrontation with our enemy. They're eager for each patrol assignment and most of them are disappointed that so far there has been no engagement with the enemy out in no-man's land. We're all anxious at first. Then anxiety wanes and becomes dread.

Lemming is awake in his sleeping bag and Rhodes is sitting by a steaming canteen cup of coffee and is lighting a cigarette in the secondary CP. "Tab's still burnin' if you want a cuppa mud."

"Might as well," I answer and fill a canteen cup full of water and put it over the heat tab, then pick up the pack of Camels on the ammunition-crate table and shake out a cigarette. "It's stopped snowing," I say after lighting the cigarette.

"At least tracks should be covered up on that hill after those two guys finish their reconnaissance on that hill. It won't matter much if they make tracks on the trail heading back."

"They should be well on their way back."

"So good, so far, I guess. There hasn't been any shooting out there so far. It would be a good deal if they didn't find anybody out there on that hill."

"Slim chance of that, Dusty."

"For damned sure. There has to be at least an observation post on one of those hills out there to call in all the artillery and mortar fire we've been getting."

"The others are too far away for them to do any accurate spotting."

"Wherever their observation post is they've got us well zeroed in. That has to be where they're operating from."

Water in the canteen cup is bubbling. I stir in two packets of instant coffee, drop my cigarette butt in an empty ration can, and pick up the cup to head outside. Rhodes follows me into the trench. It isn't snowing now and is quiet except for the distant rumble of our howitzer shells exploding in Chinese territory.

My coffee has cooled enough for me to take a sip. It brings warmth to my chilled body as it goes down. "A bite of chow might not be a bad idea," I say.

"Let's go back inside and see what we can find."

Burp-gun fire sounds out in the rice paddy as we turn to go back into the bunker. The shots become intermingled with the crackle of rifle fire. "Sprawer's in trouble!" Rhodes says.

"Pass the word for all hands on deck!" I call to nearby watch standers in the trench. "Dusty, have Doc and men with stretchers standing by at the barbed-wire entrance. Get on the phone to the company CP and have sixties stand by their tubes! Tell Mellon to get here on the double with his radio! Get compass coordinates of those burp-gun muzzle flashes from each squad sector!"

Rhodes dashes into his bunker and leaves me standing in the trench watching the firefight that is about three hundred yards in front of us. I take my compass from my parka pocket and sight at the burp-gun flashes that are about twenty-five yards from the First Squad's M-1 rifles and three Browning Automatic Rifles. I call my sighting to Rhodes and say, "When you get the other sightings tell sixties to get their sticks on our coordinates and await my command."

Sprawer's squad is firing while moving back in our direction. Enemy mortars have evidently been zeroed in on the trail adjacent to the ambush. Mortar shells explode within close proximity of Sprawer's squad. I call into the bunker, "Dusty, tell sixties to start firing!"

Sprawer's squad has stopped firing, and I assume they're breaking contact with the ambush and running toward the MLR. Chinese mortar shells are hitting at the path. The first volley of our mortar section hits about twenty yards to the left of the ambush. I call to Rhodes, "Dusty, tell sixties to adjust right two-zero yards!"

"Move right two-zero yards," Rhodes confirms.

The ambush is no longer pursuing Sprawer by fire as our mortars land in the target area. It is my guess that the sixties have done some damage to the ambush team if it remained in place after ceasing fire. Mellon is standing beside me with the radio on his back. I call into the bunker, "Tell sixties to cease fire, Dusty. Stay on the phone while I go to meet Sprawer. Come with me, Mellon."

Doc's voice sounds behind us as we move through the trench. "What's happening?"

"Our patrol got into a firefight. They should be just about to the barbed wire by now."

Men with stretchers are waiting at the barbed wire where the patrol will return to the MLR. Chinese mortar rounds are now exploding near the fence. Jenkins, leader of the First Fireteam in Sprawer's squad, identifies himself and the patrol is admitted through the wire. Two men are being carried. One of them is Sprawer.

Chinese mortars are now dropping on our side of the fence. "Disburse!" I yell. "Get those wounded men into the bunker here!"

Enemy heavy artillery is now pounding this sector. Mellon, Doc, and I dash into the nearest bunker. Jenkins and the men carrying the wounded follow us into the dark bunker. I strike a match and find a candle beside a bunk. I say, "Mellon, cover the aperture so I can light a candle. Then look for more candles. Get some from another bunker if you can't find any more here."

The two stretchers are on the deck. Sprawer is unconscious and bleeding badly from his middle. Cuzner is grimacing with pain from his bloody left leg. Doc has removed Sprawer's parka and lifts his dungaree jacket to display several bleeding burp-gun holes across his midriff. I've cut open Cuzner's trouser leg and see that his knee has been torn away, probably from shrapnel.

One-twenty-twos are cracking loudly nearby. Enemy observers have seen the M-1 and BAR muzzle flashes and know that there is only one route the patrol could have taken back to our MLR. They're determined to make it difficult for us to deal with any casualties that may have been inflicted in the firefight.

A 122 explodes close to the bunker. A direct hit from one of those five-inch projectiles can completely destroy one of these lightly constructed sandbag bunkers, especially if the missile is armed with a split-second, delayed-action fuse that allows it to penetrate its target before exploding the charge.

I've put a compress on Cuzner's knee and am starting to cut a piece of tape from a spool that Mellon is holding. Something crashes on the roof so hard that it shakes the flimsy bunker and causes a shower of sand on us. We're looking at the nose cone of a 122 projectile sticking through a sandbag.

"Jeeezus!" Mellon hisses through chattering teeth. I know what he is thinking—that the projectile is waiting to explode.

I'm on my feet and have my hands on the missile. "Mellon, get up and cut the sandbag away from this projectile so I can pull it out. Goddamnit! Make a move, Mellon! It's not going to detonate unless it falls nose-first on the deck."

Mellon's hand is shaking while he saws at the sandbag to let sand spill out. I now have a firm grip on the middle of the heavy projectile and pull it out of the ceiling and lay it on a sleeping bag that is unrolled on an air mattress. "I'll take it off somewhere and detonate it later," I say and resume work on Cuzner's knee.

I'm in the company CP at dawn. Lieutenant Marsh and I are sitting at opposite sides of an ammo-crate table sipping coffee from canteen cups. "Another of my squad leaders down the drain," I say. "And one of his BARmen."

"What happened out there last night?"

"Two men got up on the hill while the rest of the squad covered from the base. It seems to be only a fireteam-size outpost. One of them was heard talking on a radio—probably to mortar crews behind other hills. They're in a good spot to keep an eye on us."

"Seems that way."

"I doubt that the ambush team was from that outpost. Sprawer's squad would have met them on the way to the hill if they were housekeeping there. He possibly would have seen their tracks in the snow. It is my guess that they came from a larger unit on one of those hills beyond that outpost. The only foxholes visible were those occupied by the fireteam-size crew."

"When did the firefight start?"

"They'd successfully finished their reconnaissance of the hill and were on their way back to the MLR when they were ambushed. I'm sure my men were plain targets in dark clothing against a snow-covered background. I was watching the firefight and called in sixties on the ambush spot after my men broke contact. It is my estimation that they got some hits in the target area. The way it was snowing last night I think there was a good chance that it covered tracks of the two men who scouted out the hill."

"I'll relay your report to battalion. I suspect that S-3 will want us to establish an outpost out there."

I stand and sling my carbine over my shoulder. "Skipper, I'd like to borrow your BC scope so we can look for that seventy-six that's been sniping at us every day."

"I wouldn't want to be without my scope. I'll try to requisition one from S-4 for you."

"Thanks," I say and take my leave from the company CP.

Two days have passed, and I've been called back to the company CP. Marsh says, "Grab a seat. Coffee water is boiling, and I have a little treat for us that arrived as a late Christmas present." He puts a foil-wrapped package on the ammo-crate desk and opens it.

"Cheese," I say.

"Good Wisconsin natural cheese. It's not the stuff you get in the average grocery store. We get our cheese from a dairy co-op close to home."

"Excellent cheese," I say after tasting it.

"Help yourself."

"Thanks. Any reaction from battalion about that outpost?"

"That's why I called for you. S-3 wants a platoon out there."

"When?"

"Tomorrow night. Move your platoon out at nightfall. The First and Third Platoons will spread out and fill in your gap. I'll send out a relief platoon in a few days."

"We'll have to try to do the job without any shooting because we need to dig foxholes before anyone on the other side realizes that we've taken over the hill."

"Right."

"Suppose the hill is heavily defended when we arrive?"

"Radio back. I'll have an artillery battery standing by to soften up the hill before you begin an assault. We'll firm up the plan later."

I reach for my carbine and stand.

"Hopefully S-4 will get your spotter scope up here before you go out there. Take the rest of that cheese with you."

"Thanks, but I can't take your Christmas present."

"I have another hunk."

"Thanks."

"Enjoy it."

I leave the company CP and walk along the reverse slope to head back down the ravine that divides my unit from the First Platoon to our right. A seventy-six projectile explodes in the mid-section of my platoon area...then another.

The hill that is to be our next conquest is now in view. Tightness in my gut is a reminder of my trepidation of going out there to face unpredictable encounters these remaining weeks of my combat tour. It is a challenge I would gladly forego if I had a choice.

A projectile explodes several yards in front of me and is followed by a blinding flash and deafening explosion in front of me. I am lying on my back stunned. Blood is running down my face when I sit. I try to raise my right hand to wipe the blood out of my right eye. There is so much pain in my arm that I can't move it.

My left forearm is feeling a little numb but isn't too painful for me to reach to my head and discover that my helmet is not on my head and is nowhere in sight.

A machine gunner sees me staggering back into my platoon sector. "Corpsman!" he yells.

I'm in the trenchline and going toward my CP. Steinberg is coming from the opposite direction to meet me. "Let's go into the CP bunker so I can take a look at you," he says.

There is a startled look on Rhodes's face when I enter the bunker. "What happened?"

"I bumped into a door, Dusty."

"Seventy-six or eighty-two?"

"I don't know."

Steinberg bandages my head and wipes the blood from my face. "Not much damage up there—just some skin peeled off, and maybe a little bit of the bone shaved off. Now we'll take your parka off and see where the blood is coming from on your arms."

My right arm hurts excruciatingly while Rhodes and Steinberg remove my parka. Doc looks at my right arm and announces, "A piece of something in your bicep. It'll have to be removed at a field hospital." He bandages the wound and finds another one in the muscle of my right forearm. "Another job for field hospital," Steinberg says.

"Can you remove this one and the other one so I won't have to be evacuated, Doc?"

"I will try."

He gives me a local injection near each puncture and waits for it to take effect before successfully extracting the two metal slivers. My arm is still numb as they put my parka back on me.

I say, "One of you look in my left pocket and take out that paper bag. It is a little present for the two of you."

Doc removes the bag and peeks inside. "Cheese," he says with a playful say-cheese grin on his face.

Chapter 18

My life has moved in an entirely new direction in the four years since I separated from the Marine Corps and Arlene. I'm back in Manhattan, but with a completely different viewpoint. New York itself hasn't changed much since I was here at age sixteen. I'm twenty-eight now and viewing the scene with a completely different perspective.

Mills Hotel is the same, except that it is no longer fifty cents for a room. It now costs $2.50. I check into the hotel carrying a surplus military backpack and my portable typewriter. The men milling around in the lobby look the same as when I was here twelve years ago. It is the same scene on the mezzanine.

The man taking me upstairs to my room looks like a beaten-up boxer with his flattened nose and cauliflower ears. He walks on the balls of his feet in front of me up the stairs. When he gets to my room and is unlocking it, he eyes my typewriter case and asks, "Is that a portable television, Mack?"

"No."

My room is the same one I had the last time. It is the same right down to particles of vomit in the sink. I run the faucet to flush some of it down the drain and go to my bunk to sit on it. I've checked in this rotten place because it is the cheapest place I know in Manhattan. I have to watch my money closely until I can get a job. I've lived in some unsavory conditions since my first trip here and maybe I can hang on here until I find something better.

I'd type a letter to Jo if I weren't so exhausted from being on the road hitchhiking the past few days from Mississippi after leaving my rented off-campus house. Jo Ann was seventeen when I met her in college, and she eventually became the great love of my life.

I'll get some sleep and maybe write to her tomorrow. I get undressed and into bed. Someone coughs and gags in the next-door room. The sounds come from the same direction as they did last time I was here. The sounds are the same as last time. Could he be the same person? Most unlikely. Anyone who sounds that ill couldn't have lasted twelve years.

My exhausted body soon lapses into repose after I get between the sheets. My hacking-and-coughing neighbor awakens me at dawn. Immediate thoughts are to check out of here and find another place to stay.

I'm on the sidewalk feeling the November chill and glad to be out of that stinking flophouse. There must be some place less disparaging that I can afford in this enormous metropolis. I remember the general direction of Washington Square and walk until I arrive at a newspaper kiosk where I buy a copy of the New York Times.

The bench where I sat to eat a tin of sardines for breakfast the first time I was here is occupied by a young couple of university age. Books are piled beside them while they sit holding hands. I take bread and cheese from my bag to make a dry sandwich and munch on it while looking in the Times rental advertisements.

A furnished room is advertised for nine dollars a week. That's about half the price as a room at Mills. Hopefully it won't be twice as dirty.

The male student sitting on the opposite bench gives me directions to the subway and changing to the IRT line. He says he doesn't know where it stops and suggests that I ask someone on the train. There is a phone booth a half-block farther along. Maybe Gloria is still in New York. I'll have a quick look in the directory. If she's still here and a man answers the phone, I'll hang up. Her surname isn't listed, and I continue on my way to the subway.

The landlady with the room for rent is enormously fat. My guess is that she weighs more than three hundred pounds—maybe four hundred or more. I don't think I've ever seen a woman this big.

The first thing she asks me is, "Do you go to business?"

"No, ma'am, I just got into town today, and I'm going to look for a job tomorrow."

"What kind of business do you do?"

"I'm just out of college."

"So you've never worked?"

"I was in service before I went to the university."

"I can't have someone hanging around all day. I want to rent the room to someone who goes to business."

"I'd planned to look for a job tomorrow."

"That's what they all say. I can tell you stories about the bad actors I've had here, like that old Irishman I had to kick out last week. He was always getting drunk and falling all over the place. I was afraid he'd fall over something and break it. Are you a drinker?"

"No ma'am." It's true that I'm not drinking right now. How can I drink when I'm nearly broke? The last drink I had was a few days ago with a guy I hitched a ride with. We finished a bottle of gin and a bottle of vermouth while driving through Kentucky. He nearly ran off one of those high mountain roads a couple of times, and I ended up driving to Cincinnati while he was passed out.

"Have you got nine dollars for the first week's rent?"

"Yes ma'am. Right here."

"Give me it and I'll show you where your room is." She takes the five-dollar bill and four ones and precedes me down the hall that is illuminated by a small bulb that doesn't produce any more light than a Christmas tree bulb. "There you are. All nice and clean for you."

There's no denying that it is clean. I'd come prepared for much worse at half the price I paid in that sadly disgusting place where I spent last night.

"Nice and clean, isn't it?"

"Yes ma'am."

"You don't have to say ma'am to me. You can call me Faith. What's yours?"

"Mountie."

"Come and I'll show you the kitchen."

I'm following her and notice that she is so wide that there isn't much clearance when she goes through the kitchen door.

"There's the ice box, Jimmy."

"Mountie."

"Mountie?"

"I'm called Mountie."

She opens the icebox door. "You can put your things on that top shelf." She closes the door.

"Where do you get ice?"

"The ice man brings it. Where did you think I got it from?"

"I didn't know."

"My friend got rid of her ice box and bought a refrigerator. It must cost her a fortune with all the electricity it takes to keep it cool. Do you cook or eat out?"

"I'll be eating here, I guess."

"Can you cook?"

"A little."

"Don't expect me to do your cooking. I don't cook much, not even for myself. I'm glad you're not a drinker, anyway. That Irishman was a mess." She turns to precede me out of the kitchen. She is a little off center going through the doorway and scrubs her right hip on the frame.

She waddles back toward the living room. I flank into my room. The left side of the bed is nearly against the wall. There is a dresser on the right side. Only the top drawer can be opened because the bed is against the lower drawers. There is a small wardrobe in the corner at the foot end of the bed. And there is a small desk beside it.

I place my portable typewriter on the desk and remove my shoes so I can climb over the end of the bed and unload some of the contents of my shoulder bag into the top dresser drawer.

Now I'm lying on my bed listening to the sound of a sewing machine in Faith's room. It is going to be dull in here since I don't have anything to read but the newspaper I bought downtown. Maybe I'll go out and walk around and get some lunch later.

The sewing machine stops when I knock on the partially opened living-room door. "May I have a key for the front door, Faith?"

"Are you going out, Shay?"

"I'm called Mountie...or Arnold. I thought I'd walk around awhile and maybe get something to eat."

"There's a deli on the corner."

"Do you have a key for me?"

"That's your key on the table there."

There is a damp chill in the air as I exit from the apartment and stand wondering whether I should start walking uptown or downtown. Gloria never brought me to this part of the city, and I don't even recall us riding a bus through it the times she took me on tours. Maybe if I walk up to Riverside Drive...then what will I do? Look for Gloria sitting on that same bench where we met? That's a ridiculous thought. She isn't listed in the Manhattan phone book. Her name wasn't in the San Francisco directory before I left for Korea and after I returned. I don't have the slightest idea where she is now.

Gloria has occupied my thoughts some these past few years. I've also thought many times about my escapades with Ruth in Tijuana and that she may be somewhere with an eight-year-old child who is half mine.

Jo is in my thoughts as she has been since I met her. She said she might come up and spend Christmas with me. I need to earn enough money to get myself out of that furnished room and get an apartment before she arrives. I must get a job soon, or I'll be out of money and won't even have that cramped room to sleep in.

It is past noon and I'm hungry. I flank into a small stand-up eating joint and order a hotdog. It is the cheapest thing they have. I pack as much pickles and relish as I can get on the bun and make my exit to walk eastward while munching the dog.

Now I'm in Central Park and am still hungry after eating the dog. I haven't had much to eat since leaving Mississippi. It isn't my first time in Central Park. Gloria brought me here. I remember it all so clearly, walking along with our arms around each other, and I ever so elated with the feeling of being in love the first time.

Faith stops her sewing machine when she sees me pass her doorway. "Did you have a nice walk, Harry?"

"I walked in Central Park."

"I've never been in the park. Was it nice?"

"Not bad. It's quieter than the street. How long have you lived here, Faith?"

"Forty-nine years. I was born here."

"And you haven't been in the park?"

"I've never had any reason to."

"It's only a block from here."

"I know where it is. Did you have something nice to eat while you were out?"

"A hotdog."

"That's nice. I've got to get this finished. The customer will be coming for it soon."

"You're a seamstress?"

"That's what I've been doing all my life."

"I'll see you later, Faith."

"All right, ah...What's your name again?"

"Mountie. M-o-u-n-t-i-e."

The sewing machine starts clattering again the moment I turn and head toward my room. I'm sitting at the desk reading the Times and still feeling hungry.

The time is almost six. I can't get my mind off that gnawing feel of hunger. It is getting so intense that I can't concentrate on the newspaper.

The sewing machine stops as I pass Faith's door. "Are you going out again, Ray?"

"Yes. To the deli."

A bald-headed man behind the delicatessen counter has a cigar stub between his fat lips. "A half pound of liverwurst and a loaf of pumpernickel," I say to him.

Faith's sewing machine is still clattering when I start back up the stairs. She doesn't see me as I quietly pass her door and head into my room. I put the deli bag on the desk and place two slices of liverwurst between two slices of dark bread.

My hunger hasn't been satisfied by the time I finish the sandwich, and I recline on my bed to look in the Times job advertisements. The only kind of job I stand a chance of getting is one that doesn't require me to wear a suit. I have a suit, but I packed it in a trunk and shipped it from Mississippi by Railway Express. Maybe it is waiting for me at the train station. I'll get an early night's sleep so I can get to the railway station early tomorrow morning.

Hunger pangs gnaw my stomach so much that I can't get to sleep. I'm almost out of money and don't know how long it will take to find a job and get a paycheck. My food must last as long as possible,

It seems like hours that I have been lying here with thoughts on the liverwurst and bread that I've stowed in the dresser drawer. I'm out of bed and making another sandwich. This one should satisfy my hunger.

Hunger is still torturing me after I get back into bed and turn off the lamp. I'm awake a long time hoping the pangs will go away but they keep persisting. So I'm back out of bed and don't stop eating until I've finished the liverwurst and most of the pumpernickel.

Street traffic awakens me. I'm out of bed and into the bathroom where there is no hot water. I have to squat in the bathtub and bathe myself with a sponge from the tub's faucet.

My Railway Express shipment hasn't arrived. I'm disappointed because I expected it to arrive by train during the days I spent hitchhiking from Mississippi.

There is nothing I can do until it arrives but look for whatever work I can find that doesn't require me to wear a suit. I haven't had breakfast and feel starved as I walk the streets to inquire about a job in all the short-order places I see.

A hotdog I consumed at noon hasn't completely staved off my hunger pangs but quelled the agony enough for me to get through the afternoon. I walk home to save myself subway fare. I've walked plenty today looking for a job and hiked all the way from mid-town area to West Sixty-Sixth. My hunger is now almost unbearable by the time I get back at a little past seven.

"What kind of cheese is that?" I ask the deli man.

"New York cheddar. It's sharp. Do you like sharp cheese?"

"Yes. I'll have a quarter of a pound. And a loaf of rye bread."

Faith sits in a chair by the window when I get to the top of the stairs. "Did you have a good day, Dennis?"

"No luck finding a job. I'll try again tomorrow."

"Come and sit and watch people going to the boxing in Saint Nicholas Arena."

"Not this evening, Faith. I must go through the Times want ads, and I want to get into bed early so I can get a good start looking tomorrow."

The cheddar crumbles on the table when I try to slice it. I arrange the hunks between two slices of rye and take a big bite. The deli man was right about it being sharp cheddar. I've never tasted cheese this strong. The sandwich hasn't satisfied my hunger, and I make a second one. It doesn't fill me up either, but I think I should hold on to the rest of it for breakfast.

A day of prowling in downtown Manhattan has made me dirty. I undress to put on my bathrobe and go into the bathroom to squat in the tub and cold-water splash myself clean from the running faucet.

There is only a minimum of heat in the apartment and I'm shivering in my bathrobe back in my room. So here I am in bed with the Times searching through the want ads for manual-labor work.

My stomach feels like it has hot coals in it by the time I get through the job-advertising section. It is worse than last night's hunger pains. I'm convinced that I made a mistake putting that strong cheese into my empty stomach. I reach over and pull out the top dresser drawer and take out the remainder of yesterday's pumpernickel and don't stop eating until the loaf is finished.

The Railway Express shipment still hasn't arrived. I'm back on the street again following up the Times job ads. There are many applicants ahead of me each place I go. Jobs have been taken by the time I get in for interview. Tomorrow I'm going to get up early and try to get ahead of everyone else in the job lineup.

It is now late afternoon as I walk westward from Avenue of the Americas on Forty-Second Street. The street is jammed with people leaving work and rushing for the Times Square subway entrances. I'm trying to get my bearings to start walking uptown in the direction of home.

I'm passing the Amsterdam movie theater and see a sign on the ticket window that says, Usher wanted. And here I am two hours later in an usher's uniform and getting ready to start on the evening shift.

The movie is Japanese and is about an enormous dinosaur-like monster sinking fishing vessels, razing cities, and inflicting all kinds of mass destruction. All the Japanese armed forces have been mobilized against the ruthless creature. This is not the kind of film I would have paid to see.

A teenage couple now stands in front of me. The girl sobs and trembles. Her boyfriend says a man sitting by her other side put his hand under her skirt.

I've just settled the couple into other vacant seats when someone tells me that someone in the balcony has pissed on his shoulder. Another person appears in front of me at that moment to say that an empty beer can has been dropped from the balcony onto his head.

I'm in the balcony now trying to catch the troublemakers and see a couple fornicating in the middle isle. It occurs to me at first to evict them, but I change my mind. The balcony audience is at least getting better entertainment for their money than from this bad movie that I will have to keep seeing through this evening and evenings to come if I still have a job here.

It is almost ten thirty when Faith's sewing machine awakens me. My stomach is empty, and there's no food in the dresser drawer. I didn't have a chance to buy anything yesterday. The last thing I had to eat was a shriveled hamburger fried in stale grease in a restaurant near the Amsterdam. I ate the rancid burger while watching the burly snaggle-toothed bouncer forcefully remove a man who didn't immediately vacate his seat after finishing his meal.

Faith is in the hall as I vacate the bathroom. "There you are, Ralph. I thought something happened to you when you didn't come in last night."

"I got in late. I was working on my new evening job."

"What kind of job do you have?"

"It's just a low-paying job until I find something better. I'm an usher in a movie theater in the Times Square area. It is the old Ziegfeld Theater. You should see the magnificent stage behind the screen."

"That's nice. You get to see all the movies free. I've never seen a movie."

"Free movies are not much of a bonus if they don't show anything better than Japanese monster films."

"What're you going to do today?"

"Check and see if my trunk arrived."

The trunk doesn't arrive until three days later. I unload it from the taxi and struggle to get it up the stairs. My suit is wrinkled from being folded up in the trunk. It occurs to me that I might ask Faith to loan me her iron but I change my mind and take it to a nearby dry cleaner and ask them if they can press it this afternoon. The man says he can have it ready in an hour. That will give me time to pick it up and walk down to Times Square for my shift at the Amsterdam.

I'm up and dressed in my suit before daylight. I am at an Avenue of the Americas employment agency waiting for it to open at nine. One of the men in the office looks at my resume and says, "You don't have much work experience. Competition is fierce here in the editorial field. They're all looking for experienced people."

