At the mess barracks, Barney Adams said to Corporal Baxter, “Do you have a date tonight, Corporal?” “I got a sort of tomato at Conga Flats. She’s good for tonight.” “Take the jeep and enjoy yourself.” Baxter protested. He had developed a half-protective attitude toward the captain, and wanted to know how Adams would get home. “I’ll pick up a ride. Take off.” The barracks was brightly lit, the tables rearranged to form a good-sized dance floor. The four-piece combination from back home was very good indeed, and when Barney Adams entered, it was playing “South of the Border.” The song had always produced a sentimental reaction in him; it was like hearing “There’s a Long, Long Trail A-Winding,” which went much further back but touched him the same way. For a while, Adams stood just inside the big screen doors, watching the officers enter with their dates, Red Cross women and nurses and a sprinkling of girls from the British families in residence. He had the lonely and restive feeling of a man who comes alone to a dance and knows that he will be alone through the evening, and he had half made up his mind to stay no more than fifteen or twenty minutes and then leave.
