Leon Uris (40 page)

Rory skipped out, now fighting right-handed again, and faked a hook to the body. Baker lowered his arm to protect his aching side and got blasted on the jaw.

In that moment, Butcher Boy Baker became indecisive and Rory swarmed all over him…and Jaysus Almighty, Baker began backing up!

“Time! Time! Time!”

“He’s puffing now!” Chester yelled.

“Keep your eye on the chaplain,” Rory puffed. “He’s holding the money.”

“Be careful, Rory,” Johnny cried, “he’s going to get dirty.”

“Time.”

Baker blew across the room like a typhoon and sent a punch from hallelujah-land that whistled past Rory’s face so close it nipped his eyelashes.

Rory suddenly became a bit mushy from all his maneuvering. They were a soggy pair squirting and oozing blood from various incisions.

But look! Baker was no longer using his left hand at all, at all. His arm was tucked in against his side to keep his body from taking any more blows. Rory leapt in with a glorious right hand to the jaw. Butcher Boy Baker scarcely acknowledged the blow, but Rory’s right hand felt broken.

“Time!”

“You sonofabitch, you called time early!” Tarbox screamed. Rory was all but done in, getting small comfort
from the welts rising on Baker’s map of Australia as if they were new settlements, and the fact that he was puffing and wheezing.

“Time!”

The racetrack danced like an earth rumble from the noise.

Baker held his hands over his face and body in peek-a-boo manner and backed into a corner to lure Rory into range. Rory was moving in and out quickly, but his legs were very rubbery at the knees. Feeling himself evaporating, he did the foolish thing and tried to break through Butcher Boy’s guard….

Baker wrapped his hairy arms around Rory, turned him into the corner, and lay all over him like a side of beef, pinning his arms so he could not punch. Baker led with a knee to the groin and an elbow to the face.

Baker was on his way!

Rory was able to land one more desperation blow on Mother-Heart-Australia and this only enraged the big fellow, who pinned his man again and butted him between the eyes. Rory sank to one knee and Baker unloaded his infamous right hand.

The place went completely wild!

“Throw in the towel, Johnny!” Chester begged.

There was Rory taking a count on one knee…blood gushing from his nose and mouth…and three more rounds to go. Johnny reached around for a towel, Rory leapt to his feet, and as the Butcher grabbed him, Rory bit his ear.

The Australian giant screamed so loud you could hear it clear up to Perth. He covered himself, and as he tried to protect his ear, Rory hit his side, and as he tried to cover his side, Rory hit his ear…ear…side…ear…side…

Butcher Boy Baker fell into the ropes and down came the ropes with Rory falling atop him.

Rory staggered to his feet first. “We don’t need a fucking ring! Get up and fight!”

Baker crawled around on hands and knees like a three-
legged dog, then looked up as Goliath must have. “I shouldn’t have butted him.”

“Time!” screamed Baker’s corner, one minute and fourteen seconds early as a half-dozen of his entourage rushed into the ring. Baker tipped over on his face before being dragged to his stool.

Rory was in Butcher’s corner, above him, bleeding and sweating all over him.

“Fuck it,” Baker blubbered, disgorging a mouthful of blood of his own.

“Quit!” Rory demanded.

“Fuck it!”

Rory smashed him and Baker and stool went at the same time.

“Enough!” Baker said, and just lay there and cried like a baby.

I am unflinchingly prepared to present my “grand strategy” to the War Council, earliest. Reviewing the war to date, I draw the following conclusion:

The Western Front

Having halted the German advance, a stationary front has developed, anchored by the English Channel in the north and running for hundreds of miles to the Alps.

A series of layered trenches are manned by millions of
men, fronted by mine fields and barbed wire, and backed by tens of thousands of artillery pieces and machine guns.

It appears only too obvious to me that in the coming year of 1915, little will change on the Western Front, as neither side will be able to dislodge the other.

The Eastern Front

The situation is fluid. Our Russian allies though not modern or of high morale are engaging dozens of German divisions. Russia is a vast land and German supply lines have dangerously stretched.

Thus far the Russians have given a good accounting against the Germans and Turks and I further believe 1915 will show the Eastern Front holding firm.

The Pacific Theatre

A decade ago the Japanese ministered an horrendous defeat on Russia, the first time an Oriental power prevailed over the West since Genghis Khan and the Mongol invasions.