"I'll take anything that looks interesting. I can learn if it is something I haven't had any experience with."

"There's not much chance of finding anything permanent this close to Christmas. I have a holiday-season job listed. When that's finished I can try to find something permanent for you after Christmas."

"What is it?"

"Stern's Department Store on Forty-Second Street by Sixth Avenue has set up a Disney-style play land for the holidays. They're hiring people to operate the rides."

Now I'm wearing white coveralls, gum boots, a patent-leather belt and a beanie cap with a flashing light on top. It is supposed to be a space uniform. I'm the carousel operator on the fifth floor of Stern's Department Store children's indoor amusement park.

The operation has been cleverly set up to milk as much money as possible out of Christmas-shopping parents. Parents bring children up here and pay for them to go on the rides. When they leave our little Disneyland, they go down the elevator to the third floor, which just happens to be the place that the store has set up as the toy department. Elevator passengers must disembark on the third floor and change to another elevator on the other side of the room and descend to street level. Anything impulsive and compulsive kids can con out of their moms and dads in the process of changing elevators is fair game as far as the store is concerned.

The Amsterdam was a nerve-grating place with an affray of disorderly patrons every night. The Stern's fifth floor is daily pandemonium with noisy snotty-nose children and their mothers screaming at them in their Brooklyn or Bronx-accented nasal voices. Now I don't have to see that Japanese film every night but must listen to the repetitious Christmas songs and calliope music. I'm asking myself if I can stand this a month until the job finishes.

Pay is a good bit more, anyway, than at the Amsterdam. There isn't much choice but hang on and hope that employment agency finds something better for me when I finish here.

Today is Saturday and it is payday. I'm seventy-five bucks richer than I was yesterday. Maybe I'll stop somewhere on the way home and have a decent meal, I think as I start walking up Sixth Avenue.

There is the familiar smell of cigarette smoke and stale beer as I pass a bar. I want to go in and have a drink. I've managed to control my drinking from time to time these past few years. I didn't drink at all my last couple of months with Arlene and my first couple of months at the university. Then it started again and got worse and worse.

Before I really realize what is happening I'm turning back and going through the door. "A draft beer," I say to the bartender. Shit. I've had a hectic few days. "Make that a double scotch," I call to the bartender as he reaches for a pilsner glass.

Faith's sewing machine awakens me. I'm lying on top of the bed covers fully dressed, minus my shoes. I remember bar hopping part of the way up Sixth but can't recall my arrival at home. The way Faith still goes on about the drunken old Irishman who stayed here, she is bound to give me a hard time about my conduct, whatever it was when I got home. It is nearly eleven o'clock. Luckily it is Sunday and my day off, or I'd get fired for not showing up on time.

My mouth feels parched. My stomach feels like something is jumping around inside it. Food wouldn't go down, even if I had some in my room. A black cup of coffee might settle my gut. I'll go into the kitchen and make some. No. Better not. Best to sneak past Faith's door and go out for a cup.

The sewing machine stops as I start past her door. "There you are," her voice sounds. "Did you have a good time last night?"

"I hope I didn't disturb you when I came in. I must have been an awful mess."

"I guess you needed to relax. Where're you going?"

"Out for a cup of coffee."

"If you're out of coffee you can take some of mine."

"I need to walk around a little and get some air. I'll see you later."

"Bye, bye."

That was some surprise that she didn't evict me or at least give me a good bawling out. I'll have to be more careful about coming in drunk from now on. She might not take it so lightly next time.

Now I'm coffeed up but am still no less hung over walking up Columbus Avenue. What I really need is a beer to drown the butterflies in my stomach and to wet my scorched mouth. But I'd better take it easy today. If I get as plastered as I was last night I won't wake up in time to go to work.

There's a bar over there across the street. And I jaywalk over and go inside. I know I shouldn't but I really need a beer. I'll have just a couple of beers and no whiskey. It was the scotch that got me shitfaced last night. "A draft beer," I say to the bartender.

It is Saturday again and another payday. I'm feeling shitty from a dose of flu I got from all these snotty-nosed kids. Everyone who works on this floor has a touch of it. Some of them have had to take days off. I've been plugging in for the absentees so I can get overtime pay. This week I'm taking home ninety bucks.

There's a bar ahead—the same one I stopped in after last payday. I'm walking a little faster to get there so I can get something to loosen up this goddamned flu. "Brandy," I say to the bartender.

"I ain't givin' you nuten, Buster, after the way you acted the last time you was in here."

My eyes open. I'm surprised to see daylight because there is no window in my room. My back is against something soft and very warm. I roll onto my back and turn my head so I can see whom I slept with last night. Faith is lying there in her nightgown and is facing me with a smile. "Good morning, Mountie." This is the first time she has remembered my name.

"I don't remember anything last night. My apologies for being so drunk."

"It's all right, Mountie. It must help you relax after working all week. Doesn't it?"

Now I'm in a sitting position and see that I'm fully dressed except for my jacket, both shoes and one sock. "I'm not going to get drunk again like I did last night," I say and start to get out of Faith's bed.

"You don't have to get up now if you don't want to. It's Sunday."

I'm out of bed and retrieving my other sock from across the room near my jacket crumpled on the floor. My shoes are beside the bed, and I take them to a chair and sit to put them on. I stand and pick up my jacket. "I'll pay my rent," I say and stick my hand in the inside jacket pocket to retrieve my wallet. There is nothing in the pocket. I search all my trouser and shirt pockets, and they're all empty. I look on the floor and even under the bed but don't find it. "Faith, I lost my money. I'll have to wait until I'm paid next week to pay you."

"That's all right, Mountie."

"There's five bucks I have hidden in my room for emergencies. That'll have to keep me going until next Saturday."

A beer is what I need now to drown this horrible hangover. There is nothing to do but stick it out because the five dollars I have tucked away will have to keep me fed until next payday. Maybe a little more sleep will make me feel better.

Something awakens me. It sounds like someone groaning with pain. My room is dark. There is no window in my room, and I don't know whether it is day or night. I switch on the lamp. My Timex says it is nearly ten thirty. I've been in bed since I left Faith's room at nearly noon.

The moaning continues. I go to the door and open it a crack to look out into the hall. The hall is dark. That moaning sound is coming from the direction of Faith's room. I wonder if she is ill.

I put on my bathrobe and bedroom slippers and go into the hallway and stand in front of her bedroom door. She is still moaning. "Faith." I say. "Are you okay?" Her moaning continues. I knock on the door. "Faith, are you okay"

She doesn't answer me. Nor does her moaning cease. So I go back to my room and get back in bed to lie awake listening to Faith's moaning.

Her moaning has finally stopped. I lie here trying to go to sleep but I can't. Maybe I should get up and go out and get a beer before the bars close.

Another week passes and there is pay in my pocket with overtime included because I've covered for flu victims. It has been an exhausting week, but I can't complain because the overtime is enough that I won't miss having to pay Faith last week's rent that I owe.

She groaned and moaned almost every night but never answered me when I stood outside her door asking her what was wrong. Finally I started ignoring her. Then she started giving me a hard time for being delinquent with my rent payment.

This evening I resist stopping at any bars on the way home. I don't want to risk the chance of losing my money again. Faith might evict me, and I don't relish the idea of sleeping on park benches this cold December.

Faith is friendlier to me after I hand eighteen dollars to her for two weeks rent. I go to my room and hide all but a twenty-dollar bill in the laundry hamper. Faith's sewing machine stops as I start to pass her living room, and she calls to me. "Are you going out, Mountie?"

"Just for a bite to eat."

"Are you coming back after you eat?"

"I'm not sure," I answer and hurriedly head downstairs. I'm thinking about her sudden turn to remember my name again. During the past couple of days of her curt mood she has called me everything but my right name.

On the corner of Columbus Avenue, I flank right to head uptown. There's a bar called McGlade's on the corner of Sixty-Seventh. Maybe they'll have something decent to eat.

I've been thinking since I left work today that I'm only going to have a couple of beers tonight and no whiskey. The bartender appears in front of me and asks, "What'll it be?"

I came in prepared to order a beer. "Scotch on the rocks," I answer. The words slip off my tongue almost before I realize what I'm saying. "Make that a double."

It is pitch dark when I awaken with an urge to go into the bathroom and piss. There's something warm and heavy on my chest and also my thighs. Where am I? And what's on me? Should I jump up and thrust off that object, whatever it is? Shit! I don't even know where I am and don't know what I might encounter if I jump up in the dark. It's best to be cautious and try to figure out what's going on before I make any moves.

There's a lot of warmth by my right side and the faint sound of breathing. Someone is in bed with me. That must be an arm, and a heavy one, across my chest. I've now ascertained that I've been sleeping with a lot of flesh. Faith is the only person I know who could have arms and legs as heavy as these. Whose bedroom am I in? It couldn't be Faith's because it has a window and there would be streetlights shining through it.

My left hand slowly starts stretching out until my fingers touch something solid. My hand wanders over the hard surface until I touch a rounded object that is unmistakably one of the knobs on my dresser drawer. There is little doubt now that Faith is in my bed with me.

The heavy object slides off my chest when I get to a sitting position. There is a faint moan beside me. That's Faith's moan, no doubt about it. I reach and switch on the lamp. There she is awake and looking sideways at me. Her leg is still across my thigh. Her nightgown is hiked enough to display far more than enough creased white flesh. "How did this happen?" I ask.

"I was having nightmares and was scared."

I'm undressed down to my underwear and get out of bed to go into the bathroom and piss. Faith is still lying there when I return. "Well," I say, not really knowing what else to say.

"Well, what?"

"I want to get some sleep."

"Do you want me to get up?"

"I can sleep better alone."

She struggles to sit and maneuvers with difficulty to get over the footboard. I'm wondering how she managed to lift her massive weight off the floor and over the footboard and into my bed. She waddles to the door and closes it noisily behind her.

One of the few things I remember at McGlades was talking to a World War One veteran, who said he had an inexpensive room in Dauphine Hotel on Broadway around the corner from the bar. I'm going over there when I get up and see how much they charge for a room.

Chapter 19

Today is Friday and another week finished at my new job selling business forms from a downtown office. It is not the kind of work I like but it pays a hundred bucks a week draw against commission. There is no choice but hang onto it until I find something better. I've been sneaking off from my downtown sales territory to placement agencies specializing in editorial jobs. Free-lance articles I've written for the Marine Corps Gazette, features for Mississippi newspapers, and the short period I worked part-time for a North Carolina newspaper haven't qualified me for anything that has been on offer in this highly competitive field. I'll just have to keep plugging at it until I can find an editorial position low enough on the ladder for me to step into it.

The IRT subway stops at West Sixty-Sixth. I disembark and climb the stairs to the street and stand awhile wondering whether I should go over to McGlade's and have a couple of beers before I go home and change clothes. I'd better not. If I should end up plastered I might lose my briefcase. I can't afford that because it has customer orders in it.

It'll be better to go home and change. Then I can go out and have a meal—maybe at the Des Artiste near the park. What I really need to do is lie down awhile and relax after pounding the pavement all day in my sales territory. A drink will help me relax. There is a liquor store up the street, and I head for it. Maybe I'll just have some drinks at home and not bother to go out. I have a hot plate in my room and some canned food. There's really no need to go back out.

Now I'm in my room at the Dauphine Hotel. It is an enormous room. The walk-in closet, with a sink in it, is as large as the room I had in Mills Hotel or the one at Faith's place. A hot plate is hidden in a box so the maid won't see it and report me to the desk. I take it out of the box and place it on the sink. I fill a saucepan half full of water, submerge a can of ravioli in it, and put the pan on the plugged-in hot plate.

Now I'll have a before-dinner martini. This bag contains all the ingredients that I bought after disembarking from the IRT.

Daylight is flooding the room now that I am awakening. My bedside clock says it is nearly ten forty-five. I'm trying to remember last night. Oh, shit! The hot plate!

I'm still dressed, minus necktie, jacket, and shoes. My bare feet are in water when I get out of bed. All the ice has melted onto the floor. The floor is littered with squeezed lemons. The gin and vermouth bottles are empty.

What I'm looking at in the closet now is no surprise. The saucepan has boiled dry and the tin can exploded. All my clothes are splattered with ravioli and so are the walls and ceiling. I'll need to stand on a chair with a mop to get the stuff off the ceiling. I don't have a mop and need to go out and buy one. What I need most of all is a drink, so I put on my shoes and start to head for the bar downstairs.

No, goddamnit. I'd better get that mop and get the job done, or I might end up not in condition to do so. Shit! I'd better see if I can get a quick dry-cleaning job done on the clothes I need to wear to work Monday.

It takes me a couple of hours to clean up the mess. I go to the community bathroom down the hall to rinse the mop and hide it in the far corner of my closet so the maid won't see it and ask questions.

My hangover is awful. I need a beer in the worst kind of way. First of all I'll check to see if there is any mail. A letter from Jo is waiting for me in my pigeonhole at the reception desk. I take it into the hotel bar where I order a beer and go to a booth. This is the first letter from her since she wrote in December saying she didn't have enough money to come up and spend Christmas with me. I would have sent airfare to her if I'd had enough money.

I empty the beer glass and return to the bar for another one before opening the envelope. She says she has started putting money aside for a plane ticket, so she can come up with her roommate when the spring term finishes. Also she is thinking about trying to get a job here and skip a couple of terms before going back to the campus.

That'll be great. There are so many things for us to see together here. My mind will no doubt be occupied with thoughts of her arrival. I close my eyes to envision the last day I spent with her before I started hitchhiking up here. We sat on the grass by the campus pond with southern Mississippi sunshine glistening on her shoulder-length auburn hair.

An Italian university had accepted my application. It had been my intention to stop long enough in New York to earn ship passage to Europe and to stay in Italy until my remaining GI Bill ran out. Here I sit now with my third beer of today and without intentions of further pursuance in the academic world.

It is important to give up drinking or at least cut down, I think as I head back toward the bar for my fourth beer. I need to save some money so we can go to operas, theater, ballets, and other things we'd like to do together.

Jo arrives with her roommate, Thelma, at term end. I'm now settled in an apartment in an old brownstone house on West Eighty-Eighth Street near Central Park West. They take a brownstone apartment close to Columbus Avenue on West Eighty-Sixth Street. This section has become one of several areas known as San Juan Hill because of the influx of Puerto Ricans who fill tenement houses with several families crammed into small apartments. Pseudo-bohemian types who would live in Greenwich Village if they could afford rental rates inhabit most of the other buildings.

The city begins to swelter as summer progresses. Inhabitants flock on stoops each evening to escape stifling humidity and heat in cramped living quarters. Tempers fizzle in the smudgy and smothery atmosphere. There are knife threats, fistfights, and tirades of abusive words almost every evening. Brownstones are constantly being burgled. Jo and I are preparing dinner in my apartment this evening. There are smashing sounds in the street. We look out the window and see a young man with a baseball bat smashing windshields and headlights of every car he passes. A tenant across the street from my building rushes onto the scene to protest the mutilation of his car and is promptly felled by the baseball bat.

Several other people and I converge toward the scene while Jo is on the phone calling the police and an ambulance. The attacker stands menacingly defiant for a moment before turning to flee toward the park. Everyone goes in pursuit while I remain to see if I can give aid to the injured man. He is in agony. A huge bruise near his neck suggests to me that his collarbone is broken. All I can do is assure him that an ambulance is coming.

Thelma has a boyfriend from the downtown insurance office where she is a secretary. Jo tried to get an editorial job but hasn't had any more luck than I did and had to take a secretarial job in a midtown travel agency.

I'm off the booze most of my time now. Jo and I are spending much of our off-work time together. Today is Saturday, and we're strolling hand-in-hand through Chinatown.

"I know a little place around the corner where we can have an authentic Mandarin lunch," I say. "No one in there speaks English. But I still remember enough Mandarin to get by. It's a little seedy. If you don't mind that."

"I'm game."

Steps lead down from the sidewalk into the little restaurant below street level. We're the only non-Chinese people in here. We seat ourselves at a table in the rear. "Would you like to try Peking duck?"

"Whatever you want. I've never had Chinese food before."

The waiter appears. We greet each other in Mandarin and I say, "Zher you Peking kaoya ma?"

He says they don't have any duck prepared. And I translate to Jo.

"I'll try whatever you order," she says.

"Zher you baozi?"

He answers that they have steamed buns stuffed with meat.

"Women yao baozi," I say, and when the waiter withdraws, I say to Jo, "I've ordered a surprise that you won't find in most Chinese restaurants."

The waiter brings an earthenware casserole. And I lift the lid. "Those look like ravioli," Jo says.

"The envelopes are made from dough and filled with meat or vegetables and steamed."

"Is the dough made from rice flour?"

"They don't eat much rice in the Mandarin part of China. It is wheat country. I remember the people who walked the streets selling corkscrew-shaped bread sticks. They would pass the wall by my barracks in Tientsin calling, 'mianbao, mianbao, mianbao.' Do you want me to ask him to bring normal eating utensils or do you want to try chopsticks?"

"Show me how to use chopsticks."

She manages the chopsticks much better than I did my first try. We finish eating and linger sipping green tea. "How do I say in Chinese that I really liked the food?" she asks. "So I can tell the waiter."

"Zhen haochi."

Another winter is here. I'm no longer selling business forms but am now a representative for the company that contracts sales of advertising space for the telephone company's Yellow Pages. This job doesn't suit me any more than the last one. Right now I'm working out of the Queens office. I was moved here from the Bronx office and had sales territories in Harlem and the Bronx. I'll stay here until the directory is ready for printing. Then I'll be moved to another borough.

Some of the salesmen are the most ruthless people I've ever met. One guy returned to the office boasting that he not only sold a bold-type listing to a Harlem barbershop under the barbers listing but also sold them one under phonograph records. He convinced the head barber that he should have a dual listing because he had a jukebox in his barbershop.

That's something I could never do. There are certain prospects I don't bother trying to call upon. No one looks in the phone directory for a barber when going for a haircut or a laundermat to wash clothes in a coin-operated machine. Some of the salesmen make good commissions selling to small business who don't need to advertise.

My success is selling large display ads for businesses that can benefit from them. I'm earning more commission than I did selling business forms. Last week I was number four in the week's top-ten salesmen.

Today is Saturday, and I'm feeling lost with Jo being away this weekend. Someone where Thelma works has invited them to spend the weekend on Long Island. I'm wondering what kind of occupation I can pursue to quell my loneliness until they return. Maybe I'll walk in the park until I can decide what to do.

My coat is buttoned to the top to keep out the damp chill as I walk into the park and flank in an uptown direction. I'm thinking while I walk that I could go to a museum. But that wouldn't be as much fun without Jo's company.

We've been spending weekends going to museums in the daytime and sampling food from ethnic restaurants in Greenwich Village and other parts of town in evenings. Sometimes we finish the evening in Figaro's expresso coffee shop trying different kinds of coffee and listening to beat-generation poetry. Figaro is around the corner from Mills Hotel. I once took Jo into the lobby so she could get a look at the pathetic wino scene in the place where I've spent two uncomfortable nights.

Now I'm emerging at Central Park North and flanking left. At West End Avenue I stop and wonder which way to turn. If I go right I'll be going toward the Morningside area that had become familiar to me when I was with Gloria about thirteen years ago. It seems like such a long time.

A nostalgic ramble around Morningside doesn't appeal to me. So I go left and walk rapidly with a stiff cold breeze at my back. It is lunchtime, though I don't really feel hungry. I'll stop, anyway, and get a bite when I see a hamburger joint or whatever.

There's a bar over there to the right. Food is served in bars. I'm jaywalking across the street and entering the bar. Maybe I'll have a beer and then think about what to eat. "Rheingold draft," I say to the bartender.

I'm feeling good after three beers as I leave the bar and continue on downtown. Maybe I'll just go back home and fix something to eat...or maybe I'll go around the corner from my apartment to a little Puerto Rican place and get some black beans and rice, since I didn't get around to eating while I was in the bar.

Another bar comes into view ahead and to my left. It might not be a bad idea to have a bite there. I jaywalk across when I come adjacent to the bar and go inside. I'm not sure what I want to eat. I'll have a beer and decide.

This place was empty when I came in here four beers ago. Now a few people drift in. A blond woman sits on the stool to my right. We start talking, and she tells me that she is celebrating her new divorce.

The place is starting to fill up, and I decide to move on while the woman is back in the ladies room. My head is buzzing as I walk out and carry on downtownward.

I've forgotten about eating by the time I enter another bar. There aren't many people sitting at the bar, and I take an end stool.

My vision has become blurred. I squint to focus on a blond-haired woman approaching my end of the bar. She is the woman who was in the last bar.

"I wondered where you went," she says as she gets onto the stool next to mine.

"I'd thought about looking for a place to eat."

"I've been thinking about going over to Germantown. Have you ever been over there?"

"I was over there once before my girlfriend came here, but I was too drunk to remember much about it."

"I like their oom-pah-pah music. Do you like it?"

"Like what?"

"German music."

"A little bit of it. I like German food and their beer better. Have you had lunch?"

"I had lunch. It's supper time now."

"What do you say to us going over and having a bratwurst or something?"

"Let's go. We can walk straight across the park."

The sound of my apartment door being opened awakens me. It has to be Jo. She is the only other person except the resident manager who has a key. "Arnold," she calls.

I rise to a sitting position and am about to answer when I see that I'm not alone in bed. There is a blond head on the pillow beside mine. I'm out of bed now and quickly putting on my bathrobe so I can go into the living room and intercept Jo before she comes in here.

Jo is standing looking at two heaps of clothes on the floor. One pile is mine. The other belongs to the woman in my bed, whose name has slipped my mind. Jo is now facing me with a haughty expression on her face. "Jo." I say. "I have some explaining to do."

She doesn't answer but drops the keys on the table and turns to head for the door.

"Wait, Jo!" I say as she is opening the door. "Wait just a minute."

She is through the door and closing it behind her.

I'm about ready to open the door and call after her. Her footsteps sound on the wooden stairs, and I know that any attempt to pursue her will be futile. Shit, shit, shit! What a mess I'm in.

Now I'm turning and going slowly back in the direction of the bedroom, and I'm trying to recall last night. She is sitting and displaying her breasts. "Who were you talking to?" she asks.

"My girlfriend. She saw our clothes on the floor."

"So I suppose you're angry with me?"

"I think I'm more angry with myself."

"Did we do anything last night? I mean after we came here?"

"I don't remember."

"Come back to bed, and let's make up for what we can't remember."

Jo has spurned all my phone calls since that incident and turns her head when she sees me. Today I'm going into a little Puerto Rican place around the corner to have a cup of coffee. There sits Jo in a booth reading the New York Times.

I get my cup of coffee and head toward her booth. She doesn't look up from her paper until I sit beside her. Now I'm going to have a talk with her. The only way she can escape is to climb over the table or scoot under it. "Jo, I owe you an explanation."

"You don't owe me anything. You're free to do whatever you desire."

"Jo, I know what you saw was a shock to you."

"So there's no more to be said about it."

"There is more for me to say. Both of us were drunk and can't remember. We were too drunk for anything to have happened while we were in bed. She wanted me to get back in bed with her after you left, but I told her to get up and put her clothes on."

She doesn't make any comment.

"There's one more thing I want to say. Jo, I haven't wanted anyone else since I met you. I got drunk because I was lonely after you went away for the weekend. Everything else just happened, whatever did happen. Can't you believe anything I've said?"

She doesn't answer. I arise and leave my untasted coffee on the table.

Never have I felt so much at loose ends since Jo and I have broken contact. She refuses to speak with me when I phone her apartment. My drinking is escalating. I go home each evening with four quarts of Rheingold each evening and awake with a hangover to go to my new job as a technical writer with an electrical manufacturer near Grand Central Station.

My weekends are spent prowling West Side bars until they close. I'm feeling desperate for female company. I've gone back up West End Avenue with hopes of finding that blond woman again. Sometimes I go over to German Town but haven't seen her since the first time we met. I go home after bars close and sit in my apartment drinking myself unconscious. It is an awful chore on Monday mornings to drag myself with a wretched hangover to my desk where I write and edit technical manuals.

Today is Friday. I'm entering a little Puerto Rican grocery store to pick up a case of beer. There is Jo browsing through the shelves. "Jo," I say from where I stand behind her.

"Oh, hello," she says nonchalantly without even turning her head.

"I have a new job," I say and tell her where I am working.

"I also have a new job as an editorial assistant for a trade magazine. I start Monday."

"That's good. It sounds like something more promising than the kind of editorial work I'm involved with. Would you like to go out and celebrate tonight with me?"

"I'd planned to go to a Fellini film. The Road is playing at that little art cinema on Seventy-Second."

"I've never seen that one. The only one of his films I've seen is The Loafers. I'd like to go with you."

"Okay."

"Great! We can go out to dinner afterwards and celebrate your new job."

My life has taken a brighter turn since Jo and I have rekindled our relationship. We're back to spending evenings together in my apartment and exploring the city on weekends. The only time I drink now is when we have a before-dinner drink or wine with meals in the little Greenwich Village restaurants.

My work is more bearable without hangovers, but I'm still not happy with it. I'm still going for job interviews when I can manage to sneak away from work. There has always been someone with more editorial experience than I have to snap up the jobs I'm interviewed for.

Jo's new job has been a disappointment to her. The position she has as editorial assistant is nothing but a glorified title for the secretary to the editor of the trade magazine.

Someone told me about a little Spanish restaurant in Greenwich Village. Jo and I are crossing Bleecker Street on West Eleventh. The White Horse Tavern on the corner of Hudson Street seems to be full of dedicated patrons as usual. About a dozen people are standing outside waiting for someone to vacate the premises and make room for another person. Jo laughs, "I wonder if Dylan Thomas had to wait his turn when he hung out there."

