LITERARY JP
By RALPH KRAMER
JT was hot and kind of noon
dayish, but a successful breeze
was wheeling- gulls from across
the slow-rolling green breakers.
The breeze had also whipped up
a salt air tang that solidified
about ten miles out into a glary
torizon haze. With the gulls, the
Jveze, the sun and the sea—ev
erything added up to a swell day
-—almost a vacation day.
One of the two guys from Jer
sey was groaning with semi-ec
stasy as he stood and stretched
himself. He twisted until some
place a joint or two snapped,
then he hopped onto a sand bag,
lit a cigarette and surveyed the
beach.
“This could just as easy be At
lantic City as not.” He spoke
down at the beach and across the
breakers. Seme of the guys
looked at him thinking “so what
to Atlantic City?”
“Ya’ know it, Joe?” He con
tinued, still looking away. The
other guy from Jerseys City’s
name was Joe. He was lying o-n
his belly next to the gun. His
eyes were closed and his mouth
f^s open against the sand. He
smed asleep.
“Ya’ know it, Joe?”
“What!” Joe’s voice had the
bite of sleepy irritation.
“This place reminds me of At
lantic City.”
Joe took a while to answer. “It
hasn’t got a boardwalk.”
“Cape May or Barenagt Bay,
maybe.”
“Maybe.”
The guys were quiet—kind of
wanting the Jersey chamber of
commerce to dry up. He did for
awhile, but before the easy
breaker noise could put Joe back
to sleep, he began again. “Boy,
Joe, wouldn’t it be nice if we
could walk through those palms
into a place like; Casey’s and tear
into a real sea food dinner—filet
of sole, oyster, horseshoe crab?”
m^'Yeah,” said Joe, his eyes still
closed.
“Boy, I wish I was back in Jer
sey right now.”
Everybody wanted to say it,
but the dry wag, Corporal Lei
sen won out. “So do I, buddy.”
'T'HEY were 'stretched around
in various stages of bored
stupordom—half asleep. Too tired
to do anything, yet with enough
nervous tension and pinging sand
lice to keep them awake.
It was Joe’s turn to stand up;
hairy-armed and swarthy. He too
grabbed a cigarette, lit it indif
ferently, and blew smoke Scar
face style; out of the side of his
mouth. He climbed up onto the
4nd bags; squatting like an In
ian, even to the hand shading
his eyes. He gazed at the other
sandbagged crews down the line.
A few guys were moving around,
but as far as h£ could see every
thing was as quiet as it was
around here. Then some guy
down the way began with a har
monica; he couldn’t catch much
except that it was a harmonica,
but it sounded pretty gcod. He lis
tened idly, not because he wanted
to too muclr, but because his ear s
were hungry for a little tonal des
sert.
The cracks were few and far
between; talk of women was
•rmehow less salacious, and
Sometimes irritation got the best
of them. Sand was in everything;
when they chewed, it crackled;
when they scratched, it stuck in
their fingernails. They rubbed it
out of their eyes, their ears, their
armpits; it was part of their feet.
It wasn’t so bad when the sun
was up, and the sand was kind
of toasty, so that when you lay
in it half naked, it kind of tickle
burned. But then when you had
to face the same sand as you ate,
as you tried to sleep, and when
it got clammy and damp, then it
was pretty punk.
Leisen was sort of looked upon
as the host, or at least he felt
that way when the sergeant was
n’t around. Perhaps to end his
own boredom he began thinking
hard to keep alive the show of
interest.
“You should have joined up
with Gene Tunney, Joe. You
could have thrown a baseball
around Norfolk, and had' a rating
to boot.”
Joe was either naive or net par
ticularly ironical.
“I used to be a pretty fair ball
player. Caught for a semipro out
fit for a good while,” he mod
estly admitted. “Never did go far
with ball though. I had a big pay
in’ defense job and a dame.”
“Then why did you join up,
Joe?” asked Vince Quentin,
scratching his groin.
“Guess I was a sucker for “the
Halls of Monezuma.”
