From Here to Eternity: The Restored Edition

by James Jones

  “It took a lot of guts though.”

  “Not for a horse,” the Chief said.

  Prew sighed. The beer was spinning brightly in him. “I think I’ll take off and go home to bed. I’m sore as a boil, and I feel about as popular as a dildoe in a virgins’ convent right now.”

  Chief grinned. “I guess it would make you feel a little self-conscious maybe.”

  Prew managed to laugh, and threaded his way out through the crowd. At the gate he looked back. Chief Choate sat at table as before. The empty cans had grown visibly since Prew came. Chief’s eyes were getting a little swimmy now as he raised his hand ponderously slowly to return a greeting. Prew went on out. It was very quiet outside as he crossed the street. The lights were off in all the quadrangles and they were mopping out the Main PX lunchcounter for closing. He walked slow, so as to give the quad plenty of time to be cleared out. He did not want to meet anybody.

  It looked deserted as he turned in through the truck entrance and the lights were off in the bandstand-ring, but as he walked up the Company walk to the porch a shadow came out from under it moving to meet him. Even in the dark he could recognize the long-armed apeshape. It was Ike Galovitch, drunk and weaving.

  “Py Gott,” Ike bawled. “Ham telling you dis tonight a great night are. Der own into dis night G Gomny and da Captn Holmes have gome,” he hollered happily. “Did we taking them toonight or not taking dem. I ask you? Are proud dis gomny to be of or not? ’Ey?”

  “Hello, Ike,” he said.

  “Who that is?” Ike Galovitch stopped grinning and the long lippy jaw came out as he leaned forward drunkenly to peer. “That not is Prewitt? What that is?”

  “Prewitt that is, all right,” he grinned back tightly.

  “Gott am,” Ike exploded. “A lot of guts you got your face around here heven showing, Prewitt. In dese barricks it is no right heven have a traitor like you to be sleeping.”

  “Thats right, but till transfer me out they do sleep here I got to notwithstanding.” He stepped out to go around but Ike stepped across in front of him.

  “Transfer you to da Stockade,” Ike growled. “Dat bites de hand dat feeds it dey shoot dogs for. Heven a Commonist is batter. Dan to stabbing in da back da best frien any man ever having hafter da breaks da Gaptn Holmes having giving you. Infortunately, ony dogs dey are allowed to shoot not men.”

  “And you’d sure like to see them change the laws, wouldnt you I bet, Ike, hunh?” Prew grinned. He stood passively, he had tried once, he would not try to go around again.

  “For you, hyes,” Ike raged. “For mad dogs shooting is too good. Dis Harmy only strong has weakest links. It is da rebel ones like you making da Fascisti over der I leave for come dis country. Bolsheviki like you har should hot heven be allow dis country. Should be run out dis country.”

  “If you’ve had your say now, old man,” he said, “get out of my way and I’ll go to bed.”

  “Had my say!” Old Ike raged on. “Not heven an Hamurican you are. Not heven enough be grateful for tings good men like da Gaptn Holmes are willing do for you. What you need is lesson teach you to respeck your betters when they nice enough are to do tings for you.”

  “And theres nothin you’d like better than to have the job,” he grinned, “right? Listen, I stepped around you once. I aint going to step around you again. See me tomorrow during duty hours, when I cant talk back. But right now get the fuck out of my way so I can go to bed.”

  “Yeah?” Ike said. “And maybe I just take da job, laws or laws not. Has done everting for you can one man do, da Gaptn Holmes. You are grateful?” he hollered furiously. “Like shit. Fine man offer you chance do something, do you do? No. Not you. Maybe I give to you da lesson by myself, since da Gaptn Holmes too nice to do him. How you like den?”

  “Fine,” he grinned. “When do we start? Tomorrow at drill?”

  “Drill hell. Py Gott am you, I show you dont need drill or sargint ratting.”

  Cursing drunkenly, Ike Galovitch, American, pulled his knife out of his pocket. It was not the professional knifer’s snap blade job like Sgt Henderson’s, but Ike opened it almost as quickly, thumbnailing the slot to raise the point out of the cradle far enough to catch it on his pantsleg as he ripped it up one handed, all in one movement too fast to see, and the blade was out and bare throwing oily glints of light.

