The Brick Foxhole

by Richard Brooks

  The crowd began to stream away from the ring. Keeley felt Jeff’s arm trembling. He listened for comment from the crowd. The crowd was silent. It despised Max, the inert Max lying sprawled over his stool with the doctor beside him. Keeley saw a middle-aged man in a pin-stripe suit at the ringside with a blonde woman. The man was asking the doctor questions. The doctor was not answering.

  “Well?” said Monty.

  “How’d you like the fight?” Keeley asked.

  “Okay, I guess,” said Monty. “I’m sorry Maxie quit, though.”

  “He didn’t quit,” said Keeley.

  “No? Okay. Say, how about a beer?”

  “Not for me,” said Jeff.

  “Ah, come on. How about you, Keeley?”

  “No, thanks,” said Keeley.

  “Okay. ’Night,” said Monty.

  Monty went his own way. Jeff and Keeley walked toward the Town.

  “I could kill him,” said Jeff.

  “He knows it,” said Keeley. “But it’s better this way. He died a little bit tonight.”

  CHAPTER VI

  “Going to hit the sack?” said Keeley.

  “No,” said Jeff.

  The boxing bouts had been over for half an hour and the Town had already closed its eyes. The lights in most of the windows were gone. Inside a few of the stores and restaurants the owners were counting the day’s cash. In one show window there was still a light. It was directed on an officer’s summer uniform. The amber light made the uniform look glamorous. This shop spent a few extra thousand watt hours on such advertising, and sold more uniforms than any of the other uniform merchants.

  It was almost eleven o’clock. Pelagrini’s window shades were still pulled down. It struck Jeff that Pelagrini was a man who was coming apart at the seams.

  “Like the fights?” said Keeley.

  “No,” said Jeff.

  “I did,” said Keeley.

  “Not me. That kid. That Max. Awful, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” said Keeley.

  “Why would anybody want to be a fighter?”

  “To keep what they’ve got or get what they haven’t got.”

  “What’s he got?”

  “Self-respect. He’s got a little and wants more.”

  “Think he got it?” said Jeff.

  “Nope.”

  “I respect him.”

  “That’s because he was fighting for you, too.”

  Jeff shrugged. “You talk like a Salvador Dali drawing,” he said.

  “Nah. You’ve got me pegged wrong. I’m Donald Duck. All squawk and unintelligible. Fun for now, forgotten tomorrow.”

  They walked for awhile in silence. Jeff wondered how he would kill the hours before dawn. He had to answer roll call in the morning and his week-end liberty did not start until noon. Left alone, his thoughts would turn to Mary. He didn’t want to be left alone.

  Keeley’s thoughts were like a tuned-up motor turning over idly. His mind purred. His fifty-dollar-a-week job in New York did not appear so distasteful now. The Town was not too bad. The war was not bad. Helen was not too bad. Max’s fight had taken the badness out of things. As long as there was a Max to fight to the finish, things were better.

  “You going to sleep?” said Jeff.

  “Nope,” said Keeley.

  “What then?”

  “D.C.,” said Keeley.

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What for? What’s in D.C. tonight?”

  “It’s not what’s there. It’s just that this Post isn’t there. Washington’s only good because of the things it ain’t.”

  “Taking the one-thirty train?”

  “That’s too long. There’ll be a cab going in.”

  “Yes,” said Jeff.

  They weren’t really cabs. They were large private cars and station wagons, or any sort of automobile that would carry as many as five passengers. The drivers were civilian vultures who plied between Washington and the Town. They charged two and a half dollars for each man. A five-passenger car would carry seven and sometimes eight persons. Business was brisk. Profits staggering. The soldiers felt overcharged and the cabbies felt underpaid. The soldiers hit the bottom of the barrel in scraping for the two and a half; the cabbies were making six and seven hundred bucks a week.

  There were two cabs waiting to pick up a few strays before starting back for D.C. Jeff and Keeley stopped before one of them. The cabby said: “Room for two.” Keeley told him just for one. The cabby asked: “Fights over?” Keeley said, yes, the fights were over. The cabby said: “Maybe there’ll be a couple of fares along. Wouldn’t want to disappoint somebody.” Keeley nodded.