“What about the dame?” Vince
liked to talk about women and
Joe had been pretty silent about
his love life to date.
"Her too.”
“Her too what?”
“Her too—I was a sucker.”
“A fool there was,” put in Art
Reese, who hadn’t gotten over
his days at Marquette yet. He
was about to continue the verse,
when Phil broke in, "Wasn’t that
the girl from Hackensack?” Phil
was on the limited back to Jersey
again.
“Yeah,” answered Joe.
“She was OK.”
“Yeah.”
Elsa Maxwell Leisen saw how
close Phil was getting to Jersey,
and threw the switch over to the
big kid from Texas.
“How come you got in, Tex—”
“Well,” the kid had a clean
grin—“Ah’ll tell ya'—Ah saw a
picture once with that li’l gal
Maureen O’Hara, a rompin’ aroun’
an’ lovin’ fer me.” He paused with
a shy likeable laugh. “Boy, when
ah got down there to San Diego
■—those ole’ boys never let me
out of camp long enough to see
anything but a few sailors.”
“Them San Diego women did
n’t know what they were missin’.”
Corporal Leisen said, appraising
the Texas boy, who smiled dumb
ly with an “aw shucks” expres
sion. He was big shouldered, and
brown. The sun had whitened his
eyebrows and his arm fuzz. His
hair was clipped and soft; like
well-used tooth brush bristles.
His face was strong and cheek
bonish, but hi9 eyes were friendly.
They all admired him here in
the world of men, where they’d
be plenty jealous of him if a
bunch of women were hanging
around. He was the big, unpro
tected sort of guy that can make
women feel as though they were
kissing him, instead of him them.
/CORPORAL Leisen stood up,
^ shrugging sand all over the
place, “I've heard so much about
you guys and your dames ever
since we been here, I feel almost
like I been along with you.’’
“I like to make ’em crawl,”
Vince said, ignoring Leisen and
Art. “Get ’em to ‘I love you’ and
then give them the works. It
burns ’em up but they like it.
Isn’t that how you do, Tex?”
“Well, ah don’t exactly do
much. Ah jest kinda—well—ah
don’t exactly know what I do,—
Mu li'l ol’ brunette don’t crawl,
though.”
“Try what I told you when you
get back home,” continued Vince.
“Why if I had your looks, I’d
devote my life to makin’ dames
miserable. Why back home right
now, I’ll bet there’s a cool fifteen
girls lookin’ at my picture.”
Joe was looking at Leisen with
a half smile and knowing eyes.
Phil and the Texan acted as
though they believed it, while
Art Reese sat staring at his
shoes. Vince was undaunted.
“There was one little gal I
went with that almost had me
floored though—What a pip she
was, too—Told me she loved me,
and all that kind of rumble-seat
malarky. So I got my ring back
from that Mexican babe I was
tellin’ you about yesterday, and
I jammed it on her finger only
to find there were two rings on
there already.”
“Was she married ?” asked
Phil.
“Married as hell—and givin’ me
all this bull about “you’re the
only one”—you can imagine how
that affected a young kid like
me who believed in institutions
like marriage—so there I was,
double-crossed by a floozy!—But
ijobody gets the best of Vince
Quentin, and this dish was no
exception. So I ups and fixes a
date with her and a pal of mine.
They got parked and begin
Wijje
Boyd Cameron, man about the tpwn,
Up when the rest of us were down,
Forehead, like Shelley's cluttered with curls,
Squired in turn the Trenton girls;
And met the village talk with scorn
Suitable to “the manor born.”
Boyd Cameron was brought to bay
In the Episcopal church one May;
And man and boy stood staring by
To see the glint in Andea’s eye.
“He'll tire of Andrea,” women said;
But Andrea's head was a smart proud head.
The years have passed and time grown thinner.
But the Camerons entertain at dinner,
And the Camerons entertain at tea,
And Andrea sits by quietly.
Wives call Andrea Cameron smart;
But Andrea's art is a subtle art.
