“Down the Joe.”
“Down the canned cow.”
“Down the rock pile.”
“Down the hen food.”
“Down … down … down.”
No matter what a man wanted, and no matter at which end of the table he happened to be sitting, he yelled, “Down this, or down that.” Everything was tagged with a name that was cute the first time you heard it and plagued you forever after. It bore into your nerves and wore them raw and tired until you not only hated the name but the food itself. The easiest thing to do when you were a soldier was to hate something. The kindly newspaper and periodical writers called it griping but Jeff knew differently. The men hated. It was the only emotion strong enough to overcome their despair and loneliness and jealousy and fear and the loss of self-respect. So they hated the food and their beds and their clothes and themselves. They hated their officers and higher ranking noncoms. They hated the war. They just hated.
Jeff tried the eggs. They tasted flat. He might have been eating soft paper. The thing to do was to douse the eggs with ketchup. That had a good familiar taste. He thought that was why many of the men poured gravy over ice cream and put mustard on pie. They wanted to taste something they knew. Something familiar. Jeff poured two large cups of coffee past the raw taste in his throat and rose from the table. He placed his cup and dishes in a large, metal, wheeled cart.
Then he left and walked to the big brick building in which he worked at making maps for motion pictures that were supposed to help win the war. At his drawing board Jeff idled. His work no longer seemed important. Overseas artists were producing good stuff. But they were working with the real thing, thought Jeff. He was just near beer. That was it. That was his life, everything in the barracks—near beer. Jeff thought Keeley would like that idea. They were near-beer soldiers. No kick. No punch. No aftereffects. It was phony, just like the war they were fighting—a barracks war. Monty was right. They were Hollywood Commandos. Fakes. Frauds.
A woman in uniform hovered near by. She had been assigned to the department. The reason women were in the service was to relieve a man for active duty—for fighting. But no artists from Jeff’s section were sent overseas. So the women just made the section larger. The women were thrilled at being taught how to draw. They fiddled with pencils and sharpened them and filled pieces of paper with large, meaningless scrawls and sharpened more pencils and flaunted their thick legs.
Jeff sat and stared at his map. He would draw perhaps fifty or sixty versions of this same map and then they would be photographed with overlays, and some day they would appear in a motion picture about a battle that had taken place five or six months ago and no one would care, and they would be right in not caring. Jeff certainly did not care. His job had no immediacy. You could never win a Purple Heart by drawing a map.
His soft-leaded pencil scrawled a phrase on the paper.
KILL OR BE KILLED.
It was the sediment from the previous night’s drunk. He put a few frills and backlighting lines behind the phrase. He encircled the words with a faceless face. He wrote the phrase again. He began to feel a certain excitement in it. He quickly tore up the sheet of paper and sat staring at the next piece. Kill or be killed. There was a neatness and dispatch to the phrase. It was an ultimatum.
I’ll kill somebody, he thought.
The thought made his blood pound. It made him breathless. In his mind’s eye he could see himself rushing over a piece of rough terrain, meeting a villainous enemy, grabbing him by the throat and stabbing him. It was a good feeling. A mad feeling. It was a feeling that made him forget Mary. And Red. And his hopelessness.
That was the solution. It was simple. Easy. Merely kill somebody.
Jeff sat back in his chair and smiled. He suddenly felt important to himself. Just the thought that he held someone’s life in his hands gave him a feeling of superiority. It was a succinct thought. Like an oyster. Spicy. Went down easily. Today, he mused, I can go out and kill somebody.
But, who?
The girl in uniform walking through the office? He could call her over to his desk and kill her off easily. And everybody would look at him with wonder and awe and even fear. Jeff Mitchell, the killer! But what would be the use in killing the girl? She meant nothing in the scheme of things. Who then? Monty Crawford? That was a good idea. Harder to accomplish but a good idea. Gouge out his eyes. Break his nose. Stab him in the back. Choke him with a stick. A jungle fight. Kill or be killed. Monty deserved to be killed. And then? Why the world was full of people, people easy enough to become angry with, easy enough to dislike and hate. Go on killing. It was better than getting drunk. There wasn’t any hangover. Kill, damn it. Kill.