  Jeff said: “I’d like to go with you.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow night,” said Keeley. “At the Stewart Hotel.”

  “You going to a whorehouse tonight?”

  “Nope,” said Keeley. “Not tonight.”

  “I’d like to go to one tonight.”

  “You can go tomorrow.” Keeley searched through his pockets for a cigarette, found one, put it into his mouth and let it remain there unlit.

  “What will you be doing tonight?” Jeff asked.

  “Cards. We’re going to play cards. There’s a game on at the Stewart. All night tonight. All day tomorrow. And part of tomorrow night. I’m going to win me a thousand bucks and go over the hill to Lower California. I’m going to fish there. Live on the beach and fish. I’m going to steal me an air-cooled machine gun and kill every sonofabitch who tries to take me back. I’ll hold out for a year. The war’ll be over then and I’ll come to New York and say I lost my memory and just got it back.”

  “You don’t need a thousand dollars for that,” said Jeff.

  “Of course not. But I’ve got to have some excuse for not doing it. I love to lie to myself. I’m a realist to everybody but myself. I’m the only one I can lie to and get away with it. That’s because I’m not bright enough for myself.”

  The cabby got into the sedan and started the motor.

  “See you tomorrow,” said Keeley. “Make it in the afternoon. Helen is coming down from New York tomorrow night. I’ll be drunk by midnight.”

  Jeff nodded and a moment later the taxi pulled away. Jeff wished he could go somewhere and work out a few drawings. But he knew he wouldn’t do any work even if he had a private studio. He crossed the railroad tracks and started up the avenue leading to the barracks. A streamlined train went by on its way to Florida. It blasted a shriek into the night that echoed against the hills and wailed itself into nothingness. Jeff envied the train. The train had someplace to go. It had a destination. It clattered by skittishly whirling its skirt of dust. Its little squares of light were secret panels which told the people in the countryside that something good and gay was happening inside the coaches. Train passengers were sitting at the bar and drinking and not caring much because the train was taking care of everything. And in the coaches people were eating sandwiches and drinking milk out of cartons and striking up acquaintanceships. And in the Pullmans men and women were lying on soft linen and letting the clack of wheels singsong them into drowsiness. A train was to be envied. It had a destination. Jeff had no destination. He wished he could move quickly and know that he had someplace to go. Someplace where someone was expecting him. Trains had dignity. People had no dignity. It wasn’t important where people were going.

  Jeff thought a train such as this could get him to Mary’s side in three days. Three days and he would be with Mary. And then what? He didn’t know.

  A car moved along the avenue, the main avenue of the Post. It moved slowly. Jeff wished he had a car. It would be nice to have a car and drive someplace. He didn’t know where he would drive. But someplace. Anyplace.

  There were more Negroes on the streets at that hour. Even those who didn’t work came out then, when the whites were asleep. With the Town almost deserted, the Negroes walked nonchalantly in the center of the pavement.

  Jeff noticed the M.P.’s movi
ng quietly, slowly, at their posts. They were quiet, somber-faced sentinels. Most of them were graduates from the South Pacific. Their diplomas were malaria, or lopsided thighs puffed with filariasis, or a sallow, yellowish skin, the result of constant atabrine. These were members of the Post Guard Company. They rarely related the incidents of their stint overseas. One hero rarely tells another about his experiences. A hero needs an outsider for an audience. Besides, the stories had all been told too many times. These men were all glad to be back, yet they wished they had not come back so soon, when all the varnish of their victory would be worn off before it was time to cash in on their deeds. Already Guadalcanal was too far back. People had even forgotten about New Georgia and Kwajalein. Palau would stay in the news for awhile and after that it would be the Philippines. People only remembered the most recent headlines.

  But in the M.P. Jeff saw only a man who had been in the war. Here was a soldier who was entitled to feel at peace now. He had killed.

  Jeff tasted the words again. “Here was a man who had killed.”

