by James Jones
“The hell for leather Cavalryman,” Warden muttered. “Errol Flynn with fifty extra pounds.” He walked deliberately over to his desk and smashed his fist into his own rigidly blocked, flat-peaked issue hat hanging on the wall. “The son of a bitch’d try to ship me down if I bent up my hat like his.”
Back at the window, he watched Holmes climbing the outside stair to Regimental Hq, going up to Col Delbert’s office. Two aging men confabing with each other, leaders of men, patting each other on the back and looking frantically about to find someone to lead.
Warden had a theory about officers: Being an officer would make a sinner out of Christ himself. No man could swallow so much gaseous privilege and authority without having his guts inflated. The eager dewy-eyed young shavetails who left the Point prepared to become cavalier Jeb Stuarts, politician U.S. Grants, tragic R.E. Lees, fatherly Stonewall Jacksons, or Ramrod John J Pershings, heroes, each in his right, to the adoring populace who bought his plaster bust in all the 10¢ stores, had a choice of two developments. In every war there were two wars, the war for officers and the war of the enlisted man. And all the beardless shavetails grew up to be either the Stern Disciplinarian, or else the One Beloved of All His Men Who Loved Them Like a Brother. More recently there were the Holmeses who like a schizoid case tried to play both roles, and ended up a cuckold.
Beyond the Hq stairs the bedroom window of Holmes’s house peered at him coyly through the truck entrance. And maybe right now, behind that unrevealing window, she was languorously undressing the long flowing milk of that blonde body, garment by garment like a stripper in a honkytonk, to take a bath or something. Maybe she had a man in there with her now.
Warden felt his chest swelling potently with maleness, as if a great balloon were being blown up inside him. Feeling as though his belly was revolving, smoking and emitting sparks, he turned from the window and sat back down.
Prew was waiting for him, standing quietly before the desk, feeling worn out now and very tired, feeling the sweat still dripping slowly from his armpits with the strain of subduing his own fear and disagreeing with authority. The collar of the shirt that had been fresh at eight o’clock was wilted and the sweat had soaked clear through the back. Only a little more of this and you are through, he told himself. Then you can relax.
Warden picked up a paper from his desk and began to read it, as if he were alone. When he finally looked up there was hurt surprise and indignation on his face, as if wondering how this man had got into his office uninvited and without his knowing it.
“Well?” Milt Warden said. “What the hell do you want?”
Prew stared at him levelly, not answering, not disconcerted. And for a time both were silent, studying each other, like two opposing checker players taking each other’s measure before the game began. There was no open dislike in the face of either, only a sort of cold inherent antagonism. They were like two philosophers starting from the same initial premise of life and each, by irrefutable argument, arriving at a diametrically opposite conclusion. Yet these two conclusions were like twin brothers of the same flesh and heritage and blood.
Warden broke the spell. “You havent changed a bit, have you, Prewitt?” he said sarcastically. “Havent learned a thing. Fools rush in where angels fear to re-enlist, as some great wit once said. All a man has to do is to leave it up to you and you’ll put your own head in the noose for him.”
“A man like you, you mean,” Prew said.
“No, not me. I like you.”
“I love you too,” Prew said. “And you aint changed none either.”
“Put his own head in the noose,” Warden shook his head sorrowfully. “Thats what you did just now; you know that, dont you? When you turned down Dynamite’s Boxing Squad?”
“I thought you didnt like jockstraps and SD men,” Prew said.
“I dont,” Warden said. “But did it ever occur to you that in a way I’m an SD man myself? I dont do straight duty.”
“Yeah,” Prew said. “I’ve thought of that. Thats why I couldnt see why you hated us guys in the Bugle Corps so much.”
“Because,” Warden grinned, “SD men and jockstraps are all the same, fugitives from straight duty. They aint got what it takes so they ride the gravytrain.”
“And make life a hellhole for every one they can, like you.”
“No,” Warden said. “Guess again. I dont make hell for nobody. I’m only the instrument of a laughing Providence. Sometimes I dont like it myself, but I couldnt help it if I was born smart.”
“We cant all be smart,” Prew said.
