Bliss, Remembered (37 page)

II.

Going to Guantanamo was the start of the serious business for the Brigade. It never came back to Quantico again. It relocated to Parris Island, then it went to Camp Lejeune, which is in N. Carolina. There were whole months when Jimmy couldn’t make it up to see me. Then, late in ’41, the Brigade sailed down to Culebra, which is a little island off Puerto Rico. That’s where Jimmy was when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, & all of a sudden, the work the Marines had done w/ amphibious landings made all the sense in the world.

Of course, even before Pearl Harbor I understood he wouldn’t be getting out in July, & now I realized that he’d be going to the Pacific, and sooner rather than later. I read about the Marines who had to surrender on Wake Island, & all I could think was: there but for the grace of God goes Jimmy.

He did come back from Culebra in Jan., &, irony of ironies, the Brigade now held maneuvers on none other than Chesapeake Bay—but C’town is way to the northern end & the Marines were at Bloodsworth Island, which was far south, down by the Va. line. We knew for sure by then that he’d be shipping out for the Pacific pretty soon, so we decided to get married the next time Jimmy could get home.

It was early in May when he got his final leave. He had 10 days. Corregidor had just fallen in the Philippines, & here he was going to war. It was a very grim time for 2 young people to get married, but that’s what we wanted—especially because I told Jimmy flat out that I wanted to try to have a baby. I was obviously very fecund (although, of course, I kept that to myself), & he said, well, if that’s what I wanted, he did too, & we would try our damndest.

He came up to C’town on May 9th, & the next day we took the train up to Elkton. If you haven’t heard of it, it’s a little town up by the Pa. and Del. lines, which was something of a marriage mill. It was like: Take a ticket. Next. Dearly beloved . . . I do. I now pronounce you man and wife.

But it was sweet enough for me. Elliott Parsons was Jimmy’s best man, & Carter Kincaid came up to be my matron of honor. Carter had found a nice fellow in Balt., which is what she’d always wanted. She’d been Mrs. Roger Cochran for a year now. He was in real estate, but he was going to officer’s training for the Army Air Corps. She was 6 months pregnant, so it was especially wonderful that she made the effort to come up.

This was all the more true because it turned out to be the last time in my life that I’d ever see Carter. But we certainly didn’t know that then, & we all 5—of course, my mother was there, too—toasted our marriage w/ a bottle of champagne Carter had brought. Then we all went to the train station, & we hugged each other. The worst part of war, besides the carnage, of course, is how you’re always saying goodbye to people you love.

Jimmy & I spent our wedding nite at my house on the river, the very house I had grown up in. How many girls get to do that? Gentry Trappe came over to congratulate us & promised me the summer’s first peaches as a wedding present. The next morning, Jimmy & I left on our honeymoon. My car was that old Ford that we’d gotten with the insurance way back in ’34 after Daddy was killed, so Mr. Parsons lent us his ’39 Buick. Gas rationing had just begun, & you were only supposed to use 3 gallons a week, but Mr. Parsons had a full tank saved up, so, with my rationing points too, we were able to drive down to Rehoboth Beach and back.

Rehoboth is in Del. on the ocean—tho, on the Shore, we always pronounce it “ayshun.” We stayed at the fanciest hotel there, which was called the Henlopen. It’d just opened for the summer season, so there was almost no one else in the place. That was fine w/ Jimmy & me. Purposely, we didn’t buy any newspapers or listen to the radio, because we wanted to forget about the war as best we could & just have a normal honeymoon.

The Rehoboth boardwalk wasn’t open yet, so one day we drove down to Ocean City, which is a larger resort, just over the Md. line. Back then, there wasn’t much in the way of civilization between Rehoboth & Ocean City. Just sand dunes. But along the way we noticed that every l/2-mile or so, these towers were going up right on the beach. I’d say they were about 75/80 ft. tall, made of concrete, no windows, but w/ one big slit near the top. We stopped at a filling station, & the old man who pumped gas told us that the towers were look-outs for German submarines out in the “ayshun.”

Hearing that, I couldn’t help but right away think of Horst, just imagine that he might be in one of those U-boats out there, only a few miles offshore. After all, stranger things have happened. In fact, as we drove off, Jimmy noticed me musing. “Penny for your thoughts,” he said. I managed to smile back, but honestly, I felt a little guilty thinking about Horst on my honeymoon w/ Jimmy.