When Boyd’s glance strays to another girl,
Andrea straightens a falling curl;
When Boyd’s eyes grow too cordially warm;
Andrea brushes against his arm;
And when Boyd smiles at dimpled knees,
It's “Boyd, dear, fasten my sandal, please.”
So, every crisis is met calmly.
With Andrea’s practised sophistry.
And the chains on Boyd are the kind of chains
A woman fastens with skill and brains.
And Boyd never feels the tightening links.
Of the Camerons, only Andrea thinks.
■—By Barbara Hampson.
Literary page staff:
Editor: Carol Greening
Contributors:
Ralph Kramer
Barbara Hampson
Typist: Lorraine Gillard
smoochin’, and I arrive with the
husband.”
His voice broke with laughter.
‘‘Gosh, was that a scream! Any
way, it taught her to mind her
P’s and Q's, what I mean!
“What about your pal?” asked
Art Reese.
“Oh, he was about the size of
Tex here, and the husband was a
little shrimp. In fact, the husband
apologized to this guy for his
wife—“She’s just a little fickle,
Mister,” he said.”
HE kid down the line with
harmonica was pretty hot
now, and it was fairly easy to tell
that “floneysuckle Rose” was the
tune.
“Yeah,” said Joe to no one in
particular. “It’s a funny world.
I mean the way they get us from
all over the country. Knowing
different people, different women,
different things; and they stick
us down here on some flea-bitten
beach together, and we get to
talking and shooting the crap,
and finding out that life's pretty
much the same all over—”
“Yeah.” Corporal Leisen’s face
wrinkled wisely. “Here we’ve been
for about ten days, laying around
with not a blasted thing to do
* * *
Geoffrey Discovers America
i nurtur AtUi ay cmrisiopner
Morley, Harcourt, Brace.
This is the story of Geoff, a lit
tle boy who left a Victorian Eng
land to discover the New World.
He became Jeff, learnt about
Lexington and Concord', and al
ways had to be Cornwallis and
Braddock when Yorktown and
the Indian wars were refought.
Christopher Morley has come
a far cry from “Kitty Foyle”
with “Thorofare.” But there is
the same richness and flavor
to the book; he gives a de
lightful picture of the times
and an even more winning pic
ture of Jeff, or Geoff, who al
ways spoke his mind, and what
happened to him in America.
The boy isn’t the only charm
ing character; his uncle, Dan,
and English professor who intro
duced Uncle Remus and Brer
KaoDit to ms nephew, is a prom
inent person in the book. There
is Aunt Bee, who found America
so strange and yet so familiar,
and Aunt Allie, who stamps her
self on the reader’s memory with
the epigram, “Virtuous women
don’t wear hats;’’ (They wear
bonnets). Aunt Elm lived in a
glass cupola and was said to have
the evil eye. Her bad temper was
genius.
Then on the crossing to Amer
ica Jeff and Uncle Dan met some
more individuals that only Chris
topher Mcrley could dream up:
Professor Friedeck, an eminent
philologist, who said that the
English language was “simply
emotional helter-skelter” and
liked privacy while searching for
his collar-buttons. Miss Shau
graun was an Irish lady with a
Dooming voice wno iorgot that
the ship’s ventilators were excel
lent voice conductors. There is a
host more of characters, each as
delightful as the next.
There is something of the
whimsey of “Where the Blue Be
gins’’ in this bock; at least it
veers closer to that than to “Kit
ty Foyle.’’ Every now and then
the book becomes uproariously
funny; every now and then it be
comes’ serious and philosophical.
You can’t put your finger on
Morley’s intrinsic quality; it is
indefinable. If you are a Morley
addict, you can take this book
and sink into a comfortable chair
with a sigh of bliss. This is your
meat. If you don’t like his work,
this book will not convert you.
for it is characterized by his per
sonal style in every line.
but shoct the breeze and get.
sleepy. And this is just bein’
around guys, listenin’ to them;
like old' “make ’em crawl’’ over
there, well, it kind of gives you
a feelin’ you can’t put into words,
but it makes you know how good
a bunch of guys really are, and
how good livin’ is, too. I guess X
mean that things as a whole are
(Please turn to pase six)
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