Now, England and Russia are allies of the Japanese. I greet this with ambivalence. Japanese annexation of Korea clearly delineates their ambition to establish an empire on mainland Asia.

Their entry into the war was an opportunistic measure to grab off German-held Pacific Islands. We must reiterate our agreement with Japan that they be allowed to take over islands north of the equator only. Everything below the equator is to remain in the British sphere.

What I write now is what I believe to be the British course of action for the year of 1915:

I contend that we divert the Aussie/N.Z. Corps to Egypt and join them with British and French units for training to
conquer the Gallipoli Peninsula, and march on Constantinople, forcing open the Dardanelles.

Once we have conquered Constantinople, uncommitted Balkan nations, sitting on the fence, will rush to our side and enable us to make a campaign up the Danube Valley and cut the German forces in half.

Moreover, opening of the Dardenelles will allow us to supply Russia with ammunition, of which they are becoming desperately short.

And finally, it will free up Ukrainian wheat for shipment to France and England.

Greece will join us whenever we wish, but Greek troops cannot enter Constantinople, which must go to our Russian ally. Italy, sitting on the fence as well, will be compelled to become our ally once we open the Dardanelles.

The Turks have been beaten in the Near East, North Africa, and ejected from Europe by the Balkan coalition. They are presently using all their remaining power against Russia.

Germany can ill afford to send troops to Turkey, although they may have some German staff. By any definition, the Ottoman Empire is ripe for collapse.

Although the Gallipoli Peninsula is a wild region of cliffs and valleys and with scant military intelligence I feel that our naval power will reduce their hilltop fortress. Many of our old battleships, ready to be scrapped, can still be used against Gallipoli as floating gun platforms.

Whilst a landing from the sea would be unique in modern warfare I envision our destuctive naval power breaking the morale of the Turkish defenders.

The Aussie/N.Z. units are woefully short of officers. I am pushing Kitchener (who likes the idea of the Dardanelles campaign) to get a cadre of British officers to Egypt to take over the Aussie/N.Z. Corps. I understand the Aussies are a wild lot, as one might expect from the descendants of a penal colony.

So there it is. The Dardanelles and Gallipoli, Constantinople and the Danube Valley, and the end of the Ottoman Empire in 1915.

WSC

Shunk-rooomshunk…shunk-rooomshunk…shunk-rooomshunk…SHUNK-ROOOMSHUNK…SHUNK-ROOOMSHUNK!

Daddy! Don’t cry! Daddy!

SHUNK-ROOOMSHUNK!

Daddy! Run, man!

Rory sat up quickly. His head batted the canvas of the bunk above him.

“Jesus Christ!” the soldier over him complained.

Rory fell back. “Sorry, cobber,” he apologized.

“Jesus Christ,” the man mumbled again and was snoring in a moment.

Shunk-rooomshunk
, the ship’s engine repeated, never ending, and the
Wagga Wagga
groaned. Rory blew out deep sighs as though he could blow out the bad dream from his body. Why the hell was Squire Liam invading the nights he had reserved for weeping for his Uncle Conor or longing for Georgia Norman?

Why his daddy? Why?

He propped himself on an elbow, carefully so as not to bump the bunkmate atop him, and peered out the porthole. The convoy seemed to be moving at one-third speed on the sizzling waters near the equator. There was enough
moon out there to have vanquished the stars. He squinted hard for the silhouettes of ships.

Chester would be sleeping on the bottom bunk, six tiers down. He and Chester switched off every several hours to give each other a breather at the porthole. Rory’s head throbbed from the nightmare. It must be suffocating down on the bottom row, he thought. Rory slid out carefully as he was able to into the clutter of hanging kits, rifles, clanging mess gear, and helmets in the dimly lit hold.

He buttoned up his trousers, tied on his life vest, then fished about the bottom bunk for Chester. It was empty. Rory felt his way along the narrow passage cluttered with gear, arms and legs of dangling sweaty bodies stacked seven high, and inched toward the engine room.

Shunk-rooomshunk…shunk-rooomshunk…

He fished his way through a triple set of blackout curtains until he passed into the turbine room. The playing field was a far corner under a light bulb. One of the Aussie sailors of the crew had served a hitch in the American Navy and brought with him the advanced American cultural attainments of craps and blackjack.