Three days later, our idyll was over, & we drove back home. I was holding up pretty well, too, but when Jimmy actually put on his uniform to leave for good—he was a full corporal now, a squad leader—I began to babble like a baby. He had to hold me for a long time to calm me down. I just kept telling myself that at least I must be pregnant. God knows we’d put enough (pleasant) effort into that.

When the bus came, though, I wouldn’t let myself cry because I didn’t want tears to interfere w/ our goodbye kiss. Standing there right by the bus door, I kissed Jimmy with all my heart & soul until I finally had to break away.

People say “take care” all the time now. I think then, as a matter of fact, we tended to say “take care of yourself,” but that seemed like a foolish thing to say to someone going off to fight a war, so instead I just said, “I love you, Jimmy. I’ll love you forever.”

He said the same & got on the bus. I waved till the bus turned the corner, but then I broke down completely, sobbing all over my mother’s shoulder.

The lst Marines—by now it was called a “division” & not a brigade—shipped out of Norfolk 3 days later. Nobody knew it then, but it was headed for New Zealand. We only knew it was going thru the Panama Canal, somewhere into the Pacific. That was May l9th when Jimmy sailed. It was on Aug. 7th, in the morning, when they landed on Guadalcanal.

By that time, I was very much pregnant w/ who would turn out to be my beautiful Teddy. I had decided not to tell Jimmy that in my letters, tho. I didn’t want him to worry about me, &, even better, I thought: what a wonderful surprise it would be for him out there in the middle of nowhere when the baby was born, & I could send him a picture of our gorgeous new child!

The Battle of Guadalcanal began on Aug. 7th. We weren’t engaged in the European war yet, so it was the only game in town, & the coverage was huge. Every day I read the Sun voraciously, listened to all the news on the radio. The lst Marines were trying to hold onto the airstrip they’d captured after they’d come ashore. That’s all I knew. Except:

There were a lot of casualties. Everyone who knew me knew that, too, so no one, except perhaps my mother, dared ask me about Jimmy—even tho I knew they were looking at me as if I had “GUADALCANAL” stamped on my forehead.

Each day I waited for a letter. The last I’d received from Jimmy was dated July 30th. He wrote that he couldn’t tell me anything, except he was safe, & they were steaming to somewhere. That somewhere, of course, would be Guadalcanal. That letter didn’t reach me till Aug. 2l.

Then nothing more. Of course, what did I know? I didn’t know any other wives or sweethearts in the whole lst Marine. Were any of the guys allowed to write? And if they could, could the mail get out? And if it did get out, did Jimmy’s letter go down w/ one of the many Amer. ships that were sunk by the Japs (we said “Japs” then, so I think I can write that now because that’s what they were to us then)? I thought about all these things more than the other obvious possibilities, which were that Jimmy was either too wounded to write or he’d been captured or even . . . killed.

Anyway, each day I read what news there was about goddamn Guadalcanal, & each day there was no news from dear Jimmy. It was excrutiating. I was glad for Sundays, because there was no mail to worry about NOT getting then, & the same for Mon., Sept. 7, which was Labor Day.

Mom & Mr. Parsons had gone to Atlantic City for a week’s vacation, so I was alone. Mom had Gentry Trappe drop by to check on me, & he promised he’d come back w/ a few of the last ears of the summer’s corn. I was almost 4 months along in my pregnancy, but I had only barely begun to show, & really I felt fine, so that afternoon I went down to the river & swam awhile, then lay some in the sun, mostly simultaneously wondering about Jimmy & trying not to wonder about what might be happening to him.

Afterwards, I put on a ratty old housecoat. I certainly wasn’t taking any care with my appearance because I wasn’t expecting any company, when all of a sudden, what to my wondering eyes should appear but a car coming down the driveway. It was a C’town Taxi. I couldn’t even remember the last time anybody had come to the house in a taxi.

I watched from behind the curtains in the front parlor. I knew the driver, Mr. Remley, & I could make out that he was taking the fare from the person in the back seat. I could tell the passenger was a man & see, when he got out the far side of the car, that he had on a hat & was dressed in a suit. But that was all. Only when Mr. Remley’s cab pulled away could I see clearly—him just standing there, holding a valise.