We're in a warehouse area. It is a bit spooky because the street isn't adequately lighted. It would be all too easy to pass the obscure El Faro down on this part of Greenwich Street.

This is the first time Jo and I have been to El Faro. Only two tables are occupied in the tiny dining room. I escort Jo to a far-corner table and the waitress soon appears. "Would you like a before-dinner drink?" the waitress asks.

Jo says she'll have vermouth on the rocks. I'm debating with myself whether I should have a scotch but decide that I shouldn't risk it and order a club soda. The waitress withdraws and soon returns with our drinks. I ask her to bring the menu.

The waitress brings the menu and I pass it to Jo. Jo had a trip from Paris to Spain during the year she was a Sorbonne exchange student. I ask her to recommend something. "Want to try the paella?" she asks.

"Suits me."

The waitress comes when I signal her, and I tell her that we'll have the paella. "Would you like a bottle of white wine?" the waitress asks.

"How about you, Jo?" I ask.

"If you do."

"A small bottle," I say to the waitress.

The waitress leaves and Jo says, "This is a quaint little place. I'm glad that you brought me here."

"Do you want to go back to Spain some day?"

"I'm not sure that I do. There are some things creepy about it, like the men who follow women around and make kissing sounds. It happened wherever we went. Paris is where I want to live."

"Maybe we can go there together some day."

"Maybe. I must go back to Mississippi some day and finish my degree before I can make any more plans. Are you going to stay in New York?"

I reach across the table and take her hand. "I don't know. One thing I do know is that I'll miss you after you leave. Will you come back up to see me?"

"Perhaps during Christmas holidays and during the summer break."

"Whether I stick it out here depends, I suppose, upon my luck in finding work more interesting than what I'm doing now."

My portion of the small bottle of Spanish white wine has given me a glow by the time we are finished with our meal. There is still a mob outside the White Horse Tavern as we return. I have a strong urge to suggest that we wait our turn and go in for a couple of ales, but I'm so glad to be back in Jo's good graces and don't want to risk getting drunk and making another mess. We cross onto Bleecker and I say, "Let's go and sample some of Figaro's coffee."

Jo and I are getting along fine now. I don't dare drink for fear of causing another breakup. Today is Friday. I see Jo walking ahead of me as I emerge from the Eighty-Sixth Street subway exit. "Jo!" I call.

She stops and waits for me. I say, "How about us going to my place and making a lasagna? I have all the ingredients."

"I won't say no to your lasagna."

We're in the kitchen getting the lasagna ready for the oven. "I'm unemployed, as of today," she says.

"It was hardly a suitable job for someone with your qualifications."

"It wasn't just that. The boss started touching me every time he got close and has been badgering me to go out with him. Two nights ago he rang my doorbell after eleven. I've had enough of him."

"So what are you going to do now?"

"Look for something else. I can't get unemployment money while I'm out of work because I wasn't dismissed. I don't qualify because I quit the job."

"Is that guy married?"

"Yes."

"I'll call him Monday and say that if he doesn't agree to say to the unemployment people that you were dismissed, I'll let his wife know what he's up to."

Jo hasn't had time to start getting unemployment checks before she finds another job. It is an editorial assistant position with another trade publication. "Another glorified title for the managing editor's secretary," she says. "A woman's chances of finding something decent here are pretty slim. I don't have my degree yet, but I could do a better job than some of the men on the editorial staff of that last job I had."

"Keep sending your resume to employment agencies, and maybe you'll have some luck."

"I'm not going to bother any more. I'm going back to college when the fall term starts."

I'm now a reporter for a news wire service. My pay is only sixty-three dollars a week and less than what I got as a technical writer, but my new work is a lot more interesting than any jobs I've had since arriving in New York.

Life outside my job has been drab since Jo returned to Mississippi. Weekends are lonely. I've spent weekends doing some of the things we did together. Now I'm getting bored.

Here I am in my apartment at the end of a week's work and am wondering what to do with myself this weekend. The refrigerator and cupboard are almost empty. I'd better go out and buy food so I can keep myself fed over the weekend.

I'm heading in the direction of the little Puerto Rican bodega around the corner. By the time I get to Columbus Avenue, I've decided to first have a beer or two before shopping and am flanking uptown. There's a bar ahead, and my pace is quickening.

"Rheingold draft," I say to the bartender. He brings the draft, and I sit sucking off the foam while surveying the other end of the bar where three customers are talking with each other. That brunette woman isn't bad looking, but she is obviously with that guy sitting to her left.

My mind has been occupied most of the time with thoughts of Jo since she returned to Mississippi. Now there's a vision in my mind of that blond woman whom Jo caught me in bed with. She wasn't bad looking. Right now I'm thinking that what I need is female company.

My pilsner glass is emptied in a couple of gulps, and I'm outside heading for West End Avenue. I'll stop in all the bars up the avenue and maybe I'll find her in one of them.

Kids are shouting in loud Spanish while bouncing a ball off a brownstone after I cross Broadway. I keep going to the end of the block and turn right on West End Avenue.

There are no customers in the first bar I come to. I'm about ready to turn around and go to another bar. Aw, hell. I'll have one draft here before moving on.

I'm on the verge of staggering by the time I get to Cathedral Parkway and wondering where to go next. I could continue up into the Morningside area. Or I could go back in a downtown direction toward home and check out the bars on Columbus, Amsterdam, or Broadway. Or I could walk along Cathedral Parkway to Central Park North and go down to German Town around East Eighty Sixth. Maybe that blond is hanging out over there tonight. I might as well go over and see if she is.

My head is turned in the direction of my bedside alarm clock when I awaken. It is a quarter past two. It can't be early morning because daylight is filling the room.

I'm trying to recall last night and remember talking with a blond woman—not the blond I had gone to German Town looking for but another one. Maybe I brought her home with me. I rotate my body slowly to discover that there is no one in bed with me.

There's an awful taste in my parched mouth. I feel sweaty and dirty. My brain is fuzzy, and my stomach feels fluttery. Maybe a bite of food will calm it a bit.

My feet are on the floor, and there in front of me are my trousers and shirt. My underwear and socks are nearer the bed, and my shoes are across the room.

Dizziness almost whirls me off balance when I stand. I stand a moment to let my head clear. I start to bend over and pick up my shirt and trousers, but I become so dizzy that I have to erect myself and let my head clear.

My shirt is dirty all over, and the left sleeve is almost torn off. Dirt streaks are on my trousers. Did I get into a fight last night? I don't remember much since I approached that blond woman sitting at the bar.

A cold shower will probably get rid of this sweaty feeling and make me feel better. I go into the bathroom with dread of finding a bruised face when I look in the mirror. Thank goodness there aren't any bruises or cuts but I don't look too good with puffy eyelids.

The cold shower gets rid of some of the sweatiness. It is my stomach that needs treatment now. I'm now in clean underwear and looking in the refrigerator for something to fill my stomach. There's not much food in there because I didn't get around to any shopping during the week. There's a partial packet of bacon and two eggs but the thought of anything fried makes me want to vomit.

Here's a quart of Rheingold. That'll drown the butterflies in my stomach and maybe cool my parched mouth. Now I'm walking toward an upholstered chair slugging from the bottle. It sure does taste good, and I'm already starting to feel better.

My head buzzes from intoxication after a few gulps of beer. It isn't long until I've drained the bottle. Now my head whirls. The parched sensation is gone from my mouth, and there are no more twitches in my stomach. There's nothing like a quart of beer to flush away the effects of a hard night.

It's a good thing that I don't have any more beer in the apartment, or I'd be tempted to give myself another hangover tomorrow while drowning the one I got last night. I'll just stay in today and eat the bacon and eggs a little later. Maybe tomorrow I'll go out to Staten Island and let the fresh air on the ferry clear my head.

There's the New York Times that I brought home yesterday. I reach for it, but my eyes aren't focusing so I drop the newspaper on the floor by my chair. I'm feeling too drowsy to read even if I could focus on the print.

It is dark, except for a swath of illumination coming through the window from a street lamp, when I awaken with a crick in my neck. What time is it? My watch isn't on my wrist. Where is it? Oh, yes, I remember taking it off in the bathroom before getting into the shower.

The time is twenty-two past nine after I fumble for the light switch and stumble into the bathroom to retrieve my Timex from on top of the washbasin. A shitty taste in my mouth again, and butterflies have returned to my stomach. There hasn't been any food in my stomach since yesterday's lunch, not unless I ate something while blacked out last night.

Thoughts of food bring a feeling of nausea. The only sensible thing to do is go out and have a couple of beers before looking for a place to eat.

There are only three customers in the bar on Columbus Avenue. The bartender is serving one of them, and I'm thinking that I need more jolt than a beer could provide to get me perking again. "Dry martini," I say to the barman when he appears in front of me.

My taste buds have never become accustomed to martinis. This one is as revolting as any other I've had, but it'll give me a quicker buzz than beer and kill my hangover. I'll have a couple of beers after this one and think about what I want to eat.

The gin and dash of vermouth have gone down without too much effort and I'm feeling a lot better. I'd thought about switching to beer but another one of these should put me into fine shape. I nod toward my empty glass when the bartender looks toward me.

An inkling of dawn seeps through a window as I awaken with an urge to piss. This isn't my apartment. Where am I? There is a coffee table close by and across from it are two upholstered chairs. I'm on someone's sofa—but whose?

My first priority is to find the bathroom. Then I can untangle the mysteries of my locality. I'm fully dressed except for my shoes. I'll be quiet looking for the bathroom and try not to awaken whoever else is in here.

My head turns to the right as I put my feet on the floor. There is another sofa at right angle to mine with a blond-haired woman sleeping under a sheet. I sit looking at her and am trying to figure out if I've seen her before.

Now I'm in a dizzy standing position and deciding that the woman is someone I must have met after blacking out. This must be her studio apartment with no proper bed but only sofas too narrow for two people to sleep on.

There is an open-plan kitchen joining this room. There are two closed doors to the left of the kitchen. My guess is that one of them is a bathroom door and the other belongs to a clothes closet.

I'm moving quietly toward the door nearest the kitchen and open it slowly. There is enough dawn coming through a window to disclose a bed with two people asleep on it. The woman has her arm loosely draped over the man beside her. Oops. Wrong room. I close the door quietly and head toward the other door with high hopes that there is a bathroom behind it because I'm in desperate need to piss.

I piss as quietly as I can and don't flush because I don't want to awaken anyone. Not yet, anyway. Not until I figure out what to do.

The woman on the sofa hasn't changed position. I go back to my sofa and sit. My stomach feels like it has been eaten by lye. The taste in my mouth defies any description. I desperately need a beer.

Maybe there's beer in the refrigerator. I'm going quietly to it and easing the door open as quietly as possible. There are several bottles of Miller's High Life on a shelf—not my favorite but now is not the time to be choosy.

Where do they keep the church key? There isn't a bottle opener of any kind in sight. Not even in the silverware and cutlery drawers or in any of the cabinets. I'm looking everywhere in the kitchen. What do these people use for bottle openers?

There're other ways to open a beer bottle. I'm desperate enough to do it with my teeth. Ah, that cabinet top. I hook the beer cap on the edge of the cabinet top and hit the beer cap with the heel of my hand. The cap flies off. Beer spews from the bottle. I quickly cap my mouth over the bottleneck to stop foam from billowing onto the floor.

This cool foam is refreshing my parched mouth as I tilt the bottle and take a good gulp of the fizzy liquid. Miller's never tasted so good.

As I turn to head back to my sofa I see the woman on the other sofa sitting up and her head turned in my direction. "Hello," I say as I detour around her sofa.

"How do you feel?"

"Rotten," I say and take another gulp before sitting on my sofa and placing the bottle on the coffee table.

The woman stands. She is in pajamas. She moves toward the table, snatches my bottle, and heads toward the kitchen.

"Hey!" I say. "Where are you going with my beer?"

The bottle makes gurgling sounds while contents are poured into the sink.

She returns to her sofa and crosses her legs to sit looking at me without saying anything.

"Why did you do that?"

"You don't need any beer."

"Where did I meet you last night?"

"You were in no condition to meet anyone last night. I've never seen anyone like you were."

"We must have met somewhere...or did I just walk in here and go to sleep on the sofa?"

"Don't you remember anything?"

"Okay. So I was a bit smashed."

"You were more than a bit drunk. You were completely out of it. We found you sitting on the stoop outside."

"You say we."

"Helena, Ralph, and I. This is their apartment. I live in Forest Hills, and I'm just staying here this weekend. I'm Lili. What is your name?"

"Mountie."

"Where do you live?"

I tell her my address and say, "I'd like to have another beer to get me back on my feet."

"You don't need any." She arises. "I'll make a pot of coffee. It'll be better for you." She goes toward the kitchen.

I'm inclined to follow her and plead for a beer but stay where I am and try to figure out what to do next. I'd get up and go out but it isn't time for the bars to open yet so I can get something to drown this hangover. What day is this, anyway? Shit. It's Sunday. Bars will open later today. Shit. I should have stocked beer in my apartment so I can have something for emergencies like this.

The sound of a tray being placed on the table jolts me out of my doze. Lili is pouring coffee into two cups. She has changed from her pajamas and is wearing a skirt and blouse. "Cream and sugar?" she asks.

"Just black."

She butters a slice of toast and extends it toward me.

"No, thanks. Not right now?"

"When was the last time you ate?"

I'm trying to remember. The last meal I remember was lunch on Friday. Maybe I had something over in German Town Friday night or maybe I ate something in one of the bars I was in last night. "Last night, I guess."

"You guess? You don't remember for sure?"

"Okay. So I was out of it last night. I'm not the first person to get..."

"Why do you get that way?"

I'm reaching for my shoes.

"Why did you get like you were last night?

My shoes are on and I'm standing. "I think I'll go home."

"You haven't touched your coffee."

"I don't want any."

"Eat some toast."

"I can't get it down. Not until after I've had a beer."

"Why do you need a beer?"

"To calm my stomach so I can get food down."

"You're just saying that so I'll give you a beer."

"Goddamnit! I'll go somewhere else and get a beer." I start to take a step, and she quickly arises to place her hand against my chest.

"You can have just one beer." She goes toward the kitchen. I sit. She returns with an opened Miller's and a glass and places them in front of me. "We hid the openers last night so you wouldn't get up and drink more. How did you open the bottle this morning?"

"There's more'n one way to milk a mouse."

"You don't talk like a New Yorker. Where are you from?"

I'm taking a good gulp from my glass. "Don't New Yorkers milk mice?"

There is a faint cynical smile on her face. "Do you have a job?"

"Yes."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a mouse milker."

"You're being silly."

"What's silly about being a mouse milker?" I have to earn a living and someone has to milk 'em." I've almost finished the bottle of beer and am feeling much better.

"How do you milk a mouse?"

"Give me your hand and I'll show you." She doesn't make a move and I arise and stand in front of her. "Give me your hand."

She reluctantly extends her left hand. I take it and bend her little finger closed and put pressure on it with my thumb. "Awoh! You hurt me."

I drop her hand and return to my sofa and sit to pour the remainder of the beer in my glass and finish it with one gulp.

"Eat some toast."

"I'll make a deal with you. If you'll give me another beer I'll eat all the toast on that plate."

"And you'll be drunk all over again."

"Not on two beers. I could drink all that beer in the refrigerator and not get drunk."

"How much did you drink last night?"

"I didn't keep score. Now are you going to give me a beer to flush down this toast with?"

She picks up the empty bottle and goes to the kitchen and returns with another opened bottle of beer to place it in front of me. "Now eat your toast before it gets colder." She picks up a buttered slice and hands it to me.

I take the slice and eat it and don't stop eating until the plate is empty. The beer bottle is half emptied. I'm feeling much better now and am sitting here looking at Lili, who isn't bad looking.

"Ralph says he's seen you going to the subway sometimes in the morning," she says. "He said you were dressed like a decent person, like someone who has a respectable job. He thought you would be safe enough to bring inside. Why did you get like you were last night?"

"Because I just felt like it."

"Have you ever been like that before?"

"Like what?"

"Like you were last night."

"I'm not sure how I was last night."

"You were almost too drunk to stand, and you were slurring so much that no one could understand what you said. We asked you where you lived, and you just mumbled something we couldn't understand. Then we brought you inside."

"I'm going home," I say and stand.

"You won't drink more, will you?"

"I haven't made up my mind what I'm going to do." I'm moving toward the door, and she is following me.

"Are you going to be all right?"

"I'll be okay."

She follows me to the door, and as I'm making my exit, she says, "Don't drink any more—if you could only see what you looked like last night."

I step through the door and close it behind me. I hear the door open as I start down the steps but don't look back.

Here I am now entering my apartment with the Sunday Times tucked under my arm and heading toward a chair. My head is fuzzy, and it is difficult for me to concentrate on the newspaper. Those two beers I had weren't enough pick me up. A little more sleep might help. I put the Times on the floor and go to the sofa and lie down.

A knock on the door awakens me. There is still a shitty taste in my mouth and my stomach still has the twitches as I slip my feet into my shoes. The knock on the door is repeated louder this time.

Lili is standing in the hallway. I motion for her to enter and she steps inside. "How did you know where I live?" I say.

"I asked you where you lived and you told me."

"I don't remember. How did you get through the vestibule door without a key?"

"Someone was coming in and unlocked it. So here I am. How do you feel now?"

"Rotten." I look at my watch and it is almost four. "I need to go out and have a couple of beers to set me straight."

"You don't need any more beer. A walk in the park will be good for you."

"We can go around to Columbus and have some suds. Then we can go to the park," I say and motion toward the door.

We're on the sidewalk, and I start to turn in the direction of Columbus Avenue. She grasps my arm and starts tugging in the direction of Central Park. "Let's walk in the park," she insists.

I'm yielding to her, so she thinks, and we're heading toward the park. We jaywalk across Central Park West and we're well into the park; I turn in a downtown direction with my course plotted for the Tavern on the Green adjacent to Sixty-Seventh Street.

"Where're you going?" she asks as the tavern appears and I'm making a straight line toward it.

"We're going to lunch."

"I've had my lunch."

"I haven't. You can sit and watch me eat."

"Do you know what time it is?"

"Yeah. It's after four."

"Promise me you won't drink."

I don't answer but head toward an outdoor table. She takes a seat opposite me. A waiter appears, and I say, "A Rheingold for me. I look at Lili and ask, "What're you having?"

"You said you were going to lunch."

"I am having lunch after I've drowned a few butterflies." I turn to the waiter and say, "She hasn't made up her mind yet. Bring me a Rheingold while she is deciding."

Lili says, "I'll have a Coke."

The waiter departs, and I take a package of Chesterfields from my pocket and extend the pack toward her. "I don't smoke," she says. I light a cigarette with my Zippo. "Don't you ever eat anything?" she asks.

"You saw me eat a whole plate of buttered toast this morning."

The waiter returns to place a bottle of Coca-Cola in front of her and a bottle of Rheingold on my side of the table. I pour my glass full of beer and take a long pull from it while she sits watching me. She picks up her bottle and pours her glass full. "Promise me that you'll eat something and won't drink any more after that one."

I don't answer but finish my beer in a few gulps and raise my hand to attract the waiter. He appears and I say, "Another Rheingold."

"And a cheeseburger," Lili says.

The waiter nods, takes my empty beer bottle and departs and soon returns with my beer. "Lady, your burger will be ready in a few minutes," he says and leaves our table.

"I thought you'd had lunch," I say.

"I have. What kind of work do you do?"

"I told you. I'm in the dairy business. I milk mice."

A faint smile comes to her face. "What else do you do besides milk mice and drink beer?"

"I bottle the milk and make my rounds through town selling it."

"What did you do before you came to New York?"

"I lived on a farm. We had ten-thousand head of mice."

"Don't you ever talk any sense?"

"Depends on who I'm talking with."

"Ralph said you looked like you had a respectable job."

"Of course I have a respectable job. There's nothing degrading about being a milkman."

"Are you really a milkman?"

"Yep."

"I don't believe you. Milkmen don't wear suits to work."

"Respectable milkmen do. The ones who don't are the ones who sell dirty milk."

"You're something else."

"Sometimes...Sometimes I work as a newsman."

"Which newspaper?"

The waiter has appeared with the cheeseburger and places it in front of Lili before I can answer. "It's for him," she says. The waiter picks up the plate and puts it in front of me.

"Another Rheingold," I say.

"No more beer," she tells the waiter.

"Another Rheingold," I repeat my order.

The waiter nods and departs.

"Eat your cheeseburger."

I look at it and think that I've drowned a sufficient amount of insects in my stomach to get some food down, and I pick up the bun and bite into it. It tastes better than I thought it would. Lili sits watching me while I continue to chomp at it.

The waiter brings my beer and departs. "Lili says, "No more beer after this one."

"Who're you to tell me what to do?"

"Do you know what you're doing to yourself?"

"Yeah."

"I don't think you really know..."

"One thing I know is that I'm going to get mighty pissed off if you keep harping at me."

"You're going to get like you were last night if you keep drinking."

"So what?"

"Why do you want to get like that?"

"I've had enough." The waiter is serving a table next to ours, and I ask him to bring the check. He nods and leaves and soon returns with the bill. I pay, leave a tip, and stand.

"Where're you going?" Lili asks.

"None of your business."

She arises and follows me away from the premises. "Where are you going now?"

"None of your business," I answer and quicken my pace. She runs after me and grabs my arm. I push her backwards, and she falls to the ground. Shit. I shouldn't have pushed her so hard. Maybe I've hurt her.

She is back on her feet and doesn't seem to be damaged. I run as fast as I can and don't stop running until I get to McGlade's on West Sixty-Seventh.

Another Friday and I'm emerging from the IRT station and turning onto my street. Lili is sitting on the stoop of my apartment building. She smiles and says, "Hello."

"Hello," I return her greeting and keep my face as somber looking as I can.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"Listen. If I let you in you'll start getting bossy with me again. I'm in no mood for any more of that."

"All right. I won't say anything to upset you."

So I move aside and motion for her to precede me. We enter my apartment, and she stands in the middle of the living room looking around. "Have a seat," I say and gesture toward the sofa.

"It could do with a little straightening up and maybe some rearranging of..."

"Now don't you get any ideas about coming in here and moving things around."

"Don't you have anything pleasant to say?"

"What kind of pleasantries do you want me to dispense with?"

"You could start off by apologizing for pushing me over in the park."

"Okay. So I'm sorry.

She steps toward me and lays her hand on my arm. "Mountie, I was just concerned that... I suppose you went to a bar after you ran out of that place?"

"So what if I did? Okay. I'm sincerely sorry. Now let's not have any more arguments."

She smiles faintly. "You look good in a suit."

"You don't look so bad, yourself, even without my suit on."

"Did you chase down any interesting stories today?"

"Not today. I spent the day with earphones on at a rewrite desk in front of an Underwood. The drama critic gave me two tickets for an off-Broadway play. It's Arthur Miller's The Crucible. Do you want to see it with me?"

"I'd like to. I've never seen it."

"I'll rustle up something quick for us to eat."

Chapter 20

Lili and I are now living together in a two-bedroom apartment out in Queens County. We haven't stopped being disagreeable with each other since the first time we met. We ride together on the Flushing Line into Manhattan. I get off at Grand Central Station and go to my work in the Daily News Building on Forty Second around the corner of Third Avenue. Lili changes to an uptown train and continues on to her work. She leaves work an hour earlier than I and goes home to prepare dinner.

I work every second weekend in the newsroom and get one day off during the week to compensate for it. Today is Friday and the end of my workweek. I'm emerging from the building walking in the direction of Third Avenue.

Lili and I got into an intense dispute last night. It resumed when we got out of bed this morning and continued until we went our separate directions to work this morning.

Now I'm standing at the Third Avenue curb waiting for the light to turn green. I'm thinking about how much I dread going home and getting involved in another session of bitter jaw-whacking. The light changes, but I edge my way out of the pedestrian traffic. There's an automat cafeteria here on the corner, and I go inside to contemplate my dilemma.

I poke a dime into the coin slot and draw a cup of coffee and take it to the only vacant table where I sit sipping the black brew and trying to figure out what to do.

The cup of joe is finished. The only thing I've decided is that I don't want to go home this weekend, but what'll I do to keep myself occupied this weekend is the puzzling question that must be resolved. I get up and extract a chicken-pot pie from the coin-operated server and draw another cup of jamoke.

My supper is finished. I'm standing at the Third Avenue crossing again wondering which direction to turn. I'm feeling lost in this city that has become more familiar to me than any other place I've been.

The light is changing to green, and I'm crossing the avenue. I trudge westward on Forty Second, feeling awfully homeless.

The light is green here at the Fifth Avenue crossing, but I linger trying to decide whether to continue westward. The light is now red, and I'm still standing here. I'm not really in the mood to go over to the Times Square area. I flank left to head down Fifth as the light turns green again.

Temptation looms at each bar I pass to go inside and get shit-faced drunk to drown my loneliness. It has been a few months since I've had a drink, and I don't want to get into the boozing routine again.

Here I am sitting on a bench in Washington Square, still wondering what I can do to pass away the weekend. One thing I must decide is where to find an inexpensive place to sleep this weekend. The only cheap hotel I know down in this area is the Mills Hotel, but I'd rather take the chance of getting mugged while sleeping on this bench than going back to that filthy place where I stayed my first night in New York at age sixteen and again when returning to Manhattan after college.

A guy I worked with before he started writing broadcast copy lives over on the East Side and knows the downtown area. Maybe he knows a decent place that doesn't cost too much.

There's an odor of piss in the phone booth where I'm making a call. Bongo drums are in the background when the receiver is lifted on the other end. "Yippity dippity," a voice sounds.

"Mark. Mountie here."

"Hey, man. Whatcha doing?"

