The Brick Foxhole

by Richard Brooks

  “We never even heard about such a rule. Never, never.” Dot’s voice was rising. “Tell him, Henry.”

  “Well, Father, suddenly I think what he has said, this sergeant. I demand to know why he says I cannot live with my own wife. The sergeant, he thinks this is a very funny joke. He calls around him several other soldiers and they all have one fine hell of a fun. Excuse me, Father. They all laugh at me. Your wife, she must be in her own barracks at night, they shout at me. And you must go to your own barracks. Those are the rules. An enlisted woman, she cannot live anywhere else but in her barracks. And what of the other married men who do not live in their barracks? The sergeant, he is splitting with laughing. They are not married to women soldiers, he says to me.”

  “You get it, Father? Every night I have to go to bed in my barracks and Henry has to go to his barracks. That ain’t the way for married people to be,” complained Dot.

  “Surely, Father, you must say this is not natural,” sadly said Henri.

  “You must not think only of the flesh,” said Father Tobias.

  “We might as well not be married,” said Dot, the realist.

  “Please, darling,” said Henri shyly.

  “Well it’s true, ain’t it?” said Dot. “We’re just as bad off as we’ve been for the last two months. Kissing and scrounging around in the boondocks. M.P.’s poking flashlights in your face and making you feel ashamed all the time. We got nothing to be ashamed of. We’re married.”

  “Perhaps this rule, it is because of my nationality?” said Henri.

  “No, no, son.” The Chaplain looked warm and uncomfortable. His face was red and his hands covered with sweat. He kept looking at Henri instead of at Dot. “There have been other Free French soldiers attending our schools here. They always have been treated quite the same as our own boys. But this … this is an unusual situation.”

  “What would you do?” asked Dot of Father Tobias.

  “I?” Father Tobias permitted himself to be trapped for a moment into thinking what he would do. Then he discarded the thought at once. Obviously he could never be placed in such a situation.

  “Well, there’s ways, Father. There’s ways.” Dot made ready to rise.

  “Please, don’t do anything rash,” said the chaplain. “Perhaps if I talked to the general.…”

  “The sergeant, he has spoken to the major. The major, he has said there are rules.”

  “If only we could be patient,” pleaded the chaplain. “We are living in a horrible time of war and we must always remember.…”

  “Look, Father,” interrupted Dot. “I’m getting out of the service.”

  “There is no way, my child, except through disgrace.”

  “There’s no disgrace in having a baby when you’re married.” Dot turned to Henri. “Come on, Henry, I got to get back or else they’ll restrict me.”

  “Shall we offer a prayer?” the chaplain invited.

  “Yes, Father, I should like to pray.”

  “Me, too,” said Dot.

  Henri and Dot knelt and inclined their heads. While they prayed the chaplain rose and came back to Jeff. Jeff rose to greet him, but the chaplain waved him down and sat beside him.

  “What is it, son?” asked Father Tobias. “It is late. Very late to come here.”

  “I’m not a Catholic, Father.”

  “Then why not see Lieutenant Avery in the morning? He has the chapel at eleven o’clock. I.…”

  “Father, I heard you talk at the theater one time.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I liked what you said.”

  “I see. Perhaps if you will come to visit with me in morning.…”

  “I thought, you being a Catholic, you could help me right now.”

  “Of course, my son. What’s troubling you?”

  “Is it right to kill, Father?”

  Father Tobias sighed. “You mean in battle, of course, my son?”

  “Is it right then?” said Jeff.

  “The Japanese are a wicked people. The Bible says an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. And if it is necessary to kill in a war so that our Lord may live … yes, my son. It is God’s will. Not for us to question.”

  “How about the Nazis?” said Jeff.

  Father Tobias was suddenly very tired. He wanted badly to go to bed. It was late for him to be up. It had been far easier to do God’s work in peace time. Then the issues were clearer and cleaner. During a war there were too many facets. Before the war Father Tobias had been sure of himself. Killing was wrong. At first he had not thought one of God’s Commandments could be changed because countries were at war. In New Britain he had learned differently. He had tried to tell a group of soldiers that killing was wrong in God’s eyes. One of the soldiers had gotten angry. He had said that if Father Tobias wasn’t on his side then he was for the Japs. You couldn’t be neutral, the soldier had said. Father Tobias had wondered then whether God could possibly be neutral in wars. Were the wars His doing? From that moment on he had not been too sure of himself. And now this question. There were too many questions to be answered.

