by James Jones
When they reached the last steep rise that curved left up to the top of the pass, Paluso stopped and got off his bike.
“We might as well turn back here. Theres no use to go up to the crest. He’ll never know it anyway.”
“To hell with him,” Prew said grimly, plodding on. “He said the pass. The pass it is.” He looked over at the Stockade rock quarry cut back into the side of the hill on the right of the curve. Thats where you’ll be tomorrow this time. All right. So fine. Fuck em all but six and save them for the pallbearers.
“Whats the matter with you?” Paluso said angrily dumbfoundly. “You’re crazy.”
“Sure,” he called back.
“I aint going to walk this bike up there,” Paluso said. “I’ll wait on you here.”
The prisoners, working in the heavy dust with the big white capital P on the backs of their blue jackets standing out like targets, whooped at the two of them, razzing about the extra duty and hard life of the Army. Until the big MP guards cursed them down and shut them up and put them back to work.
Paluso waited, smoking disgustedly, at the bottom of the rise and he climbed it doggedly by himself, sweating heavier now on the steeper rise, until at the top the big never-flagging breeze hit him and chilled him and he could look down the steep-dropping snake of road, dropping way down, at least a thousand feet, among the great sharp lava crags, down to Waianae where they had gone last September, where they went every September, for the machinegun training that he liked, fitting the heavy link-curling web belts of identical clinking cartridges every fifth one painted red into the block and touching the trigger lightly between thumb and forefinger and feeling the pistol grip buck against your hand as the belts bobbed through, firing off across the empty western water at the towed targets, the tracers making flat meteor flights of light in the night firing. He breathed some of the stiffness of the breeze. Then he turned around and went back down, the wind dying suddenly, to where Paluso was waiting.
When they got back to the barracks his jacket and his pants down to his knees were soaked clear through. Paluso said, “Wait here,” and went in to report and Capt Holmes came back out with him, and he unslung his rifle and came to attention and rendered a smart rifle salute.
“Well,” Holmes said deeply, humorously. Sharp lines of lenient humor cut indulgent planes and angles in the handsome aquiline face. “Do you still feel you need to offer advice to the noncoms about how to manage details, Prewitt?”
Prew did not answer. In the first place, he had not expected humor, even indulgent humor, and inside in the corridor they were still scrubbing down the walls, exactly as they had two hours ago, and they looked very safe and secure in their weary bored monotony.
“Then I take it,” Holmes said humorously, “that you are ready to apologize to Sergeant Galovitch and myself now, arent you.”
“No, Sir, I’m not.” Why did he have to say that? why couldnt he just have left it? why did he have to demand it all? couldnt he see what he was doing, how impossible that was.
Paluso made a startled noise behind him that was followed by a very guilty silence. Holmes’s eyes only widened imperceptibly, he had better control this time, he knew more what to expect. The indulgent planes and angles of his face shifted, subtly and were neither humorous nor indulgent any more.
Holmes jerked his head at the pass. “Take him back up there again, Paluso. He hasnt had enough yet.”
“Yes, Sir,” Paluso said, letting go of the handlebars with one hand to salute.
“We’ll see how he answers next time,” Holmes said narrowly. The red was beginning to mount in his face again. “I dont have a thing planned for all night tonight,” he added.
“Yes, Sir,” Paluso said. “Come on, Prewitt.”
Prew turned and followed him again, feeling bottomlessly sick inside, and feeling tired, feeling very tired.
“Goddam,” Paluso protested, as soon as they were out of sight, “you’re nuts. Plain crazy. Dont you know you’re ony cuttin your own throat? If you dont give a damn about yourself, at least think about me. My legs is gettin tard,” he grinned apologetically.
Prew did not even manage a weak grin this time. He knew that, if there had been any chance within the indulgent humor, it was gone now, that this was it, this was how you went to the Stockade. He hiked the ten miles carrying the sixty-five or seventy pounds of pack with that knowledge making an added weight inside of him.
