From Here to Eternity

by James Jones

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” Prew said, feeling tongue-tied and shy. Looking at those soft vague unabashed-dreamer’s eyes he could see why an arch-cynic like Blues Berry could make such a fatuous remark about The Malloy’s big-baby heart.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, too,” Jack Malloy said warmly, sticking out a paw like a ham. “I want to shake your hand, citizen. Out of all the drafthorses in this stable, you’re the only one who ever listened to what I told them to do and did it, exactly,” he said raising his voice.

  Without turning either his trunk or his head, he seemed suddenly to be staring behind him at the rest of Number Two sprawled out talking on the chairless floor. He was not looking at them but they all lowered their eyes and inspected their cigarets, the conversations seemed to stop dead in the air.

  Jack Malloy ruthlessly let the silence ring on for almost a full minute. Then he turned back, or seemed to turn back, because he was still looking at Prew, and winked down at Prew, a quick deliberate but absolutely impersonal wink that was as if he did not even see Prew at all but was only fulfilling a social ritual like a host who gives a big dinner party for a prospective customer so he can sell him.

  “If I had twelve men;” he said loudly, “an even dozen, citizen; who would do like you did, I could have Father Thompson and Fatso both in the nut ward in three months as permanent boobyhatch material.

  “Of course,” he said, “there would be two more just like them the next day and we would have to start over again, but the Toughest Jail in the US Army would soon become also the Toughest Assignment in the US Army. And if we sent enough of them along after Father Thompson and Fatso, eventually they would have to close up this shop in despair and let us all go home.”

  The ever-present thirty-year-man that was always there in Prewitt wondered if he meant home to their outfits or home to civilian life, but somehow he did not feel like asking.

  Jack Malloy let the silence ring on for another minute. He had said it all loudly, and nobody said anything this time either. There seemed to be a general feeling that he could do just exactly what he said.

  There was another feeling, too, Prew noted, here in Number Two. It was a feeling that had not been in Number Three. The only way he could describe it was that it was a feeling that you could say anything loudly, absolutely anything, loudly. It was a good feeling.

  “Have a smoke, citizen,” Jack Malloy said, lowering his voice back to normal, and offering him from a full pack of tailormades. It was like a signal and the men on the floor who had been chastened began to smoke and talk again.

  “Hey,” Prew said, embarrassedly, “tailormades. Thanks.”

  “I got plenty more,” Jack Malloy said. “Any time you want one. If this little son of a bitch,” he nodded at Angelo, “with all the pure unadulterated guts he’s got, would follow my advice half as well as you did, he could have pulled off his plot and been out of here a month ago.”

  “Thats all right,” Angelo countered, taking the offered cigaret, “you just wait. I can do it anyway. I know I can.”

  Prew watched his eyes go a little crazy again, hungrily, like they always did at the mention of his great secret plan, but this time his eyes did not get the murderous suspicion in them that they always got out on the rockpile.

  “I’m just biding my time,” he said craftily. “I can do it all right. Dont worry about that.”

  “Sure you can,” Jack Malloy said gently. “Sure you can, citizen. But you could do it a whole lot easier, and save yourself a whole lot of nasty bumps, if you’d listen to me.”

  “I listen to you,” Angelo said violently. “More than once’ve I listen to you. And I’ve tried it. Not ony Passive Resistance, but the other in the Hole. I just cant do it, Jack. Either one.”

  “The citizen here did it,” Jack Malloy nodded at Prew, “he did both of them.”

  “I still dont know how though,” Prew put in.

  “That doesnt matter,” Jack Malloy said. “I dont know either. You still did them.”

  “Okay, so maybe he can do them,” Angelo said hotly. “For him thats fine. For me thats from nothing. What a use for me keep on trying I cant do them?”

  “None,” Jack Malloy said, in the same gently tender tone that his voice never seemed to get out of, even when he spoke loudly. “Thats why I told you to stop. But you could do it—if you only believed you could strong enough, so that you didnt knock yourself out trying so hard.”

  “That tells me a lot,” Angelo said. “That tells me a hell of a lot. Maybe Prew can do it. Well, I told you he was your kind of a guy. But nobody else around here has ever been able to do them.”

  “That doesnt mean they cant do them,” Jack Malloy said. “The same thing is in every man’s mind. My mind’s no different than your mind, citizen.”