  “You are disturbed, my son,” said the chaplain. “Why not trust in God? Have faith.”

  “Those who kill are heroes, aren’t they?” persisted Jeff.

  “We have Bingo games every Tuesday night,” said Father Tobias. “Why not come and enjoy yourself? Let’s have a nice long talk sometime. You must not think too much about yourself. God moves in His own mysterious ways.”

  Henri and Dot had finished praying and were leaving.

  “Good night, my children,” said Father Tobias. “I shall look for you at early Mass on Sunday.”

  “There is one more thing, Father,” said Henri.

  “Sunday, my son, Sunday.”

  “Hello Henri,” said Jeff.

  “My friend, Jeffrey,” mumbled Henri.

  “Come on, Henry,” said Dot. “Walk with us, Jeff.”

  Jeff left with Henri and Dot. They walked down the avenue and turned toward the women’s barracks.

  “The trouble with priests,” said Dot, “is they haven’t got nerve.”

  “A priest has a lot of things to think about,” said Jeff.

  “What’d you pray for?” asked Dot of Henri.

  “I was too excited,” said Henri. “I could only ask God to be good to us.”

  “I prayed it would take,” said Dot. “Maybe I’m pregnant already, who knows? God, I hope so.”

  They walked the rest of the way in silence. Only once more did Dot break the silence. She said to Jeff, “Henry is worried terrible about his family in France.”

  Henri nodded.

  At the barracks Henri took Dot in his arms as the other servicemen were doing with their girls. Six or seven couples were standing glued together. Henri held Dot fiercely close to him. Dot began to cry. Henri begged her not to.

  “Tomorrow night we shall go to Washington, ma chérie.”

  “Yeah,” sobbed Dot. “Tomorra. We’ll go to a hotel and get a nice room. I’m sure it’ll take, Henry. I’m sure. And then we’ll get that little place. Do you love me, Henry?”

  “I adore you, ma chérie.”

  “Good night, Henry.”

  He kissed her again.

  “Kiss my eyes, Henry.”

  Henri kissed her wet eyes. And then her lips. Jeff decided he liked Dot.

  “Good night, darling,” said Henri.

  “Good night,” said Dot. “Good night, Jeff.”

  “Good night,” said Jeff.

  “Ain’t this the goddamed world, though?” she said, and ran into the barracks.

  Jeff and Henri walked back together.

  “Dottie, she is a very emotional woman,” said Henri.

  “I like her,” said Jeff.

  “Where is Peter, my friend?”

  “Washington.”

  “He would think this ironic.”

  “Yes.”

  “I have heard news from home, Jeffrey.”

  “Letter?�
��

  Henri reached into his pocket and took out a wrinkled and ragged-edged newspaper clipping. He handed it to Jeff.

  It was a picture typical of second or third pages in the daily newspapers. The photograph showed a small French village street. Several people were gathered around two women. An older, fattish woman had a pair of shears in her hand and was violently cutting off the hair of a young woman held by French villagers. The caption said the French were thus shearing the hair of all French women who had been friendly to the Germans.

  “The woman with the scissors, she is my mother,” said Henri.

  “Really?” Jeff looked at the picture again, feeling a personal interest now. “Serves the girl right,” said Jeff. “How could she be friendly to those Nazis?”

  “I do not know,” said Henri. “The young girl in the picture is my sister.”

  “Oh.”

  Jeff looked at the picture again. The girl was terror-stricken.

  No tears were in her eyes. Jeff thought she ought to be crying. Henri felt sorry for his sister. He felt sorry for his mother. He felt sorry for himself and for France. Jeff gave the clipping back to Henri, who folded it carefully and put it into his pocket.

  “Today I bought a pint of whisky. There is still left a good deal. Do you wish it?”

  “Okay.”

  “It is against the rules for us to bring whiskey on the Post,” said Henri.

  “I know,” said Jeff.

  “Still you wish it?”