What he did not know was what had happened in the orderly room to put Holmes in the indulgent mood, nor what happened this time, the second time.
The Man’s face was congested a brick red when he stomped back inside, the anger he had managed to conceal in front of Prewitt backing up now like a flood behind a bridge.
“You and your bright ideas of leadership,” he raged at Warden. “You and your brilliant ideas of how to handle bolsheviks.”
Warden was still standing by the window. He had watched all of it. Now he turned around, wishing The Mouth, or would you say The Sword, The Flaming Sword, would step outside to talk to Ike, so The Warden could open up the file cabinet and get a drink.
“Sergeant Warden,” The Man said thickly, “I want you to prepare court martial papers for Prewitt. Insubordination and refusing a direct order of an officer. I want them now.”
“Yes, Sir,” The Warden said.
“I want them to go in to Regiment this afternoon,” The Man said.
“Yes, Sir,” The Warden said. He went to the blank forms file, where the useless bottle was. He got out four of the long double sheets of the forms and shut the drawer on the bottle and took the papers to the typewriter.
“You cant be decent to a man like that,” The Man said thickly. “He has been a troublemaker ever since he hit this outfit. Its time he had a lesson. They tame the lions in the Army, not appease them.”
“You want it recommended for a Summary? or a Special,” The Warden said indifferently.
“Special,” The Man said. His face got redder. “I’d like to make it a goddamned General. I would, if I could. You and your bright ideas.”
“Its nothing to me,” The Warden shrugged, beginning to type. “All I said was, we’ve had three court martials in the last six weeks and it might not look so good on the records.”
“Then to hell with the records,” The Man almost, but not quite, shouted. It was the peak. He sat down in his swivel chair exhausted and leaned back and stared broodingly at the door into the corridor that he had carefully closed.
“Thats all right with me,” The Warden said, still typing.
The Man did not appear to hear, but The Warden, typing, still watched him, gauging carefully, making sure it was the peak. You could not handle this time like the last time. This was stronger. This was the last time squared, and you would have to square the strength of your approach, and then if you waited till the other’s peak was past, then logically you would have it made, but was it worth it? Hell no, it wasnt worth it, not when you might crimp your own concatenation, what was it to you if some damned son of a bitching stupid fool of an antediluvian got himself beheaded by a progressive world by going around in a dream world and trying to live up to a romantic, backward ideal of individual integrity? You could go doing things for a jerk like that forever, and never help him any. It was never worth it, but it would really be a feather in your cap if you could pull it off again now, this time. That would be worth a try, just for the hell of it. If he was doing this, it was not because it was his responsibility to knock himself out taking care of headless chickens who refuse to become modern and grow a head, it was just for the fun of seeing if he could pull it off, not for no stupid ass who still believed in probity.
“Too bad you got to lose a welterweight like that,” The Warden said indifferently, after The Man had brooded on the door a while in silence. He took the sheets out of the machine and began to rearrange the carbons for the second page.
“What?” The Man said, looking up. “What do you mean?”
/> “Well, he’ll still be in hock when Compny Smokers comes up, wont he?” The Warden said indifferently.
“To hell with the Company Smokers,” The Man said. “All right,” he said. “Make it a Summary then.”
“But I already got this typed up,” The Warden said.
“Then change it, Sergeant,” The Man said. “Would you let your laziness make a difference of five months in the Stockade to a man?”
“Jesus Christ,” The Warden said. He tore the papers up and went to get some blank ones. “These Kentucky mountain hardheads cause a man more trouble than a regiment of niggers. Might as well leave it as a Special for all the good a break will do a man like that.”
“He needs to be taught a lesson,” said The Man.
“He sure as hell does,” The Warden said fervently. “The only trouble with them guys, they never learn. I’ve seen too many of them go into the hockshop, and all they make is work. They aint out two weeks before they’re right back in again. They had rather let you kill them, than admit they’re wrong. No more sense than a goddam GI mule. About the time you get him groomed up for Regimental next December, he’ll pull some hair brained deal and get himself right back in hock, just to get even with you. I seen too many of them mountain boys. They’re a threat to the freedom of this whole country.”
