The Hunt aka 27 (13 page)

“This is where we stop ‘em, lads, “a y
o
uthful lieutenant told them as they trudged toward the enemy. “Else they‘
ll
be in Paris before Christmas.”

From Château-Thierry they headed north toward a game preserve called Belieau Wood, singing songs as they m
a
rched. One platoon singing one song, the second answering with another.

K-K-K-Katie, K-K-K-Katie,

You’re the only g-g-g-girl that I adore,

When the
m
-
m
-
m
-moon shines, over the c—c-c-cowshed,

I’ll be w-w-w-wa
i
ting at the k-k-k-kitchen door.

Answered by:

You may forget the gas and shells, parley—voo,

You may forget the gas and shells, parley.-voo,

You may forget the gas and shells,

But you‘
ll
never forget the mademoiselles,

Hinky-dinky parley-voo.

They were singing as they approached the park. The Germans fired the first shot.

This time, Keegan went down with a shell fragment in the leg. He dragged himself to a battered wall where he
foun
d three Marines clustered around a
m
achinegun, dead long enough that bags had begun to
f
e
ast on them. Then there was a lull in the battle and he leaned his cheek against the wall, biting his lip to keep back the pain. An uneasy silence f
e
ll on the glen where he lay.

He was surprised by the first of the Germans. They were on horseback, like a ghost posse, suddenly materializing in the swirling smoke of battle. The hooves of their horses were wrapped in gun
n
y cloth and their halters and cinches were greased to cut down the noise. They moved slowly and silently over the battered ground, their guns at the ready. Keegan started firing and he kept firing, his teeth rattling as the heavy machinegun kicked and thundered under hand, firing until the barrel of the gun was glowing red, warped
from the heat, and the ammo belts were scattered empty around him.

When he stopped, the world stopped. There was not a sound. Not a bird singing, nor the wind sighing, nor even the cries of the wounded. There was silence. Before him was a grotesque frieze, as though the horses with their legs stretched up in the air and the men
sp
rawled like sacks around them were posing for a photograph. Only then did the ghastly pain from the hole in his leg fire his brain and he screamed and passed out.

In the
ho
s
pital
he found Jocko Nayles, his face half covered in a bloody bandage, his bloody eye socket swollen with pus, lying in his mud
caked un
iform
raving with f
ev
er. This time it wits Keegan who urged his friend away from death.

The French gave him the Croix de Guerre and the Americans a Silver Star and his second Purple Heart. He had been in Europe only four months.

It was at the coffee bar in the hospital that Keegan first met Bert Rudman, a cocky young man starched and clean in a field coat and campaign hat, scratching out a story with a stub of pencil on a grungy sheaf of folded paper.

“Hi,” Rudman had greeted him
holding
out his hand, “I’m Bert Rudman,
Herald Tribune
out of Paris.”

“Keegan,” was all the youngster had
m
umbled back.

“Were you at Belleau Wood?”

“I think so.”

“How bad is it?” Rudman asked, nodding toward his leg.

“Bad enough to get me home. “He paused for a moment and then, “Did we win?”

Rudman had stared at him for a mo
m
ent, the
sig
ni
ficance
of his question slowly sinking in. Then he smiled. “You sure did, kiddo. Kicked the Kaiser’s ass right back where it came from and then some.”

“That’s good,
“
Keegan said.

“Hell yes, it’s good. Know what they’re callin ‘you Marines? Devil Hounds. Is that a Croix de Guerre on your shirt?”

“Yeah. Some frog general gave it to me.”

“What’d you do?”

“Damned
if
I know.”

“Well, you must ‘ye done something, trooper, that hot stuff in the French Army. Say, could I impose on you? I’m writing this piece on the battle, you know, kind of the big picture of
w
hat happened. Can I read it to you, you bein’ there and all?”

Keegan nodded. “Sure.”

Rudman had sat there, reading from his tattered papers, stopping occasionally to scratch out a correction or ta
k
e a sip of coffee as Keegan listened in awe, not because the words were that stunning, although it was clear that Rudman knew how to write, but because for the first time he understood the panorama of the battle he had been part of the decisions made by the officers, the attacks and counterattacks, the strategy and terrible price that had been paid to drive the Germans back across the Marne and break their march toward Paris.

He was struck by the realization that what had been a traumatic and monumental moment in his
lif
e had been an i
nfi
nitesimal part of the battle, by the
insignificance
of his part in the brutal encounter. And as Rudman
read on, the story gathered a kind of chilling energy unto itself and Keegan began to f
e
el its power.

“Belleau Wood is silent now,” Rudman said, wrapping up the lengthy tome. “What was once a beautiful picnic spot has been reduced to tree stubs, great gaping holes in the ground, and
m
ud. It is as
i
f the earth itself at Château-Thierry has been mortally wou
n
ded and lies bleeding at the fret of the victors.