“Thats right,” Warden nodded. “We cant. Its a shame too. You been in the army what now? Five years? Fivenahalf? Its about time for you to get over bein a punk ree-croot and begin to get smart, aint it? That is, if you’re ever goin to.”
“Maybe I’d ruther not be smart.”
Warden unfolded his arms and proceeded to light a cigaret, lazily, taking his time. “You had a soft deal as a bugler,” he said, “but you toss it up because Queer Houston hurt your feelins. And then you turn Holmes down when he wants you for his boxing squad,” he said, mincing the words. “You should of took him up, Prewitt. You wont like straight duty in my compny.”
“I can soljer with any man,” Prew said. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Sure you will, Prewitt,” Warden said caressingly. “You goddam right you will. And you’ll throw your bugle on the trash heap just to do it. You’ll take your chances, and the odds you’ll give would make you sick, if life was a craptable. But thats just what it is, Prewitt.”
“I can soljer with any man,” Prewitt repeated, “and best him at it.”
“Okay,” Warden said. “So what? Since when has bein a good soljer had anything to do with the Army? Do you think bein a good soljer will get you a sergeant’s rating in this outfit? after what you just pulled? It wont even get you Pfc.
“You’re the kind of soljer ought to be jockstrappin, Prewitt. Then you could get your name in all the Honolulu papers and be a hero. Because you’ll never make a real soljer. Never in God’s world.
“When you change your mind and decide you might as well jockstrap for Dynamite after all, remember this: the jockstraps dont run this company—in spite of Holmes.
“This aint A Compny now, Prewitt. This is G Compny, of which I am First Sergeant. I run this compny. Holmes is the CO, but he is like the rest of the officer class: a dumb bastard that signs papers an rides horses an wears spurs an gets stinking drunk up at the stinking Officers’ Club. I’m the guy that runs this compny.”
“Yeah?” Prew grinned. “Well, you aint doin a very goddam good job of it, buddy. If you run this outfit, how come Preem’s the mess sergeant? And how come O’Hayer’s the supply sergeant, when Leva does the work? And how come most every noncom in ‘your compny’ is one of Holmes’s punchies? Dont give me that crap.”
The whites of Warden’s eyes turned slowly red. “You dont know the half of it yet, kid,” he grinned. “Wait till you been here for a while. Theres a lot more yet. You dont know Galovitch, and Henderson, and Dhom, the duty sergeant.”
He removed the cigaret from the corner of his mouth and knocked it with deliberate slowness on the ashtray. “But the point is, Holmes would strangle on his own spit if I wasnt here to swab out his throat for him.” He stuffed the burning coal out savagely and then rose languidly like a stretching cat. “So at least we know where we stand,” he said, “dont we, kid?”
“I know where I stand,” Prew said. “I aint never been able to figure out where you stand. I think . . .” The sound of someone coming in the corridor made him cut it off, because this was a private argument, a thing between himself and Warden that rank, whether high or low, would not appreciate. Warden grinned at him.
“Rest, rest, rest,” a voice said through the door. “Dont get up for me, men,” though both of them were standing. The voice was followed by a little man, shorter yet than Prewitt, who came walking quick-stepping with a ramrod back behind it th
rough the door, dressed in dapper, tailored CKCs and sporting 2nd Lieutenant’s bars. He stopped when he saw Prewitt.
“I dont know you, do I, soldier?” said the little man. “Whats your name?”
“Prewitt, Sir,” Prew said, looking around at Warden who was grinning wryly.
“Prewitt, Prewitt, Prewitt,” said the little man. “You must be a new man, a transfer. Because I dont know that name.”
“Transferred from A Compny, this morning, Sir,” Prew said.
“Ah,” said the little man. “I knew it. If I didnt know that name, I knew it wasnt in the Company. I spent three bloody weeks sweating out a roster of this Company just so I could call each man by his name. My father always told me a good officer knows every man in his outfit by name, preferably by his nickname. Whats your nickname, soldier?”
“They call me Prew, Sir,” Prew said, still not acute, awake or cognizant before this swiftly talking blob of energy.