  It was a habit of his, Prew found out later, he never called anybody anything but citizen. Once, the story went, he had even called Major Thompson citizen a couple times. It had earned him four extra days in the Hole. Prew wondered why he did things like that, and then all the time told everybody else not to?

  “Like hell it aint differnt,” Angelo grinned. “I had your mind, I wount never of been in this fucking place in the first place.”

  “You had my mind,” Jack Malloy grinned ruefully, one of those rare flashing grins of his, always rueful, that were different from his smile which never quite reached clear up into the vague unlistening eyes, “you had my mind, citizen, you’d been in here a hell of lot sooner than you were.”

  “I guess thats no lie,” Angelo grinned with a great pride in the big man.

  “How about this big secret plot?” Prew asked them. “What the hell is this great plan anyway? I’ve been killing myself with curiosity for a week now, wondering about it.”

  “Let him tell you,” Jack Malloy deferred gently.

  Apparently Prew had addressed the question to Malloy instinctively, although he did not know why because it was Angelo’s idea.

  “Its his plan,” Jack Malloy said. “It was his idea, he thought of it, and he deserves the telling of it.”

  And Prew thought suddenly that he had never seen such tenderness, in man or woman, as was in Jack Malloy’s eyes looking at Angelo Maggio. It was worth it, he thought exultantly, it was more than worth it, it was worth ten days in the Hole, to be here with these men.

  “Come on down here then,” Angelo said, his eyes gone cunning and miserly again. He got up and started down toward the other end where the two commodes were.

  “You can tell it here, citizen,” Jack Malloy tried to dissuade him gently.

  “Nosir,” Angelo grinned at them crafty-eyed. “Nosiree.”

  “Maybe Prew dont feel like getting up,” Jack Malloy suggested gently.

  “Then he’ll have to wait,” Angelo said emphatically, and started to come back. “I tell it at all, I tell it down there, where nobody is.”

  “I feel okay,” Prew said, and got up and the two of them followed the little guy down. And it was sitting on the closed commodes, with Jack Malloy leaning against the iron sink, that Angelo Maggio unfolded his big secret plan, his great dream.

  The rest of the barrack, led by Blues Berry, drifted unobtrusively down toward the far end with their conversations, like healthy people tactfully humoring an invalid. Prew looked at Malloy, then swung his eyes back to Maggio quickly.

  “I’ve only told it to Berry and The Malloy,” Angelo explained insistently. “Nobody else knows about it, not a single soul.”

  Prew looked at Malloy; Malloy’s face was closed.

  “Aint that right, Jack?” Angelo said anxiously.

  “Thats right, citizen,” Jack Malloy said gently.

  “If they did,” Angelo said fiercely, “I’d kill the cocksuckers, see? Even in here see? Some of these guys find out about it, they liable as not to try it first. And half the chances of success depends on it bein the first guy who tries it. After the first time it wouldnt work. Father Thompson aint no fool. Neither’s F
atso. And I’m the guy who thought of it so I got the right to be the first guy to try it.

  “Aint that right, Jack?” he said anxiously.

  “That’s right,” Jack Malloy said, his face still closed.

  “Well,” Angelo said, “here it is.” He interrupted himself. “You see I’m right,” he said, “Jack says I’m right; you want to try it later, after me, thats okay, although I wouldnt guarantee it, but I got the right to have the first shot.”

  “The truth is,” Jack Malloy said, “nobody else has got the guts to try it.”

  “Dont kid yourself,” Angelo snarled.

  “I’m not,” Jack Malloy said. “They havent the guts because nobody wants out as bad as you do.”

  “Dont you believe it,” Angelo said. “I aint takin no chances.” He turned to Prew. “But you see how it is, dont you, Prew?”

  “I see,” Prew said.

  “Okay. Well heres the deal. Any man who goes in the Hole and stays there 21 days is automatically sent up to the nutward in the Station Hospital and given a Section 8. I never heard of it happening yet, but thats the rule.”

