by James Jones
When the cab pulled up to the brilliantly lighted high school, Johnny reached for the door handle, but Freedie grabbed his arm.
“Wait a minute,” Freedie said. He hauled out his bottle. “Take a shot of this first. You may need it.” All three of them drank, and Freedie offered the cabbie a drink. He took it.
They walked inside the high school building and removed their hats. A big burly usher with a heavy dark beard closely shaven pointed the way for them. They were met at the door of the auditorium by a white-haired old man with a white moustache that covered all but the tip of his lower lip. He smiled at them pleasantly with the tip of his lower lip and shook hands elaborately with each of them before leading them to seats halfway down the aisle. From the doors they had entered, the aisle ran straight down to the small stage at the back of the hall. The room was long and both sides of the aisle were crowded with seats. The seats were crowded with people, most of them middle-aged or old but with a fair sprinkling of young people. As the old man led them to the seat, the people turned to stare at them. They all smiled their welcome and nodded with pleasure at the three uniformed men. There were only two other uniforms in the large auditorium. Rev. Thomas M Postelwaite stopped his address for a moment and held out an open palm of welcome toward the three men and smiled at them benevolently. Freedie made a slight bow in return.
“You watch,” Freedie whispered. “This is goin a be rare.”
The three of them sat down with Freedie in the middle. After the old man had left them and gone back to the door, Freedie whispered, “You guys lean over and pick up your hymnbooks.” As the other two leaned over to pluck hymnals from where they resided on the end seat in the row, Freedie hauled out his bottle and sneaked a drink.
Rev. Thomas M Postelwaite was continuing his address. Behind him was a large placard set upon an easel that read: “SUBJECT TONIGHT: THE PRESENT WAR, TEMPERANCE, AND THE VALUE AND NECESSITY OF SALVATION.”
Rev. Postelwaite was taking the entrance of the three servicemen as a supplemental text. He was a short slim man with a small paunch, a high forehead, and gold-rimmed glasses. He looked to be about thirty-five. His long upper lip quivered with intensity as he spoke.
“It does my heart good, dear people,” he said, spreading an open palm toward the three men, “it gives me a measure of hope for all humanity when I see young men in uniform enter into meetings like ours. And don’t mistake me. There are a lot of such young men. I have seen them all over the nation. They are brave young men, fighting for their country, and we are all proud of them.”
Rev. Postelwaite paused for breath, and Freedie grinned, shook his shoulders up and down rapidly in the fashion of a belly-laugh, and winked at Al.
“We are proud of them,” Rev. Postelwaite went on, “very proud of them, for fighting for their country. They are brave and courageous warriors. But we are even more proud of them because they have not forsaken the religion and faith of their fathers.”
“Hear, hear,” said Freedie loudly. There was a momentary hush, and several people turned to look at the three servicemen; some of them smiled. Freedie was enjoying himself. Johnny and Al both grinned without self-consciousness.
Johnny was reminded suddenly of a newsreel he had seen, in which General MacArthur had spoken to a group of Australian statesmen. At the General’s remark about returning to Bataan, all the Australian statesmen had shouted, “Hear, hear!” Now that he noticed it, Rev. Postelwaite had the same mannerism that General MacArthur possessed, a slight, dramatic bobbing and jerking of the head to punctuate his remarks. Johnny was highly amused at this similarity. No wonder, he thought, that all the novelty companies made plaster of paris busts of General MacArthur to sell in all the ten-cent stores.
“. . . but such young men are in a minority, my friends,” Rev. Postelwaite was saying. “Such young men as these are few in our armed forces. Who among us has not seen the nation’s young men carousing in drunken orgies? rolling in the filth of the gutters? parading shamelessly their carnal lusts?” At each question mark, Rev. Postelwaite jerked his head dramatically at his audience. At the end of the sentence, he spread his arms to his audience, and his long upper lip quivered. He paused for a dramatic moment.