  Shakespeare never had gone far enough. It should have been Shakespeare who said: “’Tis human to kill.”

  Jeff thought: Sure. That’s it. How is it I never thought of it before. Killing is human. Everybody wants to kill. That’s why we have wars. That’s why there’s a war every generation. But it starts back further. Who knows? This could possibly be a great discovery. The answer to all of civilization’s questions. Killing is human. Therefore.… Therefore what? Let me go over that again. Everybody wants to kill. But only certain ones take the chance. Look at those who do. People don’t hate them for killing. Why do people like soldiers, real soldiers? Because they are fighting to preserve freedom? They are fighting for that, but that isn’t the reason. No. People admire and respect soldiers because they know a soldier’s business is to shed human blood. Not once. Not twice. But ten times, fifty times. What’s that old adage? Kill or be killed. There you have it. That’s the rule of our civilization. Kill or be killed. Dog eat dog. From the cradle to the grave that’s what we are taught. Every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost. We dress it up with pretty names. “Rugged individualism.” “The competitive system.” “The American way.” But these are just words. The thing behind it is the old rule of dog eat dog, kill or be killed. And look at me—a soldier, now, trained to kill.… I was once an artist. A Hollywood artist. Sixty-five dollars a week. Next year seventy. After that, who knows? Just the same, an artist. And what does an artist know of killing? Nothing. That’s why I’m not an artist any more. An artist is like Max Brock. To Monty Crawford, Max Brock is not a human being. He’s a Jew, and Monty hates Jews. So he hates Max Brock. Jew and artist are the same thing. Just words. Same as radical. And you, my fine feathered friends—(here Jeff gestured into the night as though he were challenging invisible audience with his thoughts)—you don’t even know what a radical is. But you hate him. It’s easy to hate a word. Just as easy as to become infatuated with a word. A word like millionaire. Did any of you ever meet a millionaire? Did you? Like hell you did. Never sat down and talked with him. Never watched him shave in the morning. Never saw him get cramps or put talcum powder on his athlete’s foot. Never heard him say the same things as anybody else when he’s making love.… Well, that’s why I’m not an artist any more. Artist is a hated word. An artist is a misfit. He can’t do close-order drill, and he can’t shine belts, and he can’t keep his shoes spic or his uniform span. He’s a failure. So I’m not an artist any more. I was once, but I reformed. I’m a soldier now. Just like everybody else—kill or be killed.

  “What’s the matter, Corporal? Drunk?”

  Jeff’s eyes focused on the figure standing before him. It was one of the M.P.’s. Jeff realized for the first time that he was sitting on the curb. He felt tired. The M.P. lifted him under one arm and Jeff got to his feet.

  “Thanks,” said Jeff stiffly.

  “That’s okay,” said the M.P. “It’s almost midnight. You better be getting back to your barracks.”

  “Sure. Sure.”

  “Need a little help?’

  “No, thanks. No.”

  “Yeah,” said the M.P. “I thought for a minute you were drunk. If you ask me, I don’t see how the hell all those guys get drunk on near beer. Too many people getting killed. That’s the way we call it. Getting killed. Really suicides, though. Had a guy last night who jumped off the overpass. You know, the one over the railroad tracks. Jumped right off in front the train. Bashed his head all over the tracks. Was another guy fell over the railing of the steps in the barracks. All naked, he was. Boff. Smashed to pieces. Afore they do that they oughta go see the chaplain. Everybody ought to see the chaplain. Good night, Corporal. Don’t sit down on the curb no more. Get killed that way.”

  The M.P. started Jeff up the avenue. Jeff walked as far as the corner and stopped to look carefully in both directions. Kill or be killed. It would be terrible to get killed before you did any killing.

