The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (40 page)

 

 

So it turned out to be water instead of hardened lava. Now they were
crossing it at the rate of a plane every ten minutes or so, to fight
a war on somebody else's land. When it's all over Yale thought,
they will write books about the valiant army of pilots of the Air
Transport Command. Authors not yet born would write long histories of
the development of world air transport. Then, these C-54's and C-47's,
with their cargo lashed in the center and their ugly, ribbed walls
flanked with steel bench seats, would seem as antiquated as trolley cars
on 42nd Street.

 

 

They would be flying in the stratosphere then. Up thirty or forty thousand
feet and higher where there was no weather. They would be using jet
propulsion instead of gasoline engines, and these new airships would
make planes like these seem like covered wagons.

 

 

They would be going somewhere again. They . . . the pasty-faced school
teachers, the tired wheat-growers from Kansas, the nervous business
executives in their pinstripe suits, the gaudy women wearing expensive
furs and jewelry, the plain little clerks and laborers that worked in
Boston or Seattle or Sandusky or St. Joe -- they, the people of the
world, would be going somewhere again. They would look at each other and
smile, and feel good inside because they were going and making progress
again. Everybody would go somewhere. . . to Moscow or Berlin or Calcutta
or Cairo or Chunking. They would bring back souvenirs to put in their
living rooms so they could remark casually, "Oh, this little thing
came from Vienna, and I picked this up in Brisbane. Do you like this,
it came from Bombay?"

 

 

Everybody would buy something to show where they had been, and they
would take miles of moving pictures of themselves in slack-suits and
print dresses walking up the steps of the Taj Mahal, or smiling at an
Indian beggar, or walking down the steps of the Louvre. It would be so
educational, this going -- and "Oh, my dear . . . when we were in Paris,"
they would say, or, "When Ralph and I were in Moscow or Istanbul or
Tokyo we had the funniest experience. Those people are so backward, you
know. These trips are an experience. You really should take one. Cook's
'Round the World' for twenty-five hundred dollars is good, but you get
to see a lot of the more important things with 'World Tours.' They give
you much nicer service, and the food is served by the politest German
waiters. They are the most condescending people, Elsie. Once you've
seen them in their own country, you will hardly believe we ever fought
them. Yes, 'World Tours' is more expensive, but honestly Ralph and I
believe it's worth the difference. You and Bill should take it. Take
John and Susan, too. It's an education for children."

 

 

Yale kicked at his high-laced army shoes. So the world would be going
somewhere again and I will be right there with the rest of them, he
thought. Going. It's a nice illusion. Keep going and you think you're
civilized because you can go. Those others, the natives in Africa,
the coolies in India and China, can't go. Keep going and you stop
thinking. You don't have to answer those questions in your mind. You
escape into a dream without boundaries because there are no boundaries
to a circle.

 

 

Yale lay on the floor of the plane again. Cindar, I want you. Why couldn't
I have found whatever answers there might be with you? Would you have
told me if I had been able to go back? Why, he wondered desperately,
had he been so unlucky as to see her again?

 

 

Yale was last to climb down the ramp when the plane landed at Casablanca.
It was raining. The landing strip was filled with puddles of water that
glistened in the slowly disappearing sunlight. The sinking sun blinded
him momentarily as he stepped out of the plane. He tried to shake the
feeling of apprehension that had hold of him.

 

 

Twenty-seven hours ago they were in Miami. Yale remembered the co-pilot
coming back into the cabin. He pointed down at the city, saying that in
seven days he would be back in the States. Yale had better take a good
look. He wouldn't see a blaze of city lights like this again for a long
time -- not over Casablanca -- no, not even over Cairo or Calcutta. Only
Uncle Sugar could afford to fight a world war and waste electricity at
the same time.

 

 

The Cazes Air Terminal was cold. The dampness seemed trapped in the
sandstone brick walls. A few soldiers were shooting crap near the
fireplace; their breaths hung in little smoke clouds. Kanachos and
Trafford had located the billeting officer who greeted Yale and Bill
Stevens. He assigned them accommodations at a former orphan asylum now
called Camp Duchane.

 

 

A moustached Arab, wearing a greasy English cap, told them that the bus
would depart for the camp in about twenty minutes. They would arrive at
Duchane in time for supper.