  Prew watched him almost happily. Here, at last, was the enemy. The real enemy. The common enemy.

  When Ike Galovitch, American, lunged drunkenly with his knife, he stepped to meet him, parrying the wrist and arm outside him with his left hand, and stepped in again turning on the balls of his feet deftly. Ike went off balance sideways and was already falling when he swung with his right hand, putting his whole weight and everything he had behind it viciously. It was a Sunday shot and he timed it perfectly and the pain shot up his swollen hand into his wrist.

  Ike Galovitch, American, moved backward off the walk still holding out the knife, his feet going backward very fast across the grass. His heels hit the kitchen sidewalk on the other side and he skidded the last three feet on his rump and came up against the concrete garbage rack platform, his head lolling back in the drippings.

  Prew stood on the walk and watched him, rubbing his hand. Ike did not move, and he walked over and put his ear to the old man’s mouth. Ike Galovitch, American, was sleeping peacefully and breathing regularly and stinkingly, an ugly, seamed-faced, beat-up and battered, tired old man who had come all the long way from Yugoslavia to Hawaii to find an idol he could worship. This was no common enemy, this was only a foul-breathed, rotting-toothed, repulsively ugly old Slav of a peasant whom nobody on this earth, not even Dynamite Holmes least of all his mother, had ever given a damn for if he lived or died. How would you like to look at that face in the mirror every morning and know yourself as so repulsive? Only just wait till he wakes up, he thought, and the mind begins to work again, what then? He might easily have killed you, he would have if he could. He stood looking down at the incredibly innocently sleeping patheticness, then he took the knife and snapped the well honed blade off in a deep crack in the concrete of the platform and put the bladeless handle back in the open palm and went upstairs to bed.

  He did not see the two figures of Sergeant Henderson and Sergeant Wilson that weaved out from under the shadow of the porch to where Ike lay, after he was gone, and he would not have cared much then if he had.

  It was a flashlight in his face that woke him. His watch said midnight. He was still a little drunk. All he could think of was it was another sabotage alert.

  “Here he is,” a voice whispered, and an arm with corporal’s stripes reached inside the cone of light that he could not see beyond and shook him by the shoulder. “Come on, Prewitt, lets rise and shine. Drop your cocks and grab your socks,” the voice chanted automatically. “Get up out of there.”

  “Whats the matter?” he said out loud. “How about gettin that goddam light out of my eyes.”

  “Goddam it, be quiet,” the voice whispered. “You want to wake up the whole goddam Compny? Come on. Get up.” It was Cpl Miller’s, the CQ’s, voice.

  He knew what it was. In the last month he had pictured the whole thing many times. Now, he wanted suddenly to laugh, at the cautious solicitude for the Compny’s rest. He had not pictured that.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “Get up,” the CQ whispered. “You’re under arrest.”

  “What for?”

  “I dont know. This is him, Sergeant,” the CQ said. “This is the man you want.”

  “Okay, Corporal,” said the second voice. “You can go on back to bed. I can handle it from here.” The voice paused and changed its angle of direction. “This is the man, Sir,” it said. “Private Prewitt. I think the man’s still drunk.”

  “Very well then,” the third voice said boredly. “Rout him out and get some clothes on him. I havent got all night. The OD must inspect the posts, you know. Lets rout him out.”

  “Yes, Sir,” the
guard sergeant said.

  The same arm with the corporal’s stripes came inside the cone at him again. He’s surely working hard, he grinned to himself.

  “Come on, lets go,” the CQ said. “Get up. Get some clothes on. You heard what the OD said.” The arm gripped his naked shoulder.

  He moved his shoulder out from under it. “Keep your goddam hands off of me, Miller. I can get up by myself. Just take it easy.”

  The leather of the sergeant’s billy thong squeaked.

  “Lets have no trouble, Private,” the OD’s bored voice said. “The more trouble you make the harder it will go with you. We are quite able to take you in by force, if necessary.”

  “I dont want no trouble, only just keep your hands off me. I wont run. Whats the charges against me?”

  “Say Sir, when you speak to an officer, buddy,” the sergeant said. “Whats the matter with you?”