Freedie shook his head sorrowfully and clicked his tongue against his teeth. Rev. Postelwaite brought one of his upraised arms down into a fist that pounded upon his altar. “But I say to you, my brethren; I say to you: Our Father is a loving Father, but He is also a just God. He is a vengeful God—and a terrible God when His wrath is roused. It has been written that for those who sin, there is the everlasting agony of Hell. It has been so written and so it shall be. The Eye of God is forever upon us, noting and recording unmercifully the blackness that lies in the soul, ferreting out with Supreme Intelligence those tiny black thoughts of evil that lurk in us and are kept hidden from all the world but ourselves. And when the Day of Judgment comes, no such mark shall escape unpunished.”
Johnny grinned at Freedie obliquely. “Well?” he asked. “You heard enough? Man can’t live by dogma alone. I’m gettin thirsty.”
Freedie scraped one forefinger along the other in a gesture of shame. “Not yet,” he said. “Wait till they start bein saved.”
“From the way it looks now,” Johnny said, “it’ll be in the morning.”
“. . . but one God, and He gave His Only-Begotten Son to be sacrificed. For Himself? Nay, my brethren; no, no. For us. For you and for me. For these young men in uniform, so many of whom are sinking into the downward path. Young men who are free to drink, free to associate with evil persons. Look about you in your own city, my friends. Look about you.” Rev. Postelwaite paused and jerked his head at his audience. He raised his fist to the ceiling.
“What do you see, my friends? You see liquor sold in the open with no more shame than if it were fruit and grain that come from God’s Own trees and fields. You see our government turning a closed eye upon the sale of liquor to people who are not capable of saying no to its temptation.”
“Amen,” said Freedie in a loud voice. In the pause, several other people murmured a soft “Amen.”
Rev. Postelwaite raised his arm to continue. During the harangue against vice that followed this action, the Amens that were spoken in the pauses became louder and less reverent, as the speech progressed the listeners became more excited. Johnny noticed that Freedie ceased to grin and began to fidget irritably. Once or twice, Johnny disgustedly suggested leaving, but Freedie either did not hear or else paid no attention. He became gradually more and more agitated. Johnny thought suddenly of his old battalion chaplain, young, mild, bespectacled, he remembered how the chaplain had knelt by Shelley, how he had gone on all around the hill, kneeling by the men who were dying.
“And why do you think this war has come down upon us like a scourge?” Rev. Postelwaite asked. “Because of politics? because of profiteering? because of unfair treaties and weak alliances?” At each question mark, Rev. Postelwaite jerked his head at his audience as punctuation. He raised his arms to his audience. “Hey, not so, my brothers. This war has come upon us as Divine Retribution. This war is a scourge, the Scourge of God. Men upon the earth have lost the Fear of God, and all must pay for it. Men have strayed from the Arms of God, into the soft caressing arms of sin.
“It is our sacred duty, yours and mine, to bring them back into the Fold. Just as it is the duty of our nation, our people, to bring the world back into the Fold, our duty to search out the lost lambs and return them to their Master. Our young men and women in the armed forces are losing sight of this Divine Ideal of this war, are losing faith in us and in God. We must bring them back. Someday Armageddon will arise, and the Faithful will be called. The rest will descend to Everlasting Hellfire. It is our Divine Commission to save these poor sinners from the Eternal Hell they are courting. Do we let our children play with matches and with fire?”
Rev. Postelwaite paused for a moment, and several of the listeners cried enthusiastic Amens. Rev. Postelwaite raised his ar
m to continue.
“Stop!” said Freedie in a loud voice. He stood up, his arm raised above his head like an MP stopping traffic. The movement was so fast and unexpected that neither Al nor Johnny could have stopped him. Freedie’s face was livid. He was dragging air into his lungs in great whoops. Rev. Postelwaite stood with his arm still raised, struck, dumb, a look of confused wonder upon his face.
“You think Armageddon’s coming? You got the guts to say that after this war there’s goin to be another like it, only worse? And you don’t even want to stop it! You should a been in this war, and then see what you say. Armageddon! You think the guys who get drunk and whore around are goin to go to everlasting hell? Them guys you talkin about just come from hell. I drink; I whore around. I’m not ashamed of it. Did you ever lay in a goddam slit trench and listen to bombs whistling down on you? Did you ever try to forget it afterwards?” Freedie’s words tumbled out on the heels of each other in his effort to get them said. He closed his hand and stabbed at Rev. Postelwaite with his forefinger.
