From Here to Eternity

by James Jones

  “(The Malloy,)” Angelo Maggio said parenthetically, “(says he never eats a thing when he goes in there. He drinks the water but he dont eat nothing. He says if he dont eat nothing he dont get hungry after the first day; also, he says, that helps you to control your mind.)

  “I never been able to do it,” he grinned sheepishly, “I awys get hungry and eat the bread, and that makes me hungrier. The worst thing I got to keep my mind from thinkin about is chickens and turkeys—you know how they hang them up roasted in the delicatessens?—and steaks and frenchfries, and bread and gravy.”

  Angelo Maggio grinned apologetically. “I’m only tryin to lay it out for you. You got to remember it aint near as hard as it sound.”

  “Yes,” Prew said.

  “I get to seein all kinds of food, big meals all laid out on a big tablecloth with silverware and glasses and candles and all that like in the magazine advertisements. I’silly, ain’t it?”

  “Yen,” Prew said. “I like to eat too.”

  “Another thing is sex,” Angelo said delicately. “You want to stay away from thinking about women too. You see they strip you and put you in there naked and you get to thinkin about women you come all apart at the seams and be floggin your meat all a time which ony makes it worse instead of relievin it and makes you get wilder. Berry does that sometimes. It happen to me onct.” Under the coat of the gray rock dust he blushed deeply.

  “What the hell do you think about?” Prew said tightly, “for Christ’s sake?”

  “Well,” Angelo Maggio said, “thats the catch. According to The Malloy you dont think about nothing. The Malloy says he can lay in there for three or four or five days, or however long he’s in, without thinkin a single thing. He says he read it in some Yogi books when he was a lumberjack up in Oregon one time, how to do it. Some old guy working up there had them who use to be a Wobbly. Malloy says he tried it but he never could do it until he got in the Black Hole. You concentrate on a black spot inside your head in front of your eyes and whenever a thought starts to come in your mind, you kind of push it away from you, sort of, and dont think it. After a while, you do it long enough, they stop coming and all you see is just light, kind of.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Prew said tightly. “I cant do stuff like that. You mean he goes into trances like them mediums and talks to dead people and all that kind of stuff?”

  “Nah,” Angelo said sheepishly, “nothin like that, nothing supernatural. Its just mind control. A way to control your mind.”

  “Can you do stuff like that?” Prew asked incredulously.

  “Nah,” Angelo said. “He tried to teach me, but I couldnt cut it. Maybe you could, though.”

  “Not me; not that kind of stuff.”

  “You never know till you tried it. I tried it.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Me? I got two ways. I alternate them. One way is I make it to myself a game, see?”

  “A game!” Prew said.

  “Between me and them. They’re tryin to crack me up and I aint going to crack. They can see me, but they’ll never see me saw. I play the game with them and lay there, and take everything they got to give.”

  “You make it a game!” Prew said.

  “Thats one way. The other way is to remember things out of your life. You remember nice things, pleasant things.”

  “I might be able to do that one,” Prew said tightly.

  “But they got to be things with no people in them,” Angelo warned him quickly. “And they got to be about things that you dont want.”

  “How?” Prew said. “Why is that? I dont get that.”

  “Because thats the way the mind works,” Angelo Maggio said. “Dont ask me why it works that way. I dont know. All I know, it does. When you start thinkin about people, then that reminds you of things you done with them or because of them, things you wish you could do again. That brings you and where you are back into it.”

  “Yes,” Prew said, remembering Violet Ogure and Alma Schmidt. “I can see that.”

  “And when you think about things you want, you already are in it, see? You want those things now, right then. And you cant have them. The main thing is to keep you out of it.”

  “Yen,” Prew said. “But how?”

  “I think about scenes of Nature,” Angelo Maggio said. “Woods I been in. Trees is awys good. Lakes and mountains you’ve seen. How it is in the fall, with all the colors. The way it is in winter with snow all over everything. I saw an ice storm onct—” he said eagerly and then stopped. “Anyway,” he said sheepishly, “you see what I mean.”

  “I see,” Prew said.

  “Then,” Angelo said, “when the people begin to come into it, like they awys do, sooner or later, I switch to the game a while, until I can go back where there aint no people in it.”

  “What was the longest time you ever did in the Hole?” Prew asked him tightly.

