“Whew—” he sighed. “Goddammit, I just don’t see how I’m going to be able to make it in this man’s Army—no shape, no form or fashion.”
“Put your shoes on, man,” Worm said. “You’ll run all the snakes and lizards out the woods. And have some respect for me and Solly’s tender nostrils. You must think you at home or some other funky place.” Baker’s shoes still hung about his neck.
Solly smiled. “He’s telling you right, Buckethead. If you and a skunk got cornered in a cave together, he’d come out with his hands in the air and proclaim you king of the pole kitties.” The fellows near them chuckled. They were too tired to laugh aloud. Solly felt good. Damn good.
“You a real funny fellow, Office Boy,” Buckethead told him. “Funny as a broken crutch. Just cause you’re the CO’s pet you think your shit don’t stink.”
Solly said offhandedly, “I got your CO’s pet.” But he felt like Baker had kicked him in the stomach.
Rogers came over and sat down. “Ain’t nothing the matter with Buckethead’s feet. His dogs ain’t half as bad as mine. He’s just trying to beat the rap. He thinks he can bullshit his great white Uncle. I went by the Service Club the other night and this bad-feet jitterbugging mother-huncher was outdancing everybody.”
The men began to laugh and loosen up. “Old Buckethead was dancing with one overgrown double-breasted chick, and the other cats stood around placing bets. They thought him and the hefty bitch was having a wrestling match.”
“Watch that shit, you bubble-eyed bastard,” Baker said.
Solly thought, so now I’m not only an intelligent stockholding Army-lover and Cap’n Charlie’s boy. I’m also the CO’s pet. I’m really getting up in the world. And everybody’s got my number.
“You better watch the way you talk to a corporal. That’s what you better watch,” Buck Rogers said to Buckethead.
“Listen to Barney Google,” Bookworm said. “He thinks he’s a goddamn officer already.”
“You’re another one better watch your step,” Buck said to Worm.
“I got what it takes for a prissy-ass punk like you,” Worm said casually. “You’ll be a soldier before your dear old mother will—”
“Don’t talk about his dear-old like that,” Buckethead said. “I understand she’s a first sergeant in the Engineers and doing a jam-up job, bless her sweet soul.”
“Shh—” somebody said. “Here comes the man.”
Lieutenant Samuels came over to where they were sitting. “Will you help round up the men, Corporal? . . . Saunders, I meant, and tell them to gather in this vicinity. You may help too, Corporal.” He nodded to Rogers.
The men gathered slowly. “All right, men,” the lieutenant said. “You can sit down and relax, finish your cigarette or light another, anything, so long as you don’t fall asleep.”
Nobody laughed. The woods were heavy with a dark green smell and the leaves were falling golden brown.
The tan-faced white man, almost brown, stood looking down upon the company of evil-and good-natured colored men with all the complexions of the human race. He lit a cigarette and took a long slow drag, threw it down and started to mash it with his big nervous feet, picked it up again and stripped it down. Solly watched every move he made—Lieutenant Samuels, his buddy boy, the confidence man from New York City, the Ninety-day Wonder, always on the job. He liked the lieutenant sometimes against his better judgment. Maybe he didn’t like him at all. Maybe it was only admiration.
“Men,” the tan-skinned white lieutenant began, “I think I know a little about how you feel—”
Some of the men looked at each other and cleared their throats.
“None of us wants to be in the Army. Nobody likes war. Every one of us would rather be back in civilian life—”
Buck Rogers muttered under his breath, “Most of these mama-jabbers ain’t never had it so good. You’d have to put a gun on them to make them get out of the Army. Some wouldn’t go then. You’d have to shoot them first.” He gazed attentively up into the lieutenant’s face as some of the men lowered their heads in smothered laughter.
“—We have a job to do, so the quicker we get it done, the quicker we can all get back to civilian life. We didn’t start this war, but we have to finish it. The forces who started this war are against everything we hold to be self-evident. If they should win, God help our democratic institutions. Hitler and Goebbels and Rosenberg have sold the German people a bill of goods called ‘Herrenvolk,’ the master race, and are trying to impose this theory through war and destruction upon the rest of the human race. That’s why we’re fighting.”