“No. You stay home and talk about salvation. You think God gives a damn what happens to Evansville? or New York? or Washington? or Berlin? You think God sits up in heaven with a little black book and marks off hits and errors like a baseball score? You think God’s spendin his time watchin you and your little shows? You think He’s goin to give you a gold Heavenly Medal of Honor when you walk up? Guess again, Mister.
“Let me tell you somethin: You talk about hell, you guess at what hell is. Come and ask me sometime. I don’t have to guess. I’ll tell you what it is. I’ve been there. I’ve lived there for three years. No hell devised could be any worse than that one. You think I’ll go to hell when I die? I’ve been to hell. I’m already dead.
“You think God don’t count that? You think this war is punishment? Have you been punished? Sure, God took away your gasoline, didn’t He? You’re plain nuts. You think God could be such a son of a bitch to bring a war like this down on anybody, even a rat? You don’t know this war, Mister. You better guess again, or learn what you’re preachin about.
“I’ll tell you who caused this goddam war. It’s people like you. Poor dumb bastards who shut their eyes to every goddam thing but them and their souls. You think prayin and bein saved is goin to make this world better? Tell that to a Jap while he’s cuttin your nuts out. Tell that to a Nazi while he’s rapin your daughter. Tell that to the oil companies and steel companies while they’re sendin oil and steel to Argentina for the Germans and rakin in the dough hand over fist. Tell that to the guys who are sellin equipment to the Japs in China. Americans. Sure, right now while you’re talkin. Dumb bastards like you are the kind the big boys like. You so busy prayin and savin your soul, you forget about the doggies who are gettin their heads blown off. You so busy prayin, you forget the world you live in, you say it’s ‘Evil’ and let it go at that. You bitch about the doggies drinkin and whorin. They ain’t doin no harm; they ain’t causin no wars. They’re the guys that’s in it. Your soul! You don’t know what a soul is. And now you kin yell Amen.”
Freedie’s neck was bulging with pent-up rage and hate. His breath was coming great whoops between words. As he spoke, he shook his fist at Rev. Postelwaite. The white-haired old man was on his way, hotfooting it down the aisle followed by two ushers. The ushers towered over the old man like skyscrapers over a hashhouse.
“Wait’ll this war’s over,” Freedie raged. “Then the truth’ll come out. Only then nobody’ll give a damn. But guys like me. It’s over and done with then. You ain’t lost nothing. You think God causes wars? Look at yourself. What has God got against Evansville? Nothing but the damn fool sons of bitches that live there. And the ones that travel around and preach to them to make a living. How many hundred thousand you got stuck away in the bank? Hunh? How many?”
Al and Johnny were on their feet when the two big men grabbed Freedie roughly.
“Take it easy, Mack,” Al said in an ominous voice.
“Lay a hand on him, and you won’t have no tabernacle left,” Johnny said. “Get him out. Take him outside. But you hit him and, by God, we’ll tear your goddam house apart. If we can’t do it alone, there’ll be a hundred guys here as soon as I yell.”
The man whose fingers were sunk into the soft spot at the base of Freedie’s neck looked at Johnny’s deadpan face and icy eyes and moved his hand down and crooked it around Freedie’s elbow.
“Go ahead,” Johnny urged. “Take him out. We’ll help you get him out. But don’t lay a finger on him.”
The four of them hustled Freedie up the aisle toward the door. Freedie squirmed around and shouted back at Rev. Postelwaite, shaking his trembling fist over Johnny’s shoulder.
“You think prayin can save the goddam world?” he screamed. “Go tell it to the Marines. See what they say. You goddam hypocritical son of a bitch. The only thing can save the world is the men in it. And they’d rather save their goddam souls. Save your soul, you son of a bitch, save your soul. When you get to your hell, remember me. I’ve already been there. You won’t see me, you lousy son of a bitch.”
Rev. Postelwaite’s congregation was staring at the crazed soldier with wide eyes, as if someone had poured cold water over them. Rev. Postelwaite was standing by his pulpit, his arms hanging loosely. There was a sad look on his face, mingled with an uncompromising sternness. The four men got Freedie outside, and Johnny took his bottle and gave him a drink. Johnny and Al exchanged a swift glance, and Al shook his head; but Freedie did not notice. They walked him along the street and Johnny gave him another drink. Freedie’s face was tightened up and the lines beneath his eyes stood out sharply. He was clenching and unclenching his fists. He was crying.