  Chaplain. That’s the ticket. Chaplains know the score, They’ve got the answers. Now which of the chaplains? Who’s got the biggest connection with God? Catholic chaplain. Father Tobias. Knows God personally. Big shot. Wonder if Father Tobias ever killed anybody? Maybe he won’t be up? Chaplains got office hours. God comes down into the chapel at six-thirty in the morning for the Catholics; at nine o’clock for the Jews; at eleven o’clock for the Protestants. God likes the Protestants best. He lets them sleep later. But Catholic chaplains have the in. Maybe I ought to be a Catholic. Maybe God would give me a better deal.… Kill or be killed. Wonder if God’s killed anybody? Maybe. But who could pin it on Him? He stacks all the cards Himself. But that makes Him accomplice before and after the fact. Guilty! You will appear before this court on Thursday at nine o’clock to be sentenced.… Ah, but see what happens. Thursday. Nine o’clock. Court adjourned. Writ of habeas corpus. Can’t find the killer. God is in His heaven. Can’t get Him extradited. Now, what do you think of that Mr. District Attorney? My Client will not be extradited. So, Your Honor, I ask that this case be thrown out of court. God cannot be tried on this charge because killing is a universal law.… Aha. Universal law, eh? So Mary went to bed with Red. I demand that she be put on the stand. You can’t demand that! Going to bed with heroes is a universal law. Case dismissed. Kill or be killed.

  Jeff stood outside the chapel. There was a light inside. He walked through the front door. The door squeaked a little. It made Jeff think of the inner sanctum. The squeaking door.

  In the second row on the left-hand side sat Father Tobias. His hair was appropriately gray. He wore a lieutenant’s uniform. A soldier and a girl in uniform sat with the chaplain. Jeff recognized them. The soldier was the Frenchman. Keeley had wanted to see the Frenchman. The girl was the Frenchman’s wife, Dorothy. Henri Camonte and his wife, Dot. Father Tobias saw Jeff enter. Jeff walked halfway down the aisle and took a seat. Father Tobias turned his attention back to Henri and Dot.

  Jeff looked around him. He smiled. Then he noticed that the chaplain was frowning at him. Jeff stopped smiling. The whispering voices of Henri and Father Tobias were soft. But they were threatening to become louder. Henri’s gestures were becoming more animated. Jeff watched him and thought he had a good face for caricaturing. The high-bridged nose and black crisp mustache would serve as identifying marks. A few strokes, careful of the hairline at the temples, and you had Henri. Dot would be more difficult. Her face was nice, and it was pleasant, but it looked so much like other faces. She had a high and impressive bosom, but one didn’t make caricatures of those features. Or did one?

  “But Father,” Henri’s voice was loud enough to hear now, “such a thing is not natural. When two people are married at least they should sleep together.”

  “My son, I am sure your young wife here thinks differently,” said Father Tobias.

  “No, Father. I don’t. I think Henry is right.” Dot called him Henry.

  “Please, Father, I have no wish to make trouble. But I
did not understand that this would happen. And it is all so … how shall I say it?”

  “It’s just crazy, that’s all,” Dot said.

  “Children, it is not our will to question. We are living in a horrible time of war and we must always remember.…”

  “But we are married,” complained Henri in the same voice.

  “Look, Father,” said Dot. “Maybe you don’t understand about things like this. But here’s the way it is. You married us day before yesterday. Right? Okay. Henry here goes to the sergeant and says, ‘I am married and I am going to move into a little place where the other married soldiers live.’ Nothing wrong so far, right? Okay. The sergeant says who did you many? Henry says he has married me, Dottie Shaefer. Henry asks the sergeant does he get allotment money now that he is married. The sergeant says of course. So Henry tells him, Henry is very honest, Henry tells him that I am a private on the same Post. So the sergeant says is that so?”

  “The sergeant, he is very surprised,” Henri took up the tale. “He laughs a little laugh for he is getting much pleasure from this situation. He demands to know whether I believe I can cheat the United States of America from out its taxpayer money. For of course, he tells me, I cannot get such an allotment for my wife for the simple reason that I cannot even live with my wife in the little place where the other married men are living.”

  “Tell him what else the sergeant said,” said Dot heatedly.

  “He call me a foreigner. I say to him that I am a Free Frenchman. There is a difference, no? So he says I am just trying to learn about American methods of fighting so later I will fight against America. This is stupid, no? I tell him so. I say this is stupid, sergeant.”