“Perhaps this is the beginning of the end
for the Germans who sought this war and have paid so dearly for it. For white our victories are clear, the cause of this war is still clouded and obscure. Perhaps we will learn that from the peace, for until we understand why this war happened, we can never be sure it will not happen again.”

He looked over at Keegan, who sat speechless.

“Well, what you think?”

“Why, it’s great. Just great, “Keegan said softly and took a deep, slow breath. “They really call us Devil Hounds
?“

“You bet. You boys fought like hell out there. And you really think it’s good, the story I mean?”

Keegan nodded emphatically.

“Okay. O kay! Say, what ‘d you say your name was again?”

“Francis Keegan.”

Rudman scribbled a phone number and tore it off the bottom of one of the sheets of paper.

“Look here, Francis, here’s my number. Yo
u
get back to Paris, call me. We’ll have dinner together, on the Trib.”

“Can I bring my buddy? He lost an eye
in
the fight.”

“An eye! Goddamn those Krauts! Why, sure enough, bring him along, we’ll make a night of
it.
And say, thanks for listening, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks for letting me hear it.”

“No kidding,” Keegan finally said. “A cow Lam, eh. No plaque or anything to commemorate the occasion?”

“Nothing but a salt lick.”

“I’m insulted,” Keegan said. “
Are
you
insulted
?”

“Cut to the quick.”

“So they’ve got you covering politics now, huh?”

Rudman nodded, “Hear about Hitler’s speech in Munich?”

“He makes a speech every time his auto stalls.”

“Not like this one. Talk about choreography? They were
climbing the walls before he was through. You could hear the mob
heiling
Hitler in Brooklyn. It was scary. I still get goose pimples thinking about it. He’s got something, this guy. He’s dangerous, Francis. Did you read my piece on Munich?”

“I read it,” Keegan said.

“And...
?“

“A little hysterical.”

“Hysterical! Have you seen him? Heard him speak?”

“Sure. That line about Hitler bei
n
g a demonic vision of God was lovely. Keep writing stuff li
k
e that you’ll lose your visa—or end up with a bullet in the back.”

“Now who’s being hysterical? They’re not going to fool around with the
Herald Trib.”

“Look around you. You think these crazies give two hoots in hell about your credentials? Poor old Sid Lewis got his brains beat out down in Rome for using the wrong adjectives about Mussolini.”

“That’s not what happened at all,” Rudman said. “Sid was queer. He got in a lover’s quarrel with some fascist he picked up in a bar and got his head bashed in.”

“Count on you to know all the dirt. You ought to start your own little monthly newsletter. All the news that’s unfit to print.”

“That’s very funny, Keegan. And what have you been up to?”

“I’m the embassy badminton cha
m
pion. Me and Cissy Devane.”

“My God, that’s really impressive,’ Rudman said sarcastically.

Keegan waved his arm toward the crowded club.

“Take my word for it, pal, they’r
e
the ones you have to worry about. Hitler’s all talk.”

“You sound like the isolationists back home. You should read
Mein Kampf
it’s all laid out there_”

“I’ve read
Mein Kampf”

Rudman looked surprised and said, “Well, I give him two years, three tops. He’ll have the Saar back, Austria, Poland, probably Czechoslovakia. He’s already using the Versailles treaty for toilet paper.”

“Rudman, I came here to be entertained, not to listen to lectures on the rise and fall of the German Empire.”

“Okay,” said Rudman, and abruptly changed the subject. “Okay. What’s this Gold Gate I’ve been hearing about?”

“Sex show upstairs.”

“Any good?”

“If you like naked men and women covered with oil rolling around under bad lights.”

“I do,” Rudman said with a leering grin. “Shall we?”

Keegan shook his head. “I came for the singer.”

“Does she sing covered with oil?”

Keegan rolled his eyes. “She’s coming on next. As soon as they round up that herd and get them off
the stage.” He nodded toward the chorus line, all of whom were at least ten pounds overweight. As he spoke they lumbered into the wings.

“I’ll be where the action is,” Rudman said and headed upstairs. “Dinner tomorrow night?”

Keegan nodded and waved him away because now the stage lights were lowering. They went out. Keegan could barely discern the tiny woman who came out on the darkened stage carrying her own stool. She put it down in front of the microphone on the corner of the stage and sat down. The piano man started playing trills, warming up. Then the baby spot faded in on her.

He was immediately taken by her appearance. She was barely five feet tall, thin, rather frail. Her face was narrow to the point of being gaunt and her sharply hone
d
cheekbones seemed etched into her face. The result was an a
lm
ost haunted look, an impression strengthened by large, saucer
-
li
k
e eyes that gleamed in the tiny light and seemed almost tear-st
r
uck. A simple, long black dress accented the aura of vulnerability that surrounded her. He had to strain to hear her name when the emcee introduced her. Jenny Gould.