“Well,” said Johnny. “I guess that wound up the revival meeting for tonight.”
“Son of a bitch,” Freedie sobbed. “Dirty Jesus monger son of a bitch. He can talk about hell. Guys livin in hell right now and he talks about salvation. Dirty sky-pilot son of a bitch.”
Finally, they got him quieted.
They walked him around for some time before they decided to go back to the Hotel Roquefort. By the time they entered the Rendezvous, Freedie had control of himself again. He stared obdurately at all the women who passed them.
“Ahhh,” he said disgustedly. “We could of had a lot of fun, if I hadn’t of blew up. You ought to see them when the preacher asks if they want to be saved. It’s almost as good as a holy roller meeting. They all get down there together and pray, and the preacher blesses them. When they get up, they’re saved, and that makes them different people.”
Freedie drained his glass. “When’s the big show goin to start?” he asked Al. “It’s nine o’clock already. . . . If I hadn’t of blown up, we could of picked up some honeys down there after the meeting was over. I had a couple in the crowd picked out. Boy, listen, there’s nothing hotter in the world than a gal who’s just been saved. You can’t even keep ’em on the bed.”
They ordered more drinks, and Freedie glowered at the waitress as she brought the drinks. She had a nice figure, and Freedie cursed her softly as she walked away from the table. A tall beautifully built young woman walked past them just after the waitress left. The girl was dark-haired and dressed in a red dress of some thin, light-absorbing material and a black bolero jacket of the same cloth. Her skirt fitted her hips very clingingly, and the edges of her panties made visible ridges in the skirt, passing just under her buttocks and fading out of sight. Freedie ogled her sullenly. The woman stopped just beyond their table and looked around the room over the tops of the heads.
Freedie cursed for a moment and then called to her. “Hey,” he said without rising. “Come on over and have a drink.” He flashed his likeable grin at her as she turned to look at him. The girl stared at him coldly with lifted eyebrows and made a little moue of distaste. She lifted her shoulder slightly and turned on her heel and walked across the room. She selected one of the empty tables clear across the room.
Freedie looked at his watch.
“I’ll give her ten minutes to soften up before I go over,” he said. “That stuff’s for me tonight. When you guys be ready to start?”
Al shrugged. “We’ll get the next one that come in,” he said.
Johnny shook his head. “I got a date with that redhead you had in the bathroom all night,” he said to Freedie. He looked at his watch. “Half an hour.”
“Okay,” Freedie said. He toyed with his drink and looked down into it reflectively. “You want to know why I blew my top?”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” Johnny said. “Forget it.”
“I know,” Freedie said, “but that’s not what I mean.” He tilted his glass and rolled the bottom around and around in a circle. “You want to know something? I’ll tell you something that’ll knock your hat off. You guys think the Flying Tigers is a wonderful outfit? It ain’t wonderful. It’s rotten. Except for the guys; the guys are the best bunch in the world. If it wasn’t for the guys, a man would be ashamed to be in it.
“You want to know something?” he said, staring at them penetratingly. “I’ll tell you something. You know Milton Caniff’s Terry and the Pirates comic strip? Well, all the guys in the Air Corps swear by Caniff, especially in China. That guy knows more about the Air Corps than any man in it.
“Well, he’s got a character in the strip he calls ‘Silk.’ That girl actually exists. God only knows how Caniff learned about her. ‘Silk’ ain’t her real name, of course, but she’s Chinese. Well, that gal is worse than Mata Hari in the last war. That gal is one of the ringleaders in the biggest graft scandal in this war. The list of names would stagger you.” Freedie lit a cigaret sourly.
“You think I’m kidding? You remember what I told you and watch the papers. There’ll be a court-martial list as long as your arm come out on that deal someday. Both Americans and Chinese. It’ll be hushed up in the papers, because there’s plenty of big men in on it. Them guys’ll get out of it, because no government ever court-martials itself; only the little guys.