The lieutenant paused and his eyes went from one to the other of the men. “I know you men have a lot on your chest, so why don’t you take this opportunity to get it off?”
Solly looked hopefully around him. Nobody bit. He felt a growing anger toward the men now—Buck Rogers and Lanky Lincoln and Clint Moore and especially Bookworm and Scotty. That’s the way his people were—grumbling to themselves all the time, but when it was really time to speak up, all of a sudden they developed lockjaw.
“I want you fellers to open up. I really mean it. Ask any question on your mind. Let this be the bitching hour.”
Some of them looked around at each other. A soft breeze blew through the green woods close to the ground, and the blades of grass did a crazy rhumba, and the leaves fell golden brown all around them, into their silent faces. Buckethead Baker cleared his throat and faces strained and ears waited, but nothing happened. A grayish green squirrel raced down a pine tree, stood for a moment looking at the soldiers as if to hear what they had to say, and away he flew disgustedly through the tall green grass.
“An officer must be interested in the morale of his men. He must have the men’s confidence, or else he’s a failure as an officer. I know you men must have a million questions on your mind.” He paused and waited. “How about you, Corporal Saunders?”
Solly looked down at the blades of grass dancing in the quiet breeze. His body grew even warmer. He felt the eyes of the other soldiers heavily upon him. He looked up into the officer’s face. He stood up and stared out through the trees weighted down with a dark and heavy greenness toward the dusty road, and he felt a heaviness inside of him and all around him and leaning heavily against his slim shoulders. He was weary and exhausted.
“I don’t have any questions, Lieutenant.”
“Possibly you have a comment to make.”
He stared at the friendly anxious face of the tan-complexioned white man and he looked around at the black and brown and light-brown faces. He cleared his nervous itchy throat. Why didn’t this white commissioned officer leave him alone? Why didn’t people leave him be? “I want to be entirely honest with you, Lieutenant, because that’s the way I believe you want it.” He wasn’t even a non-commissioned officer. He was private-first-class acting corporal.
“Absolutely,” Samuels said. “Otherwise we’re wasting all of our valuable time and holding up the war.”
“Well,” Solly began, “I agree with you about Hitler and Herrenvolk and all of that stuff. I read Mein Kampf, and I hate what Hitler stands for as much as you do, but—but—but there’s another angle to it. There’re Americans who believe in Herrenvolk. The American Army is based on Herrenvolk.” He hadn’t known what he was going to say. His voice trembled slightly as he took the clean green air of the forest into his dry and bitter throat. Yesterday he wouldn’t have said a thing. “Still, even from the narrow standpoint of Negro Americans, I believe we have a stake in this war. I think if—I know if Hitler won, the Negro would lose the ground we’ve already struggled for.”
“That’s very true, Corporal. That is precisely the point.”
“However, on the question of H Company in particular and the question of morale. We get all the dirty details. Somebody goes up to regimental and volunteers for us. At the same time we get fewer passes than any other company. And you know the story about how the MPs and Ebbensville’s finest treat
our men when they catch them in town, but nothing is done about it, except we go on ten-mile hikes, ostensibly to cool us off.”
Some of the men laughed sarcastically. Solly paused.
“Continue, Corporal.”
“That’s all, Lieutenant. I’m with you, and I’m just as interested in the men’s morale as you are, and anybody else for that matter.” He sat down next to Bookworm and lay back full length upon the grass and the soft breeze blowing close to the ground caressed his sweaty face. He was a fool to shoot off his mouth like that. What would it get him?
“Thank you, Saunders. I want you to know I thoroughly appreciate your candor. Now we’re getting down to cases!” He took off his glasses and glanced down and around at the men. “Anybody else?”
Bookworm raised his hand and Solly closed his eyes and held his breath. “How come we don’t have colored officers in the Fifty-fifth Quartermaster?”