"I'm staying in Manhattan this weekend, and I wondered if you know of a place to stay that isn't too expensive."

Mark laughs. "So you're in the dog house, huh?"

"Not exactly. I'm on the lam."

"You don't have to spend bread in a hotel, man. You can crash in our pad."

"Thanks, Mark. I'm in Washington Square, and I'll be right over."

The hallway on Mark's floor reeks with an odor like burning tree leaves. I go in the direction of the bongo sound and knock on the door. There is a hissing sound on the other side of the door. "Who is it?"

"Mountie."

The door opens the length of the night-latch chain that Mark is fumbling to unfasten. He is holding a spray can of air freshener when I step inside. "Hey, man. Good to see you. What've you been up to?"

"Same old stuff. Still working at the same place and fighting the same wife."

"Crazy, man."

Mark and I join a circle of three people sitting cross-legged on floor cushions. Mark places a bongo drum between his knees. I say to Mark's live-in girlfriend, "Hello Greta."

"Hi Mountie."

I turn my head to the left and say to the guy with long hair and a full black beard who is nonchalantly slapping a bongo drum, "My name is Mountie."

"Far out, man."

I turn toward the woman on my right who has a long ponytail braid, "I'm Mountie."

She nods and passes a slim hand-rolled cigarette. I take a drag and cough out a cloud of smoke that tastes something like the rabbit tobacco I tried to smoke when I was a kid on the farm. Everyone laughs.

The little cigarette comes back to me a second time, and I'm determined to inhale the smoke this time. I'm feeling relaxed by the time I take a third puff. Everything is starting to look different in the room. Bongo drums have never sounded so good.

A clatter in the kitchen awakens me this morning. I elevate myself to a sitting position on the row of cushions I slept soundly on last night and look at my Timex. It is almost eight. I'm amazed that I got so high last night and am not suffering a hangover like I do when I get drunk.

Greta is washing dishes when I go into the kitchen. "Mark went to work. He has to work this weekend. What do you want for breakfast?"

"Whatever you have. I can fix it."

"There's bread if you want toast."

"That'll be fine."

"And there's butter and jelly in the refrigerator."

I put two slices of bread in the toaster and say, "I'm going to find a place to live in Manhattan."

"Are you having problems at home?"

"Our marriage has been a constant problem. I've had enough. Do you know where I might rent a place?"

"I don't know any place. The Village Voice is in the living room. Maybe there's something in the ads."

A desire has been fulfilled to live in Greenwich Village. My new one-bedroom apartment is on West Eleventh Street near Bleecker Street. My phone number is not listed in the directory so Lili won't know where I live.

Lili has phoned me at work every day since I split from her. I hang up the moment she speaks. This evening I am leaving the Daily News Building. She is waiting on the sidewalk for me. I pretend like I don't see her and keep walking. She runs to catch up with me and snags my sleeve. "I want to talk to you, Arnold."

"I'm not interested in anything you say, not unless you want to talk about a divorce."

"Let's have a cup of coffee and talk about it."

We go into the automat, and I draw two cups of coffee from the coin-activated spout and take them to the table where she is sitting. "Okay." I say. "I'm willing to make the trip to Mexico and get a divorce if you'll just sign the papers."

"Where are you staying?"

"It's none of your fuckin' business where I'm staying. Are you going to sign the divorce papers?"

"I want to know where you're staying?"

"Up your ass." I get up and head for the door.

Lili catches up with me at the Third Avenue crossing and has a grip on my arm. "Let's talk about it at home," she says.

"Okay," I say and go to the Flushing Line entrance with her. We're not talking while waiting for a train to come from Times Square. There is a rumble in the tunnel, and the train appears chucked full of passengers.

We wedge ourselves into the mass of standing passengers. When it stops in Long Island City I surreptitiously start edging myself through the mob. When I think it is about time for the door to close I lunge through the crowd.

I'm on the platform and turn to see the door close in front of Lili's face as she is taking up pursuit of my exit. I smile and wave to her and go across the platform to get on the Manhattan-bound train.

She is waiting again for me the next day. I walk with her to the crossing. She steps off the curb to cross. I suddenly flank left and start running down Third Avenue. She isn't a good runner and has no chance of catching up with me.

She's waiting for me again the following day. This time she holds tightly to my arm so I can't easily escape. We're at the crossing. The light is changing to green, and I'm starting to cross with her. I jerk free and dash across the avenue and lunge through sidewalk pedestrian traffic. I don't stop running and plunging through the sidewalk mob until I get to Vanderbilt Avenue.

Lili hasn't tried to intercept me after work the past few weeks. Maybe she has given me up. I'd like to get a divorce, but if she won't agree I'll just have to carry on living my life as it is.

This is a free weekend for me. I'm leaving work wondering how I'll keep occupied until Monday. I've started drinking again on weekends but want to spend this weekend sober. Maybe I'll go to a movie tonight if there is a good one somewhere. Or I'll pick up a Cue Magazine and see if there are any good off-Broadway plays.

There is no rush to get home. So I'm walking across Forty Second. I'll pick up a Cue in the Times Square area and maybe even walk all the way down to the Village instead of taking the IRT.

The newsstand by Bryant Park doesn't have a Cue. I cross Avenue of the Americas and keep going westward. I'm stopped in front of a cafeteria next to the New Amsterdam where I worked a short time as a movie usher. I'll go into the cafeteria and have a cup of coffee while deciding what to do about the weekend.

I'm at the bar and about to order a mug of beer. There's the same ugly snaggle-toothed burly bouncer standing there waiting for an opportunity to throw out anyone who lingers too long at a table after finishing what they've ordered.

Shit. Who needs a place like this? I'm on the IRT and headed downtown before I realize that I didn't look at another newsstand for a Cue.

Here I am now in my apartment changing from my suit to jeans and a sport shirt. What'll I have for dinner? I'm looking in the refrigerator. There's some cheese and salami but the breadbox is empty. Maybe I'll go out for something down in the Washington Square area.

Instead of turning left at the corner on Bleecker, I find myself crossing the street. It is like being drawn by a magnet across Hudson Street to the White Horse Tavern on the corner. "Arf 'n' arf," I say to the bartender. He brings me a mug with a mixture of light and dark ale. I hand him a dollar and while he is getting change out of the register a voice sounds behind me.

"Hi, Mountie."

I turn to see a CBS engineer I knew when I lived uptown and spent a lot of time in McGlade's. "Hello, Dan."

"I haven't seen you for ages. All of a sudden you stopped coming into McGlade's and..."

"I got married and moved to Queens."

"Is your wife with you?"

"We split up, and I'm living here in the Village."

"Joan and I moved to Christopher Street two days ago."

"I'm living on West Eleventh, not far from here."

"Come and join us at our table in the back."

We go to a table in the rear where Joan is sitting. We greet each other and Dan tells her that I have split up with my wife and moved into the Village. "So you're out celebrating?" she says.

"This is my first one since last weekend. I'd thought about going down to O.Henry's for a burger and fries after this beer. Then I'll get back home to take some dirty clothes to the laundermat."

"We were thinking of going somewhere to eat," Dan says. "Mind if we tag along?"

"Not at all."

It is nearly noon when I awaken with the kind of parched mouth and fluttery stomach that only a hangover produces. I'm trying to remember last night. I'd started to O.Henry's with Dan and Joan, but we drifted in and out of bars in the Washington Square area. I don't remember whether or not we ate anything. Shit. I need a beer bad, but there isn't a drop of anything in my apartment. Maybe a shower will make me feel a little better.

The phone starts ringing the moment I emerge from the bathroom. "Mountie, this is Dan. Thanks for showing us around the village last night."

"That's okay. I'm afraid I don't remember all the places I showed you."

"You were pretty crocked before the night was over."

"Did I do anything foolish?"

"No. After awhile you just clamed up and didn't say a word to anyone. Joan and I are having a little party at our place tonight, and we wondered if you'd like to come. It's kind of a house-warming party."

"Thanks. What time?"

"About eight. Did you get our address last night?"

"I don't remember." I scribble the address that Dan dictates to me.

"See you at eight, Mountie."

"Right. Thanks. Goodbye." I sit awhile wondering at what part of the evening I had given them my phone number. Shit. I wish I had a beer to drown the goddamned butterflies in my stomach. I'll go out and get a six-pack. Shit. I'd better not. Or I'll be smashed before I get to that party.

A cheese sandwich might soothe my gut. Aw, hell, there's no bread. Wonder if there could be any crackers in that cabinet?

Sure enough there is a half-full box of crackers and guess what is hidden behind the cracker box.

Hot shit! I'm in luck. Two quarts of Rheingold! How did they get there? Never mind how and when. They're lifesavers.

I uncap a bottle and take a long swig and go to a stuffed chair to munch the cheese and crackers and slug from the bottle.

The two quarts of beer have drowned the pests in my stomach, and I'm feeling really good. What'll I do to pass time before party time? One thing I'd better not do is go out for more beer, or I'll be too drunk to find Christopher Street. My head is whirring too much to read. The best thing to do is go to bed. I'd better set the alarm before hitting the sack.

There is a shitty taste in my mouth when the alarm awakens me at seven thirty and my stomach is feeling a little jittery. I go into the bathroom to shave, brush my teeth and take a cold shower. It is a couple of minutes after eight by the time I get dressed in jeans and a sport shirt. I put a slice of salami between two crackers and munch on the way out of my apartment.

Dan meets me at the door. "Hello, Mountie. Come in. What'll you have to drink?"

"A beer if you have one."

"We've got beer, but wouldn't you like to have a whiskey or something?"

"Okay. Scotch and water."

"Introduce yourself around while I get it for you."

There are about a dozen people in the living room—ages ranging from early twenties to early or mid-thirties. Dan reappears and hands me a whiskey and water. Joan is rushing toward me towing a brunette woman in her late twenties or early thirties. "Hello, Mountie. How are you?"

"Fine, Joan."

"Mountie, here is someone I'd like for you to meet. This is Clara."

"Hello, Clara."

Joan disappears and leaves me standing with Clara. She is about as tall as I am and is solidly built and has a good shape.

"Mountie. That's an unusual name. Is it short for something else?"

"A diminutive of Mountcastle."

"Mountcastle. That's unusual, too. Joan said you're a news reporter."

"Yeah."

"That must be interesting work."

"It's work. Sometimes a lot of work."

"I have a secretarial job. I'd like to get into something creative like newspaper work. You must be very creative being a reporter and living here in Greenwich Village."

"I've never created anything. That's not true. I've made a `mess out of a few things."

She giggles. "There's an empty seat over there. Want to sit?"

"Okay."

Clara precedes me to the sofa and we sit. "How did you get into news work, anyway?"

"I just stumbled into it."

"I wish I could stumble into something creative like a reporting job."

Joan comes toward us, smiling. "Is everything all right with you two?"

"Just fine," Clara says smilingly.

"How about you, Mountie?"

"Okay."

Joan goes away, still smiling, and Clara says, "Joan said you're the quiet type. You must be thinking about the stories you're writing. And things like that."

"Yes. Things like that." I empty my glass with a single gulp. "Think I'll see if I can find another drink." Clara follows me into the kitchen where beverages are on a table. "Are you ready for another drink?" I ask.

"I've still got some."

I pour myself a generous helping of J & B. And drop an ice cube into the glass and trickle in a small amount of water from a pitcher. We emerge from the kitchen. There is something about this woman that puts me off. She's good looking. But there's something about her...I look around for someone else to talk with but everyone is in conversation.

"Our seat is still empty," Clara says, and I follow her back to the sofa. She extracts a pack of Kools and a book of matches from her purse. She takes a cigarette from the pack and holds it between her fingers and the matchbook in her other hand. I take the book from her and extract a match.

"Turn your cigarette so I won't light the filter."

"Oh." She turns it and has an infatuated smile on her face while I light her cigarette.

I awaken fully dressed lying across my bed and don't remember leaving the party or coming home. I lie a few minutes thinking about Clara last night plying me with sophomoric questions about my work and her prattling about her job and voicing her aspirations of getting a "creative job."

One thing I'm glad I didn't do and that is to get mixed up with that one. There's something about her that makes me want to keep my distance. The only thing that I know is that it is almost like the feeling I had about Lili when I first met her.

Chapter 21

Friday again and another weekend free. I've given up trying to stay sober on weekends off. I'm changed into jeans with a sports shirt and zip-up jacket and entering the White Horse. "Arf 'n' arf," I say to the bartender. He draws the light-and-dark-ale mixture and I hand him a dollar.

Just as he is giving me change, a voice sounds behind me. "Hi, Mountie."

"Hello, Dan," I return his greeting when I turn.

"Still chasing news stories, are you?"

"Still chasing."

"What're you up to tonight?"

"I thought I'd have a beer or two here and wander down to O.Henry's for a burger."

"We're heading down that way soon. How about joining us at our table back there?"

"Okay."

Joan is sitting at a table with Clara and a couple in their early thirties. I greet Joan and Clara, and Joan introduces me to Jack and Stella. "We haven't seen you for quite awhile," Joan says.

Dan adds, "Not since the party at our house."

"I'm afraid I lost account of the party," I say.

"You got a bit blitzed like everyone else. We offered to let you stay and sleep on the sofa, but you said you could make it home okay. Did you make it all right?

"I suppose so. I awoke at home next morning, anyway."

We finish our drinks and start walking down Bleecker. Clara is walking beside me and saying that she now lives in the Village on Greenwich Avenue. "It's good to be living down here among so many creative people," she says.

It is too cold to sit outdoors at O.Henry's and we go inside to find a vacant table in the center. We finish our cheeseburgers and french-fries and wander from bar to bar in the Washington Square area. "What do you say we go back up to the White Horse and see what's going on there?" Jack suggests.

There are about a dozen people standing on the sidewalk outside the White Horse Tavern. "It's full up," one of them says. "They only let someone in as someone leaves."

"I live on West Eleventh near here," I say. "I've just stocked up with booze, and we might as well go to my place."

"Let's go," Dan pipes up.

It is past one o'clock in the morning when I announce that I've run out of booze. Jack and Stella are the first to leave. Dan and Joan leave about a half-hour later. "I'll help you wash up," Clara says.

"Everything can stay on hold until tomorrow."

"I insist."

This evening I started getting the feeling that my first impression of Clara might be unfair. Nothing about her conduct has suggested any justification to my suspicion about her personality. She goes on a bit too much with her sophomoric prattle, but she has been pleasant enough otherwise.

"Have you been married, Mountie?"

"Twice. I escaped from my second one just a few months ago."

"Mine broke up a little more than six months ago."

"Has the breakup broken you up?"

"No. I finally realized that I didn't love him and never could. How about you?"

"I married the first one before I left for the Korean War."

"And your second wife?"

"We were completely incompatible from the very start."

"Any children."

"No. Fortunately. Do you have any?"

"No."

We've finished washing the dishes and tidying the party's aftereffects in the living room. "How about a drink? A nightcap."

"I thought you said you'd run out."

"I have a reserve for special guests and hangover medicine. Do you want to stay on whiskey? Or would you like a cognac?"

"Maybe a cognac." She is looking through my phonograph records while I'm pouring a cognac for each of us. "You don't have any dance music except Strauss waltzes. Can you waltz?"

"I can't dance."

"Not even a slow dance? Maybe there's something on the radio."

"I've tried to dance but could never learn."

"Let me show you how."

"You're not likely to have any success. Here's your drink."

She sits about a body width from me on the sofa and lifts her drink. "Do you play any musical instruments?"

"Nothing."

"Your eyes are very different from any I've ever seen. They're dark blue with a splash of brown in the center."

"Yours are as black as onyx."

"You're different from anyone I've met."

"I'm just an ordinary hillbilly," I say and reach to pull her against me.

"I didn't think you wanted to be friendly with me."

"I've been aching all evening for a time like this with you."

I'm hungry," I say while we are clasped together at dawn. "I'll bring breakfast to you," and I get out of bed and start to put on my bathrobe.

"Don't put that on. I want to look at you while you're nude."

I throw the bathrobe on a chair, and she gets out of bed and follows me into the kitchen and stands behind me with her arms wrapped around my waist. Her huge bare breasts are pressed against my back while I'm preparing toast and slicing cheese. "Do you want coffee or white wine?" I ask.

"Wine for breakfast?"

"I usually have beer for breakfast on weekends. But this a special occasion."

"A very special occasion. Let's celebrate."

Today is Monday, and I'm sitting at the rewrite desk with a plaster covering a bite mark on my neck. There are other bruise spots on my shoulders.

Clara appears at my apartment in less than a half hour after I arrive from work. She tosses her coat on a chair and is wearing white slacks and a low-cut blouse. She throws her arms around my neck, and we passionately kiss. "I've been going crazy thinking about our night in bed together," she coos and pulls me toward the bedroom.

Clara is first to arise and goes toward the door where our clothing had fallen to the floor. She picks up the garments and comes back to stand in front of me. Breasts protrude full and firm. Hips and thighs are husky. Mucous pastes the black triangle of pubic hair. "You're one helluva sexy woman," I say.

"I must lose some weight. Now I must put some weight on you. What is there to cook?"

"We'll have to look."

She pulls on her panties and starts getting back into her white slacks and blouse while I put on my clothes.

We go into the kitchen and I say, "I haven't been out shopping in awhile but I think there are enough ingredients for making a spaghetti sauce. Hamburger meat is in the freezer. Canned tomato sauce and paste are in that cabinet over there. Olive oil, bay leaves, and oregano are in the spice shelf and pasta in that cabinet up there. We're out of wine. If you'll start cooking I'll go to the liquor store and get some."

The Thunder and Lightening polka is going on the record player as I enter my apartment with two bottles of Chianti. "The sauce has a little time to go," she says.

"I'll fix drinks for us. Want a scotch and water?"

"If I can have a kiss first."

She finds a candleholder with a full candle in it and brings it into the kitchen to light it and switch off the electric light. When we sit at the table, she says, "My birthday is Sunday after next. Do you know what I want for my birthday?"

"I'll never guess."

"To stay in bed with you all day Saturday and Sunday. All I want to do is make love with you. Making love with you is what I like more than anything in the world."

"Are you taking any precautions?"

"Not last night or this evening"

"We have to take precautions, or you might get pregnant."

"It doesn't matter."

"It does matter. We can't let it happen."

Clara quickly diverts from the subject. "Do you like your spaghetti?"

"It's delicious. You're a good cook. I'll take you out to some place special for your birthday."

"After we've had our day in bed together."

"Maybe I'll serve you breakfast in bed."

"I could just feast on you."

"I'll give you something special for your birthday."

"The first thing I'll do is make myself really sexy for you and then..."

"You're already sexy."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes."

We finish eating, and she arises to clear the table. Clara switches on the electric light and picks up the candleholder. I arise, and she takes my hand to lead me into the living room to the sofa. She places the candleholder on the table and switches off the lamp. "Want me to pour you a cognac?" she asks.

"Okay."

Clara pours a brandy for each of us and goes to the phonograph to select a record of Hungarian gypsy violin music. "Now," she says, "I'll wash the dishes while you relax."

I pour another cognac, a larger one, and have the bottle sitting on the table by the time she returns. Clara sits close to me and takes a pack of Salems from her handbag. I pick up the candleholder and proffer a light. She exhales a cloud of smoke, takes a sip of her cognac, and puts the glass back on the table. Her hand slides into my shirt and explores the contours of my chest while kissing my neck. "I like the feel of your body."

"I like the feel of yours, too."

Clara lays her cigarette in the ashtray and unbuttons her blouse. "They're yours," she says and pulls my head toward her bosoms."

Dawn is just beginning to filter through the translucent curtains. I arise from bed and go into the bathroom to sit on the toilet while brushing my teeth. Clara knocks on the door while I'm shaving and asks, "What do you want for breakfast?"

"Anything you want to fix." I inspect her tooth marks on my neck and cover the spots with plasters.

Clara has scrambled eggs ready when I appear in the kitchen in my bathrobe. "How's your appetite this morning?" she asks.

"Good appetite, depleted sperm count."

"What do you say we play hooky from work today and have some repeat performances?"

"I'd better not. I'll give you a set of keys in case I'm out on an assignment at quitting time."

The toaster pops up two slices of toast. "Take care of the toast, will you, darling, while I finish with this."

I put two more slices of bread in the toaster and start buttering toast. She ladles scrambled eggs onto two plates and places them on the table. I pour coffee into two cups. She brushes her fingertip across the bandage on my neck. "Did you cut yourself shaving?"

"I got a vampire bite during the night."

She laughs and kisses my lips. "I can't help wanting to devour you."

We finish breakfast. "I'll put these dishes in to soak until tonight. I'd better get over to my apartment and get dressed for work."

"I'll get keys for you."

Clara wraps her arms around my neck for a long kiss before leaving for her apartment. "I'll be thinking about you all day."

"Bring your diaphragm tonight. I'm not ready for fatherhood."

I remember on Friday to get a birthday present for Clara. Dawn light awakens me Sunday morning. While she sleeps I go quietly into the kitchen and return to the bedroom with coffee, buttered toast, cream cheese, and strawberry jam. I put the tray on the bedside table and get back into bed. I tickle her nose with a lock of her long raven-black hair. Clara rubs her twitching nose and brushes away the lock of hair, then opens her eyes and smiles. "Happy birthday," I say. Clara reaches to put her arms around my neck and pulls my head down to kiss my lips. "The birthday girl has her breakfast in bed. It'll get cold if..."

She squeezes my neck tightly. "All I want for my birthday is you."

Our coffee gets cold long before the culmination of our romp, and we lie sweaty in each other's arms. "That was a wonderful birthday present, the best I've ever had," she whispers and kisses my chest.

We lie quietly together for several minutes. I arise to take the cold coffee into the kitchen and return with two steaming cups of black brew. We sit propped against the headboard with my arm around her shoulders while sipping our coffee and nibbling toast spread with cream cheese and jam.

"More coffee?" I ask after we drain our cups.

"No. I just want more of you. I want you to make love to me thirty-three times today, one time for each year of my age."

"I'll look like I'm ninety-eight before I get half way to the finish line."

Clara wraps her arms around my waist and presses her lips to my neck. "You don't know how happy I am to be with you."

I arise from bed and get her present and slip the package into my bathrobe pocket and go into the kitchen to get the coffee percolator going. "Happy birthday," I say and hand her the package when she appears.

Hastily ripping off the gift wrapper, she opens the small box to find gold earrings with triangular pendants studded with pearls. "They're lovely!" She flings her arms around my neck to kiss me passionately. "I'll go into the bathroom." she says and disappears. She returns with them dangling from her ears. "How do I look?"

"Beautiful." I take her into my arms and look into her raven-black eyes. "You're a beautiful woman...and sexy. Now I have another little birthday treat for you."

"Another?"

"We have dinner reservations at the Four Seasons."

"Oh, Mountie!" She squeezes her arms around my neck and puts a hard kiss onto my lips. "I'll wear my earrings. I have just the dress to go with them."

Clara gets dressed and goes to her apartment to get re-dressed and leave me to shower, shave, and get dressed for our evening out. She meets me at her door in her bathrobe. Her face is steamy hot when I kiss her. She helps remove my overcoat and takes my hand. "Come into the bedroom while I get dressed."

I sit on the edge of her bed while she dresses, puts on makeup, and stands in front of me for scrutiny. I contemplate her in a form-fitting white dress. The pearl-studded earrings complimentarily contrast with her raven-black eyes and hair. The low-cut top seductively shows the top of her full bosoms. "How do I look?"

"Stunning."

Clara twirls and admires herself in the full-length mirror and twirls again to take my hand and pull me erect. We stand with her arm crooked in mine while admiring us together in the mirror. "We're an attractive couple," she says. "You're handsome in your navy-blue blazer. That blue-striped tie is just right with the jacket and blue shirt. You have good taste."

"I must have to savor someone as scrumptious as you as much as I do."

"You really like the way I look?"

"I really do."

I help her with her beige cashmere coat and don my charcoal-gray tweed overcoat. We walk to 14th Street and I hail a taxi. "Ninety-nine East Fifty-Second," I tell the driver.

While sipping before-dinner dry martinis, I say, "You're the prettiest girl in the place." That isn't a lie.

The waiter brings the menu of November specials and we order Puree de Potiron, Homard a la Newburg, et Flamish Amienoise. He shows us the wine list and suggests a Chateau Camperos. Our desert is Bombe Bourdaloue. We finish with cognac and coffee. As we taste the last drops of our cognac, she reaches across the table and strokes my hand. "This has been a wonderful birthday, darling. If I can be greedy and ask for something else really special...I'm burning like mad to have you, and I don't think I can wait until we get home. What do you say we dash to the nearest hotel when we leave here?"

Chapter 22

This is Friday and a free weekend for me. I'm at a party tonight in the Three Lions Pub for one of the guys at work who is leaving for a job in broadcasting. I started off drinking scotch and water. I've now switched to Whitbread ale. I'd better call Clara and tell her I'll be a little late getting home.

Someone is using the pay phone. I'll check out the phone later. I'd better not forget. Or I'll get a good bawling out like she gave me the last two times I failed to call.

My Timex says it is nearly noon. And I remember that today is Saturday. Clara isn't in bed. I smell coffee and hear her in the kitchen. I arise and put on my bathrobe to go into the kitchen where she is sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. "Good morning," I say.

"Where were you last night?"

"I was at a party for someone who is leaving and..."

"You didn't bother to call me, just like you haven't the past two times you've come home stinking drunk in less than a month. Now you can tell me who the woman was you were with last night."

"Woman?"

"The woman who smeared lipstick on your face."

"Oh, yes," I say while getting a beer from the refrigerator. "There was a woman who was drunk and being silly."

"And you went home with her."

"I didn't." I don't remember getting home, but I think I'd have some clue if I had gone home with someone. There was a woman who was with one of the guys. She wanted me to dance with her."

