Casey Beneath A Dancing Star

1. Auflage 2012
ISBN: 978-1-62488-032-2
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 239 Seiten

It is June, 1917. World War 1 has been devouring Europe for almost 3 years. Corporal Fallon Killrain arrives in France with the 5th Regiment of the United States Marine Corps. And for most of his life, he has been aware of his affinity for violence, but has kept the door locked. To him, it is erotic, voluptuous. He allowed the beast to crawl from the dark corner of his soul while stationed in China hunting warlords. He now knows that the dark creature he keeps hidden in a dungeon somewhere within him has found the key to the perfect playground. And then he meets Anouk Gabrielle Plesse´, former ballet dancer with Ballet Russe and Fine artist, who shows him a new way.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Casey, Michael

Leseproben

TWO
On their second day in France they awoke to the bugle and the sun dancing between gray flecked clouds, while a young breeze played with their tent flaps and tickled their unit flags. The two man tents were temporary, and always ready to be struck quickly; a quick stay in St. Nazaire and then to another tented place. A week later. And men began arriving, again, some pulled from posts and ships from the four curved corners of the earth; men who, like them, had seen some death and towns where urchins wandered. But now there were many more men just out of Parris Island and San Diego; men who were trained in six weeks and sent over; men whose eyes were still blinking into the bright sun of adventure. But to the veterans, only the noise of guns, distant and muffled, reminded them that adventure was a pauper and to teach the new ones to remember the sounds that may soon deafen them. And it was now rumored that the 6th Machine Gun Battalion wouldn’t be arriving until December; so the fields outside of St. Nazaire was their field of residence only briefly. It was also rumored that General Pershing had plans for the 5th while they waited for further training by the French. July opened like the door of a hot oven. The fields around their encampment were covered with red poppies and the butterflies flitted from one to the other; to a butterfly, nirvana, and a far distance from the molt of the caterpillar. They walked back to their tent holding their long handled tin mess plates and canteen cups not quite filled with coffee. Eddie Bellers and Packy Raymond were sitting in front of their tent which was perfectly placed next to theirs; all the tents in their row, and all of the rows of the 4th and 5th Brigade camp were aligned as if to a mathematician’s specification, with its perfect lines and right angles. Their plates were balanced on their crossed legs and the cups were on the ground next to them. Tom Rulac and Dov Lasky occupied the tent on the other side of their’s. Corporal White was the first to sit. Fallon Killrain was looking down the line of twenty-five and smiling, eating his breakfast as he stood, chewing slowly, reaching down for his coffees. “What’s funny, Sarge?” Rulac and Lasky were coming in the opposite direction from the mess tent carrying their breakfast; they each had extra biscuits. They had stopped to see Rulac’s cousin in the 1st Battalion who had joined-up with him. “Just thinking what a circuitous route it’s been, China, Haiti, Dominican Republic to here.” “What the hell’s circuitous…?” He looked down at Packy Raymond, still smiling. “Means kind of going in circles.” He wanted to use another word, perhaps meander, to explain it but he would have had to explain that, too; another responsibility of his sergeancy. Dicky looked up, smiling, licking some particle of food from his upper lip. “Fuckin’ right, Fal. Shit, we been to one end and the other end.” “We have that, Corporal White.” “Beein’ uppity with this Corporal White, ain’t ya?” Fallon looked down at the corporal, squinting, the smile now holding just a corner of his lips. “I thought you liked being called Corporal White?” “Everybody else, yeah. We known each other too long for the formal shit.” The sergeant nodded. “Maybe.” “What’s this MP shit the captain told you about?” Fallon lifted his right shoulder rubbing his chin against it, as if scratching an itch. “Pershing want’s to use us as a line of communication troops and mainly MPs but something about other duties I’m not privy to - means I don’t know.” “Who’re we MP’n?” Fallon smiled. “Anybody and everybody. You’re a cop now, Dicky.” “Might not be so bad…Do we get to MP some French ladies?” Fallon lied. “Don’t see why not?” “When do we start MP’n?” Fallon looked down the rows of tents with men eating, talking, laughing, wondering how many of them would be around by this time in July, 1918. “Soon, I guess. The captain’ll