Samuels put his glasses on again and stared at Bookworm long and hard. Solly could feel the serious looks of the soldiers seated around him, and he could hear smothered laughing from a few of them. The laughter of derision. Why in the hell should he feel sorry for the officer? Samuels took an olive drab handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face. His voice had a strange muffled quality. “I don’t know the answer to that one, soldier, except that many outfits don’t have colored officers, and this happens to be one such outfit.”
Some of the men laughed openly now, as Lanky Lincoln whispered loudly enough for all of them to hear, “No shit, Lieutenant?” and the lieutenant’s face turned suddenly from tan to pinkish-red.
“At ease, men.” He cleared his throat. “All right—all right—I know that what I just said is the understatement of the twentieth century, and it isn’t really an answer to your question, soldier. All right—so it’s true there is discrimination in the Army, a whole lot of it. And that song that you sang on the road a while ago that I didn’t hear you singing—I didn’t hear a thing, you understand—it’s all true though. We all know it. But if you men help me to straighten up the outfit and help to build some pride in H Company, I’ll promise you one thing—I’ll do all in my power to see that you’re treated as well as any outfit at Camp Johnson Henry.” He paused. “Is it a deal, men?” He looked from face to face and he glanced at his watch. He waited but nobody cleared his throat. They were not in the market today. The sun was going down now, and dark ragged shadows cast themselves all over the dark green woods, settling softly now down through the trees and onto the faces and into the heavy silence.
Baker said, “We’ll do the best we can, sir.” Most of the soldiers laughed this time. Baker was the biggest goldbrick in the company.
“It’s getting late, men,” the lieutenant said. “Let’s fall in out on the road and start back. Make sure you put your cigarettes out. And everything we said out here is strictly confidential between you and me, but don’t forget what we talked about.”
“How about a few furloughs and three-day passes? Everybody at Camp Johnson Henry gets passes and furloughs excepting us.” Scotty’s big voice boomed all over the forest.
“All right—all right,” the lieutenant said. “I know that’s a problem too. But that can also be straightened out. All I want from you men is a little co-operation.”
“And all I want is a furlough,” Scotty said. “And I’m gon give myself one tonight,” he mumbled underneath his angry breath.
That night Scotty kept his word and went AWOL again.
That night Solly followed his new “loose garment” policy, and instead of sitting in the orderly room reading a book or writing a letter, he hung out with the men in the barracks. He’d spent so much time by himself when he was a boy in New York City in those cold and lonesome railroad flats, sometimes he convinced himself he preferred his solitude. But it was never true of him. They were seated on Worm’s and Solly’s bunks, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. Buckethead put the pint whiskey bottle up to his lips and slowly tilted his head back and took a long and noisy swallow. “Where you get this bad-ass whiskey from?” he said. “If you don’t have any good whiskey, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t invite me to your party the next time.”
“Ain’t this a damn shame?” Buck Rogers said. “Before Uncle Sam called this jughead mama-lover he was out on the shorts snatching pocketbooks. When he came into the Army he didn’t have nothing but his hat and his ass. Drank that goddamn sneaky-pete in Harlem all his life. Give me that bottle!” He grabbed the bottle from Baker’s hand.
Some eager beaver downstairs yelled ATTENTION, and you could hear Rutherford’s long strides coming up the steps from the first floor. Buck took a quick drink and put the whiskey bottle inside of his shirt. “Here comes Long Boy,” he said out of the side of his mouth. “All right, all you sons-of-your-mothers’-misbehavior, let’s make it look pretty for Captain Charlie. All except you, Corporal Solly. You already look pretty and you ain’t no son-of-your—Never mind.” He stood straight as a telegraph pole with his heels together and he opened his mouth and yelled like somebody was murdering him:
“AT-TEN-CHUN!”
Lieutenant Rutherford stood near the door to his office, his arrogant eyes roaming all over the barracks. He pulled up his trousers with his elbows and they slid back down on his hipless hips. “Come into my office, Saunders.”