"Dance with her! You never danced with me. You always said you couldn't."

"She was drunk and being foolish."

"You're lying! You've been playing around with someone else the three nights you were out and didn't call me." She picks up her coffee cup and throws it at me. It misses and smashes against the refrigerator.

"Clara..."

She lunges at me and her fingernails rake my face. I thrust her backwards. She grabs a butcher's knife from the knife rack and raises it to lunge at me. I block her forearm and apply pressure. The knife drops to the floor. I pick up the knife and put it in a drawer. "Give me your key, Clara, and leave."

"What did that bitch give you that I don't? Can she give you a fuck like I can?"

"Give me your key, and take your things and go, Clara."

She disappears into the bedroom. In a few minutes she returns with her nightgown and bathrobe and a case with her makeup and toilet articles. She throws her key case at me. and it hits the wall. "There's your key. You can give it to that bitch, whoever she is. I should have cut your throat while you were passed out last night, you drunken, whore-mongering son of a bitch."

"Go, Clara."

She goes to the door. "Don't think you're throwing me out. I was going to go anyway. I can find someone better than a cheating bastard." She slams the door hard after making her exit.

Spring is here. Today is Saturday and a nice day. I'm determined to stay out of bars this weekend. I'll have to think of something to keep me occupied until Monday. Maybe I'll wander down to O.Henry's and get a burger for lunch. Maybe later I can go to a museum or to a movie, or something.

There is a summer amateur-art exhibition in Washington Square. Most of the paintings don't favorably impress me. There is one exhibition that I like better than any of the others. It has mostly surrealistic Greenwich Village scenes. I buy a painting of Washington Square Park and am talking with the gaunt young artist, dressed in ankle-length skirt and has large colorful ceramic beads around her neck. It is lunchtime, and I ask her if she'd like to go over to O.Henry's for a hamburger.

"I can't leave my exhibit."

"Then I'll get some to take out, and we can have a picnic here."

"Far out."

I bring hamburgers and Cokes and while we eat she tells me that she'd just graduated from New York University. She's living in an East Village loft. She says she doesn't sell much of her work but keeps herself going with occasional jobs through office-temporary agencies.

"What'll you do with your paintings when the exhibition closes tonight?" I ask.

"Put them in a taxi, and take them home. There are a lot more paintings at home, but I can't bring many in a taxi and none of the bigger ones. You can come over to my loft sometimes and see them, if you'd like."

"I'd like to. May I treat you to a taxi ride and help you take them home tonight?"

"Far out."

She dismantles her exhibit at closing time, and I hail a taxi on Broadway. "East Fourth between Avenue B and C," she tells the driver after we pack her paintings into the taxi.

I tell her my name as the cab headed eastward.

She brushes a lock of her long and straight black hair back over her frail shoulder. "My name's Trish, for Patricia."

The taxi crosses Avenue A and B. Midway in the block she tells the driver to stop in front of a building that looks like a factory. I pay the driver, and we unload her paintings to take them into the building. We ride the freight elevator to the top floor where she unlocks a metal door.

Trish's loft occupies the entire top of a large building. It has no partitions except a closed-off space for a bathroom. I point to a vat that is as high and as big in diameter as a normal-size room and ask, "What's that?"

"A candy maker. This loft was once a candy factory. Isn't it out of sight?"

I walk around the room looking at paintings, abstract and surrealistic, on easels, others leaning against walls. "I like your work."

Trish doesn't answer.

"Maybe someday you'll sell your work. Maybe someday you can spend all of your time painting and give up office-temp work."

"That would be cool. I'd like to have a private exhibition some time."

"Where would you have one?"

She shrugs her shoulders.

"Can't you have one here in your studio?"

Trish tosses a stray lock of her straight black hair over her shoulder and shrugs. "Maybe."

"Have you taken any of your work to galleries in Greenwich Village or uptown?"

"No."

Trish turns and precedes me around the mammoth candy vat and gestures over the array of cushions on the floor. I sit on a body-length cushion and lean back against another cushion propped against the wall. Trish sits on a smaller cushion in front of me with her legs crossed under her long skirt. There are no chairs or furniture in the loft.

Trish takes the lid off a ceramic jar. There is a paperback copy of Goethe's Faust by her cushion. She picks it up and lays it on her lap.

"Is that book in German or English?"

"German."

"You can read German?"

She nods.

"Faust must be even more beautiful in German than in English."

She nods.

"You studied German in school?"

"Two years in high school and two years at NYU." Trish picks twigs from the jar and separates greenish leaves from stems and seeds on the paperback book.

Seeds and stems are dropped into a ceramic ashtray. She creases a cigarette paper and sprinkles crushed leaves in the paper to deftly roll a small cigarette with her long and slender fingers. She searches around her cushion and finds a large box of wood-stemmed matches and lights the miniature cigarette, sucks the smoke deeply and hands the joint to me.

I breathe a billow of smoke deep into my lungs and cough and hand the joint back to her. She laughs and sucks the joint again and passes it back to me. I take another toke and don't cough. A relaxed and mellow feeling comes over me.

Trish gets a candle in a ceramic holder and places it nearby on the floor and lights it after the joint is finished. I sit looking at the opposite wall. My mind begins to hallucinate figures in the spots of peeling paint. "There's a dragon on the wall," I say.

Trish turns to look at the wall and laughs. I laugh with her.

She arises and goes to a corner to put a kettle of water on a hotplate. Eventually she returns to place a ceramic mug of hot mint tea on the floor in front of my cushion. She goes back to the corner and returns with a breadboard, a loaf of French bread, and a bread knife. She puts the breadboard between our cushions and lays the knife on the board and hands bread and cheese to me. I slice from the bread and cheese, and she does the same.

Trish arises again and goes to a portable phonograph to put on a Simon and Garfunkel record. The marijuana's influence makes Simon and Garfunkel sound better than I have ever heard them.

Trish returns to her cushion and removes the ceramic jar top, puts the book on her lap and begins sorting leaves from seeds and stems. I watch her graceful slender fingers nimbly roll another joint.

She lights it and passes it to me. I inhale deeply to get a rushing high. My eyes become fixed upon her gaunt and delicate face dancing in the flickering candlelight.

A long while after finishing the joint I look at my Timex and say, "It's getting late. I should be getting home but I feel too stoned to stand."

"You can crash here."

I stretch out on my cushion and reach to get a smaller cushion for a pillow. Trish picks up the candleholder and goes to another body-length cushion nearby, reclines on it and blows out the candle.

Dawn's light creeping into the room awakens me. I lie listening to the noise of motorized traffic outside.

Trish soon awakens and sits to face me. We smile at each other, neither speaking. She gets up and disappears around the gigantic metallic candy vat. I hear the toilet flush and she reappears to go to the corner and start boiling water in the kettle. I arise and navigate around the big vat.

There are steaming mugs of instant coffee between our mats when I return. "There's no milk," she apologizes.

"I drink it black, anyway."

Trish goes back to the corner by the hotplate and returns to her cushion with two stale plain donuts and hands one to me. We take her artwork down the freight elevator to the street and hail a taxi after finishing our coffee and donuts.

The day passes without her making a single sale. I flag a taxi, and we pack her exhibit in it and go back to her loft. We put her paintings in a spot where she says they should be, and I say, "Let's go out and get something to eat."

"There's a place near Tompkins Square Park. They have good sandwiches."

We're at East Seventh Street and turning westward. We enter the cafeteria and select pastrami hero sandwiches and coffee. Our sandwiches are devoured in silence. It is my guess that she doesn't have much food in her loft, and I suggest we get sandwiches to take out.

Dusk falls by the time we get back to the loft. Trish bolts the metal door and then maneuvers around the big vat into the living part of her floor space. I sit on the same long cushion as the night before. She lights a candle and sits on the cushion in front of me to roll a joint. We smoke it down until it was too short to hold between our fingers. Trish takes the last draw and drops the roach into the ashtray.

My eyes are upon her sitting trance-like, the candle casting shimmers on her expressionless face. Brown eyes stare into a world beyond. Her head turns slowly. Our eyes meet. No words are spoken as we sit looking at each other a few minutes.

She arises slowly, and her willowy body moves like the wisp of a cloud as she goes to the portable phonograph. She puts on a record of guitar music and turns the volume low. Our eyes meet again as she drifts back to stand by her cushion. I stretch my arms and open them to her. Trish slowly steps forward and sinks into my arms as lightly as a fluffy dandelion pod and reclines her head in the cradle of my arm. Her brown eyes twinkles forlornly in the candle gleam as she lies quietly gazing at my face.

My hand caresses her face. Her finger touches my cheek with the lightness of a butterfly. My hand strokes her hair. Her fine finger delicately traces the outline of my lips.

Trish's head stays cradled in my arm a long time after the record finishes. She arises as gently as a floating cloud and goes to turn the record over, then takes the candle and moves it close to our cushion. I recline on the cushion. Trish lies beside me and with her head resting as light as a mirage on my shoulder. We lie without speaking, just listening to the strumming guitar.

The record finishes and she starts to rise. I pull her close to me and whisper, "Don't leave me, Trish. Don't leave me now."

Dawn peeking through mottled windows finds her fragile nude body nestled snugly in my arms. She sleeps peacefully and content as a child. She rallies to snuggle closer against my body. "I have to go home and get dressed so I can go to work," I say softly.

We arise and get dressed. Trish puts a kettle of water on the hotplate. A cup of instant coffee awaits me as I return from the bathroom. We sit on the same cushion sipping coffee and finally I say, "I must go. I'd like to come back, if you'd like for me to."

Trish nods and tenderly strokes my brow.

"How about next weekend?"

"I paint on the weekend but if you want to come."

"It won't bother you if I sit and watch you work, will it?"

"I'd like for you to come."

"Friday night, then?"

Trish smiles and nods.

I take her in my arms, and she snuggles her face against my neck. "I can come some nights during the week, too, if you'd like."

"I'd like for you to."

We kiss and I arise. "Can you get some marijuana for us?"

"A nickel's worth? Or more?"

"Only five cents worth?"

"A nickel's worth of grass is five dollars' worth."

I take ten dollars from my wallet and hand it to her. "A dime's worth."

"A dime's worth."

"Is that enough for us?"

"It's cool." As she follows me toward the door, she says, "Take your painting," and gets it for me.

"I wouldn't want to forget that."

Trish presses the elevator button and unbolts the door. We kiss again when the elevator stops. She stands smiling as I begin to descend.

I come home from work and change into jeans and a sports shirt and start to go to the refrigerator for a beer. I stop in front of the refrigerator and turn to exit from my apartment.

I knock loudly on the metal door when the freight elevator reaches her loft. "Who is it?" her voice sounds a distance behind the door.

"Mountie."

Trish unbolts the door. She is wearing a skirt of conventional length rather than the ankle-length dress she wore the weekend. I guess that she has worked today wherever the office-temporaries agency sent her. "Are you surprised to see me?"

"I'm glad you came."

We kiss and I say, "Let's go out and get something to eat."

"We can go to that place where we went yesterday."

We walk back from the cafeteria with our arms around each other. "You know, Trish," I say, "it'll be better if we stay in my place. You'll have a phone to keep in contact with the office temps. The subway is closer and..."

"If I can come home on weekends and paint."

"Sure. We can even take some canvases and an easel over to my place. You can paint there on weekdays when you don't go out to work."

"That'll be cool."

I stop and take her into his arms. "I feel good being with you."

"I'm content when I'm with you."

I've cleared a corner in the living room for Trish to set up an easel. There is a turpentine smell when I come home the following evening and find her with a smock over her jeans and busy with an abstract painting. She turns and smiles when I enter. I kiss her and sit watching her mix paint and apply it with brushes of various sizes. "I want to finish just this little bit before I stop."

"Do you mind me watching you work?"

"No. Does it bother you that your pad is smelling of turpentine?"

"I kind of like the smell."

"So do I."

"I've never painted, but I always thought I might try it someday. Will you teach me how to draw and paint?"

"We can both paint on weekends in my loft."

I go into the bedroom to change clothes. Trish has stopped work by the time I emerge and is sitting on the floor by the coffee table rolling a joint. She lights it, takes a toke and hands it toward me. "This will give you an appetite."

We sit mesmerized a long time after finishing the joint. Finally, she arises and opens the refrigerator. "Would you like to have an omelet?"

"Sounds good. I'll see what we have to go with it."

I slice potatoes and heat oil in a pan for making French fries. Lima beans simmers in a pan while she prepares a cheese omelet. "It's strange being in a kitchen," she says.

"I don't think you've been eating well."

"With just a hotplate I couldn't do much cooking, so I just ate mostly sandwiches. It's good to have cooking facilities."

"Maybe you'll put on weight."

"I'm too skinny?"

"You're very thin but you're lovely."

We finish eating and go into the living room. She lights a candle and switches off the lamp. I go to the phonograph, and she settles to roll a joint. "Is there anything special you'd like to hear?"

"I played some of your Chinese music today. I like it."

"I'm glad you like Oriental music." I put on a Chinese record and go to sit on the carpet beside her.

"Where did you get these records?"

"Chinatown."

Trish hands me the rolled joint and holds the candle toward my face. She returns the candleholder to the coffee table and leans back into my arms.

"Did you get lonely in that big loft?"

"No. I'm not lonely with my work around me. I like being with you. It's a good feeling."

I exhale smoke, put the joint between her lips and hug her. "It's a good feeling for me, too."

Trish continues to take temporary jobs three days a week. We spend weekends in her loft, she working and I trying to learn how to draw and paint. She is teaching me how to make shapes and achieve depth with paper and drawing pencil and how to mix colors and apply paint to canvas.

"Would you like to go into the country and paint some natural scenery?" I ask.

"I'd like to."

"My vacation is coming soon. I've been thinking about buying a car and getting New York driver's license."

Today is Saturday, and we occupy a table at O.Henry's. We have just finished hamburgers and French fries. An ashtray hits the center of our table and ricochets off to hit a parked car. I jump out of my seat and turn to see Clara grabbing a beer bottle from a nearby table. I rush around the table to shield Trish from danger. Clara throws the bottle. It hits the table edge and shatters into several pieces. "You and that little shit!" Clara screams.

Clara grabs a large ashtray from a table and rushes toward me. "You and your skinny little shit!" Clara shrieks and lunges toward me with the ashtray held above her head. I throw up my forearm to block the blow. The ashtray falls from her grasp and bounces off my shoulder. Two waiters grab Clara's arms before she can continue her attack.

"Let's get away from here, Trish!" I say. A taxi appears at that moment, and I wave at it.

Clara breaks away from the waiters and rushes toward the taxi as it pulls away from the curb. "You fucking bastard and your fucking skinny little cunt!" she screams. "I'll kill both of you!"

Trish has been upset several days after Clara's attack. Now she is becoming more cheerful and getting enthusiastic about going out of town. I've decided that I'll spend most of the time fishing while she sketches and paints outdoor scenes. A guy at work is going to the London bureau and let me have his eight-year-old Chevrolet at a bargain price. I now have fishing license and tackle, and we've gone to the tourist office to get maps and brochures for outdoor recreational spots. We're ready to head out into the wilds to sleep weekends in our new tent.

We're in bed early Friday night and up before dawn and on our way to the Bear Mountain State Park. We stop at a bait shop and buy fishing worms and rent a rowboat when we get to the State Park. I point at weeds in the clear water. "This looks like a good lake for fishing. Fish like to hide in weed beds."

A mallard skitters noisily on the water and flares up. Then it levels its flight to disappear around the lake bend as I start rowing the boat. "That cove over there looks like a good fishing spot," I say and head toward it.

"Just think of us being in Manhattan all this time and not knowing about a wild place so close to the city," Trish says after I anchor the boat and make my first cast with the spinning rod. "I keep expecting to see a wild copper-colored man paddling around the bend in a birch-bark canoe."

"He's watching us from behind one of those trees."

"Hey! Your float's bobbing!"

The white-and-red-striped bobber submerges, and I yank the rod to set the hook. "Now I must keep it from going under one of those submerged tree limbs and hanging up the line."

The darting fish is now close to the side of the boat. "Scoop it out of the water with the landing net," I instruct her.

"What have you caught?" she asks as she dumps the flapping fish into the boat.

"White perch."

All the smaller perch and a pickerel kept in the wire-mesh cage submerged alongside the boat are released back into the lake. We keep a half dozen of the largest white perch. "Pickerel are good to eat," I say, "if you don't mind all the small bones."

The sun has disappeared by the time we get ashore and dock the boat. I clean the fish and throw the guts into the water. "That'll be food for other fish and turtles."

A level spot on the lake edge is an ideal spot for the first erection of our tent. Trish eagerly dives inside. "Mountie, what a cozy little home we have."

I gather bits of dry wood for a campfire. Trish is chopping onions to mix with pinches of salt and oregano into the yellow corn-meal batter. Then she rolls the dough into balls to make hush puppies as she has learned from a southern cookbook. The fire soon crackles. "We can come here when it gets colder," I say, "so we can keep cozy and warm by our campfire."

"Shall I put the frying pan over the fire now?"

"It'll be better to wait until it makes embers. It'll fry better and won't smoke up the pan as much."

We sit watching the fire until the wood burns to a bed of glowing embers. I hold the pan over the coals to fry the fish and hush puppies. "I hope I've been successful in my first attempt to make hush puppies," she says.

I wait for one to cool and crunch it in my mouth. "You're a good hush-puppy maker."

We finish our meal and clean cooking utensils with sand and wads of leaves and grass before rinsing with lake water. Bits of dried wood stoke the embers into a blaze again.

"I know what we forgot to bring," she says.

"What?"

"Marshmallows."

"That's not Indian food but we'll bring some next time, anyway."

"Another cup of coffee?"

"No thanks, sweetheart."

We sit in the night listening to croaking frogs and watching the blazing fire until it dies down to embers. She slaps the side of her face.

"Mosquito?"

"Yes."

"I thought I heard one near my head. They can't get through the net on our tent door. Want to go inside?"

"Umm, hmm."

"Go inside and I'll drown the fire. Zip the net closed behind you so skeeters won't follow you in."

The drenched fire hisses steam. I stir through the vaporous ashes with a stick to make sure that no embers continue to glow.

My hand gropes inside the tent and finds her lying nude on her back. "Are you expecting company?"

"Umm, hmm."

"Anyone I know?"

Trish arises to a sitting position and starts unbuttoning my shirt. Her kisses wander over my face and neck while I remove my shoes, socks, jeans, and underwear. Now she is in my arms while we lie quietly on the camping mattress listening to croaking frogs. An owl begins to hoot some distance away.

The owl comes closer and closer to serenade our rhythmical fusion. It perches on a limb above our abode as we founder with exhaustion. Then the owl leaves us, and we go to sleep to the musical ensemble of frogs by the calm lake.

My weekends off from work and my vacation are spent with Trish exploring woods in Westchester County and catching fish from ponds to skewer or fry over our campfires. We now have permits to fish on the reservoirs, and we're spending some autumn weekends anchored in a rowboat. Today the reservoir is a multitude of foliage colors reflected from trees surrounding the water. "I never imagined that heaven could be so close to that man-made amalgamated chaos of a metropolis," I remark.

"It's soul-devouring," Trish says.

Winter is here. Ponds and reservoirs are frozen. I use an auger to drill through the ice and bait a hook to lower it through the hole. It is attached to a device that tips up a flag when it is triggered by a nibbling fish. A campfire keeps us warm while Trish sketches and I keep check on the tip-ups. Our body heat warms the tent's interior at night.

Spring approaches. I buy fly-fishing equipment, and Trish is anxious to accompany me when trout season opens in the Catskill Mountain streams and shad run up the Hudson River.

The temperature is a few degrees below freezing on opening day of trout season. Trish sits by our fire as I break ice sheets clinging to the banks of the stream swollen from melted snow. She watches me as I wade into the middle of the fast-moving current and strip line to send the wet fly downstream. I make jerking motions while retrieving it back upstream.

The line tightens. I set the hook and the rod tip dances as the brook trout darts, sounds and jumps.

My feet are completely numb by the time I've netted two fish. I join Trish by the fire and remove my wading boots to thaw my feet.

Circulation returns to my feet, and I return to the stream. Ice fills the fly-rod guides, and I have to pluck it out so the stiff line can be stripped out. My feet become numb again, and I join Trish by the fire with two more trout. "Just enough for supper," I say.

Swollen streams have receded and cleared considerably within two weeks after opening day of the trout season. "I'll try some dry-fly fishing today," I tell Trish. "It is the kind of fishing I like most, but it will take me awhile to get tuned up. My grandfather taught me how. I haven't cast a dry fly since I went fishing with him not long before he died in 1942." I point toward a brown trout facing upstream in the current. "That one is waiting for an insect to drift down in the current. Now watch me." I cast the fly above the trout and quickly strip in slack line.

It takes several trials for me get onto the technique of keeping slack out of the line. Slack line bows and sends the fly skittering at an unnaturally fast speed over the trout. The fish hasn't budged during all my attempts. Now the line is straight and the bobbing Quill Gordon is drifting over the trout. The fish waits until the fly passes over it. It turns and rises to the surface to take the fly from the rear. I lift the rod tip to set the hook, but I miss and the trout disappears.

"It is necessary to set the hook at precisely the right time," I explain to Trish. "If you set the hook too soon it will jerk out of his mouth. If you wait too long it will spit out the fly. Then it is tricky playing a fish through a current. The rod tip must be held high so the springy action softens the line tension."

"Now I know what is meant about dry-fly fishing being an art," Trish says after I've successfully netted a brown trout.

Trish is silent as we're driving back toward Manhattan. Finally she says, "I'm beginning to like the city less and less since we've been coming up here. I'd never spent any time in the country and didn't know what it was like."

"Have you ever thought about moving out of New York?"

"A couple I know want me to go with them in their camping van to California."

"Are you going?"

"They're in Europe now. They're moving to California when they get back. I don't know when they'll get back."

"Do you think you'll go with them?"

"I'd like to leave New York, but I like being with you. I've felt a lot different since I've been with you. Do you want me to go?"

"You've given me a lot of happiness, Trish, and I like being with you. It would be very selfish of me to keep you from exploring places you've never seen. It'll be an opportunity for you to see new places."

"I wish we could go together."

"It would be good if we could but I don't see..."

"Are you going to stay in New York always?"

"I don't know what I'll end up doing. When I was going through the university, I didn't have any idea of what I'd do or where I'd go. I stumbled into this job I have now. Now I'm just like I was as a student, not knowing where I'll go from here."

"If I do go to California, maybe you can get a job there, and we can be together."

"There's always a chance of getting transferred to a California bureau. Maybe I won't stay in the kind of work I'm doing now. I don't know, Trish."

We've been together nearly a year when her friends return from Europe and make plans to move to California in their Volkswagen van. Trish is going with them. "I can take some of my paintings in their van," she says, "but I'll have to leave the rest."

"You can't leave them behind, Trish. I can keep some of them here in the apartment but you have so many."

"There's nothing else I can do?"

"Pack them up and we'll ship them, if your friends have an address we can send them to."

"It will cost too much."

"I'll pay shipping costs."

"I can send you a little money as I get it until I've paid you back."

"No, Trish. I want you to have them. I'm paying and I won't accept repayment."

Trish packs most of her canvasses and ships them to an address in San Francisco. It is Saturday when her friends arrive at her loft to get the remaining canvasses and personal belongings."

I go with her to the loft and help load her possessions in the van. Not much has been spoken between us during the morning. We stand beside the VW camper, and I take her in my arms and hold her tightly a long time, neither speaking. We kiss a final time and I say, "I'll miss you, Trish. I hope you'll take good care of yourself."

"I'll miss you, too, Mountie. I'll miss you a lot." She brushes tears off her cheeks. "I guess I'd better go now."

She gets into the rear of the van when I release her. We wave to each other as the van pulls away from the curb. I turn and walk on East Fourth Street in the direction of Washington Square Park.

A voice can be heard singing from an upper floor of an apartment building I am passing. I woke up this moanin about a quatah to nine and say to my woman that muthah-fuckin sun it ain't gonna shine. Den she turns over and sez to me, Get up you muthah fuckah and git outta my baid. Git up you muthah fuckah or I'm gonna bite off yo haid. Doopìty doopity doop. The doopity doopity fades as I distance myself.

I get to Broadway with intentions of turning onto Bleecker and going home. Instead, I find myself entering a bar. "Rheingold draft," I say to the bartender.

Chapter 23

Trish wrote short letters from various places she'd moved to in California. Sometimes she moved and left no forwarding address and post offices returned letters I'd written to her. It might be weeks before I'd get another letter from her with a new address. A letter she sent from Arizona said she was soon going to New Mexico and would contact me from there. I haven't heard any more from her.

I'm no longer a newsman. My low salary wouldn't support my lifestyle. I got into debt and creditors hounded me from all directions. I'd quit answering my home phone and dreaded taking calls at work. Bank statements went unopened into the wastebasket because I'd given up facing the reality of an overdrawn account. Life became a nightmare. I walked around in a daze. Someone even mentioned that I was beginning to look like a zombie.

Eventually I started moonlighting on the Daily News foreign-news desk. The extra job kept me out of bars. Double pay got me started toward clearing off debts.

Some newsmen I've known have gone into public relations for more pay. Public relations never appealed to me. In fact I've always loathed publicists who beat a steady path into the United Press International newsroom trying to peddle propaganda for companies they represented. News people call them tub-thumpers. I've always said I never wanted to be a publicist.

Now I am one of them. Two eight-hour shifts, five days a week became too stressful. Now I'm with a Madison Avenue public relations agency earning more than I did while working at two news jobs.

Hangovers are getting worse, and blackouts more frequent. I've blacked out on several occasions and found myself in strange parts of town. Once I awakened in Brooklyn, twice in the Bronx. Another time I regained consciousness about two o'clock in the morning on a subway platform in Harlem.