 

 

They watched the Red Cross girl as she showed the billeting officer her
orders. He smiled at her. "You're assigned to the Atlantic Hotel in Casa,
Mrs. Wilson. I'm driving in to Casa myself in a few minutes. I'll take
you in."

 

 

"How do you like that?" Trafford asked Yale. "We get the crap. She gets a
hotel." Trafford tried to convince the lieutenant to change his quarters
to the Atlantic Hotel.

 

 

"I'm sorry, Major. The Atlantic is only for rank of colonel and above
-- and female Army personnel. No sense in griping, Major. You'll be
on your way to Cairo in twenty-four hours, or less." He pointed at the
sign leading to the finance office. "Have you changed your money? It's
a regulation that you change dollars into francs before you go into
the city."

 

 

Trafford wanted to know what the deal was. "The wogs must want dollars
pretty badly," he said, suspiciously. "I've got about four hundred on me.
I think I'll just hang onto it."

 

 

Yale and he watched Kanachos and Stevens join the line in front of the
Finance Office pay window. "They'll get about twenty-five francs for a
dollar," Yale told Trafford. "That was the official rate yesterday."
Yale remembered the twenty thousand dollars he was carrying in his money
belt. This could be an ideal place to speculate in foreign currencies,
but he would have to work fast if he wanted to accomplish anything in
their short layover. "I understand you get fifty francs or more for a
dollar on the black market in Casablanca. You can see why the Army makes
you convert your dollars. Uncle Sam would go broke funding francs."

 

 

Trafford whistled. "Brother, I could make another four hundred bucks --
just like that."

 

 

"You have to switch the francs back to dollars," Yale said. "They'd
make you sign your life away to convert. I guess you'd have to know a
finance officer."

 

 

"I know you!" Trafford said. His grin was friendly but insistent.

 

 

"I haven't got a finance office, yet. Hence no money," Yale said hastily.
"Sorry, I can't help you."

 

 

"I don't see you rushing to change your dough into francs," Trafford said
thoughtfully. "I just think I'll keep an eye on you. You'll get an office
one of these days!"

 

 

Yale looked at him uneasily. If he was going to maneuver successfully
with his money in a space of twenty-four hours, it was necessary to elude
Trafford. There was something about Trafford's suave manner and intense
brown eyes that irked Yale. He had an unreasoning desire to punch his
grinning face.

 

 

They rode to Camp Duchane in a rickety bus, piloted by an Arab with a
sheet rolled around his head. Trafford sat on the outside seat beside
Yale who looked out the window. The Arab driver slumped in his seat and
stared at the road as if it would disappear if he stopped watching it.
In the misty streets, rapidly growing dark as the sun set, Yale caught
glimpses of other Arabs, their dhotis billowing behind them in the wind.
They pumped along on decrepit bicycles, keeping abreast of the bus for a
minute or so before it finally passed them. Their faces were inscrutable
shadows, lost in their white headdress.

 

 

They rode past endless rows of low sandstone buildings.

 

 

"The son-of-a-bitch," Trafford said, angrily, breaking the silence. "We're
going south of the city. We'll be miles out of Casablanca. Damn it all,
I've a good mind to make the driver take me back into town. Want to come
back with me, Marratt? We'll find a place to flop. We've got a day's
layover before the A.T.C. picks us up. No damned sense in staying in
some shit house."

 

 

Yale shrugged his acquiescence. If Trafford thought he could get away
with it and break out of the official rut of following orders, why should
he worry? Yale knew, even before they arrived, that Duchane, like most
Air Transport Command transient officers' quarters, would simply be a
roof over a row of cots, accompanied by poorly cooked meals available
at a sloppy dining room. If Trafford thought he could use his rank to
get something better, Yale was agreeable.

 

 

The Arab driver turned off the road into a bumpy driveway. He brought the
bus to a creaking halt. Opening the door with a grin, he pointed cheerily
to a group of buildings. A staff sergeant greeted the passengers as they
gingerly dismounted, directing them to one of the buildings.

 

 

Trafford sat in his place with Yale beside him. Neither of them moved.
Except for them the bus was finally empty. The sergeant poked his head
in the door. "Are you guys disembarking or are you sleeping on board?"
He suddenly noticed Trafford's rank.

 

 

"Anything wrong, Major? This is Duchane."

 

 

"It looks like a crap house to me," Trafford said nastily. "Well, it
ain't state-side," the sergeant apologized. "Pretty fair meals, though."