It was Horst.

I was completely discombobulated—as I think anyone in my place would be. It didn’t even occur to me right away that he was a German & we were fighting a war against the Germans & here he was arriving at my house in C’town, Md., in a taxicab. I just was so amazed that it was him. After 6 long yrs.

I don’t remember leaving the window & going to the front door & pushing the screen open & stepping out on the porch, but I must have, because, in my mind’s eye, even now, I can see myself standing there by the front steps, dazed, looking out at him.

He stood there, waiting in the driveway as Mr. Remley drove off & then, when he saw me come out, he took off his hat &, just like it’d been only the day before yesterday he’d seen me on Cross St., he said, “Hello, Sydney.”

And you know what I said? The first thing? I said, “Horst, I have to change.” I knew I looked awful.

I heard him call to me, “No, no, it’s OK,” but I was already back inside, rushing up to my room, where I put on a white blouse & a green striped chambray skirt that I loved. I also tried to quickly fix my hair & put on some lipstick. Then I came back downstairs, a part of me thinking this must’ve been a dream, that Horst really wasn’t there. But, of course, he was. He’d come up the steps & was leaning back up against the porch railing, waiting for me—that same way I remembered him leaning up against his Opel—casual & poised & (just so there’s no mistake) every bit as handsome as ever.

Well, he wasn’t that cool. Neither one of us knew what to do at this point, how to behave, so I finally sort of shrugged & said, “Would you like to sit here?” There were 2 old rocking chairs; he took one. “You can take off your jacket,” I said, which he did. Then I asked him if he’d like something to drink. He said he’d love a beer, & I said I’d like one, too.

As I started to go back inside, he said, “Sydney.”

I turned back.

“I know you’re married.”

“How’d you know that?”

“The cab driver. He said you were Mrs. Branch now.”

“I am,” I said. “And I’m having a baby, Horst.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“My husband’s in the war. He’s on Guadalcanal.”

“I hope he’s OK.” Then he paused a moment. “I mean that.” I just nodded. “Look,” he said then, “I’ve waited all these years for this, so maybe it’s not right, but I just have to say it, Sydney, that I’ve missed you all this time, & I’ll love you . . . always.” And he held out his hands in a gesture of futile supplication.

I suppose I blushed a little. I placed my palms on the front of my chambray skirt, pressing down on my thighs because otherwise I felt that I might’ve reached out to take his hands. “Well,” I said, “thank you, but we can’t talk about that anymore.”

“No,” he said. “I only wanted to be sure to say it.”

So I went to the ice box for the beer, but after I opened it, I just stood there awhile & let the cold blow over me. I was scared & excited & curious, but no matter how I tried to compose myself, my anxiety overwhelmed my nerves. I brought the 2 beer bottles back. I still didn’t know what to say, so I lapsed into more small talk: “I guess you won’t like this as much as German beer. It’s just a Md. beer.”

“Gunther,” he said, looking at the label. “Well, that’s a German name.” He didn’t know what to say, either, & for goodness’ sake, he’d had time to prepare for this. Some things in life you just can’t script, tho, can you?

“Yes,” I said. I sat down in the other rocking chair, & then, again, there was that awful dead silence that comes when people are either too bored or too confused (this being the latter), until finally I got ahold of myself & just laid it on the line. “All right, Horst, what in God’s name are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer me. Instead, he raised his beer bottle to me and said, “You’re as beautiful as ever, Trixie.”

“Horst, I told you we can’t get into that sort of thing.”

“I know. But I just wanted to tell you that one more time. And I don’t know if you remember, but I told you I was going to call you Trixie once, & this’ll probably be my last chance, so I just wanted to say it.”

“Why’ll this be your last chance?”

“Because,” he said, shrugging, “because tomorrow I’m going down to Washington & turn myself in to the FBI.”

You can imagine: as shaken up as I already was, that threw me for a complete loop. “Why?” was all I could manage.

“Because I’m a spy & I have some information I’d like to hand over &, of course,”—very matter-of-factly—“then I’ll be arrested.”

“You’re a spy?”

“Yes, I am, Sydney. I’m a spy for the Third Reich.”