I haven't had any marijuana since Trish's departure more than a year ago. My desire for alcohol was less when she and I smoked together. I've decided to find some as a substitute for evening and weekend drinking.

Today is Saturday. I'm walking on East Third Street between Avenues A and B and flank toward an apartment building. The vestibule door is open, and I climb the stairs to the third floor. There is a pungent smell of marijuana smoke in the corridor as I knock on a door. Footsteps are approaching the opposite side of the door, then the hissing sound of a spray can. "Who is it?"

"Mountie."

"Mountie?"

"Trish's friend."

Door bolts click and clash and the door opens the length of the night-latch chain. An odor of perfume-laced marijuana smoke reeks through the opening. "Hey, Mountie. How're ya doin?"

"Okay, John."

John, with shoulder-length hair and a wispy beard, unfastens the latch and stands holding a spray can of air freshener he had tried to disguise the marijuana smoke with. "Mountie, where've you been, man? I hear that Trish is makin' the scene in California."

"She was going to New Mexico the last I heard."

"Far out, man."

I follow him into the dark apartment. My eyes adjust to the dimness, and I see a longhaired man with a black beard practically covering his chest. A young and gaunt woman with straight and long hair and wearing gold-rimmed granny glasses is sitting on a cushion beside him. There are no introductions. I select a cushion, and John sits on a cushion beside me and rolls a joint. He lights it and after a deep drag passes it to me. I take a toke and pass it to the woman. It keeps going from hand to hand until it is too short to hold. John grips the short stub with tweezers and drags until it is finished.

I turn toward John and say, "I was wondering if I could score a little bit from you."

"I've just got a little bit for myself, man. We'll go around to see Nathan. You know Nathan, the actor?"

"No. Does he do off-Broadway stuff?"

"He doesn't act in a theater, man. He just goes around acting in everyday life."

John leaves the couple in his apartment and takes me to an apartment down at the end of the block and knocks on the door. Nathan opens the door. He is black as ebony and dressed in khaki trousers, bush jacket and safari hat with a leopard-skin band, obviously in the role of a white hunter. "Good afternoon, John," he says in a put-on British accent.

"Nathan, this is Mountie. Trish's friend. He'd like to score some gooch."

"Ah, yes. I do believe we can negotiate something. If you'll excuse me for just a moment..." Nathan disappears and reappears with a swagger stick, emerges through the door and locks it. He smartly flicks the swagger stick under his arm in British military fashion. "If you'd like to come along with me, chaps."

Nathan struts ahead of us like a British sergeant major on parade. The swagger cane is under his left arm, and the knob resting in his hand. Nathan stops at a metal trap door by the sidewalk. He smartly flicks the swagger stick from under his arm and taps the knob twice on the metal hatch. He pauses, taps twice again, pauses, and taps four times rapidly.

The hatch rises, making squeaking sounds, and a bushy head of blond hair pops up. "Hey, Nathan, baby!"

The underground dweller precedes us down a metal ladder below sidewalk level and guides us past furnaces. This is the living space of the one with the blond hair. A mattress and blankets are on the floor. Stacked fruit crates serve as shelves for food items and utensils. Clothing on hangers is on a line stretched between two boilers. Nathan says, "These gentlemen want to negotiate a purchase."

"How much?"

John nods to me.

I say, "A dime's worth. Make that a quarter's worth."

The dealer rummages through a crate and hauls out a large paper bag. He puts some of the contents into a smaller paper bag and hands it to me in exchange for twenty-five dollars. I give a handful each of the weed to Nathan and John. Now I'm stuffing the remainder of the bulging bag in my shirt under my armpit. When we emerge onto the sidewalk, I ask, "Where can we go for a smoke?"

"My pad," John says.

"I must toddle off, chaps," Nathan says. He snaps the tip of his swagger stick to the brim of his safari hat in a salute. "Cherrio, chaps." He flicks the short cane under his arm to swagger away.

The twenty-five-dollar supply of grass lasts several weeks. I go back to see John and say, "I went to see Nathan and he said the guy living in the basement got busted last week and he didn't know anyone else who has anything. I thought you might know someone."

"Man, the feds are in town. There's a big crackdown, and there's nothing around. They've been busting a lot of dudes. It might be a couple of months before anything shows up. What bit was Nathan doing?"

"A pirate. Complete with eyepatch."

"Out of sight."

I leave John and head back toward Greenwich Village. I resist a stop in any of the bars in the Washington Square area and trudge along Bleecker Street with intentions of a sober weekend. I'm flanking onto West Eleventh. Now I'm turning toward the White Horse. It isn't time for it to fill with customers, and I easily make my way to the bar and sit on a stool. "Arf 'n' arf," I say to the bartender.

The place is getting crowded by early evening, and I'm well on my way toward getting drunk. "Hey, Mountie," the voice of Dan sounds behind me. Before I turn my head, someone yanks me off the stool. I land on the floor with Clara standing above me screaming, "You rotten son of a bitch! You bastard!"

Dan and Joan grab her arms from behind while I get onto my feet. Clara is screaming loudly as I barge through the crowd in the direction of the door. "You miserable bastard! I'll kill you!"

I'm starting to cross Bleecker. Clara has broken loose from Joan and Dan and is sinking her sharp fingernails into my neck while trying to pull me off balance. "You dirty shit!" she screeches. Joan and Dan grab Clara's arms. I sprint in the direction of my apartment.

I've started going to operas, ballets, and Broadway and off-Broadway shows, not only because I like the performing arts but also as a diversion from my drinking pattern. Tonight I'm attending Puccini's Tosca at the Metropolitan. It is intermission time and I'm lighting a cigarette. There is a light touch on my sleeve and a red-haired woman says, "Excuse me. I've misplaced my lighter."

I strike a match and light the cigarette she takes from a gold case.

"Thank you. How do you like the performance?"

"It's the first time I've seen Renata Tebaldi. She's good in the title role."

"Do you see much opera?"

"Some. I went to performances with a girlfriend when I first came to New York. Then I got away from it for quite awhile. Now I'm going again."

"Good. Do I hear some southern accent in your speech?"

"I'm from Virginia."

"Did you see much opera in Virginia?"

"No. I never saw any opera until I was at a university in Mississippi, but I listened to it a good bit. Actually, I did see some Chinese opera in Peking."

"Chinese opera. That must be interesting. So you've traveled a lot, have you?"

"A little bit. Mostly while I was doing my military service."

"So what have you been doing since college?"

"I worked for a news agency a few years. Now I'm with a public-relations agency. I'm a tub thumper."

She asks me where I live and tells me that she lives uptown on the East Side. Curtain call sounds. "Where's your seat?"

"Sixteenth row, left-center aisle."

"I'm four rows up in right-center," she says as we start back toward our seats.

"May I invite you for a drink after the performance?"

"You may. Thank you."

I'm waiting for her in the center isle after the final curtain. "Marvelous performance, wasn't it?" she says and links her arm in mine.

"It was, indeed."

"My name's Lucille. Call me Lucy."

"I'm Mountie." We emerge from the Met and I say, "We could go to Blake's in the Herald Tribune building but there'll only be standing room now. There aren't any other decent places close. I know a quiet place on East Fifty-Fourth. It'll take ages to catch a cab here. Let's walk over to Fifth."

We walk eastward to Fifth Avenue, she with her arm still linked in mine, and cross to be on the side of uptown traffic. "Your girlfriend you used to go to the opera with..."

"She was doing graduate studies last time I heard from her. That was a few years ago."

"I suppose there've been others since?"

"Well...There's a cab." I flag the taxi and open the door for her. "Fifty-Fourth and Lex," I tell the driver.

There is a choice of tables in the bar, and I usher her to one in the corner. The waiter appears to take our order. "Gin fizz," she says.

"I'll have a club soda with a twist of lime," I tell him and he departs.

"You're not a drinker?"

"I get enough alcohol with business luncheons."

Lucy takes her gold cigarette case from her purse and a gold Dunhill lighter that she had conveniently misplaced to contact me. I take the lighter from her fingers and light her cigarette, then light a cigarette from my pack with her lighter. "I stopped smoking but recently started again" I say.

She smiles. "What do you do besides going to opera and smoking cigarettes?"

"I've seen some ballet and have been going to the theater—both Broadway and off-Broadway."

"Alone?"

"Lately, yes." The waiter brings our drinks, and I tip my glass to hers. "To your health."

"And yours, Mountie. That's an unusual name."

"It's a derivative for Mountcastle."

Her tangerine-colored hair and green eyes are astoundingly exquisite. She's the best-looking woman I've seen in awhile.

"Tristan and Isolde is coming to the Met soon with Birgit Nilsson. I'll get two tickets if you'd like to go."

"I like listening to Wagnerian operas but I've never seen one. I'll repay you for the ticket."

"It'll be my treat."

"Thank you. If I may invite you out to dinner...tomorrow evening, if you don't have plans."

"I'm happy to accept your invitation. What kind of work do you do in public relations?"

I explain that I am an editorial consultant for industrial clients.

"It sounds like interesting work."

"It's work and a lot of hard work. Will you have another drink?"

"We can have one at my place if you like."

I signal the waiter and pay. A taxi approaches as we make our exit, and I hail it. Lucy tells him her address.

The doorman greets us and opens the door. Her apartment is on the ground floor. Lucy takes her keys from her purse, and I take them from her hand to unlock the door and follow her into her elaborately furnished apartment. "If you'd like to fix drinks," she says, "I'll put on music."

"Gin fizz?"

"Please."

"Gin fizz. I'm not sure about the ingredients."

"Lemon juice. A spoon of powdered sugar. Dry gin and shake with ice and strain into a glass. Then put in ice cubes and soda water. Stir and you have a gin fizz."

"Right."

"I suppose you've had enough opera for tonight. How about something light?"

"Whatever you'd like."

Lucy puts on a record of Swan Lake and turns the volume low and seats herself on the sofa. I prepare her gin fizz and a club soda for myself. "You said you'd been going to the ballet."

"Yes. I saw Swan Lake not long ago."

"So did I."

I approach the sofa with our drinks and seat myself beside her and proffer the gin fizz. "I hope it's okay."

Lucy sips. "Perfect." She puts her drink on the table and opens an ornate silver box to extract a cigarette, then gestures the box toward me. I pluck a cigarette from the box, and as I hold the flame of her table lighter for her, she places her hand on mine. I light my cigarette and replace the lighter to the table and take a sip of my soda. "So what else do you do when you're not going to operas, ballets, and theater?"

"My work keeps me busy. I'd been going to bars on weekends but I've decided to change my routine. I used to go upstate—the Catskills and places like that."

"Have there been any serious romances in your life since your ex-girlfriend left?"

"Two. But they're in the past."

"So I suppose you're playing the field now, as they say?"

"I'm not actively looking for anyone, but I guess I'm hoping to find someone compatible. It's good to share life." We sit silently listening to the record until it ends. "I'll turn it over," I say and go to the phonograph and turn the record over.

Lucy is taking a cigarette from the silver box when I return to sit beside her. Her hand touches mine while I light her cigarette. I put the lighter on the table and rotate my body to look at her. She smiles. I pluck the cigarette from her fingers and lay it in the ashtray, then take both her hands in mine.

It is an early morning after a playful night with Lucy. I've showered and am standing nude in front of the bathroom mirror trying to get a decent shave with her electric leg shaver. She is behind me in her dressing gown with her arms around my waist kissing my back.

I have a cup of coffee before leaving her apartment but have to stop for breakfast near my office building. Lucy said that she doesn't cook and eats all her meals out.

I tell my secretary to make reservations for two at the Four Seasons that evening. I go straight home from work to shower and change clothes. The bedside clock says that it is nearly six thirty. I dial Lucy's number and when she answers, I say, "Hello, Lucy. I'm running a little late and it might be better for you to meet me at the Four Seasons. I've made reservations for seven o'clock."

"I thought you might come over so we could work up an appetite."

"We can stuff ourselves and work it off afterwards."

"Is that a promise?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay. I'll meet you there at seven."

We finish our meal and while we're sipping cognac, she asks, "Have you ever been married?"

"Twice."

"Any children?"

"No. Do you have any children?"

"I have a twenty-one-year-old daughter. She's in her third year at Radcliffe."

"Is she orange-haired like her mother?"

"Hair the same as mine. Also green eyes. Her name is Barbara. Now don't you get any ideas."

"What would I want with a twenty-year-old girl when I have a mature woman to teach me tricks?"

"I'm glad you said mature woman, not old woman. You'll meet Barbara when she comes for Christmas."

Barbara arrives to spend Christmas with her mother. I imagine Lucy looking the same when she was the age of her daughter. Both tangerine-haired and green-eyed, the same build except Barbara hasn't attained her mother's hint of plumpness.

Barbara seems bored when I take them to the Four Seasons for dinner. I suggest that I can take them for a tour of Greenwich Village this weekend to find a quaint little ethnic restaurant. Barbara seems pleased with my suggestion.

"It must be fun living down here," she says to me as we walk down Houston Street toward El Faro.

"It's different."

"It must be a lot more interesting than living mid-town. This is where I'd like to live after I finish college."

"What are you going to do after you finish?" I ask.

"I haven't decided yet. I've thought about trying to get into acting."

"There's plenty of theater in New York," I say, "and also a lot of out-of-work actors and actresses. I think it might be a difficult challenge."

"I'm not sure what I want to do."

Since Barbara has been at her mother's apartment, I haven't spent any nights there. Barbara returns to Cambridge, Massachusetts, after the holidays and I resume my routine of spending most nights at Lucy's place. Sometimes Lucy stays overnight at my apartment and gives me advice on the rearrangement of the place.

"It's getting more of a woman's touch," I say, "and is looking less and less like a bachelor's pad."

Several months have passed without me getting drunk. I've rarely consumed alcoholic beverages except at business luncheons and usually resist alcohol after work. During Lucy's frequent parties at her apartment, I spend evenings clutching club soda.

Now I'm slipping back into my old pattern of stopping at bars on the way from work after business luncheons. I've arrived drunk several times at her place. Sometimes I go straight home and spend the evenings drinking alone and not bothering to phone her. She rebukes me about it. Sometimes it results in a quarrel.

Lucy phones me at work and says she has two tickets for Madam Butterfly. I agree to meet her at her apartment after work. There is a long luncheon with a client. The account group supervisor calls a conference after my return to the office. The meeting is still going at closing time. I phone Lucy to tell her that I'm running late but will be at her apartment in time for us to get to the Metropolitan before curtain call. The meeting moves to a local bar. I phone Lucy to say, "I'm still in conference. I'll grab a cab when I finish and will meet you in the foyer at the Met."

"Call for your ticket at the box office. I'll leave it there in an envelope addressed to you."

The meeting ends. I'm about to head out of the place with intentions of hailing a taxi. A familiar voice calls from the direction of the bar. "Mountie!"

I turn to see Jim Marlowe, an account executive with another group.

"Hello, Jim."

"Have a drink, Mountie."

"I'll have just one. I'm on the run to meet someone."

"What're you drinking?"

"Scotch and water."

Marlowe orders a round of drinks. "How's it going with that new account, Mountie?"

"I've just increased their billing, and they're keeping me pretty busy."

We finish our drinks, and I buy another round. We finish that round, and I say, "I have to take off."

"Have another one." Before I can protest, Marlowe calls to the bartender and orders another round.

"I'm going to miss curtain call," I say and sip from my new drink.

"Curtain call?"

"Yeah. I'm seeing Madam Butterfly at the Met with someone."

"I didn't know you're an opera fan."

"I've been going to performances with a woman who is an opera fanatic."

I gulp the remainder of my drink and leave to hail a taxi. The first act is well in progress when I arrive. Latecomers are forbidden to go to their seats until the end of the act. I'm almost too wobbly to stand while waiting for the act to finish.

The curtain closes, and I start down the center isle looking for our seats in the ninth row. I spot Lucy's tangerine hair four seats from the isle. "Excuse me," I say to the elderly man in the isle-side seat. The man gets to a semi-standing position to let me pass. "Excuse me," I say to the woman sitting next to him. She makes no effort to stand.

I'm squeezing past her knees to get to my seat between her and Lucy. I trip over the woman's foot and pitch forward across Lucy's knees. "Sorry about that," I say.

Lucy doesn't acknowledge my presence.

Now I'm in my seat and realize that my right shoe is missing. My shoeless foot fails to come in contact with a loose shoe when I use it to search the floor in front of my seat. I'm on my knees searching under my seat and even under the seat in front of me, but no shoe. It must be in front of the woman in front of me...or under her seat or the seat in front of her. The palm of my hand is gliding over the floor somewhat like feeling for detonator prongs in a minefield. Ah, here's my shoe. My fingers close upon it before I realize that I'm holding the woman's ankle. The startled woman jerks free of my grasp and exclaims, "Young man!"

"Sorry, ma'am. I'm trying to find my shoe."

Someone snickers.

Both my hands frantically search my pockets for a book of matches to provide illumination for my search. I remember that I struck my last match to light a cigarette in the taxi on the way here. I turn to Lucy and say in a stage whisper, "Lucy, may I borrow your cigarette lighter so I can look for my shoe?"

With her gaze still directed to the front, Lucy takes her Dunhill from her purse and hands it to me. I flick on the lighter but don't see my shoe in front of the woman's feet. "Will you pick your feet up, please?" I ask her.

"What...are...you...looking...for, young...man?" the woman enunciates irately.

"My shoe, ma'am."

There are giggles from rows in front and rear of his seat.

There's my shoe between her seat and the seat beyond and I'm crawling past her feet. I'm reaching for it and drop the Dunhill. My palm scoots over the floor but doesn't locate it. So I reverse on my hands and knees and get back into my seat. Turning to Lucy with another stage whisper, I say, "I found my shoe."

More giggles.

"But I lost your lighter. I'll look for it during intermission."

The curtain rises for the second act, set in the dimly lit interior of Butterfly's house. Suzuki appears as a double image, kneeling to pray in front of a double-image Buddha. I close one eye to squint with hopes of dispensing my double vision. I see a motionless and weeping Butterfly silhouetted in double against a screen. Sharpless and Goro appear in duplicate, and I'm trying to squint them into a single image. Yamadori appears in triplicate.

The curtain closes with Butterfly keeping vigil for the return of Pinkerton. The house lights go up for intermission. The woman to my left gives me a glaring glance as she arises from her seat and follows the man seated to her left. I quickly drop to my hands and knees in search of the Dunhill and block the exit of people in this row. I've finally located the lighter under a seat in front of where the woman sat. I resume a standing position and turn to see Lucy standing with dour impatience. "I found it," I say and hand the Dunhill to her. She takes it scowlingly.

I enter the isle and step aside to let Lucy precede me to the foyer. "Good performance, isn't it?" I say while she lights a cigarette.

Lucy huffs out a cloud of smoke. "It astonishes me that you can see the stage."

"I saw two of everything. I even saw three Yamadoris."

"That's not very amusing."

Lucy is evasive during intermission. Curtain call sounds, and we return to our seats. The woman on my left glares sideways at me when she seats herself. House lights go out. When the curtain goes up I discover that my visual perspective is returning to normal. There is only one Butterfly standing motionless in the rising dawn.

The third and final act ends with Sharpless taking Pinkerton's son away as the sobbing naval officer kneels beside his dying Butterfly. The curtain closes to a resounding Japanese melody and the house lights go up. The woman to my left gives me a parting glare. I step aside in the isle and let Lucy precede me.

Lucy remains silent as we walk to Fifth Avenue. We cross the avenue, and I look downtownward for an approaching taxi. Lucy storms, "You were disgraceful this evening. You showed up late, drunk and falling all over the place. Then there was that ridiculous scene with you crawling on the floor. My neighbors, the Bassingtons, were sitting behind us taking it all in. They kept looking at you and laughing in the foyer during intermission. They must think that you..."

"Piss on the Bassingtons!" I blurt and head rapidly in the direction of Forty-Second Street, leaving Lucy to hail a taxi for herself.

Chapter 24

Lucy rebuffed me when I phoned to apologize the day after the opera. Her anger eventually relents, and she calls a few days later to invite me to her apartment.

Our relationship is smooth again with me staying sober in her presence. My thirty-sixth birthday is approaching, and she has made plans for a birthday party in her apartment.

It is a busy day on the Friday of my birthday. A client meeting starts mid-morning in the agency conference room and ends after a long luncheon at the Pen and Pencil. I return to my office feeling woozy from lunchtime alcohol consumption. I vow to myself to refrain from drinking at my birthday celebration this evening. A birthday card from my secretary is on my desk. "Thanks, Trudi, for your thoughtful card," I say when she appears to check my out-box.

"Don't run off at closing time, Mountie. We've planned a little celebration down at the local watering hole."

"It'll have to be a short one. Lucy is getting a party together at her place. She'll shoot me if I'm late."

Everyone at the agency is gathered after work at the next-door bar. My head starts spinning after topping up my declining lunchtime alcohol level. I'm reeling when the party ends. Trudi remains with me after the others leave. "I'll go out and flag a cab for you, Mountie."

"Never mind, Trudi. It's only five blocks from here, and I can walk faster than a cab can make it in this rush-hour traffic."

"Happy birthday again, Mountie, and I hope you have a wonderful celebration tonight."

"Thanks, Trudi. I'll see you Monday."

A bar appears in sight as I cross Lexington Avenue but I resist and keep walking eastward. Soon there is another bar, and I'm succumbing to the lure. "Scotch on the rocks," I say to the bartender. "Ah, make that a double."

Four doubles have gone down my gullet before I start staggering eastward for the remaining two blocks. Lucy's apartment door is ajar, and I enter to find the drawing room full of blurred people. Lucy is engaged in conversation with two couples. I barge my way through the throng of people to head straight for the bar.

I awaken on Lucy's drawing-room sofa. My jacket is crumpled on the floor beside the sofa. I arise and head toward the bar to flush the sour taste from his mouth. Lucy appears in her dressing gown. "Good morning," I say. "How did the party go last night?"

Lucy is staring harshly in my direction. "Well, it didn't last long—not after you finally arrived, anyway, staggering drunk." She picks up my smeared jacket. "If you're wondering what this guck is on your suit, it's anchovy canapé. I think that if you'll look closely you'll also find caviar, bits of cheese spread, smoked salmon..."

"If I may have the impertinence to ask..."

"You staggered into the hors d'oeuvre table and fell onto the floor into the pile of all that had been on the table. It was disgusting." The jacket drops from her fingers to the floor. She takes a cigarette from the silver box, lights it with the table lighter, and sits in a chair.

"I was drunk, I know. I had a long business lunch. Then they had a little birthday get-together for me. I'm sorry about knocking the table over, Lucy."

"That's not all?"

"It isn't?"

"You did a good job of insulting my friends and neighbors. You called Hugh Bassington a pompous piss ant. Your insult to Phillip Grice was too vulgar to repeat. Your conduct was deplorable. You've disgraced me with my friends and neighbors."

"I'm sorry and I'll apologize to your friends."

"You won't be seeing any of my friends, not in my presence anyway. You've disgraced me enough, with your behavior at the opera, and last night was... I'm not going to put my social standing in jeopardy again with you."

I arise from the sofa and pick up my jacket and extract from my trouser pocket her apartment key and put it on the coffee table. "Goodbye, Lucy, and again, I apologize for everything."

There is a two-week abstention from drinking, even during business luncheons. Then I resume my practice of starting a binge on Friday night and tapering off enough on Sunday to go to work Monday morning. It progresses from that stage to binges on through Sunday. Sometimes I don't show for work on Monday and occasionally get drunk during working hours. Sometimes I go out during lunch and don't return to my office by closing time. The president and chairman of the agency express concern several times.

Now I'm without a job after insulting a client while drunk.

At about midnight I awaken sitting in my living-room chair in front of an empty whiskey bottle. I weave my way over to the liquor cabinet to open another bottle of scotch.

It is nearly a week later, and I emerge from my apartment to go to a restaurant. The smell of food repulses me, and I feel like I'll vomit on the table. I quickly summons the waiter to pay and abandon the untouched plate of food.

A bar appears in sight on the next block. "Rheingold draft," I say to the bartender. It is difficult to swallow at first. Finally, the glass is emptied, and I'm starting to feel a little better and order another. After my fourth beer, I'm getting a salty and coppery taste in my throat and mouth. I rush into the men's' room. The four beers come up, and I stand over the toilet dry heaving and feeling faint. I flip the toilet stool down and sit until the faintness subsides, then return to the bar.

Two beers later and I trudge home to plop into a chair and sit for a long time, then get undressed and go to bed.

It is mid-morning when I awaken feeling a little better. A bath makes me feel even better. I get dressed to look into the refrigerator and find a package of cheese. Moss-green mold covers the bread. I sit at the kitchen table and consume the cheese.

Feeling somewhat better, though still shaky, I leave my apartment and walk to the Fourteenth Street IRT entrance and exit from the subway at Columbus Circle.

I'm in Central Park and heading toward a vacant bench. My mouth is dry and I feel sweaty. After a long sit I get up and walk until spotting the Tavern on the Green and order a beer. It helps my thirst and also subsides my shakes. I'm walking again after my second beer, finally turning westward and emerging from the park at West Ninety-Sixth Street.

On Columbus Avenue, I walk in a downtown direction until spotting a bar. A beer and hamburger with French fries goes down without much effort, and I begin to feel better. After two more beers I'm feeling good.

Dawn is appearing as I awaken lying on the grass in Central Park. I'm fortunate that no one found me and pilfered my pockets or maybe bashed my head.

Binges continue about a month with me ending up in various parts of Manhattan. Sometimes I awaken in Brooklyn, Bronx, or Queens and once on Staten Island. Several times I awoke with shirt buttons missing and bruises on my face.