“I dont give a goddam what he does,” The Man yelled, sitting up. “Fuck the Regimentals, and fuck the fucking championship. I dont have to stand for insolence like that. I dont have to take it. I’m an officer in this Army, not a boiler orderly.” The red outrage of affront was back in his face. He glared at The Warden.
The Warden waited, timing it exactly to the color in the face, before he empathetically told The Man what The Man was thinking.
“You dont mean that, Captain,” The Warden said softly, in horror. “You’re just mad. You wouldnt say a thing like that, if you werent mad. You dont want to take a chance on losing your championship next winter, just for being mad.”
“Mad!” The Man said. “Mad? Mad, he says. Jesus H Christ, Sergeant!” He rubbed his hands over his face, tentatively feeling of the congestion. “All right,” he said. “I guess you’re right. Theres no sense in losing your head and going off half cocked and cutting off your nose to spite your face. Maybe he didnt even mean any disrespect at all.” The Man sighed. “Have you started on those new forms yet?”
“Not yet, Sir,” The Warden said.
“Then put them back,” said The Man. “I guess.”
“Well at least give him a good stiff company punishment,” The Warden said.
“Ha,” The Man said vehemently. “If I wasnt the boxing coach of this outfit, I’d give him something,” he said. “He’s getting off damned easy. Okay, you enter it in the Company Punishment Book, will you? Three weeks restriction to quarters. I’m going home now. Home,” he said, as if to himself. “Call him in tomorrow and I’ll talk to him and initial the book.”
“All right, Sir,” The Warden said. “If you think thats the way to handle it.” He got the stiff leather-bound Company Punishment Book out of his desk and opened it up and got his pen. The Man smiled at him wearily and left, and he closed the book and put it away again and stepped to the window to watch the Captain cross the quad through the lengthening evening shadows, going home. In a way he almost felt sorry for him, any more. But then he asked for everything he got.
The next day when Holmes asked for the book he got it out and opened it. Then he discovered the page was still blank. Shamefacedly he explained how he had had to do some other things. He had forgotten it. The Man was on his way to the Club, he was in a hurry. He told The Warden to have it ready for him tomorrow. “Yes, Sir,” The Warden told him. “I’ll do it right away.” He got his pen out. The Man left. He put his pen away.
The next day even Holmes had forgotten all about it, under the stress of more recent things.
It was not, The Warden considered carefully, that he gave a good goddam whether the punk got three weeks’ restrictions or not. The fact was, three weeks’ restriction would probably do Prewitt some good. Especially since, as Stark had told him, the kid had gone dippy over this snooty whore at Mrs Kipfer’s. Three weeks at home for Prewitt would be just about long enough to get him over it. The Warden was sorry now that he had posed this condition on himself that he get Prewitt off scot free or it did not count. He did not feel sorry for him. Prewitt asked for everything he got. Falling for a hard nosed whore at Mrs Kipfer’s. That was just about that punk’s goddam speed. Prewitt not only asked for everything he got, he begged for it on bended knee. The Warden snorted disagreeably.
Prewitt was relieved to find Holmes was not around when they got back the second time. Paluso was relieved too. He released Prewitt quickly and took off for the PX, to be out of sight. Neither one of them understood that it was over. Prew limped upstairs and unmade the pack and put the stuff away and showered and changed to clean clothes and stretched out on his bunk, and waited for the OD or the Sergeant of the Guard. When they had not come for him by chowtime, he knew then they were not coming. He had been waiting for an hour and a half.
When the chow whistle blew, he knew something had interposed itself between himself and fate. The only possible answer was The Warden, who had seen fit to take a hand for one of those obscure screwy reasons of his own. I dont know what the hell business it is of his, he thought angrily, as he limped downstairs for chow. Why cant he keep his big nose out of things?