The lieutenant was seated with his tiny feet resting on top of his desk when Solly entered the office. He wore size 8-D shoes and they looked like a deformity in contrast with the six feet four inches of his lanky body. Solly started to salute him. Rutherford waved his hand. “At ease, Corporal.” He stared at Solly. “How did you like the hike?”
“All right, sir.”
“You think it was good for the men’s morale?”
“I wouldn’t know about that, sir.”
“Aw, come on, Saunders. You can talk to your CO. After all, you are my company clerk.”
“I wouldn’t have any opinion, sir. None at all.”
“I hear you all had a great big heart-to-heart talk out in the woods today.”
Solly said nothing, his lips pressed together, his eyes narrowing.
“Is there anything at all you’d like to tell me, Corporal?”
“No, sir.” The office was getting hot and sticky.
The lieutenant smiled his girlish smile. “You don’t have to tell me, I know about it. I know all about the singing too—the ‘Parlez-vous.’” He laughed. “I reckin all y’all New York boys just naturally stick together. They tell me New York City ain’t made up of nothing but colored folks and Jews.” He laughed again. “Did you and Lieutenant Samuels go to school together?”
Solly didn’t answer. His stomach quivered with his anger. His fingernails bit into the palms of his hands.
The CO said nothing for a moment. He just sat there rearing back in his chair and smiling at Solly. “What I want you to do, Corporal, is get up a roster for Guard Duty right away. H Company goes on at four in the morning. That’s a special assignment. We volunteered. We got such high morale.”
“Yes, sir.” Solly turned to leave.
“You doing a pretty good job, Saunders. Just a second. Lieutenant Samuels says you doing a damn good job.” He paused as if he expected Solly to answer him.
“Yes indeed. And I got my eyes on you. There’ll be a few more promotions coming up next week and I’m not going to forget you neither. You can put on your PFC stripes tomorrow.” He paused again. “All the men will be restricted to quarters this week end, Saunders, but you can have a week-end pass if you want one. You and the first sergeant.”
“No, sir, I’d rather stay at the camp this week end.” And he was really the company commander’s boy. It was true what Baker called him—Baker, Rogers, Scotty, Worm.
“You can have a pass. I just said you could have a pass. You can go a long way in the Army, boy, with your education and your personality. I already told you. All you got to do is toe the mark!”
“No thank you, sir
. Not this week end.”
“What’s the matter, boy? A sharp one like you must’ve had a whole lot of good-looking red-hot brown-skin mamas hot in behind you up in New York. You like womenfolks—don’t you?”
Solly could feel the dampness over his lips, salty perspiration dripping from his forehead, his whole body wet and hot with anger. He told himself the CO was being friendly, in his own way. He wanted to make it in the Army, and the CO could be a big help or a hindrance. Make your choice. He swallowed hard and it lay whole and heavy in the bottom of his belly, a stomach-full of contradictions. “Sir, I don’t care for a pass this time. I’d rather stay on the post this week end.” He turned to go again.
“Wait a minute, Saunders.”
Solly waited.
“We got the best company in the regiment and by God I’m going to prove it to them up at headquarters, if it’s the last damn thing I do. And you put them stripes on Saunders, just as quick as you can and don’t worry about nothing. All you got to do is play the Army game. Don’t you worry.”
“No, sir.”
“You sure you don’t want a pass?” the company commander insisted.
Maybe he should take the pass and then just fail to use it. Why antagonize the man?
“Yes, sir. I’m positive.”
“Okay, Saunders, suit yourself,” the lieutenant said. “But just remember one thing—I got my eyes on you. You’re going to be all right in the Army.”
Yes, sir, Captain Charlie.
CHAPTER 7
SUNDAY AFTERNOON. Lazy Southern October Sunday. Clear quiet sun-drenched like the middle of summertime. The living ain’t easy, Solly thought. People giving up the ghost almost everywhere. The Germans rained bombs all night long on London town and the British with their chins up and Churchill with his cigar and his V for Victory and Stalin with his Moscow and his Stalingrad. And pretty Miss Fannie Mae Branton and her Double-V for victory.
And Then We Heard the Thunder Page 10