“Of course,” said the little man. “I should have known that. I’m Lt Culpepper, recently of West-Point-on-the-Hudson, now of this Company. You’re the new fighter, arent you, the welterweight? Too bad you didnt get here before the close of the season. Glad to have you aboard, Prewitt, glad to have you aboard, as the Old Man and his colleagues in the navy would say.”
Lt Culpepper sprinted around the little room laying papers here and there in their different boxes. “You probably know of me,” he said, “if you have read the Regimental Chronicles. My father and his grandfather before him both began their careers in this Company as 2nd Looies, both rose to command of this Company, then to command of this Regiment before they became general officers. I am following in their illustrious footsteps. Hear hear.
“Hey, hey,” he said. “Wheres my golf bag, Sergeant Warden? I have a golf date with Colonel Prescott’s daughter in fifteen minutes, then lunch, then more golf.”
“Its in the closet there,” Warden said aloofly, “behind the filing cabinet.”
“Ah, yes,” said Lt Culpepper, son of Brigadier Culpepper, grandson of Lt General Culpepper, great grandson of Lt Col Culpepper, C.S.A. “I’ll get it, Sergeant, dont bother,” he said to Warden who had not moved. “I’ve got to do my eighteen holes today. Big party at the Club tonight and I’ve got to be in shape.”
He pulled the golf bag out from behind the green art metal filing cabinet, knocking a sheaf of files off the corner of the table which he did not pick up, and breezed out as swiftly as he had come, saying nothing more to Prewitt.
Disgustedly Warden picked the files up and put them back where they had been. “Come on,” he said to Prewitt. “I’ll fix you up. I got work to do.”
He walked over behind Holmes’s desk and stood looking at the chart of the Company’s personnel organization that hung there with little cardboard tabs containing each man’s name and separated into platoons and squads and hanging from screw hooks.
“Wheres your stuff?” he said.
“Still at A Compny. I dint want to pack my clean uniforms.”
Warden grinned his sly pixy grin. “Still the dude, hunh? Havent changed a bit. Takes more than clothes to make a soljer, Prewitt. A whole helluva lot more.”
He took a blank tab from one of Holmes’s desk drawers and printed Prewitt’s name on it. “Theres a machine-gun cart leaning up against the wall outside the supplyroom. Take that over for your stuff. Save you makin four five trips.”
“Okay,” Prew said, surprised at the beneficence and unable to keep it off his face.
Warden grinned at him, relishing the surprise. “I’d hate to see you muss them uniforms, kid. I hate to see any kind of energy wasted, even it its been wasted once already.
“We ought to be able to fix you up in a good squad,” he grinned. “Now how would you like to be in Chief Choate’s squad?”
“What’re you tryin to do?” Prew said, “kid me? I dont see you puttin me in Big Chief’s squad. I more likely see you puttin me in a squad that one of Holmes’s punchies runs.”
“You do?” Warden’s eyebrows hooked and quivered delicately. He hung the tab up on the chart under Cpl Choate’s name.
“There. You see? I’m probably the best friend you ever had, kid, and you dont even know it. Lets go to the supplyroom and draw your stuff.”
In the supplyroom rawboned bald and wryfaced Leva stopped his scribbling long enough to dole out sheets and mattress covers, shelter-half and blankets, pack and all the rest of it and get Prew’s initials on the Form.
“Hello, Prew,” he grinned.
“Hello, Niccolo,” Prew said. “You still in this outfit?”
“You come to stay a spell with us?” Leva said, “or is this just temporary?”
“He’ll probly,” Warden said, “stay quite a while.”
He led him upstairs to the row of bunks that Choate’s squad inhabited and pointed out the one for him to take.
“You got till one o’clock to get straightened out,” The Warden said. “You fall out for Fatigue at one P.M. Just like us common people.”
Prew set himself to stowing all his stuff. The big squadroom was very still with nobody in it. His heels clacked very loudly. The squadroom was too big for one man alone, and the banging of his wall locker was too loud, echoing deeply back and forth across the room.
Chapter 5
CAPT HOLMES, WHEN HE left the Orderly Room, was feeling good. He felt he had given a pretty good account of himself with the cook Willard, but particularly with the new man, Prewitt, the welter from the 27th. He had already heard the story about his quitting fighting and now, after the interview, he was confident Prewitt would come around and change his mind, before summer and the Company Smoker season.