The binge I'm on now is the most intense one I've ever experienced. My window blinds stay closed. When I awaken and see daylight filtering through the blinds I don't know whether it is dawn or dusk.

Here I am in a large pit with a half-dozen huge reptiles that look like alligators, except that they are slimy looking like salamanders. I am nude and lying facedown on a cold tile floor. My head is in a puddle of congealed blood. Familiar objects remind me that I am in my bathroom.

It is a difficult struggle to stand. The bathtub is full of water. I've been fortunate enough to fall outside the tub and hit my forehead on the sink, rather than falling into the tub and drowning. A look into the mirror reveals a blood-crusted gash on my forehead.

After cleaning my face and getting dressed, I'm sitting in a living-room chair and thinking about my unconscious wandering and all the misery I've suffered from binges. It had become all too clear to me that alcohol has taken control of my life. One drink always leads to another and another until my memory becomes oblivious.

Yeah, now I know which direction I'm heading—the Bowery to become a dirty and ragged bum mooching enough money for a bottle of sneaky pete. I'd rather be dead than to be on skid row. The only way to divert myself from that destination is to stop drinking entirely.

My appetite hasn't completely returned to normal since I gave up booze a few days ago, and I'm still feeling a bit shaky. Every day I check the New York Times advertising section for job prospects and visit placement agencies specializing in the communication fields. My efforts are in vain because of negative references from the agency that dismissed me.

Meantime, I have to eat and pay rent. Low-paying jobs through office-temporary agencies keep me afloat.

Today is Friday. And I'm sitting in my apartment reminiscing about my drinking career. That's something that I never want to go through again. Every time I awoke with a hangover I swore to myself that I would never touch another drop. I don't promise that to myself any more but keep reminding myself that I cannot drink. I know that I cannot drink and that I must never be tempted to have just one. One drink will lead to another and another until I black out or pass out. I've been lucky that there have been no urges since that last drink, and I must always be on guard to thwart any urges that may suddenly strike as they have in the past.

Many people suggested to me in the past that I was alcoholic. That was a tag that I rejected. Now I'm convinced that they were right. Sure, I'm sitting here on this park bench and am sober and with a genuine desire to stay that way, but I'm still an alcoholic and will always be one no matter how long I refrain from drinking. I'm no longer a practicing alcoholic but am an arrested or reformed alcoholic.

So now I'm sober and want to stay this way and must start reconstructing my life. It was my warped alcoholic mind that got me out of news reporting and into a publicity job. Now I know that I was never suited for it, though I performed well at it and got promotions over the heads of my colleagues.

The phone rings. Much to my surprise, it is Lucy's daughter Barbara. "I have my BA from Radcliffe," she says, "and I've decided to live in New York."

"Where are you now, Barbara?"

"I'm at my mother's place. She's out with her twenty-four-year-old boyfriend."

"Did she tell you about me?"

Barbara laughs. "I think it's funny about you calling Hugh Bassington a pompous piss ant. That's a good description of him. He's such a crushing bore. She said you had nasty words for Phillip Grice but wouldn't tell me what you said."

"She wouldn't tell me either. I must have used some choice barracks vocabulary."

"Phillip Grice probably deserved whatever you called him. He's a worse bore than Hugh Bassington."

"I was stinking drunk and don't remember anything. Anyway, nothing like that should happen again. I've given up drinking."

"Completely?"

"Completely. I've finally come to the realization that I can't control it. I'm a lot happier now that I have more control over myself."

"I'm glad you're happy. Mountie, I want to live in the Village, and I was wondering if you have any ideas about where I might find a place. I haven't seen any places down there advertised in the papers."

"Have you looked in the Village Voice?"

"Yes."

"There might be a vacancy sign in a window somewhere down here."

"Will you come looking with me?"

"Sure. It's pretty late now, but we can go tomorrow afternoon, if, if it's okay with you."

"Okay. Great."

"If you can meet me at my apartment tomorrow about noon. I'll fix lunch. We can have dinner at some little Village place."

"That'll be swell, Mountie. I'll see you at noon."

"Do you still remember where I live? It's been a long time since..."

"It's been two years but I still remember. Tomorrow at noon."

"Right. Bye, Barbara."

"Bye, Mountie."

Barbara rings my bell a little before noon. She enters my apartment smiling radiantly. Maturity has been added to her face since our last meeting. She's just as pretty or prettier than ever. "An omelet is mixed, and it'll only take a few minutes to get it on the table," I say. What have you been up to since I saw you?"

"I've been involved with theater in Cambridge. I thought I'd get into a drama workshop here."

"So you found something you like? You didn't seem very sure last time I saw you."

"I really have, Mountie. Acting is what I want to do. What have you been doing these two years?"

"Same old stuff, except that I've done some traveling for the last agency I was with. I was in residence with a client in Canada for a few months. And I've made several business trips to Europe and Latin America. Your mother went to Europe with me twice."

"Good omelet."

"Thanks. Barbara. Do you cook?

"I've never tried but I'll need to learn when I find an apartment."

"There's nothing to it. I'll let you have some cookbooks to get you started."

Barbara and I spend the afternoon combing streets looking for vacancy signs. We've almost given up hope as we turn off Greenwich Avenue. "Hey, Mountie! Look! There's one."

Barbara is bubbling with excitement as we head toward El Faro. "I'll start looking for furniture tomorrow. "Want to help me look?"

"I have to go to work. Besides, your mother will be better at that job."

"My mother and I hardly have the same tastes in much of anything. If you want to know the whole truth, my mother and I don't get along very well. I'll soon be twenty-three, and she still treats me like a child. You aren't the kind of person who could have much in common with my mother either."

"We liked to go to the opera together and ballets."

"Yes, opera...but you two are so different."

"She's okay. We had some good times together."

There aren't any vacant tables at El Faro, and we have to go to the small bar and wait for a table. "This place is getting popular," I say. "Few people had discovered it when I first started coming here."

"Does it bother you to be here at the bar, I mean since you've quit drinking?"

"Not at all. There'll always be alcohol in the world, and what other people drink doesn't bother me. I just have to avoid putting any in my mouth."

The bartender appears in front of us, and Barbara turns toward me and asks, "What are you having?"

"What'll you have, Barbara?"

"A Bacardi cocktail."

"Bacardi cocktail and a club soda for me," I tell the bartender. The bartender brings our drinks, and I click my glass against hers. "Here's to happy times in your new apartment."

"And to your new life without alcohol. I would never have thought that you were an alcoholic. I've never seen you drunk."

"It took me a long time to realize that I'm alcoholic. I always thought that alcoholics were only people you see passed out in doorways in the Bowery and panhandling for enough money to get a bottle of cheap booze. There are people like your mother and you who can enjoy a drink and not feel compelled to keep drinking until the liquor cabinet empties. It is addictive to some of us."

"I'm glad that everything is okay with you now. I suppose you're high on the ladder in your company?"

"Right now I'm working in mailrooms or wherever a temporary agency sends me. I insulted a client while I was drunk and lost my job."

"Are you going back into the same kind of work?"

"Right now I'm willing to take any kind of job in the editorial field. It is pretty difficult to erase a dirty reference."

The waitress appears to tell us that a table is vacant. Barbara and I make our way to the middle of the room. The little restaurant has become crowded with more tables since it increased its popularity. We study the menu a moment. Barbara says, I remember the paella I had when you brought my mother and me here. I think I'd like to have it again."

"I will, too. Perhaps you'd like a small bottle of wine?"

"Not really."

"It won't bother me."

"I'm not much of a drinker."

The waitress leaves to take care of our order. "Have you joined an actor's group?" I ask.

"Not yet but I'll start trying next week to enroll in a workshop."

"My hearty wishes to you."

"And I hope you soon find what you're looking for. Do you want a life-long career in editorial or publicity work?"

"I don't know, Barbara. Maybe I would be happier getting out of the city."

"And here I am enthusiastic about coming here to live."

"You grew up here, so..."

"I grew up in Connecticut."

"I didn't know that. I'd assumed that you grew up in East Side Manhattan."

Barbara is twisting the corner of her napkin and wrapping it around her dainty forefinger. "My mother moved there after she and my father divorced so she could have her opera and do her society bit."

The waitress brings our order.

"And your father is still in Connecticut?"

"Yes...with his new wife. He's sixty-three, and she's thirty-two years younger. My mother now has a boyfriend who is twenty-four and is twenty-six years younger. I suppose it's my parents' way of clinging to youth."

"Now you're getting Freudian."

She laughs.

"If your mother's boyfriend is twenty-four, he would be only twenty years younger. She told me she was forty-four, well forty-five now."

"That's what she told you. She's fifty."

"She looks younger. How do you get along with your father?"

"My father has been too wrapped up with making money to...sometimes I've felt that he didn't know that I exist. I really shouldn't say that. He continues to give me an allowance. This paella is good."

"It's too bad about this place becoming as crowded as it has. They don't have any room for expansion."

"I look forward to discovering more quaint little places now that I'll be living down here."

"It will be my pleasure to show you around, if I may."

"I'd love for you to, Mountie. Really!"

"I think you'll like living in the Village."

"Where'll you go if you get out of the city?"

"A small-town newspaper is a possibility but I'm sure I wouldn't be happy doing that. I've been thinking about dropping out and living in the wilderness."

"Where?"

"Awhile ago I spent some time fishing in the Catskill Mountains. I'd thought about going up there with my tent and fishing rod and catch fish to eat, and I'll find a day or two of work from time to time so I can buy what I need. It gets mighty cold up there in winter, and I'd have to look for a warmer spot some months of the year."

"Will you go soon?"

"There isn't much money in my bank account now. It won't make sense to dash off now. Best thing is to keep looking for a well-paying job and put enough money aside to keep me going awhile. Everything is so uncertain now. I don't know how it will turn out."

"I hope everything works out for you."

"All I can do is keep trying. I'll just keep pounding the pavement and hoping that my luck changes."

We walk to Fourteenth Street to get a taxi. When the taxi stops in front of Lucy's apartment building, I say, "I'll let you out. Your mother won't welcome the sight of me."

"Thanks, Mountie, for helping me find my apartment and for the lovely evening."

"It was delightful having your company, Barbara. It just occurred to me that The Crucible is playing in the Village. I'll try to get tickets, if you'd like to see it. I saw it a few years ago but would like to see it again."

"I'd love to see it. I've never seen it but I've read the play."

"I'll phone you."

"Okay. Goodnight, Mountie. Thanks again."

"I enjoyed your company. Goodnight, Barbara."

We see The Crucible and spend most of the weekend going around Greenwich Village and Chinatown. The following Saturday we go to the Sullivan Street Playhouse to see The Fantasticks. After the performance, we go to Figaro espresso house on the corner of Bleecker. The scene has changed since I started going there with Jo during the beatnik era when everyone dressed in black and wore black turtleneck sweaters. Most new patrons are dressed hippie fashion—colorful clothing and beads, long hair, and busy beards.

We find a secluded table and order espresso coffee. I sit opposite Barbara admiring her elegance. Her long tangerine hair is in braids and fixed in coils around her head to display the graceful curves of her shoulders and neckline. Her fair skin highlights the luster of her hair and sparkle of her green eyes. "You look lovely this evening," I tell her.

"Thank you."

"You're a beautiful woman."

"It's good to hear someone call me a woman. My mother and her friends still treat me like a child."

"Now you have a place of your own and can cultivate your circle of friends."

"Yes. Now that I'm away from my mother I won't have to listen to her trying to dictate whom I should associate with."

"It probably wouldn't please her if she knew that you've been in my company."

"I told her we went to the theater on Christopher Street and that we were going to see a musical tonight."

"I doubt that she approved."

"No, but I don't need her approval for anything. When I said we were going to a musical she said you'd probably disgrace me in public."

"Did she tell you about my conduct at the Met?"

"That's what she was referring to."

"She's right. I did behave irresponsibly."

"Everyone does sometimes."

"I showed up late and drunk and created a scene."

"She told me about it. I think you're a marvelous person, no matter what my mother says."

"I'm glad to have your confidence. The way I've felt recently...I'm beginning to feel like I'm on everyone's taboo list. I understand why people reacted like they did. I've not only made a mess out of my own life but have made other people uncomfortable."

"Now you're not drinking and everything is different."

"Very different. Maybe I'll get control over my own life. I suppose I'll never erase hurt I've inflicted upon others."

"My mother said you've been married twice. Have you lived with anyone else?"

"An artist. She went to the West Coast. I haven't heard from her in ages."

"I've never lived with a man. I've never even been to bed with anyone, so I guess I'm not a fully-fledged woman. I was going to one time. I was at a weekend party in Martha's Vineyard with some Harvard students when I was in Radcliffe. The boy I was with...I decided I wanted the first time to be with someone more special."

"There's plenty of time. You'll find the right person someday. You don't have to feel that you need to go to bed with someone to qualify for womanhood. You're a woman and an enchanting one."

"I suppose you have slept with many women? I'm sorry. I've been prying too much."

"There's nothing wrong with talking openly."

"I feel that I can be open with you. I don't feel that anything I say will shock you."

"It would be a dull world if we were all the same. We're all entitled to our individuality. We should have the right to do and think and express what we want to as long as we don't hurt other people. I've hurt people but I hope I can make amends to those I have hurt."

"My parents tried to put me in a mold all my life. They've decided what schools to send me to and the people they want me to associate with. They don't approve of me wanting to be an actress and living in a place like the Village. They insist that I've become degenerate in doing what I have. I've decided to break out of their mold."

"My parents didn't respect my individuality, either. I left home when I was sixteen and tried to find my own way. I'm still trying to find it."

"You don't see your family anymore?"

"Not for a long time. We have different concepts of living. I've chosen to live my life out of their sight."

"That's what I've decided, too. They can live their lives, and I'll live mine the way I want to."

We're strolling around the Washington Square area after leaving Figaro and turn left on Eighth Street in the direction of Greenwich Avenue. We stop in front of her apartment building. "It's been fun, Barbara. I'll see if I can get tickets to some more off-Broadway theater."

"Don't you want to come up to my apartment for awhile?"

I follow her up the stairs and into her apartment. Barbara switches on the light and closes the door and precedes me to the middle of the living room. She stops and turns. Our eyes meet and her face flushes. I step toward her and take her into my arms and tightly hold her trembling body.

Chapter 25

My eyes open to see Barbara sitting nude beside me and brushing her long tangerine hair that glistens in dawn's light. Her youthful skin is velvety smooth and unblemished as a blanket of newly fallen snow. I'm gazing at her slender body, firm pink-nippled breasts, and the fawn-like delicateness of her innocent face. Willowy movements of her delicately slender arms flow like the harmonious grace of a ballerina as she draws the brush through fine hair falling over elegant shoulders.

The brush drops from her slender fingers when her head turns to see me awake. She rotates herself so her pristine face hovers over mine, and her silky hair floats over my face and shoulders, enrapturing me with its delicate bouquet. My arms encircle her shoulders and pull her close so her soft and warm body presses against me. My hands caress her velvety skin as our lips entwine.

We awaken a couple of hours later, still engulfed in each other's arms. "I've slept with a man and today I've awakened as a complete woman. I'm very happy."

"Today I've awakened with a beautiful woman and I'm very happy, too."

We arise and get dressed. "You must be hungry," she says, "but I've never learned to cook. All I have are some crackers and cheese."

"I'm starving. We'll go down to Washington Square and have brunch."

We walk hand-in-hand down Bleecker and take seats on opposite sides of an outdoor table at O.Henry's to order bacon, eggs, and toast. Barbara says, "I sit here telling myself, there's the man who has transformed me into womanhood, and how happy I am. I'm glad that I waited to let it happen with an adult man."

"An old man of thirty-nine. People will be accusing me of clinging to youth."

"I'm nearly twenty-three and am only sixteen years younger than you. It doesn't matter as long as we're happy. I'm happy and I hope you are, too."

"I am."

Barbara reaches across the table for my hand. "Mountie, you said your lease would soon expire. How about us living together?"

"In your apartment?"

"Why not? It's big enough for two."

"Then I can teach you to cook."

"I'd like to learn."

"I'll contribute half the rent if we live together."

"That won't be necessary while you're looking for a job."

"I insist."

Barbara squeezes my hand. "I'm all excited about us living together. Will you move in right away?"

"Tomorrow."

Barbara has zestfully dedicated herself to cooking tasks since I've started her off with cookbooks. She is also enthusiastic about the theater workshop she has joined. I continue to look for an editorial or publicity job and spend three days a week doing temporary work.

Today I'm home a bit early. Barbara is taking a baking pan of cookies out of the oven. She puts it on the table and flings her arms around my neck. "I wanted to have these for you when you got back. I made them just like the cook book said."

I pick a hot cookie off the tray, blow on it, and take a bite. "Good. You're coming along really well with your cooking."

"Now give me another kiss for my efforts."

I kiss her and stroke her long silky hair.

"Did you have a good day?"

"I found a job."

"In publicity?"

"Yep. And it's the best-paying job I've ever had."

"Great, Mountie! That was some luck, wasn't it? Now instead of spending your time going through the classified ads looking for job prospects you can spend it with me."

My hand caresses her hair.

"Let's sit on the sofa."

I pick up the pan of cookies and go with her to the sofa.

"Now I'll tell you my news. I talked with my mother on the phone today and told her that we're living together."

"That must have sent her into profound shock, or aroused some caustic comments."

"Caustic is right. She went on about what a bad influence you'll be to me. I told her that it's time she quits treating me like a child and that I'm free to live with anyone I want to and do what I want to."

I put my arm around her and lay my hand against her youthful cheek. "Barbara, there's something I haven't told you yet about my new job. It will be in Chicago."

"Chicago! You'll leave New York?"

"I'll have to."

"I'll go with you."

"How about your workshop?"

"It's not important."

"It is important, Barbara. You like the theater."

"There must be something in Chicago."

"You can't give it up until you've finished your course."

Barbara's face contorts. "I don't want you to leave me."

"We'll see each other. I'll make business trips to New York and..."

"Maybe you can't."

"I'll be the number-two boss of the agency and if I want to go out of town... We can spend vacations together. You can go out there when you have time off, and I can come here during my vacation. We can even spend some weekends together."

"It won't be the same as living together."

"No. But it just so happens that we have commitments that forbid us from living together now."

"I don't have any commitment. I've enrolled in the course, but it doesn't mean that I must attend in the autumn."

"Barbara, you can't pass up this opportunity to...Look, Barbara. Let's give it a try for a while and see each other whenever we can. When you're finished with the course, we can...Also, I could end up back in New York. No one stays with an agency forever. I've made several moves in the short time I've been in publicity. What do you say, Barbara?"

"I've been happier living with you than anything I've done." She begins to cry. "I never had any fun until I started living with you."

"It's been as much fun for me." I take her in my arms and kiss her hair. "Barbara, Barbara."

Barbara wipes her wet cheeks on my jacket sleeve. "Have you really liked living with me?"

"Yes, Barbara. I've been very happy since we have been together."

"I haven't been using that cap the gynecologist prescribed. I want to get pregnant."

"You've been very foolish, you know."

"It's not foolish to have a baby."

"I'm not ready to be a father. Barbara, please start using the diaphragm."

Barbara keeps her face pressed against my arm and doesn't answer.

"Will you? Please, for now, until we can work out something more permanent. Will you, Barbara?"

She bobs her head in affirmation.

I tilt her head back to kiss her. "You would give me a beautiful child, if it looked anything like you. We must wait." I kiss her again.

"Let's go to bed a little while before we have dinner."

"Give me a smile first."

Barbara wipes her hand across her cheeks and smiles.

My new place of work in Chicago is on Wacker Drive. I'm renting a two-bedroom apartment on Lincoln Park West. The living room overlooks the park, and I can see onto the horizon of Lake Michigan. The zoo in the park is nearby, and at night I can hear loud shrieking sounds. I'd been wondering what kind of zoo animal could make such a disturbance. Now I know what the noisemakers are. They're peacocks.

I've flown into New York to spend Christmas with Barbara. I take a taxi from the airport into Manhattan and dismount to head toward her apartment building. "Mountie!" a familiar voice calls. Barbara is running toward me, her tangerine hair flowing. My suitcases drop to the sidewalk. She leaps into my arms, and we shower kisses upon each other.

"You're the most beautiful woman I've seen since I left New York." That's no exaggeration.

We go upstairs to her apartment, and she is bubbling with enthusiasm about her activities in Actors Workshop. "It sounds like you've made a good choice and have found something that you're having fun with," I say.

"It's a lot of fun but I still miss the fun we had together. I kept hoping that you would be back to see me."

"I've been too busy to get out of Chicago. There's a lot of work involved with my clients and all the time I have been traveling to California and Canada."

"Have you been happy?"

"I'd have been a lot happier with you. I missed you, Barbara."

"It would be an awful Christmas without you here."

"For me, too."

"I've been all excited thinking about us cooking our first Christmas dinner together. It would be a real drag to spend Christmas with my mother. She's having a Christmas dinner party and insists that I be there. I'm so happy that you're here. I'm free until after New Year. We can celebrate our first New Year together."

"I have to be at work between Christmas and New Year. I've bought you a round-trip airline ticket so you can go back with me and celebrate New Year in Chicago. How does that sound?"

"Great! That's a wonderful surprise."

"We'll just have our own celebration together. I haven't had time to cultivate any friends in Chicago and don't have any parties lined up."

"I'll be happy just being with you."

We leave for Chicago together the day after Christmas and celebrate the New Year bundled up in warm clothing walking on the windy lakeshore with arms around each other.

Today is Sunday and the fourth day into 1970 with us clasped together in the O'Hare Airport terminal. Barbara whispers into my ear, "The greatest gift that I could have this year would be to have your baby inside me."

"Barbara, you've been using your diaphragm, haven't you?"

"Not last night."

"Barbara!"

"I want to get pregnant."

"Barbara, you mustn't..."

The last boarding call sounds over the intercom. Barbara kisses me quickly and dashes toward the gate.

Office work and frequent client calls to the west coast and to Ottawa, Toronto, and Montreal keep me so occupied that I don't have an opportunity to go back east as I had hoped to see Barbara. She is voicing her disappointment during the frequent phone calls I make to her. I keep assuring her that I'll arrange a business trip to New York as soon as possible.

A fierce March wind blows tonight outside my apartment building. I'm sitting here puzzled and despondent after trying to phone her and learning that her phone has been disconnected.

She hasn't responded to any of my letters I've written lately. It isn't until June that an opportunity comes for a business trip to New York. I dismount from the taxi on Greenwich Avenue, and as I head toward her apartment I'm wishfully thinking that I'll see her running down the street to meet me.

Someone else's name replaces Barbara's name on the mailbox. I ring the landlady's bell. "I suppose you're looking for Barbara?" she says after greeting me.

"I couldn't phone her, and I thought I'd drop by while I'm in town."

"Barbara left the first of March."

"You don't happen to know where she went, do you?"

"She gave me an address in case there's any mail for forwarding. It's over on the east side. I'll give you the address."

I follow her into her apartment, and she hands me a piece of paper. I copy the address that is on East First Street, thank the landlady, and make my exit and stand on Greenwich Avenue to wait for a passing taxi.

The address is between Avenues C and D. All the windowpanes are broken in the vestibule door that is open. I walk the three flights up to her apartment and knock on the door. The door bolt clashes after awhile, and the door opens the length of the night-latch chain. Barbara's tousled hair no longer has luster. She is gaunt, and her fair complexion is brown-splotched. "Hello, Barbara."

Barbara doesn't answer but unfastens the night latch and opens the door. Her belly is swollen like she is pregnant.

"Barbara, what happened to you?"

"I'm pregnant. Can't you see?"

I take her into my arms. "I can see. What's wrong with you, Barbara? You look...You're not looking well."

Barbara has her face pressed against my shoulder and makes no effort to kiss me. "I'm okay."

"You don't look okay, Barbara." I release her and follow her to the center of the living room. There is no furniture in the room, only cushions and mats on the floor. "You didn't tell me about being pregnant."

She doesn't answer.

"I tried to phone you but couldn't connect. Did you get my letter?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me, Barbara?"

She doesn't respond.

Barbara lowers herself to a cushion, and I sit on a cushion opposite her. I notice a bruise in the bend of her left arm. I take hold of her wrist and raise her arm for closer inspection and see needle marks. Barbara withdraws her arm from my grasp. "Barbara, what are you doing to yourself?"

"So you're going to start preaching to me."

"No, Barbara. I care about you. About you and the baby."

"It might not be yours."

"I care, regardless. You don't look like the same Barbara I knew."

"I'm not the same."

"You don't look healthy."

"I'm okay."

"You're not okay. How're you doing in Actors Workshop?"

"I dropped out."

"You were happy the last time I saw you."

"It was a drag."

"Do your parents know you're pregnant?"

"My mother does."

"You told her that I'm the father?"

"I don't know whether you are or not,"

"Do your parents know you're shooting up?"

"No. I suppose you'll tell my mother."

"No, Barbara. You're an adult, and I'm not going to tell your mother. Would you like to go back to Chicago with me?"

"I don't want to go anywhere."

"We can..."

There is a knock on the door, and she arises and goes to the door. A man in his early thirties enters and approached the center of the room. He has a bushy beard, and long hair. I arise and say, "My name's Mountie. There is no response from the bearded man. He goes to a cushion in the corner to pick up a flute and start blowing it.

I pick up my suitcase and say to Barbara, "I'll go now." She follows me to the door and unlatches it. She is unresponsive when I put my arms around her. I release her and say, "Barbara, if you change your mind about going to Chicago, phone me and I'll come to get you."

She doesn't respond and I leave.

Barbara hasn't answered any of the many letters I've written to her since my last visit with her. I'm back in New York for another business meeting. I go to her apartment and knock on the door but there is no answer.