  “Never mind,” the OD said. “Just get him dressed. I havent got all night. The OD must inspect the posts, you know.”

  He slid himself up from between the sheets by force of habit, leaving the bunk needing only to be tightened, before he remembered. The flashlight followed him as he climbed out nakedly.

  “Would you mind takin that goddam light out of my eyes? So I can see my clothes? What am I being taken in for?”

  “Never mind,” the OD said. “Just do as you’re told. You’ll have plenty of time to find that out. Move the light, Sergeant.”

  “My wallet’s in my footlocker,” Prew said, when he was dressed. Around them in the squadroom men were sitting up watching, their eyes very big reflecting the light of the flash.

  “Never mind the wallet,” the OD said impatiently. “You wont need it. Your equipment will be taken care of. You men there,” he said. “Go back to bed and go to sleep. This is none of your affair.”

  As one man the lights reflecting from the eyes went out. The bunks squeaked as they lay down and rolled over in silence, away from the light.

  “Theres money in it, Sir,” Prew said. “If I dont take it with me, it wont be here when I get back.”

  “All right then,” the OD said impatiently. “Get it then. But hurry up.”

  He was already shaking the footlocker key out from the bottom of his pillowslip. The Sgt led him down the stairs with the OD behind him and the CQ bringing up the rear.

  “I aint going to take off on you,” Prew grinned.

  “Dont I know it,” the Sgt said.

  “Never mind,” the OD said.

  “And shut up,” the Sgt said.

  Downstairs in the corridor the CQ’s light was on, the mosquito netting still hastily thrown back from his bunk beside the little desk, and in the light Prew could see them. The OD was 1st Lt Van Voorhees of Battalion Headquarters, tall and big-nosed and flat-headed, three years out of the Point. The sergeant was a man he didn’t know by name but he recognized his face. Cpl Miller he had soldiered with for months. They were strangers.

  “Hold it up, you,” the Sgt said and turned to Miller. “You got this on your report yet?”

  “No,” Miller said. “I was just going to ask you.”

  They stood by the desk talking in low secret voices. Prew listened to them reciting the names and numbers that went on the report. He felt peculiar. Lt Van Voorhees stood by himself at the door tapping his fingernails in succession on the jamb.

  “Lets hurry it up, Sergeant,” Lt Van Voorhees said.

  “Yes, Sir,” the Sgt said. “Well, thanks a lot, Corporal,” he said. “Sorry we had to wake you up. You can go back to bed now.”

  “You’re very welcome,” Miller said. “Any time I can be of help. You sure theres nothing more I can do?”

  “Nope,” the Sgt said. “Its all done now.”

  “Okay,” Miller said. “Just ask me though.”

  “No,” the Sgt said. “Thanks though. We appreciate your help.”

  “Any time,” Miller said.

  Prew turned to Lt Van Voorhees. “Whats the charges, Sir,” he said, “on me.”

  “Never mind,” the Lt said impatiently. “You’ll have plenty of time to find that out tomorrow.” He looked at his watch impatiently.

  “But I’ve got a right to know the charges against me,” Prew said. “Who preferred charges?”

  Van Voorhees peered at him. “You dont have to inform me of your rights, soldier. I know what they are. Capt Holmes preferred the charges. And I dont like guardhouse lawyers. Are you finished, Sergeant?”

  The Sgt nodded busily.

  Prew whistled. “They sure worked fast,” he grinned, “whoever it was. Must of got him up out of bed.” As a joke, it did not come off very well.

  “Well, lets get gone then,” Van Voorhees said to the Sgt, as if nobody else had spoken. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Shut up, Mack,” the Sgt said to Prew. “The more you pop off, the harder you make it on yourself. Come on, lets go. You heard what the OD said.”

  In the long low corrugated-iron Regimental guardhouse across the street they gave him a blanket and sent him back through the row of bars that separated the lockup from the office. They did not shut the door of bars hinged onto the wall of bars.

  “We dont lock the door,” the OD said from behind the desk, “on account of the members of the guard are back there. And you’d better not wake them up, by god. But there will be someone here all night awake and armed. Okay, thats all. You can go on back there and go to sleep.”