  “Six days,” Angelo Maggio grinned proudly out of the bent dented face. “But it was easy. It was nothin. I could do twenty days, or fifty days, just as easy,” he said, “I know I could. Why hell, if they—”

  He stopped suddenly, guiltily startled, as if he had almost been trapped into making an admission. As Prew watched, the old wild wary miserly look that Prew had learned to recognize now, came onto his face.

  “Never mind,” said Angelo Maggio slyly. “You’ll find out: I’ll tell you all about it later. Right now, the thing to do is to get you in with us.”

  “Whatever you say, buddy. This is your show. And you’re running it,” Prew told him tightly. Six days, he thought. “When do we start? You name it.”

  “Today,” Angelo said without hesitation. “Any time is okay, but its better to do it quick and then you dont have so much time to stew over it. Do it at chow this noon.”

  “Check,” Prew said, and stood looking at him, at the tiny narrow-chested bonyshouldered undernourished frame of him with the thin legs and pipestem arms in the sacklike fatigue suit under the ridiculous looking fatigue hat that shaded the black burning eyes that were looking at him intensely. Six days, he thought, thats 144 hours.

  “I got to tell you something,” Angelo told him painfully. He paused. “It was The Malloy made me tell you all about how it is in the Hole,” he confessed. “I wasnt going to tell you. I was just going to let you find it out. Like I did. I guess I was scared you’d back out if you knew ahead of time.”

  “What made you think I’d back out?”

  “Because,” Angelo Maggio said violently, “I know damn well I’d of back down if I’d of knew what I was going into the first time I got in there.”

  Prew laughed. To himself it sounded very nervous. “I feel like a collegekid must feel goin in to take his first big exam,” he explained.

  “Probly. Me, I wount know.”

  “Me neither. Remind me to ask one some time and see.”

  “Theres the whistle,” Angelo said. “Its quittin time.”

  “Yeah,” Prew said, “it is, aint it?”

  “I see you in three days, old buddy,” Angelo grinned at him, as they moved down, carrying their hammers, towards where the trucks had come up.

  “I wonder how our dear friend Corporal Bloom is doing along about now?” Angelo tried to joke him.

  “Probly made sergeant by now,” Prew joked back automatically, but his mind was not with it. His mind was sealed up in gum.

  “Maybe only two days,” Angelo said, “and,” he said, “in Number Two Barricks, is where I’ll see you. Not on no rockpile.” He turned and went to his truck.

  “Okay,” Prew said vaguely after him; “see you.”

  Then he was alone, in the truck with the rest of the men from Number Three barrack, who could not understand this, and would probably not do it if they could, he thought proudly, trying to bolster himself a little.

  But he would do it. And he knew he would do it. He had to do it. Because he wanted Angelo Maggio and Jack Malloy, and even Berry, to admire him, he wanted to keep on calling him
self a Man, by his definition, there was no way out but to do it.

  His mouth was dry and he wished he had a drink of water.

  It was very lonely there in the close crowded truck.

  Chapter 38

  IT WAS ALWAYS very lonely, Cpl Isaac Nathan Bloom thought as he left the messhall that same noon. For a noncom it was always lonely.

  He went on upstairs to his bunk.

  As usual, the squadroom was deserted. Bloom did not know why he had expected it to be not deserted. For over two weeks now he had been the first one out, every meal, and the squadroom was always deserted, but he always hoped it would not be deserted. Today, in this heat, he had thought maybe there would be somebody who had passed up chow. Bloom did not see how any man could stuff his gut with hot food on a scorcher of a day like this. Himself, he had spent fifteen minutes of agony toying with the steaming food, making himself swallow bites his stomach did not want. He did it for two reasons: because, as a fighter, he had to maintain his health; and because he did not want to look conspicuous among all the hungry tables; and now what he had eaten lay sourly heavy in his belly like a ten course dinner. Bloom was worried about his appetite.

  He pulled off his fatigue blouse, shoes and socks, and lay down on his bunk, digging his hot feet into the shaded air that gave a false hope of coolness to the squadroom when you first came in. Funny—tonight it would be cold enough for the extra blanket.

  Its this heat, Bloom told himself. This heat would ruin anybody’s appetite. As long as a man had his appetite he could figure he was all right. But when he lost it it was a cinch that there was something wrong. What they ought to do was serve the big meal in the evening, like the rich did. Leave it to the rich to know how to live. You never saw an officer eat his dinner in the middle of the day.