A month later and I'm knocking on her door again. She opens the door looking less healthy than my last sight of her. Her face has more brown splotches, and there are also pustule bumps on her face. She is even gaunter than the last time I saw her. There is a baby crib in the corner of the room. I go to it and see a sleeping dark-skinned baby with Afro-curly hair almost the same color as Barbara's hair. "Is it a boy or girl?"

"Girl."

"Where's her father?"

"I don't know."

"Have your parents seen her?"

"My mother has. I took her there."

"Has she offered to help you in any way?"

"She said she doesn't want to see me again."

"Let me help you, Barbara. You'll destroy yourself...and the child. Let me help you."

"We'll be okay."

"You won't be if you keep on doing what you're doing to yourself."

"You're preaching to me like my mother."

"If you won't let me help you...go to a rehabilitation center or something."

"I'm okay. You should go now, Mountie."

We go to the door and she opens it. She withdraws when I try to embrace her. "Barbara...it hurts me to see you destroying yourself. Please call me if you change your mind about letting me help you."

Barbara doesn't answer. I walk down the stairs and exit onto East First Street with tears in my eyes.

Chapter 26

This week I'm attending to client business in North Carolina and in Roanoke, Virginia, which is some fifty miles from where I was born. I've gone to visit my mother. She sold the farm after my father died and now lives in Long Shop, the village where I went to primary school.

Today I'm going for a nostalgic visit to the farm site and have parked the rental car by the entrance of the road going from the main road to the farm. It is obvious that the farm road is no longer used for vehicle traffic because it is so deeply eroded that our erstwhile Model A Ford with its high ground clearance couldn't negotiate passage over the rocks and ruts.

It has been some twenty-four years since I joined the Marines, and I hardly know what to expect since this absence from our old homestead. Swarms of cattle flies leave grazing heifers and come to greet me as I go through the gate to the farm. The first big change that I notice is that there is no longer a barn.

Now that I'm past the old barnyard I see only empty space where the house and outbuildings used to be. My mother told me that the people who bought the farm had lived in the house. They must have become disenchanted living so far in the boondocks that they moved away and maybe even sold the land to someone else. No signs of building materials remain and it is my guess that the buildings were disassembled and the lumber transported somewhere else to construct other buildings.

I'm visualizing the house that used to stand there. One of my earliest memories was walking around the house with a Collie dog on a chain, and though the chain was probably a normal-size chain for leading a dog, it felt as heavy to me as a logging chain would now. Big Grandma, my father's mother, was shaking with laughter while watching me. Another early recollection was of my bulldog growling while he ate. It sounded to me like he was saying, "and dumplings, and dumplings..."

The front porch was where I'm standing now. It was here that my mother knocked me unconscious with a piece of firewood.

There are also some pleasant memories. A basket of apples was brought up from the cellar in winter, and we spent evenings in the living room that was heated by a pot-bellied coal-burning stove that glowed cherry red.

I would sit at a small table in the corner with a kerosene lamp doing my school homework or reading a book from Miss Agnes's collection. I didn't usually stop reading until I finished the book, even if it was necessary to sneak back into the living room and relight the lamp after everyone had gone to bed.

This big oak tree here near the house site looks the same as I remember. That big limb running parallel to the ground was my favorite roosting spot. I'm climbing the oak and scooting out onto the limb and sit here with my feet dangling about two yards from the ground and trying to recollect what I used to think about when I sat here many years ago.

The greatest recollection is just being up here above the ground. High places have always given me a feeling of freedom. Maybe it is some kind of primal identification from millenniums past when my ancestors dwelled in trees or cliffs. That's probably what C. G. Jung would have said.

Thoughts of having a nice girlfriend someday often preoccupied my mind. Also, I thought a lot about going to sea and traveling in foreign lands, especially in China and later became overjoyed when that dream became reality.

During the Second World War, I wished that I could be old enough to participate in it. I didn't envision myself as much as a member of the armed forces but as a free-lance warrior in the Pacific jungles. It was said then that Japanese snipers lashed themselves to the tops of coconut trees. I wanted to tie myself to the top of a tall jungle tree and pick off Japanese soldiers with my .22-caliber rifle. My grandfather taught me to be a crack shot with a twenty-two and I was confident that I could have scored between-the-eyes hits.

After descending from the oak, I turn my gaze to a tall popular tree and see that in the forks there is a robin's nest as there has always been as long as I can remember. Many times I've climbed up there to look at the blue eggs or pre-fledgling baby birds.

Above the road is a field of broom sage, and I wander into it and lie on the ground inhaling the fragrance and listening to bees buzzing while gathering nectar from the flowers. This recalls memories of when I would shelter here from the wind and also lavish in my loneliness while looking up at the sky.

Here is the site of an outbuilding that served as a coal shed, tool room, and a salt-curing room for pork. The attic was where we dried walnuts after removing them from their husks. It was also my laboratory where I made gunpowder and conducted other experiments. I even tried doing taxidermy but was never successful in stuffing a skinned bird.

In front of that shed was where I got a beating from my father that I shall never forget. Someone had driven a nail into one of his new boards. He asked John if he did it and he said no. Junior also denied it.

He went into the tool shed and emerged with a thick leather strap and faced me to ask if I was guilty. He started beating me and said he wouldn't stop until I told the truth. I lied and said that I had driven the nail in the board, and he began to beat me harder for not telling the truth in the first place. The final blow on my back was so hard that it paralyzed me below the waist, and I crumpled to the ground and remained immobile until after he returned the strap to the shed.

I remember coming here to the woods and stripping off my clothes any lying on the wet leaves on the peripheries of the spring branch to cool the stinging welts on my shoulders, back, and legs.

This spring is where we got buckets of water for household use until a well was dug behind the house so water could be drawn into the kitchen with a manual pump over the sink. Carrying water from the spring had been one of my favorite chores. Now I'm on my belly like I used to drink the spring water that is cold enough to numb my nose. Water in the pool has a mellow musty aroma and taste from decaying tree leaves that has always lingered in my memory.

Down here below the spring is a marshy area where there has always been a lone May apple stalk, but there is no longer a sign of it. It was a stalk less than knee high and on top of it was a green oval fruit. It ripened and turned yellows in May and was aromatic, and I remember it having some kind of a very mild tropical-fruit taste. John said that he was entitled to it because his birthday was in May but I, being two years older than he and that much bigger, always laid claim on the harvest.

There is a small branch of water flowing from the marsh, and I start following it. Over there to my left is the hollow tree where I'd hidden my pack and bow and arrows in preparation for my second time to run away from home. The old tree looks like it has been some years since it has fallen and is beginning to decay.

Near it is a hickory tree. I used to sit on that slope up there above the tree early in the morning with my twenty-two to await squirrels that came to eat hickory nuts for breakfast.

Frogs splash into the water ahead of me as I explore the stream to see tadpoles, salamanders, crawfish, and a small water snake that might be a baby poisonous water moccasin disappearing under the embankment.

The branch continues on below the old house site and to a long and wide meadow where a large pool has been excavated to provide drinking water for cattle. I remember springtime excitement of the first day of the season that we were allowed to go barefooted. I'm removing my shoes now so I can relive that sensation of sensitive feet on grass while running up and down this meadow.

What used to be a cornfield on the slope ascending from this meadow is now pasture for cattle. Everything about raising corn was hard work back then when everything was done manually. Corn was planted close together in case there were seeds that wouldn't germinate. Then it had to be thinned by hand, which was back-tiring work bending and pulling up excess stalks. As the corn grew, a hoe had to be used to scratch up hills of soil around the roots to retain moisture and also to dig away ever-present weeds.

When the corn ripened, stalks were cut near the ground with a machete-like corn cutter and armloads of stalks were placed in pyramid shocks. Dry foliage on the stalks was like sharp knives, and also, there were green wooly corn worms that emitted irritating stings to the neck, arms and hands.

In late autumn or early winter, the shocks were torn apart, and shucks were removed from each ear of corn so it could be stored in the corncrib. Then whatever corn was needed for grinding into cornmeal had to be shredded off the cob and I remember my hands being sore and almost ready to bleed after that job.

The orchard is at the top of the hill. Alone in the cornfield up there was a lone persimmon tree. The fruit was too acrid to eat until it had become frostbitten. Possum shit was always on the ground under the tree after the persimmons ripened.

Dewberries grew on ground runners in a sandy area up there. We could quickly fill a bucket with blackberries that grew along the rail-fence rows. Every year we went to the top of a mountain several miles from here to pick huckleberries and sometimes we went to Floyd County to pick big blue grapes from abandoned arbors. I always looked forward to those excursions.

The meadow that is widening down here at the bottom was sometimes a wheat field but now is a pasture. Wheat was mown by hand with a cradle-scythe for putting into shocks. Itinerate thrashing machines went from farm to farm. Wheat shocks were loaded onto a wagon and brought to the barnyard where the thresher was stationed. It was a strenuous job lifting the wheat onto the wagon and from the wagon into the thrasher. Chaff was scratchy and itchy on sweaty skin.

Hay was also mown by hand with a cradle-scythe or scythe and put into stacks. Some of it was pitch forked onto a wagon and hauled to the barn. Starting in my beginning teens I've pitched hay and wheat alongside adult men.

Wood chopping was one of my chores and was what I liked most because I could work alone and became skilled with an ax. I didn't mind too much using the bow saw but hated working the cross-cut saw with my father because he never stopped criticizing and pestering me.

As I continue my exploration downstream, I look up and see seven turkey buzzards circling high in the sky. These big black vultures have red heads similar to male turkeys.

The farm next to ours had sheep. Sometimes a sheep would become ill and start smelling like rotting carrion while the animal was still alive. Buzzards would hover overhead waiting for it to die. They would never descend upon the sheep until it died.

A sound that is missing today is the cawing of crows. There were always plenty of them around here when there were cornfields. Scarecrows weren't always effective. It was difficult to get close enough to kill them with a shotgun. People in these parts say crows know the effective range of a shotgun.

We bound corn shocks with twine, and when the twine was removed it was usually hung over a fence post to await future use. A crow once hanged itself in one of those nooses. The rest of the flock had a cawing fit while witnessing the death and continued their noisy vigil for some time. Then they disappeared and didn't reappear near that field as long as the carcass remained hanging on the post.

The stream is getting wider because there are hillside springs feeding into it. The branch leads into a pond that was over my head when I swam in it on the way home from school. Sometimes I carried fishing line and hooks in my pocket to catch bluegills and red-eyed rock bass from this pool or from the creek running alongside the main road. Once I caught a big snapping turtle from this pond and brought it home to butcher.

My nostalgic journey has finished as I get back on the main road. It has rekindled good and bad memories. I don't begrudge the hard farm work I had to perform, but I'll always be resentful of the severe beatings I got from my mother and father and not being able to express myself. If I said something that was beyond my parents' comprehension I was told that I didn't know what I was talking about.

Many times I've daydreamed of being back up here living a life that I would have liked to live in the past. The life I lived here is past history, and there is no way of reliving my childhood. With today's explorations ended, I shall try to put away the bad memories and get on with a new life that is opening up for me.

My life is being measured in steps. My first step was to get away from here by any means. Military service afforded me that opportunity. It opened a door into another world. In that world I experienced unimaginable horror and torment but learned many lessons from it just as I did from a tortured childhood. From there I made another step out into a professional career that rewarded me with many valuable experiences but robbed my personal identity.

A big revelation came while I was riding the New York subway and a power failure halted the train in a tunnel for a couple of hours in the sweltering heat. I was standing and managed to keep on my feet while others collapsed around me.

Then I considered the possibility of going into the Catskills with my fishing rod and bags of brown rice to live a free life but winters are too harsh there for living in a tent. However, I could spend winters in a warmer area. Finally I concluded that I should start saving enough money to cut myself loose from the life that denies me of individuality and let serendipity put me on the right road.

So now I shall return to Chicago and start looking for an opportunity to make a bid for freedom.

Chapter 27

There have been no answers to letters I've written to Barbara since that last painful visit with her. I've given up trying contact her and am trying to go ahead with my life and let her live the way she chooses.

Now I'm without a companion. An advertising executive and I were together in her apartment on Lake Shore Drive or in my place by the park. There hasn't been anyone else since she went back to her apartment.

Part of my evenings and weekends are spent riding my new Raleigh three-speed bicycle on the vast network of bicycle paths throughout the city. Some of my time on weekends is spent in museums. Much of my time is with clients in California and various parts of Canada.

Today is Saturday in Lincoln Park near the lake. My bike is on its kickstand, and I'm sitting on a bench looking out at the horizon of Lake Michigan.

My eye catches sight of a telephone booth as I arise and head toward my bicycle. I have my address book in my pocket, and I remember that when someone I knew in college was in New York, she gave me a telephone number where Jo shared an apartment with other people in New Orleans. I'm wondering if she is still there. Well, there's one way to find out.

A male voice answers on the other end of the line. I ask, "Does Jo still live there?"

"She's here if you'd like to speak with her."

"Please."

"Who's calling?"

"Mountie."

"Hello, Arnold," Jo's voice sounds over the line.

"Hey, Jo. I got your number from Thelma awhile ago and have been planning to call you."

"You caught me just in time. I'm leaving for San Francisco. I'll stop in Houston and spend a couple of days with Thelma."

"She visited me in Greenwich Village and gave me your number. When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow."

"Would you like for us to meet somewhere in your route or in California?"

"It's a super idea. Where do you want to meet?"

"There is always business pending in California. There are clients I have to see in San Diego, Los Angeles, and San Francisco."

"I'm going to Los Angeles and then drive up to San Francisco."

"I'm calling from a public phone and am almost out of change. I'll go back to my apartment and will call you back from there, if you'll be in within the next half hour."

"I'll be here."

San Diego is my first stop, and I spend two days consulting with clients before driving my rental car to Los Angeles. Jo knows the hotel where I'll be waiting and will phone me with progress reports while driving from Houston.

My business appointments are finished here in L.A., and I've been staying most time in my hotel room to intercept her calls and also to wonder how amiable our meeting will be after being out of contact some ten years.

The phone rings just as I get out of the shower. I sprint to answer it while drying myself with a towel. "I'm just entering the city," she says.

"I'll meet you in the hotel underground parking lot."

She arrives suntanned in her Austin-Healey Mark III. I'm disappointed that her shoulder-length auburn hair is shortened.

We're excited about being back together. Next day we're in Disneyland, and the following day we're taking turns at the wheel of her low-slung sports car on the way to San Francisco. I tell her that I've been thinking about getting out of the city to live a simple life. She says she is also keen on doing something like that. Not half the distance to Frisco has been covered before we decide that she will go to Chicago to live with me.

It is imperative that I get back to my office as soon as possible after finishing all my calls in San Francisco. She drives me to the airport and gets on the road heading toward the Midwest.

Jo has been phoning progress reports to me each evening since I arrived back in Chicago. This is Friday evening. I've changed into jeans and am going through newspapers while waiting for her call. The phone rings. "Arnold."

"Jo. Where are you?"

"In Iowa, near Des Moines. I'm in a garage having my car fixed. The electrical system broke down. Would you like to meet me in Des Moines?"

"I'll have to call the airport and see if there's a flight. Give me the number of the phone you're calling from, and I'll call you back."

There is a delayed flight arriving from Pittsburgh en route to Des Moines. I dial the garage number and Jo answers. "Jo! There's a flight coming in. I'll make it if I'm lucky. Look for me in Des Moines Airport. If I don't arrive with a flight from Pittsburgh, call my home number. It is the only Des Moines flight coming through here tonight."

"Okay."

A taxi is in sight as I exit from my apartment building. "O'Hare," I say as I get into the cab. "And I'll be grateful for anything you can do to keep me from missing a flight."

"I'll do my best."

We arrive at the airport. I pay the driver and tip him well for breaking the speed limit and rush into the terminal to look for the ticket counter booking flights to Des Moines.

About a dozen people are ahead of me in the queue. I call, "I'm about to miss a flight, and I'd like to move up in the line if there's someone who isn't in a hurry."

The guy behind the desk asks, "Do you have an air-travel card?"

"Yes."

"If you have an airline credit card you can use it to pay at the gate."

"Thanks," I say and take off in the direction of the departure gate and get on the plane just in time before the ramp is raised.

Jo arrives about a half hour after I get off the plane. "I barely made the flight on time," I say and relate the race I had to accomplish the feat.

"I knew you'd make it."

Jo has been a high-school teacher in New Orleans. Now she is looking for a teaching job in the Chicago school system. She is sitting in our living room with a cup of coffee when I arrive home from work. "Any luck?" I ask.

"I don't know about luck. They sent me...Arnold, will you go with me and give me your opinion about the place where they sent me?"

"Let's go. We'll stop somewhere and have dinner on the way back."

She gets behind the steering wheel to head the car southward. This is the tail end of rush-hour traffic and going is slow. It is almost an hour before she stops and turns off the engine to point toward an enormous building. "That's where they sent me."

"It doesn't look like a school." Most of the windowpanes seem to be broken. There is crude temporary patchwork to cover damaged places on the wall.

"I didn't think it looked like a school either. I found a pay phone and called the office to have them check the address. They said it is the right place. I wanted to know what you think before I go back to the office."

"It looks like a squadron of fighter-bombers attacked it with rockets. I wouldn't feel very good about you being in a place like that."

"I'll go back tomorrow and see if they have anything else."

Jo is standing in the living room looking out over the park when I arrive home from work. "How'd it go today?" I ask.

"I'm hired."

"To work where?"

"In that building we saw. I was told at the office that it is the only teaching spot open right now. I went to the school and saw the principal. He's a nice guy. Maybe it'll be okay."

Jo arrives home from her first day at work to tell me what it is like to be in a slum-neighborhood school. "We're told to keep classroom doors locked from the inside. There are policemen on duty in the school building. Some of the teachers say there are drug dealers on the school grounds and even in the building. A student's mother stabbed one of the teachers with a pair of scissors last term."

"Jo, I'll be worried about you. My income is more than sufficient for two of us."

"Someone has to do the job. Besides it will be to our advantage to have a second income and save for making our big break."

A second Raleigh three-speed bike has been purchased for Jo. Much of our off-work time is spent cycling on the vast network of bicycle paths throughout the city. Sometimes we peddle through traffic jams up North Clark Street to shop for food in Japanese and Korean stores or to eat in the small Oriental restaurants.

Today is Friday. Jo is parked in front of my office building with our bikes strapped onto the back of her car. She starts the car, and I begin to change from my suit to jeans and sport shirt. We're going to Wisconsin.

I'm in the driver's seat going through Milwaukee. "I've never seen so many clocks on steeples," Jo comments.

"This is what I always imagined a German city to look like when I first came here."

It is dark when we stop in a state campsite that is unattended after the end of tourist season. Our tent is erected in front of the car headlights. I build a small fire to roast marshmallows after we eat sandwiches Jo prepared last night.

There is a rustling sound behind us, and I switch on the light and turn the beam in the direction of the noise. "A raccoon," Jo says. "It's the first one I've seen."

"It's the biggest and fattest one I've ever seen. It's been spoiled by tourist treats," I say and toss a raw marshmallow toward it. The coon takes it and disappears.

"It won't get many treats until next summer."

"It'll be healthier foraging from the woods."

"I'll go inside and get our sleeping bag warm while you extinguish the fire."

The car is on the road at dawn heading for Door County. We get on a ferry at Gills Rock for the crossing to Washington Island. Our tent is erected on the shore of Lake Michigan, and we explore the island on our bicycles until time to head back to Chicago.

A Wisconsin winter is coming and it is getting too cold for camping. We're spending weekends cycling in Chicago and going to museums.

Snow is too deep now, and there's too much ice on the bicycle paths for working out on our Raleighs. We're intrigued with the Field Museum and spend weekends going slowly through it.

Jo doesn't like meat and the only flesh we eat is fish. Most of our food is from the Korean or Japanese restaurants on North Clark Street and food we prepare in our kitchen that comes from the Oriental shops. Life is blissful when we're together like it has never been with anyone else. Jo seems happy, too. One Saturday morning when we were having a late lie-in, she remarks, "I never dreamed what it was like to be happy all the time."

Only a back pain I'm getting lately mars bliss. It is so severe sometimes that Jo has to help me turn over in bed. Touring museums is also getting to be a strain. I've consulted with a doctor, and he says it is a mild case of osteoporosis. He prescribed painkillers, but I don't take them unless pain gets unbearable.

Life would be perfect for both of us if it weren't for my bad back and also unhappiness with our jobs. Jo says she spends more time being a policewoman with her unruly students and is getting no satisfaction as a teacher. I'd learned soon after giving up news reporting and editing that publicity work gives me no gratification, except that my salary is some four times the national median average.

We've talked a lot about looking for an alternative lifestyle. We're on a mailing list to receive rural real-estate listings. Many farms in remote areas throughout the Mid-West are going cheap.

Today is Christmas. We've just finished a lunch of fondue made from a sharp Cheddar-style cheese we bought from a dairy cooperative in Wisconsin. "You know, Jo," I say, "we could be sitting here ten years from now still talking about getting out of the city. What do you say to being out of here by next Christmas."

"I'm with you all the way. Where shall we go?"

"What do you say to doing it like Doctor Dolittle did it?"

"Like Doctor Dolittle did what?"

"Doctor Dolittle would spin a globe with his eyes closed and when it stopped spinning he would jab it with a pencil point. Wherever it touched was where he would go. Are you game?"

"I'm game. But we don't have a globe.

"We have a world map. One of us can take a handful of white rice and one grain of brown rice and scatter it over the map. Wherever the brown grain falls is the country where we'll start our travels. If it falls on the ocean we're allowed another throw."

Jo goes into the kitchen. I have our world map spread on the table when she returns to the living room with s handful of rice. She extends it toward me. "Here."

"You do it."

She closes her eyes and cups her hands together, then shakes the rice and scatters it over the map. "It's landed near Liverpool," she says after opening her eyes.

"We'll start in England and..."

"Maybe we can travel around the British Isles for awhile. I've always wanted to."

"It'll be a good start."

"Where'll we go from there?"

"We've promised ourselves that we'll be out of here before next Christmas. That'll give us almost a year to plan our direction."

"That will give us time to save a good bit of money."

"Traveling shouldn't be too expensive if we take backpacks and hitchhike most of the time. I haven't hitchhiked in a long time."

"I haven't since I was in Europe in '58."

Today is Saturday, and we're at a boat show looking at an exhibition of portable Klepper boats made in Germany. One model is a heavy canvas rowboat that has sail equipment and a dagger-board. The other is a seventeen-foot kayak. The hull is made from a durable conveyor-belt rubber fabric, and the deck portion is heavy canvas. It has a small aluminium mast, gaff sloop-rig sails, tilt-up leeboards, and a foot-paddle-operated rudder. There are two pairs of double kayak paddles. The boat can be disassembled and put into four heavy canvas bags with backpack straps for carrying. The whole inventory weighs 120 pounds. "It's an ideal boat for traveling in canals," Jo says.

"It's hardly the right boat for crossing an ocean, but it should be okay for shoreline travel. It can be packed up and transported on a ship or plane if we want to cross an ocean."

Both of us are excited about the sailing kayak. The guy in charge of the Klepper exhibition tells us that we can place an order and have the boat delivered to any place in Europe. "We'll have to think about it," I say.

"The boat show closes after next weekend," he reminds us.

Jo has friends living on Holland Park Avenue in London. She phones them and they say they have enough closet space to accommodate the four packages and that they will hold the boat for us as long as it takes for us to arrive in London.

Next weekend we'll own a fold-up sailing kayak. Both of us are tremendously excited while scouring maps of the British Isles and France. "If we only had more detailed maps of the British and French canal routes," Jo says.

"Maybe the tourist offices will have something."

The recession has been hitting advertising and public relations agencies with many clients reducing their billing or not renewing contracts. Several staff members of the agency I'm with have been squeezed out of their jobs in the pinch.

Many of my colleagues have voiced astonishment that I have chosen to leave during this time when others are struggling to hold on to reluctant clients and their jobs. I've renewed my client billing a 100 percent, and my career is considered to be secure during this economic setback.

"What are you going to do after you leave here?" the area manager asks after reading my letter of resignation."

"Maybe learn how to make an arrowhead from a flint rock. I've always wanted to try it."

"Make an arrowhead...? You're either joking or crazy. Lots of PR guys would give anything to be in your office at a time like this...and you're talking about leaving to..."

"Well, my office will be vacant for anyone who wants to occupy it."

Someone asks me if I'm leaving to write the great American novel.

"Not if I can help it," I say. Actually, Jo and I haven't discussed what we might do to earn a living when our savings start running low.

Today is my parting day from the industrial scene. I know that I'll never return to it. I've made my way through the company quarters saying my goodbyes. And I'm back in my office cleaning out my desk at closing time. A strange feeling hits me. I had a secure job and good pay working here and here I am leaving it all to embark into the unknown with no predetermined plans for earning a livelihood when our savings dwindle. I close my attaché case and step out of my office.

My eye catches the nameplate by my door. I slide it out of the holder and reinsert it upside down. Now I'm taking it out and putting it back in with backside out. That won't do. I remove it again, break it into three pieces, and chuck it into my erstwhile secretary's wastebasket.

A cold and howling March wind serenades our departure from Chicago. We've sold or given away all of our possessions in the apartment except for a few items we can cram into Jo's cramped sports car.

Jo is behind the steering wheel driving through Missouri. My bad back is acting up, but I don't say anything to Jo because I don't want to cast any doubts about my ability to keep up the pace on our new path to freedom. It is all I can do to keep from grimacing with pain as I rise from the bucket seat and take the steering wheel after we cross over the Arkansas line. The pain is almost unbearable by the time we get to Mississippi.

* * *

Continue the journey by reading the next book in the series!

BOOK TWO

Journey with the Love of My Life

BOOK THREE

In Pursuit of My Dreams

BOOK FOUR

Worldwide Backpacker until Age 84