She stood without speaking for a few moments, just long enough for Keegan to worry that perhaps something was wrong, that she wasn’t going to perform. Then she began to sing.

The voice startled him at first. It was low, throaty, a torch- song voice that tortured every word of the Cole Porter song she chose to interpret, not as a cynical dirge, but as a metaphor about love gone sour.

Love for sale,

Appetizing young love for sale,

If you want to try my wares,

Take a chance and climb the stairs,

Love for sale.

The crowd was ill mannered and inattentive. Chattering, laughing, clinking glasses, creating a constant babel that underscored every word she sang, and Keegan finally moved down the bar closer to the stage to hear better. He was mesmerized by her. When the song was over there was a smattering of applause, except from Keegan who wore out his hands clapping.

He thought she glanced over at him as he applauded, but couldn’t be sure, felt foolish in fact at how pleased he was that she might have noticed him. Then she began her second song and he was, once again, caught in the magical, sensual spell she was weaving.

In the darkened room, Vanessa suddenly decided it was time to make a break for it. The boys were trapped on the other side of the room. The singer was into her second song and Vanessa snatched up her purse and stood to leave. From the bar there was a smattering of wolf whistles mostly lost in the clamor. She stalked across the room, her dress swaying in sparkling waves as she walked. Deenie struggled to her feet, trotting after the haughty beauty. Then Vanessa stopped so suddenly that Deenie bumped into her.

“Oh my God,” Vanessa said half-aloud.

“What is it?” Deenie asked.

“Somebody I know,” Vanessa said, her mouth curling into a sly smile.

“From Boston?” Deenie asked wide-eyed.

“Oh yes, he’s from Boston all right.”

“Oh no!” Deenie cried out and turned her back to the bar.

“Don’t be silly. If there’s one person in Boston I’d prefer to be seen by, it’s him. C’mon.”

She grabbed Deenie’s hand and dragged her through the crowd, ignoring the looks and the
comments
. She stood ten feet behind Keegan, waiting for the song to end.

“Which one is he?” Deenie whispered.

“Shhh.”

* * *

The second song was a German tune Keegan was not familiar with. Then she sang “Someone to Watch Over Me” and every syllable was plaintive, every word a plea to be loved, every note a heartbreaker.

There was a smattering of applause, again except for Keegan. He looked around the room, wondering if all these people were crazy. Didn’t they know what was happening up on stage?

The set was over. He had barely been aware that she’d sung several more songs. Her voice had mesmerized him, hypnotized him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so thrilled.

She left the stage rather meekly and, to Keegan, the rest of the room came back into focus. He caught Herman’s eye and urgently waved him over.

“She’s wonderful!” he told the damp little manager. He realized he sounded too excited but he didn’t care. “She’s absolutely—”

Herman rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately you are the only one who seems to think so.” Then, looking over Keegan’s shoulder, he saw the two American girls coming toward them.

As they walked down the length of the bar, Vanessa was aware that the little sweaty man in the soggy tuxedo was talking about them, his eyes darting toward them, then away. And she was also aware that the tall man with his back to them was staring at her in the deco mirror behind the bar. She led Deenie right up to him, standing behind him, less than a foot away, staring up at the back of his neck. He finally turned around and looked down at her.

Deenie caught her breath. Her impression was immediate:

he’s rich. That was always number one on Deenie’s checklist. The man was rich, fashionable, handsome and self-confident. With his shock of black hair and gray eyes and persistent, arrogant smile, he epitomized what, in her
m
ind, was the classic continental playboy. Definitely dangerous, she thought.

“Something?” He asked it pleasantly, but he was annoyed. He wanted to rush backstage, to meet the singer.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

All he could remember was that voice, the sunken eyes.
Love For Sale
.

The girl reached up and pulled lightly on his lapel, interrupting his reverie, and when he leaned toward her, she whis
pered a name in his ear. His reaction was immediate and startled, although he quickly recovered his composure. He stared back at her, his gray eyes intent and inquiring.

It had been three years since anyone had called him that and this woman was perhaps nineteen, twenty at best. He made a quick study. She was tallish, maybe five-seven, slender and busty with turquoise eyes and jet black hair. Her face was angular, her features perfect. Her full mouth curved down at the corners except when she smiled and she wore very little makeup. The diamond choker around her long, slender neck was the real thing. A well-groomed, self-confident snob with money, he decided, and her long a’s pegged her from Boston. Who the hell was she? And how did she know that name?

And then she repeated it aloud.

“Frankie Kee.”