  Bloom lay on his back and stared at the grayness of the concrete-beamed ceiling, trying to understand it. This had never happened to him before. He had no appetite at breakfast or supper, either, so it couldnt all be the heat. This had never happened to him before. If he didnt do something he was going to waste clear away to a shadow. If a man wanted to keep up his strength, especially a fighter, he had to eat. This had never happened to him before. It had been going on for over two weeks now, ever since around the time his corporalcy had been posted. It was an awful responsibility, being corporal; maybe that was what had done it, partly. Anyway, it had never happened to him before. Then there was the Smoker season, which still had two weeks to run yet. Fighting always bothered him; actually, he was too high strung a type for fighting; he knew it was too nerve-racking for him; that might have something to do with it, too. Because nothing like this had ever even happened to him before. If it wasnt for letting the Regiment down in the clutch, he would have quit the racket a long time ago.

  Bloom gave up intellectual analysis and let his mind drift off into a pointless but happy contemplation of the end of the Smoker season.

  Two more weeks, Bloom thought. Just two more weeks. Then no more fights nor training until December when the Bowl season opened. It was almost too wonderful to believe. He was basically at heart a peaceful man, and the prospect of five whole months of peace stretched away like a bonanza. The silly damn thing was, he already had the Regimental middleweight championship cinched already. Whether he even fought these last two fights or not. It seemed silly to have to go ahead and fight these last two bouts when he already had it cinched on points and longed so much for peace. But what could you say, you couldnt say anything? He wasnt yellow; he’d had more fights on the green than any man in this Compny; it was just that it made him uneasy; he was of too peaceful a nature; he didnt like it and it put him under a strain. Now you take Prewitt—Prewitt was different, Prewitt loved it. Bloom would be glad when it would finally be over, maybe then he could eat again.

  Still lying on his bunk, Bloom heard the first few of the light eaters beginning to come out through the kitchen now and disgustedly listened to them come upstairs, expecting some of them to come squat on his bunk and start brownnosing him now he had made corporal. Instead, they scattered to their bunks. Bloom felt relieved. Thank God for small favors.

  Three of them sat down together, pulled out dice and started shooting craps for tailormades. They each had two or three open packs filled with the various mixed brands from former games which they had gotten from their footlockers and which they did not smoke. When they wanted a smoke they rolled one. Bloom half sat up and made as if to go over and sit in, then decided not to. Anyway, he had no tailormades.

  Bloom lay back down hoping they had not seen him look just as Cpl Miller passed by his bunk on his way in from the latrine and Bloom watched him waiting to see if he would maybe speak or offer to sit down but Miller went on to his bunk.

  For a second Bloom was hurt but he reminded himself that Miller had done right. It was always bad policy for noncoms to get together in front of the privates and let them see you letting down and being human. That was SOP, but you had to get use to it when you were new. It was no soft cinch, being a noncommissioned officer, like you thought it was when you were a private.

  Bloom fingered himself through the thinness of his fatigue pants pocket wishing he had enough dough to make a trip over to Big Sue’s in Wahiawa tonight. Then he remembered how Sue had called him Jewboy, to his face in front of all her girls, last time he was over there and his face darkened angrily. He had made himself a sworn resolution not to give that whorehouse any more of this Jew’s money, but he reminded himself that he had not been wearing those two stripes then. They wouldnt be so goddam wise when they saw those two stripes and that money—

  —and dont forget that third stripe, kid, he told himself secretly, after that short-timer boat leaves next month, with the middleweight division in your pocket you’ve got that cinched, kid; old Dynamite practically told you in so many words himself, after that last knockout.

  With that one, it really would be different then. Big Sue’s could whistle; it would be the New Congress downtown whenever Sgt Bloom wanted to get his differential overhauled; it would be nothing but Marlboros then, the ivory tips, nothing but the Ivory Tips, he said it over to himself slowly with relish, trying to work up some enthusiasm but the heavy heat would not let him, this goddam heat, Bloom thought, Marlboro Ivory Tips, the kind that goddam queer bastard Flora smokes all a time so highhat, let her stink in her own sweat, then, stew in her own juice, then, he thought metaphorically.