  “Yes, Sir,” he said. “Thank you, Sir.” He took the blanket down through the double row of cots and huddled sleeping figures of the guard until he found an empty one. He sat down on it and took his shoes off.

  (he was not new to this feeling of having crossed the line of bars into another heavier world of heavy air and heavy water he was not new to jails he knew that you would get used to breathing the heavy air eventually and then your lungs would no longer threaten to collapse on you because the heavy air did not want to go into them you just had to get acclimated that was all he knew all about jails jails were just as intimate to his life and heritage as being on the bum or soldiering he had learned to breathe the heavy air and drink the heavy water they were the same in every jail whether in Florida or Texas or Georgia or in Richmond Indiana he had learned jails even before he learned the Army in fact they kind of seemed to go together one way it just took a little time was all)

  He lay down on the cot and pulled the blanket over him.

  Under the panic, that was fading, he thought: It must be because of Galovitch, it had to be that.

  If Wilson and Henderson, he thought, had not tried to help the police dog to mount Bloom’s dog Bloom would not have tried to thank me. If I, he thought, had not fought Bloom Old Ike would not have tried to knife me.

  It was very complex and that tended to make it confusing, somewhat. But then, he knew the real thing did not lie in these circumstantial coincidences. The real thing lay underneath that. He knew that. It was hard to remember, though.

  As he dropped off to sleep he could hear the OD and the Sgt still sitting at the lighted desk talking in low voices.

  Chapter 35

  LT CULPEPPER WAS APPOINTED his defense counsel. The second or third or was it the fourth day (they were all the same, they were identical, every day they took him out under guard three times and fed him under guard at the E Company Mess where the guard was rationed, every day they took him out under guard two times and worked him under guard for the P&P pulling weeds under guard from the flowerbeds of the Officers’ childrens’ playground back of the married officers’ quarters where he pulled the weeds on his knees in the fatigues under guard the guard standing over him guarding him and the children laughing yelling playing on the teetertotters swings and in the sandbox, it was not especially unpleasant) the second or third or was it the fourth day, Lt Culpepper came bustling in through the line of bars with the open door of bars from the other world like a whirlwind bringing the smell of the sea inland to the heavy drought-stricken prair
ies, and carrying the brand new briefcase with the zipper on three sides he had bought to carry the papers of the trial in, when he was appointed his defense counsel.

  It was the first time Lt Culpepper had been appointed a defense counsel and he was enthusiastic over the case. The case had good prospects, if not of making a winning fight for an acquittal, at least a Pyrrhic victory he said, and they did not take him out under guard to pull weeds under guard in the afternoons any more, only in the mornings, after Lt Culpepper started coming in to talk about the case.

  “Its a big responsibility,” Lt Culpepper said enthusiastically. “Its my first chance to put in practice the semester of law and courts martial procedure they gave us at the Point, and they will all be watching to see how well I handle it. Naturally I want to do the very level best with it I can. I want to see you get the squarest deal I can possibly wangle for you and I mean to see you get it too.”

  Prew, unable to stop remembering the night at Hickam and the unfinishing of the Re-enlistment Blues, felt unaccountably embarrassed. He did not say much. He did not mention anything about the knife, which was not mentioned in the witnesses’ signed statements Lt Culpepper showed him. He did not want to disappoint Lt Culpepper on his first case, but he absolutely refused to plead guilty. The whole of Lt Culpepper’s campaign for the defense hung on pleading guilty.

  “Well, of course,” Lt Culpepper said enthusiastically, “that is your right. But I’m sure you will change your mind when I lay out our strategy for you.”

  “No I wont,” Prew said.

  “When you understand it is absolutely legally impossible to get you an acquittal,” Lt Culpepper went on enthusiastically. “They’ve got Wilson and Henderson as witnesses, and Sgt Galovitch’s own sworn statement, swearing under oath you were drunk and that you struck Sgt Galovitch when he remonstrated with you for causing a disturbance after lights out. We cant beat that.”

  He showed Prew the charges. Prew was charged with Drunk & Disorderly, with Insubordination, with Disobeying A Direct Order, and with Striking A Non-Commissioned Officer In The Performance of His Duty. He was also charged with Conduct Unbecoming To a Soldier. They were recommending a Special Court.