  “I’ve heard of it happening,” Jack Malloy interrupted gently. “It happened twice during my first trip. Thats why I like the plan. The idea is, you see, that any man who gets violent in the Stockade—I mean homicidally violent—is too far gone to salvage. I mean, really off his nut. They put him in the Hole to cool him off, but if he doesnt cool off in 21 days (some say 30 days), then they figure its the McCoy and he’s not acting and they Section 8 him. Thats happened twice I know of, during my first trip. But those two guys were really off their nut. The citizen here,” he nodded at Angelo, “proposes to fool them.”

  “Thats it,” Angelo said eagerly. “I’m going to flip my lid out on the rockpile and go for the guard with a hammer, see?”

  “Aint he hable to shoot you?” Prew said.

  “Yeah, but I got to chance that. Thats the ony really dangerous part to it. What I figure is, if I go for him, instead of away from him, toward the woods, he wont shoot; he’ll ony bean me with his riot gun. I figure to fix it as easy as I can for him to bean me. I aint going to really ever hit him, see? just make him think I am.”

  “They’ll work you over pretty good, wont they?” Prew said.

  “Sure,” Angelo said earnestly, “but what the hell? They wont be getting any cherry. They cant make it any worse than they have already. All they can do is make it last longer, way I figure. And after so long a time you kind of blank out on them anyway, see?”

  “Yeah,” Prew said, “I see.”

  “I got everything to gain, and all I got to lose is a little more scalp. And the Black Hole part is the least of my worries. I can do that standin on my head, see? 21 days?” he snapped them away with his fingers.

  Prew watched him blow it away like milkweed, and thought about it hollowly; 21 days of it, maybe 30 Malloy said, 21 days of bread and water, 21 days of silence, 21 days of blindness; three weeks maybe a month, in the Black Hole.

  “A man couldnt pull that trick of yours for that long, could he?” he asked Jack Malloy, “even if he knew how.”

  “I dont know,” Jack Malloy said. “I’ve read where its been done for longer. But I wouldnt want to try it.”

  “I can cut it,” Angelo said. “With a butterknife. And I dont need The Malloy’s trick to do it.”

  “It’ll mean a DD, wont it?” Prew said.

  “I dont know,” Angelo said. “And frankly, I dont give a good goddam. I aint never going to work in Gimbel’s Basement no more anyway. What I need with an Honorable? Besides, Jack says they give blue ones with Sections 8s sometimes.”

  “Not if the man comes from the Stockade, do they?” Prew said. “Way I understand, any man Section 8ed out of the Stockade automatically gets a yellow discharge.”

  “Not always,” Jack Malloy said gently, his face still closed. “I think it all depends on the circumstances and how much of a convincing act the man can put on for them.”

  “Thats not how I heard it,” Prew said.

  “Well, its a cinch he aint going to get a white discharge,” Angelo grinned tautly, “so what the hell’s the difference? Yellow or blue? Who wants to be a goddam citizen of this goddam country anyway? I’ll go to Mexico. Dont even have to do that. All you lose is the right to vote and pay taxes. Who the hell wants to vote anyway? You cant vote in the Army, can you? Anyway, whoever the hell a man does vote for anyway, its always all the same: They all of them get together ahead of time and figure it out and make their trades and put in the men they want anyway.”

  “You cant get a job,” Prew said.

  “Who the hell wants a job? They all the same goddam thing. Gimbel’s Basement. You work for some big outfit that takes all the money and gives you just barely enough to live on and punch a timeclock all your life and kiss the boss’s ass for a job you never liked. Who wants that? Not Maggio. I’ll go to Mexico,” he said. “I’ll go to Mexico and be a cowboy or something,” he said wildly.

  “I dont know why I’m arguing with you,” Prew said. “Its your deal, and if you’ve figured all that into it, what the hell? I’m for you, Angelo.”

  “You think I’m crazy, dont you?” Angelo grinned at him.

  “Hell no. Its just that I hate to think of losing my citizenship. I guess I just like this country.”

  “I like it too,” Angelo said. “I love this country. Much as you or anybody, and you know it.”

  “I know it,” Prew said.

  “But I still hate this country. You love the Army. But I dont love the Army. This country’s Army is why I hate this country. What did this country ever do for me? Gimme a right to vote for men I cant elect? You can have it. Gimme a right to work at a job I hate? You can have that too. Then tell me I’m a Citizen of the greatest richest country on earth, if I dont believe it look at Park Avenue. Carnival prizes. All carnival prizes. Pay fifty cents a throw and get a plasterparis bust of Washington—if you win. A man can just stand so much from anything, no matter how much he loves the thing.”