let us know.” Dicky looked up and winked. “Cops, huh?” “MPs, Dicky. Take a walk?” Corporal White unfolded his legs, briefly lay back, and jumped from that to a standing position next to Sergeant Killrain. “Somebody told me my joints’re loose, that’s why I can do that shit, Fal.” “Yes, you’ve shown me before. Could be interesting with a German.” Dicky did a fast swipe with his forefinger around the brim of his hat, kissing his finger and rubbing the emblem on the front of it. “Damn straight. Knock me down and I pop back up like that spring-loaded guy in the box, what’s it’s name?” “Jack.” “Yeah, that spring-loaded Jack. Shock the shit out of ‘em, I bet.” Fallon was smiling. He’d seen him do it on a bet in Shanghai. “No bet. Sergeant Killrain and Corporal White, washed their utensils in the bucket of soapy water outside their tent, wiped them, went into their tent and dropped the tins on their blankets and wandered throughout the bivouac. They stopped by the 1st Platoon to see the newly promoted sergeant, Barry Link. Sergeant Link had come to the 2nd Battalion two weeks after Fallon, Dicky and Captain Stoddard. He had been in Haiti and the Dominican Republic with them. When he walked, his long legs seemed loosely attached to his hips; thus the nickname, “Daddy Long.” As they walked up, Sergeant Link turned, his smile crooked and wrinkling one side of his face. He had the whitest teeth Fallon had ever seen, and they were all his. He had no trouble of meeting the Marine Corps requirement of having at least fifteen teeth. “Well, well, if it ain’t Sergeant Fallon Killrain and Corporal Dicky White.” He turned to the lance corporal he’d been speaking to, gesturing with both hands, as if he were holding a Springfield. “Just remember, Brimmer, if it gets stuck, pull the trigger. It’ll come out right enough. Then move on; don’t get fascinated or throw-up if his guts’re all over ya.” The lance corporal was two inches shorter than Sergeant Link but broader in the shoulders “Aye, Aye, sarge.” Lance Corporal Brimmer took a step back, looked at Fallon and left. “Never stop teachin’, do we Fal?” “Nope. And from what the captain says, we’ll be doing a lot more of it.” Barry lit a cigarette, offering one to Fallon and Dicky, both taking them and lighting them from the match Link was holding. Dicky inhaled and winked. “Three on a match and all that shit.” Fallon watched the tip of his burn the tobacco and paper, remembering when his father rolled his own, before they sold them already in the paper; before he went to the longer cigars. He could still see himself sitting at his father’s feet, playing rummy, while his father smoked one; ever since then, the smell of a cigar meant home. And he took a slow smoke of his cigarette. “The more on the match, the longer the sun shines.” “The captain says we might be full strength by February.” Fallon nodded. “Told me it might be sooner. He say anything to you about creating officers from noncoms?” Sergeant Link laughed, and it was slightly high pitched, almost a cackle “Hell, Sergeant Killrain, I’ve only been a sergeant for two days.” Fallon smiled and nodded, exhaling smoke from the cigarette. “Two days less than me.” “Your an old man Fallon. All of twenty-two and ancient. Dicky was born twenty-two.” “Bullshit. I was twelve and born with hair on my balls.” Fallon nodded, and the smile widened. “Blond or black, Dicky? And hard I’d guess.” Dicky leaned on his left hip, the cigarette between his lips vibrating as he spoke. “Damn straight. Rolled out runnin’. Barry laughed and looked at Fallon. “The captain tell you about this MP duty we might be gettin’. Said Pershing want’s to use us for communications n’ MPs.” Sargeant Killrain nodded. “Yes. Said our company’d be used for MP duty, mostly. Some for communications.” Corporal White kicked at a mound of dirt, then smoothing it. “Rather be MP’n than runnin’. Who knows, some Fritz sneaks behind the lines ‘n puts one in yer brain.” He looked at both sergeants, and at their stripes, running a finger along his own, tapping his fore and index fingers on the two of them. “Rather be MP’n.” And Sergeant Killrain nodded, tapping his arm. “I think we all would, corporal.” “How many new ones have you guys got?” “Four.” “Five, now.” Sergeant Killrain looked at his corporal with wrinkles forming above his eyebrows. “Who?” “While you wuz at the head coupla new ones showed up askin’ if this was 3rd Platoon, 17th Company. Showed ‘em where t’find the captain.” Fallon nodded. “Well, we’re finally filling out the company. Neither of ‘em’s an NCO, I guess?” “Nah. Coupla kiddies.” Sergeant Link nodded. “Yeah. They’re comin’ pretty good now.” Fallon looked back and saw PFC. Dov Lasky coming at a run, just a little slower than the double-time they were used to. When he...