  Bloom rolled over again savagely happily, to let his chest up for air again (at least he didnt have to fall out for Fatty-gyou this afternoon, he didnt even have to train if he dint feel like it, he could lay here on this bunk all afternoon), just in time to see Friday Clark come in past him from the PX eating a chocolate icecream cone. Bloom snorted disgustedly, feeling outraged that a dimwit Wop of a buckass private should have money for icecream while the corporals went broke. If he had money for icecream, maybe he could get back his appetite. A fighter needed an appetite. Especially a fighter. He suddenly felt panicky and hated his stomach savagely for having betrayed him in this crisis.

  Friday Clark had gone to the PX for a much needed bottle of shoe-polish with fifty cents borrowed from Niccolo Leva. He was surprised to see so many up from chow already and their presence enhanced his loneliness, it was funny about loneliness, he never was so lonely when he was alone as when he was in the midst of people. That was one of the reasons he had deliberately missed chow. With Andy on guard again, and Prew in the Stockade, Friday couldnt eat in the messhall. When he thought of Prew in the Stockade, Friday had the same awful, empty feeling he use to have when his mother would tell him he would turn black like a nigger if he didnt stop playing with himself. It was days like these that made Friday almost wish he wasnt a Special Duty man sometimes. Besides that, he had not gotten the shoepolish he had gone for. He had spent 15c for an icecream sundae—chocolate which he dearly loved—and another 15c for a new comic book to read while he ate the sundae. That was allright, that still left 20c for the sh
oepolish, and he wasnt going to eat in the messhall anyway, and reading the comic book kept him from feeling embarrassed like he always did in the PX restaurant, and he still had the 20c for shoepolish. Then he had to go and buy another sundae for 15c! just to finish up the comic book with! just because he felt funny about sitting and reading in the PX restaurant when he wasnt eating anything. He did not even remember the shoepolish. He did not see how he could of possibly of forgotten it. He ate the second sundae slow and careful and made it come out even with the end of the comic book, but that still did not get him any shoepolish. By then there was only a nickel left. So he had gone ahead and bought this chocolate icecream cone, like for dessert sort of, since he might as well, and now he finished the icecream and dropped the rest of the cone in the can under his bunk feeling a sudden panic about what to do for shoepolish. He tossed the comic book on his bunk wishing he hadnt spent 15c for it. He could have bought a pack of tailormades, and maybe run it up to a carton in a game. He sat on his bunk and rolled a cigaret, looking at the gaily colored cover against the olive drab. The covers always made them look like they had so much inside, but they never did. He smoked cautiously, trying to keep the flaky Bull Durham from getting on the back of his tongue and gagging him. He sure wished he had the will power not to have bought a goddam comic book. Old Prew had the will power not to buy a goddam comic book. Andy did sometimes. He bet old Prew would loan him shoepolish, if he was here, instead of in the Stockade. Old Prew always had shoepolish.

  Finally, when the heaviness of his own weakness bore down on him too hard, he squashed the butt out in the can under his bunk and got out his guitar, the old one. He followed his mood, striking blue minors. When he joined the Army he had visions of coming home bronzed by southern seas like Errol Flynn, a world traveler like Ronald Colman, an adventurer like Douglas Fairbanks Jr, a man to be reckoned with like Gary Cooper, a man of the world like Warner Baxter, a man people would listen to respectfully like President Roosevelt—not as much as President Roosevelt, but that same idea. And in a year and a half now he could not see how he had changed a bit. It was discouraging. Friday leaped full force, like a standing broad-jumper, into practicing the Steel Git-tar Rag with a sudden savage energy. Someday he would have to get onto old Prew and old Andy to finish up The Re-enlistment Blues, or they probly never would do it. Someday he would go back to Scranton a civilian, and he would play The Re-enlistment Blues on his new git-tar he would have by then for his old man and the neighbors on the block, and his old man would say: “Well, boy, where hell you larn a play a git-tar like at?” and he would say: “In the Hawaiian Islands, Pop, across the Pacific Ocean, where I helped to write this song myself.” He had it all figured out, what he would say. And his old man would say: “Look a my boy play at git-tar, pizon, look a him! he wrote that song himself he’s playin!” And the dames on the block would go for him; they would fight for a chance to take him to the bushes in the park then. Maybe he would go on the stage. Like Andy was always talking about Eddie Lang and Dajango. Eddie Lang was a Wop, too. In this country a Wop could go on the stage like anybody else. He bet a Wop couldnt go on the stage in Germany. He practiced furiously, going back and back, and over and over a phrase until he knew he had it perfect, the notes of the fast gay piece disturbing the hot heavy drowse of the noon air insistently.