  “Yes.”

  Henri gave the half-filled pint to Jeff.

  “Drink?” invited Jeff.

  “No. For me, no more. Thank you.”

  Jeff drank and then put the bottle away.

  “Well, good night,” said Henri.

  “Good night,” said Jeff.

  Henri entered his barracks. Jeff walked toward his own barracks. Every now and then he raised the bottle and took another drink.

  Wonder how many French wives have been friendly to Germans? Wonder how French husbands feel about it? How many Marys are there in France? Maybe Germans are heroes, too? Maybe French women just want to live. Yeah. You never thought of that, my fine friends. Fine-feathered friends. Live. People want to live. That’s what they live for. To live. Never thought of that, eh? Well, to live you have to kill. Kill or be killed. The eleventh Commandment. And how about those who are not killed? Why, my feathered friends, they are the damned. And the damned don’t die.

  CHAPTER VII

  The barracks were dark. Taps were at ten-fifteen. Only a blueish night light burned. Jeff walked up the stairs the second floor. His legs were beginning to feel wobbly. He tried to imagine what would happen if he ran through barracks shouting that the war was over, that they could all home right then and there? He smiled at the idea and drank again from the bottle.

  He walked into the latrine and looked at himself in one the long rows of mirrors. He needed a shave. He pulled his lips back over his teeth and inspected his gums. One of the artists in his section had gotten trench mouth. That would be something, he thought. To die in this war of trench mouth. Here lies Jeffrey Mitchell, hero of World War II. Died in action of soft gums. His last words were: Five out of four have it.

  Large roaches and water bugs had taken command of the latrine. They were everywhere. On the walls, down the drains of the sinks, on the floors, everywhere. The place was littered with toilet paper and used razor blades. Somebody had urinated on the floor. Probably some drunk, thought Jeff, drunk like me. He walked through a doorway and sat down on one of the bowls. He flushed the toilet because it hadn’t been done before. He wondered why soldiers never flushed toilets. Maybe it was a superstition. And what’s a bad stink compared to bad luck?

  He opened the bottle and drank again. There wasn’t much left. Quizzically he regarded the half inch of liquor that remained. He couldn’t remember ever having drunk alone before. It had its advantages. He tried to remember what he had been thinking about a few moments ago that had given him such pleasure. Ah yes. The end of the war. Somebody was going to run through the barracks and shout that the war was over. Jeff knew exactly what he would do. He would rush madly for the railroad station and in transit he would tear off his uniform piece by piece. Then he would be in his skivvies. Everybody else would be doing the some thing. He would jump on the first train out of the Town. He would curse the Town. He would curse Monty Crawford. That would be good. And people would be standing beside the railroad tracks all the way to California. There would be millions of people. And children with flowers. And they would cry and laugh and cheer. They would call Jeff their hero. And they would be happy because he had liberated them. Vive la France. Viva America. Hooray for Jeff Mitchell. He wouldn’t understand their language but he would know what they meant. Heroes always knew what the people meant. And in California Mary would meet him. Ah Mary. But she couldn’t get through the crowd. There was too big a crowd and they were all cheering for Jeff Mitchell. And they all said, “Doesn’t he look thin?” They clucked their tongues and wagged their heads and carried him on their shoulders. And when Mary tried to get near him, Jeff told her to go back to Red. Women were kissing him and hugging him and offering him their bodies. It was wonderful. And they carried him all the way back to Disney’s modern studio in Burbank. And there was Walt Disney himself, standing on Mickey Mouse’s head. And at first he couldn’t recognize Walt Disney because he looked like Donald Duck.

  “Welcome home, Jeff,” said Walt Disney.

  “Glad to be back, Mr. Disney,” said Jeff.

  “Call me Walt,” said Disney.

  “H’ya Walt,” said Jeff.

  “H’ya Jeff,” said Walt Disney.

  The crowd cheered and Walt Disney smiled.

  “We’re going to make a full-length feature of your life, my boy,” said Walt Disney. “You’ll outline the story, and you’ll animate the picture, and you’ll be the star, and you’ll score the music. I’ve hired Stokowski and Toscanini and Shostakowitch to help you, but don’t let them bother you too much. How much did I pay you before?” asked Walt Disney.