Chester Goodwood observed the games for the first three days afloat, figured out the dice odds, and learned to read the deck in the second sport. He looked so inconspicuous and innocent, he was always welcomed into a game. Both Rory and Johnny Tarbox had to warn him not to get greedy and even to drop a few bob now and then, for appearance’s sake. Otherwise, he always won.

Rory reached the game and stood over Chester, waiting until he got the dice and made his run. The lad was a gem. Can you imagine, a banker’s son! He’ll be able to open his own bank, Rory thought.

“Porthole bunk is open,” Rory said. “I’m going topside.”

“Goodo,” Chester said.

The
shunk-rooomshunk
and the click of the dice and the groan of the
Wagga Wagga
fell into perfect harmony as
Rory left the turbine room and was plunged into darkness as he worked his way to the ladder.

Topside, the hatches and any decent deck space looked like a bin of silvery fish—it was covered with half-naked bodies, slimy with sweat.

Rory went up the ladder until he reached a chain-bearing sign: OFFICER’S COUNTRY; NO ENLISTED PERSONNEL. He slipped on his MESSAGE CENTER armband provided by Johnny and was passed through, then made it to the top deck where Johnny and the other warrant officers had small quarters.

There was a single lifeboat lashed up and hanging from a davit for the top-deck people, away from the other boats that lined the lower decks. Johnny had deftly loosened the knots of the canvas cover so it could easily be slipped off and recovered. He had filled the boat from bow to stern with a mattress of life vests, which he shared with Chester and Rory.

Johnny had ingested his fill of soggy hot air and was in a fuzzed state as Rory crawled in. They traded remarks as to how bloomin’ hot it was.

“Well, we’ve crossed the equator and we’re moving north,” Rory said. “That tells me that South Africa is out.”

“Got an uncoded message today at the center. We’re making a rendezvous around Ceylon with some Indian troops,” Johnny said.

“So, we’re heading for the Mediterranean and maybe on up to England.”

“Sounds right to me.”

“And just maybe we’ll stop at Aden and the empty ships will take on our Arabian horses.”

“I’d like to take on a few Arab women…first they come out and do their belly dance and then start twirling their tits….”

They were quiet for a time. Tarbox was faraway, in an arched room filled with belly dancers.

Rory had made a discipline of keeping Georgia
Norman out of his mind. The hours were better spent crying inside for his Uncle Conor than longing for her. Conor was dead and in time the hurt would fade. Georgia had told him that his pain would be tucked away.

But Georgia! She came bursting through to him at the oddest places and the oddest times. Mostly he thought of her lying on the bed with her green silk kimono opened to her whiteness. It never failed to create a sensation of sheer wanting, and it flowed all about him. He trained himself to let her in for only a few minutes or he’d get restless and moody.

Both Conor and Georgia strangely dimmed as Liam Larkin made his stand. Why the Squire! Something about the sea, the bloody convoy that was throwing him together with his father.

“Where’s Chester?” Johnny asked.

“In the engine room giving dice lessons.”

“I’ll bet he learned it in Hong Kong in one of those gambling palaces with his old man, don’t you think?” Johnny asked.

“Maybe, but he’s a natural with numbers. He showed me the odds on every combination on the dice. As for blackjack, all he has to do is hold the deck. I’m only letting him have five quid a day. I don’t want the whole ship in debt to him.”

“It was brilliant of me,” Johnny said, “to see the great merit of this lad and slip him into the Light Horse.”

“You son of a bitch.”

They were quiet again, now awake, and propped up so they could see out of the lifeboat down to the decks and out to the lightless convoy. Uncle Conor had told Rory that on the smooth seas and heaven-filled nights, the sailors dreaded the watch because they had time to think about everything they had left behind, everything they coveted…to become a rover.

“What’s bothering you, Rory?”

“Nothing.”

“Shit, I can hear your brains buzzing clear across the boat. Smoke is coming out of your ears.”

“Hell, it must be crossing the equator. I can’t seem to be keeping my old man off my mind. I feel like we’re sharing a strange passage, him going down to New Zealand and us to wherever. Somehow, I wake up, like I was him in the darkness of steerage all alone without two shillings to rub against each other. He must have been scared shitless, Johnny. He always talked about that trip, but I never much listened.”

“The Squire is something, all right,” Johnny said.

“You liked him, didn’t you?” Rory asked.