 

 

"The lieutenant and I are going in town. How far is it?" Trafford asked.

 

 

The sergeant told him it was about five miles. He pointed out that
there was nothing in Casa. The Atlantic Hotel was filled up. It was a
dangerous place to just drift around. The Arabs preferred the Germans
to Americans. Since the Allied Forces had occupied Casablanca the Arabs
hadn't been noticeably cooperative.

 

 

"They found a G.I. in the gutter last week, naked. His throat was slit.
His balls were hacked off. No one knows what he did. It's easy to offend
the heathen bastards. They hate Christians anyway." The sergeant shivered.
"If I were you, Major, I'd just bunk down right here. Your plane may be
going out sooner than you think. If you're wandering around you'll miss
your flight. Then there'll be hell to pay. Anyway, there ain't any
transportation into Casa until morning."

 

 

Trafford looked at his watch. It was six thirty. "Listen, sergeant,
as far as I'm concerned it's morning. The sun just ain't up, that's all.
You tell this wog to drive us in."

 

 

Dubiously the sergeant spoke pidgin English to the Arab driver who shook
his head vehemently. "He says it is his last trip today from Cazes,"
the sergeant said. His tone was surly, probably deliberating whether he
should insist that the Major stay at Duchane.

 

 

Yale reached in his pocket, found a couple of dollar bills, and waved
them in the direction of the driver. The Arab saw the money. His anger
faded, revealing a smile of decayed teeth.

 

 

"Money talks," the sergeant said, sighing. "Good luck to you, it's no
skin off my ass!"

 

 

The Arab drove the bus furiously, lurching and skidding it through narrow
cobblestone streets. He swerved it around corners so rapidly that Yale
and Trafford had to hang on desperately to the seats to prevent themselves
from being pitched in the aisle.

 

 

They finally clattered into the city. Yale noticed a sign they passed
that said Boulevard du Gare. The Arab stopped the bus. Opening the door,
he looked at them with a blank smile. "This is the end of the line,
I guess," Yale said.

 

 

"Where are we?" Trafford demanded. The Arab grinned at him. He kept
shaking his head to show he didn't understand. "Hotel! Hotel!" Trafford
said, repeating it until the driver pointed vaguely up the Street.

 

 

They walked in the direction he had indicated. The city smelled of
dried dung and moist fertile earth. The streets and sidewalks were
crowded with Arabs. Among the faces passing them, Yale recognized a
fusion of French, Arab and Spanish characteristics. They were glared at
by prosperous appearing Arabs, and followed by processions of poorer
ones who exhorted them to buy everything from wicked looking knives
to leather billfolds. When they refused they were spit on and called
American sons-of-bitches.

 

 

"I wonder where you get these money deals," Trafford mused.

 

 

Yale shook his head. "I think we should locate a hotel before we
suddenly find a knife sticking out of our shoulder blades. I haven't
seen a G.I. since we got off the bus."

 

 

"The only G.I.'s in Casablanca now are the big brass. The rest are in
Italy getting their asses shot off."

 

 

Trafford grabbed the arm of one of the Arabs following them. "Want to
buy some American dollars, my swarthy friend." To Yale he said, "Listen,
stop worrying, I came through here a year ago. I'll get us a place to
sleep tonight and some French ass to warm your belly. It's early. First,
let's see what we can do with these dollars."

 

 

Yale wondered if Trafford understood the problem. It was one thing
to buy francs. It was something else again to convert them back to
dollars. To Yale the twenty thousand dollars in his money belt had no
actuality. It didn't represent a particular goal. It was just money. What
interested him was the game and the gamble. If he managed to convert it
into francs, could he then switch it back to dollars? He knew full well
that speculating in the money markets was against the Finance Department
regulations, but he conceived the regulations in terms of necessity. The
government had to protect itself against unscrupulous officers who
might pilfer government money. Yale had no intention of doing that. The
twenty thousand dollars was his own money. As he tried to recall his
original reasons for accumulating the money, with Agatha Latham's help,
he realized that if he had any motive at all it was to prove to himself
that he wasn't dependent on Pat Marratt. If he lost his twenty thousand
. . . if the war ended . . . if he were alive . . . multiple "if's"
that had no meaning . . . then he might go back to Midhaven ensnared,
finally, by the Marratt Corporation and Patrick Marratt.