The captain in charge of the animation department came over to Jeff’s desk and wanted to know how he was getting along?
“Fine,” said Jeff. “Fine.”
The captain nodded and went on to someone else’s desk. Jeff thought it would be easy to kill the captain. Jeff even imagined that the captain had shown more respect for him. That was what he needed. Respect.
Six or seven pencil points and many pieces of sketch paper later, it was close to noon. Jeff rose, picked up his overseas cap, and left the building. He went to the mess hall and went through another era of: “Down the Joe.… Down the S.O.S.… Down this and down that.” He thought how easy it would be to kill any of the men at the table. He felt much better. He didn’t even mind the way they ate, the way they propped their elbows around their plates and wolfed their food. He thought he could kill them and that made them all right. He even developed a kind of pity for them.
After chow he got his shaving kit and put it into an overnight bag. The overnight bag had his name and address on it. He took along an extra pair of socks and a shirt. He stole a towel off another bed and threw it into his bag. That made him feel better, too. That was what they had told him a long time ago. He had come to the property sergeant and had said: “Somebody stole my pillow.” The property sergeant had said: “That’s tough, buddy.” “What’ll I do?” “Steal somebody else’s,” was the advice. Jeff thought now that it was a good rule. Every man for himself. Yes sir. That was the ticket. Hooray for me and the hell with you.
His walk was fairly a strut. He strutted out into the hallway. He picked up the pencil and checked off his name on the Liberty List. Out at 1340. Destination: D.C. He moved his hand to his shirt pocket. He had his wallet. In his wallet would be his identification card. Couldn’t leave the Post without it. He came out into the hot afternoon. It was a fine afternoon. He turned toward the Post gate. No train for him. No bus. Hitchhike. He could look an automobile in the face and say to its driver, “I can kill you.” The driver would stop the car and take him to Washington.
No wonder Keeley was an oracle, an expert. He had killed someone. That was the answer to everything.
The M.P. at the gate nodded to him as he went by. Jeff nodded back. M.P.’s would always nod to you whether they knew you or not. Several cars went by without stopping. Many other soldiers also were waiting for a lift. There was a three-mile stretch from the Post to the main highway. There the crossroads would be crowded with soldiers waiting for a ride. Then, when the hours went by and no one stopped to pick them up, they would take the bus which always made a stop at the crossroads. Jeff put his bag down on the hot concrete and mopped his face with a handkerchief. He had forgotten to buy cigarettes. He didn’t want to walk back. It was too hot. Maybe he should have taken the train after all, he thought. Maybe no one would stop for him. He picked up the bag and walked around the bend in the road. He heard the bite of rubber on concrete and a car stopped beside him. A familiar voice said: “Hop in, Mitchell.”
Jeff turned and saw Monty Crawford. It was a strange car. A civilian stranger sat at the wheel. In the back sat Floyd Bowers. Monty had swung open the door and leaned forward so that Jeff could get into the back of the car. Jeff climbed in.
“H’ya,” said Floyd Bowers.
“Going to Washington?�
�� asked Monty, as the car started forward again.
“Yes. Are you?”
“Sure,” said Monty. “Everybody’s going to Washington. The whole country goes to Washington on Saturday.” Monty turned possessively toward the driver. “This is Mr. Edwards. Mr. Edwards, Jeff Mitchell.”
“How do you do?” said Mr. Edwards.
“It’s nice of you to give us a lift,” said Jeff.
“It’s a pleasure,” said Mr. Edwards.
Jeff looked at the man’s face in the rear-view mirror. The first thing that struck him was that Mr. Edwards was pale. The sun had not touched his face. He had a thin nose and deeply-set eyes. They were pale eyes. The brow was good. The cheekbones high. The face was hungry. Jeff didn’t know what the hunger was. He knew, however, that it wasn’t for food. The man’s clothes told him that, and the high-priced car. Mr. Edwards had full, red lips and his teeth were almost too white. Jeff made a mental sketch of him. He saw that the outstanding feature in the man’s face was the eyes. Yes, and something else. The heavy lines that started at the nose and formed a deep parenthesis around the mouth. Jeff looked at the hands on the wheel. They were graceful hands. Too graceful. The fingers were thin and long, the wrists slender and flexible. There was something familiar about the man and yet Jeff knew he had never seen Mr. Edwards before. Then Monty said something and Jeff knew at once why Mr. Edwards was familiar.