“I wasn’t his son,” Johnny said quickly.

“What’d you like about him?” Rory pressed.

“What he made out of nothing but his two hands. That was respect. I liked him as well. All my crew liked him. He cared about us. Our food was from your mother’s kitchen and any hurt man was taken care of. He did a lot of quiet favors. He was so proud of Ballyutogue Station. And…he was fun to stand up to the bar and drink with and a joy to fish alongside of up at that trout stream of his. Like| said, I wasn’t his son so I don’t know why you two didn’t get on, but it’s mostly the same in every family.”

That was the case, all right. Everybody wanted to deal with Squire Larkin. Drovers, shearing crews, the church the auctioneers…everybody liked the Squire.

“Did you get along with your old man?” Rory asked.

“We had a rough life together, Rory. My father was never much more than a roustabout, the wandering prospector looking for that one lucky strike. Me and my sister spent our whole childhood living in a caravan, prospecting the South Island with him. We never had our own home.”

“How’d you learn to read and write? Mother?”

“No!” Johnny said abruptly. Then he softened. “I picked up my schooling on my own. There was always someone in the mining camps teaching the kids. You know, those guy who get sick of civilization and run off looking for the bonanza. We had some smart people around.”

Johnny had gone off like an alarm at mention of his mother. Rory knew the woman was off bounds, from then on.

“My mother,” Tarbox said with another voice, “was an actress…like a music hall song-and-dance girl, and New Zealand was too small for her. She was a great theatrical success in the west of America in the gold and silver rush towns.”

The quiet fell again. A long time quiet.

“You asleep?” Rory asked.

“Not anymore.”

“Why is my father rattling around on this ship, now?”

Tarbox laughed. “What better place to think about your old man than on a troopship?”

“You liked the Squire?” Rory asked.

“Yeah, he is right out of the earth,” Johnny said.

“But you didn’t like prospecting with your old man.”

“I hated it, Rory. I hated him for what he gave me. I hated watching my sister grow into a mining camp girl. So, I quit when I was able and did my hitch in the Royal Marines. You know what? For four years I grew hungry for my old man. I realized that he was doing what he was doing because it would have killed him to sit in one place and be without a dream, and I realized he had put a lot of good things into me. Every soldier on this ship is pissed off at his parents for screwing up their lives, and every soldier who lives through the war is going to spend the second half of his life getting over the first half. That’s the way it goes down. We all blame our parents, all of us…then we never seem to see ourselves doing the same things to our own kids.”

Johnny was annoying him. He didn’t know what the hell Squire Larkin had done to him!

“So, I came back from the Marines,” Johnny said, “and I saw my old man for what he was. A sweet man who did the best he could. But, you see, he always accepted me as a kid and I was pretty rotten. I never accepted him for what he was. After the Marines, we saw each other for what we
were and not what we wanted the other to be. So, he started riding with me as one of my drovers and those four years were the happiest of my life.”

It sounded like his Uncle Conor and the grandda he never knew, Tomas Larkin. Conor and Tomas gave each other bad, bad turns in the beginning, but in the end, there was love.

Oh Jaysus, Rory thought, there are too many mountains to cross with the Squire and the valleys are too deep. He never knew how to quit picking on me. He never stopped making me feel unwanted.

Could I have done something about it? Rory asked himself for the first time…. I knew he was proud of the way I rode but I rode reckless instead to piss him off and show him how much better I was than poor Tommy. I hated fishing with him because I didn’t like him forcing me to come and I hated his joy in hooking the big one.

Every time I did something that could have made the Squire proud, I threw it at his feet like a pile of shit. I liked pissing him off. I loved his rage at me and knowing he had to have me.

Damnit! HE did it to ME, him and my Virgin Mary mother made me ashamed I was born.

Maybe…maybe…I could have made the right gestures. Maybe, here and there. No, the mountains are too high with that man, and the valleys too deep.

Shunk-rooomshunk…shunk-rooomshunk…

Rory remembered seeing Johnny Tarbox and his old man after they drove into Uncle Wally’s pens in Christchurch. Old Johnny was so caring, took care of cooling down his da’s horse, and then they headed into the bar, arms about the other’s shoulder.

Steerage in a rusted freighter with an empty pocket and fear ahead. Christ! Get him off my back already!

…Maybe…I should have made a gesture…

Shunk-rooomshunk…