After chow, he stretched out on his bunk again, laying the tiredness of his legs out heavily on the blankets. That was when Maggio came over and congratulated him.
“Man, I’m proud of you,” said Angelo. “I ony wish I had of been there to see it. Thats all. If it wasnt for that son of a English-butchering bitch Galovitch, I would of been there too. But I’m still proud of you, man. Just the same.”
“Yeah,” Prew said wearily. He was still trying to grasp where he had got off. He had not only offered them the chance to give him extra duty Payday, which he still might get, he had also given the best opportunity they could have asked for to send him to the Stockade, express. In spite of all the great resolutions about being the perfect soldier and the high plans to make them do all the work. And this, mind you, he told himself, not after a month, not after a week, not even after two days of The Treatment—but on the afternoon of the very first day. It was not, he realized, going to be as easy as it looked. There were apparently hidden subtleties to The Treatment. Apparently it had been devised to gear itself to human nature more cunningly than he had suspected. And he had either woefully underestimated their ability to apply it, or else which was worse, grossly overestimated his own strength of will to fight it. The Treatment, apparently, concentrated all its power on a man’s strongest point—his pride in himself as a man. Could it be that that was also his weakest point?
Remembering it, a kind of terror at his own utter inadequacy overwhelmed him, overwhelmed even the fear he had of the Stockade when he was not keeping himself pumped full of outrage.
He fell out for drill next day a sadder but a wiser man. He had given up entirely the idea of curing them or teaching them a lesson. He no longer hoped for or expected instantaneous victory. When The Treatment started right where it had left off yesterday, and he went right back into the role of perfect soldier, he was only fighting a holding action, and under the slow smouldering silence of the self-generated hate that was his one defense was only the thought of Lorene and Payday, warming through him like a good stiff drink, a fire at which he could warm himself against this heat of hatred that was slowly freezing him.
Chapter 20
YOU KNOCK OFF drill at ten o’clock on Payday. You shower, shave, brush your teeth again, dress carefully in your best inspection uniform, being careful to knot the suntan tie just right. Then, dressed, you work hard on your fingernails before you finally go outside to stand around in the sun in the company yard and wait for them to begin the paying off, being very careful all the time of the
knot in the tie and of the fingernails, since all company paying officers have their little idiosyncrasies of personal inspection even if Payday is not a regular inspection day. With some it was the shoes, with others the crease of the pants, with others the haircut. With Capt Holmes it was the knot in the tie and the fingernails and while if these did not satisfy him he did not redline you or anything like that, still you got a rigorous telling off and had to fall out to the end of the line.
You stand around in little groups on Payday and talk about it excitedly and about the half holiday it is, groups that cant stay still and break up and re-form with parts of other groups into new groups, continually shifting, not able to stand still, except for the twenty per cent men who are already waiting like vultures at the kitchen door where you must emerge. Until then finally you see the guard bugler go up to the megaphone in the quad in the brilliant morning sunshine (more brilliant, oddly, than on any other morning) and sound Pay Call.
“Pay day,” the bugler says to you, “pay day. What you go na do with a drunk en sol jer? Pay day?”
“Pay day,” the bugle answers you, “pay day. Put him in the guard house till he’s so ber. Pay day. P-a-y . . d-a-y.”
Then the shifting excitement grows much stronger (oh, the bugler plays a responsible part, a traditional, emotional, important part, a part heavy with the past, with all the past centuries of soldiering) and you see The Warden carrying a GI blanket from the orderly room to the messhall and Mazzioli following him with the Payroll like a lord chamberlain carrying the Great Seal and then the shining-booted Dynamite carrying the black satchel and grinning beneficently. It takes them quite a while to get set up, move the tables, spread the blanket, count the silver out and lay the greenbacks out in sheaves, get the jawbone list of PX checks and show checks ready for The Warden to collect, but already you begin to form the line, by rank, noncoms first, then Pfcs and Pvts in one group together, the men within each group lining up for once without argument or pushing, alphabetically.