Monty had said: “Mr. Edwards is a simply wonderful interior decorator.”
Jeff knew from Monty’s tone that Mr. Edwards was a fairy. At Monty’s words Mr. Edwards blushed.
“How is the decoratin’ business, Mr. Edwards?” asked Floyd.
“I hear some of those guys make a pile of money,” said Monty.
“Is that so?” said Floyd in a rising crescendo.
“Yeah,” said Monty. “But you got to have a knack.”
“It’s an art,” said Jeff. “It takes taste, ingenuity, and a knowledge of colors and spaces.”
Jeff saw Mr. Edwards glance into the mirror. There was a grateful look in his eyes.
“You’ll just love Jeff, here, Mr. Edwards,” smirked Monty.
Mr. Edwards cleared his throat of the distaste that lay there. “Are you an interior decorator?”
“No, sir, I.…”
“He’s an animator,” offered Monty. “Mickey Mouse man. From Disney in California.”
“Really?” said Mr. Edwards. He seemed pleased. “What sort of work do you do now?”
Jeff tried to explain but it all seemed muddled to him. Mr. Edwards listened patiently and kept nodding his head as though he understood everything Jeff was saying. After Jeff finished Monty said: “How come you ain’t in the service, Mr. Edwards?”
Mr. Edwards blushed again and cleared his throat once more.
“They turned me down,” he said.
Jeff thought once more that maybe he ought to kill Monty Crawford. Still, now that he was there before Jeff, the task did not appear so simple.
“Bad arches?” smirked Floyd.
“I … don’t know,” said Mr. Edwards.
“Mr. Edwards,” said Monty, “you got no idea how tough it is for a serviceman.
“Je-suss, but it’s tough,” grumbled Floyd. “Back home I’m a big man, but ever since I’m in, all I do is eat dirt. You might think I was a nigger.”
“That ain’t the point,” said Monty. He turned to face Floyd and Jeff and winked as though to say: Listen to this. This is going to be good. “You see, Mr. Edwards, an enlisted man, he doesn’t make much money. Then you get a week-end liberty, like this, for instance. Know what I mean? Then what do you do? You go looking for a girl. Well, all the girls, they’re used to spending a lot of money. They want to go someplace and sop up a lot of beer, and sometimes they don’t drink beer and you know what bourbon costs. And even then they don’t always give. Sometimes you got to see these girls five or six times.”
Floyd began to get the idea. He nodded his head sagaciously at Monty and said: “Yeah. I’m thinkin’ on givin’ up girls altogether. Too much trouble. What do you think, Monty?”
“I don’t know,” said Monty. “A guy’s got to have some fun.”
“Je-suss, you said it,” said Floyd.
“But I got to admit girls are a lot of bother. There’s always the worry that maybe you’re knocking ’em up, too.”
“Yeah,” said Floyd. “It’s awful. Sometimes I think that’s what they want.”
Jeff saw the color come into Mr. Edwards’ face.
“And the prices for everything,” said Monty. “They’re so high.”
“Je-suss,” said Floyd, “A soldier givin’ his life and no chance to enjoy anythin’. Honest, Mr. Edwards, it’s a hound’s life. Je-suss, if it ain’t.”
Mr. Edwards wet his lips with the end of his tongue and swallowed hard. “I would appreciate it,” he said, “if you’d let me provide you with a few drinks.”
Monty turned and winked again.
“Ah, no, Mr. Edwards. We wouldn’t think of that. After all you being so nice and everything, giving us a lift. No, Mr. Edwards, we wouldn’t want you to think there was any obligation or anything.”
“It would give me a great deal of pleasure.” Mr. Edwards’ voice was low and small. He kept his hands firmly on the wheel, his thin fingers holding the plastic wheel tightly, the veins showing on the backs of his hands.
“It’s mighty nice o’ you to say that, Mr. Edwards,” said Floyd and his voice was humility on its knees.