  “I’ll buy that,” Prew said.

  “Well, I’ve stood all I can stand—if I can get myself out of standing any more of it. They aint going to drive this soldier to any goddam suicide. And they aint going to drive this soldier into growing a brown nose. They shouldnt teach their immigrants’ kids all about democracy unless they mean to let them have a little of it, it ony makes for trouble. Me and the United States is disassociating our alliance as of right now, until the United States can find time to read its own textbooks a little.”

  Prew thought, a little sickly, of the little book The Man Without a Country that his mother used to read to him so often, and how the stern patriotic judge condemned the man to live on a warship where no one could ever mention home to him the rest of his whole life, and how he had always felt that pinpoint of pleased righteous anger at seeing the traitor get what he deserved.

  “And thats the story,” Angelo said, “and thats the way she is.”

  “I’m for it then,” Prew said.

  “Are you?” Angelo asked him anxiously. “You really are? Thats one reason I wanted to tell you, because I knew if you heard me out and you were still for it, then I know it was all right, it wasnt wrong.”

  “I’m for it,” Prew said.

  “Okay,” Angelo said. “Then thats all. Lets go on back.”

  Prew watched him go. Thin, narrowshouldered, bowlegged, the toothpick arms moving with the swagger, one of the newer race of cliff dwellers he thought again, who had no use for muscles: for legs to walk take the subway; for arms to climb use the elevator; for back to lift hire a stiffleg derrick. A minor casualty of his 20th Century culture and civilization. Go to Mexico and be a cowboy! Even his country’s history screwed him.

  Maybe if his father had been a watchmaker, or an auto mechanic, or a pipefitter, so that he might have inherited a trade he could love, then he would not have had to love democracy so much. If he had only found some undangerous c
hannel that would have let him utilize the talent for honesty and belief in democracy that the unwise foolish virgins who taught Social Science in the public schools had fostered in him.

  If he had only been born a millionaire’s son. Then he would have been all right.

  The trouble with Angelo Maggio, the serious trouble, the dangerous trouble, the inconsiderate unreasonable insoluble frightening trouble, was Angelo Maggio had not been born a Culpepper.

  “They all know it, dont they?” Prew said.

  “You cant have a secret in a place like this.”

  “Wont they talk?”

  “No. They wont.”

  “You didnt try to talk him out of it,” he asked Jack Malloy.

  “No,” Jack Malloy said, his face still closed, “I didnt.”

  “Neither did I,” Prew said.

  “There are some things,” Jack Malloy said, his face still closed, “it doesnt do any good to try to talk a man out of.”

  “Lets go on back,” Prew said.

  “Okay,” Jack Malloy said, his face still closed.

  Angelo was sitting on Prew’s bunk and Prew crawled in under the deliciousness of the blanket again. Then, and only then, Blues Berry and the others began to drift back down again. They were tough men in Number Two, they were the toughest of the tough, they were the cream.

  During the rest of the time before Lights Out they sat around on the chairless floor smoking Duke’s Mixture and now and then a hoarded filched tailormade, or leaned standing back against the bed ends, or maybe half-lying on a shaded bottom bunk, and they talked. There were no cards or checkers, no Monopoly boards, no Mah-Jong sets. But they never ran out of plenty to talk about. Most of them had bummed across the country at least once, before they finally enlisted. Most of the younger ones had grown up in the CCCs during the Depression, and graduated into the Army from there. Without exception they had all spent time on the bum. They had worked in North Carolina paper mills, cut timber up in Washington, maybe tried a shift of raising cukes in southern Florida, worked in the Indiana mines, poured steel in Pennsylvania, followed the wheat harvest in Kansas and the fruit harvest in California, loaded cargoes on the docks in Frisco and Dago and Seattle and N.O. La., helped spud in wells in Texas. They were men who knew their country, and in spite of that still loved it. A generation before them men just like them had tried to change it and been defeated. These now did not have the others’ organization. These now did not go for organization. These now were members of a still newer race jerked loose from ties by the Depression and set to a drifting that had ended finally in the Army as the last port of call where they went through one more sifting process and came here, to the Stockade, to be sifted down once again into Number Two.