  “Sixty-five a week,” said Jeff.

  “Pooh-pooh,” said Walt Disney. “We’ll make out a lifetime contract. Seventy dollars every week you’re working. From now on you’re a partner. I’ll consult you on everything. ‘Next week we go to South America. After that to Iceland. Then to Russia. I’ve got a great idea for a feature picture about a Russian bear.”

  Then Walt Disney told him to take the afternoon off and go home to see his wife.

  “I have no more wife,” said Jeff, and the crowd was stunned. Jeff pointed out Mary in the crowd and said very dramatically that she had betrayed him. She had made him cry. The crowd began to boo Mary, and she yelled, “I love my husband.” But Jeff didn’t listen to her and only looked at the beautiful blue sky and watched the colors on the low hills.

  And suddenly he didn’t want to work for Disney. And the crowds weren’t there any more. A messenger came to tell him that Mary didn’t want him to come home yet because Red was still there. And Walt Disney said, “You’re no hero, you fraud. You died of trench mouth.” And Walt Disney slammed the door of his studio and Mickey Mouse fell and broke into small pieces.

  Jeff sat down then and with his right forefinger he drew a masterpiece in the middle of the highway. But nobody came to see it, and finally the tires of the automobiles wore out the drawing. And still no messenger came to tell him that Red was gone and that Mary wanted him back. He was sorry he was home. And when Walt Disney yelled out of the window that Jeff Mitchell went to war and wasted everything and didn’t do anything to win the war, Jeff cried and wished he were dead.

  The empty bottle fell to the floor but didn’t break. Jeff didn’t hear it fall. He was asleep on the toilet seat and the water bugs ran across his shoes.

  CHAPTER VIII

  It was morning.

  The heavy mist was squatting on the river and leaning over the Post and the Town. The sun rose about five-th
irty and burned a yellow-orange tunnel through the grayness.

  He heard the bugle blowing somewhere. Reveille. Every barracks had its own bugler. He stood with his elbows on the window sill and stared out. His head ached and the dull pain was returning to his groin. Chills seized him. Somewhere inside he smiled. Malaria. Bitten by a lousy malaria mosquito while on the Post, while in the States, while caught in a safe trap. He thought he had better go to his trunk and get an atabrine tablet. If he was going to D.C. there was no use getting a bad attack.

  The Duty N.C.O.’s voice was complaining throughout the barracks.

  “All right. All right. Hit the deck. Up and at ’em. Everybody. That means everybody. Sergeants and everybody. Staffs, too. Everybody. That means you, too. Lewis and Melbar and Coy and Brandino and Foster. Everybody. Hit the deck. All right. All right. Come on you Hollywood Commandos. Get your tail off that bed.”

  In a few minutes they would be shaving, preparing their morning toilet. Jeff looked at his pants and saw that they needed pressing. He had an overwhelming desire to put on civilian clothes. Maybe a gabardine suit. Something that wouldn’t bind him under the arms and bunch up around his shoulders. To wear shirts that would be starched, at most, only at the collar and cuffs and not throughout the entire shirt including the shirttails, which poked at your thighs like two boards. He wanted to wear a pair of pants that would not invite criticism because they weren’t pressed. A pair of pants whose pockets he could load down with gadgets and matches and cigarettes and things.

  What was it they said on the radio? This was war! Yes. He guessed it was. He thought civilians knew far more about the war than the soldiers who were in it. They could somehow put together peace conferences and war plans and make them fit a general picture, thought Jeff. The civilians remembered statistics such as, how long Turkey could last if invaded; how many miles the Russian front took in; the names of the Marshall Islands. Even the scale on which the civilian saw the war was different from that of the fighting man or the rat in the barracks trap. The civilian looked at a map and saw an entire army moving. Maybe along a river. The army would meet another army at a certain designated point. Air and naval gunfire support would join in. The enemy would necessarily have to retreat because of certain unchangeable military factors. There was, for example, the line of supply. And that of communications. The civilian knew that Allied tanks would play an important part in a particular battle because of the terrain. He also knew that the Allies could expect certain help from the civilian population of an invaded land because of political factors.