“Not at all,” said Mr. Edwards. “I’ve got a little place in the center of town and.…”
“A little place … all your own?” simpered Monty. “How do you like that, Floyd? A little place all his own.”
“Je-suss,” said Floyd. “A little place all his own. All by yo’ self, Mr. Edwards? I mean, nobody lives with you?”
“Well, it’s just a small place and.…”
“Now, that’s luck for you,” said Monty. “Sure you don’t mind, now?”
“I’m sure there’s enough whisky to go around a few times, and maybe we can even have a sandwich or two.”
“I bet you make them yourself, don’t you, Mr. Edwards?”
Mr. Edwards looked at Monty and blushed again.
“Well, everybody knows that men are the best cooks,” said Monty hastily.
“Yeah,” said Floyd. “We had a nigger on our place. He sure could cook. Some nigger.”
Jeff wanted to warn Mr. Edwards. He didn’t know against what. But the whole thing seemed evil to him. He wanted to tell the man to withdraw his invitation. There was something about the way Monty was talking that frightened Jeff. Jeff had heard about the pastime of some soldiers. Their treatment of sexual perverts. The way they regarded them. Jeff was afraid for himself, too. There was something clammy and unclean about the conversation. He wished he weren’t in the automobile. He wished he had taken the train.
“I like you, Mr. Edwards,” Monty said, and slapped Mr. Edwards on the knee familiarly. Jeff saw the man’s face go white. Floyd nudged Jeff and whispered: “We’re set, buddy. Set. I ain’t beaten up a queer in I don’t know how long.”
“If more people were like you Mr. Edwards.…” Monty was saying.
The same sickness he had had the night before was rising in Jeff. He thought of squirming out of the invitation. Then he knew in the next thought that he wouldn’t. That he would go along. That he would go to Mr. Edwards’ little place and drink his whisky.
His mind said to him: “You wanted to be a soldier, didn’t you? Well, now you’re being a soldier.”
A few miles away was D.C. All week-end liberties led to Washington, city of carnival. Go to D.C. and scoop yourself a hatful of fun. Count your fun minute by minute. The time is short. Take it on the fly. Get the brass ring and stick it through your nose. That’s where it belongs.
CHAPTER IX
Jeff was getting drunk.
He sat in a beautiful chair in a beautiful room, decorated in a beautiful manner
, and he was getting beautifully drunk. He thought it was too bad he hadn’t discovered the great and important anesthetic qualities of bourbon, Scotch and gin before. A long time ago, a very long time ago, yesterday, he would have said that Scotch, bourbon, and gin would not make a good combination, and that you could drink one of them but not all three. But Floyd Bowers would and could and did drink anything that contained alcohol. He was a fast drinker, gulping the stuff in small glassfuls. It seemed to Jeff that he was far more dignified in his drinking habits. He drank slowly. He sipped. Monty hardly drank anything at all. He was a nurser. He was also a talker. He sipped and talked, and he talked more than he sipped. But Monty saw to it that Mr. Edwards drank heavily. He even insisted on it. Mr. Edwards was slightly tight and had taken to grinning. Jeff didn’t like Mr. Edwards when he grinned so much. He also had taken to talking. Jeff didn’t like him so much when he talked, either. As a matter of fact, Jeff didn’t think much of anybody in the small apartment except himself. That is, himself and a lovely painting of a lovely nude girl. The painting was on the wall. It was done in pastels. Jeff thought it was a good job. Its twin was three inches away in a frame of equal size and the same pastels. The second painting was of a nude man. The nude girl was lying down on a satiny couch, and that showed her to her best advantage. Jeff even imagined that the girl looked something like Mary. At first that had made him angry, but later on, when the anesthetic had begun to work, he hadn’t minded it at all and even thought the girl looked better than Mary. The nude man was shooting an arrow from a large bow, and he seemed to be straining a little. However, the strain brought out the muscles and Jeff knew that was why the artist had the man straining. He wondered why a man would shoot a bow and arrow while nude. And then he decided he was too petty. He oughtn’t to ask questions like that. Nothing had a reason and there he had to go and ask why a man painted a nude.
The Brick Foxhole Page 10