Capt Holmes liked to climb the stairs to Hq Building. They did not look like concrete, they looked like old marble streaked gray and black. Age had polished down the once porous concrete and rounded the raw edges with rain and feet, and given it a smooth slick gloss. When the stairs were wet they always caught and perpetuated the rainbow, like a promise. There will always be an Army, they said to him.
Heavy concrete and mortared brick had been molded around a concept Capt Holmes believed and given it reality. His orderly faithfully saddlesoaped and polished his riding boots once a day, it was the same thing. As he raised first one foot then the other to the step above the soft pliant leather bent in long smooth wrinkles, with none of those crowsfeet that show poor care. Once a day, regular as the monthly pay voucher.
His sense of accomplishment was though, just now, dimmed by a slight uneasiness at the prospect of meeting Col Delbert. Not that he disliked the Old Man. But when a man had the rank on you and held your majority in the palm of his hand you naturally had to watch every word.
In the middle of the upper porch a dumpy private in fatigues was expertly swinging a mop over the glazed floor, never lifting it, each stroke sweeping from wall to wall. Capt Holmes paused automatically for him to stop to let him pass, but the private was too intent upon his job to see him. When he did not stop Capt Holmes, still thinking about the Colonel, stepped across from dry to wet between the strokes. The beard of the mop slapped his heel, and the private looked up startled, then popped to a guilty wide-eyed Attention, the mop dangling from his hand. He looked down at it a moment indecisively, then jerked the stick up along his right side like a guidon and looked at Holmes. Capt Holmes gave him one disdainful look, disgusted at such chaotic and unreasonable fear of officers which always irritated him, and went on silently.
Col Delbert was in his office. Behind the big desk and across the long expanse of gleaming floor, between the two tall flags, one the country’s the other the Regiment’s, he looked deceptively small. But he was a big man, big enough that the tiny irongray mustache he wore always embarrassed Capt Holmes, no matter how hard he tried not to judge. Outside of the black cocker that slept on the floor and two straight chairs the office was properly and soldierly bare.
Everything went off as Holmes saluted coldly and impersonally. Even the coc
ker seemed no longer to be breathing. The Old Man returned it with the same precision, then everything came on again and the Colonel smiled. When he smiled he was really, truly almost fatherly.
“Well,” the Col said, pushing back his chair and slapping his hands down on his knees. “Whats on your mind, eh, ‘Dynamite’?”
Capt Holmes smiled back and got one of the chairs from against the wall, wishing he could get rid of that ridiculous uneasiness.
“Well, Sir. One of my old men . . .”
“We certainly looked bad last Sunday in baseball.” The Col clipped the words. “You see the game? A rout. A veritable rout. The 21st ran over us roughshod, I say. It’d’ve been much worse if ’t hadn’t been for Big Chief Choate. Best firstbaseman ever saw. Really ought to transfer him to Hq Company and give him a Staff Sergeancy.” Col Delbert beamed and the short mustache bent sharply in the middle like a distant bird in flight. “Fact, I would if we had a team at all in baseball, but he’s the only thing we’ve got.”
Capt Holmes debated in the pause whether the Col intended to go on, or whether he could go ahead with what he wanted. He decided it would be better to wait than interrupt him if he did go on.
“We wont do anything in baseball this year,” the Col went on. Holmes chalked up a hit. “Your boxing squad was only athletic championship we won all year last year. Looks like the only one we’ll have a chance of winning this year. I’ve taken some mighty strong ribbing about our athletic prowess lately.”
“Yes, Sir,” Capt Holmes said in the next pause. “Thank you, Sir.”
“Every soldier knows,” the Col said, “that good athletics make for good soldiering. Our Regiment’s athletic reputation has suffered badly this last year. Even the downtown newspapers were lampooning us. A thing like that is never good. You, my boy, are about the only bright spot on our horizon.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Capt Holmes said, trying to figure what it was leading up to.
Col Delbert paused, sagely screwing up his eyes. “Do you think we’ll win that championship again this year, Captain?”