I only took them medals off to give them back to Burke. It was the day he was made first sergeant. He was sitting alone in the orderly room - the guy was always alone - at about half past eight at night. I went over to him and laid his medals down on the desk; they was all pinned together and wrapped in a handkerchief, like when he chucked them on my bunk.
But Burke, he didn't look up. He had a set of kid's crayons on his desk, and he was drawing a pitcher of a girl with red hair. Burke, he could draw real good.
"I don't need them no more," I says to him "Thanks."
"Okay, Mac," Burke says, and he picks up his crayon again. He was drawing the girl's hair. He just let his medals lay there.
I started to take off, but Burke calls me back, "Hey, Mac." He don't stop drawing though.
I comes back over to his desk.
"Tell me," Burke says. "Tell me if I'm wrong, like. When you was settin' on your bunk cryin' - "
"I wasn't crying," I says. (What a kid.)
"Okay. When you was settin' on your bunk laughin' your head off, was you thinking that you wanted to be laying on your back in a boxcar on a train that was stopped in a town, with the doors rolled open halfways and the sun in your face?"
"Kind of," I says. "How'd you know?"
"Mac, I ain't in this Army straight out of West Point," Burke says.
I didn't know what West Point was, so I just watched him draw the pitcher of the girl.
"That sure looks like her," I says.
"Yeah, don't it?" says Burke. Then he says, "Good night, Mac."
I started to leave again. Burke calls after me, like, "You're transferrin' out of here tomorrow, Mac. I'm getting you sent to the Air Corps. It's gonna be big stuff."
"Thanks," I says.
Burke, he gives me some last advice just as I goes out the door. "Grow up and don't cut nobody's throat," he says.
I shipped out of that outfit at ten o'clock the next morning, and I never saw Burke again in my whole life. All these years I just never met up with him. I didn't know how to write in them days. I mean I didn't write much in them days. And even if I would of knowed how, Burke wasn't the kind of guy you'd write to. He was too big, like. Too big for me, anyways.
I never even knowed Burke transferred to the Air Corps himself, if I hadn't of got this letter from Frankie Miklos. Frankie, he was at Pearl Harbor. He wrote me this letter. He wanted to tell me about this fella with this crazy voice - a master, Frankie said, with nine hash marks. Named Burke.
Burke, he's dead now. His number come up there at Pearl Harbor. Only it didn't exactly come up like other guy's numbers do. Burke put his own up. Frankie seen Burke put his own number up, and this here is what Frankie wrote me:
The Jap heavy stuff was coming over low, right over the barracks area, and dropping their load. And the light stuff was strafing the whole area. The barracks was no place to be safe like, and Frankie said the guys without no big guns was running and zigzagging for any kind of a halfways decent shelter. Frankie said you couldn't get away from the Zero's. They seemed to be hunting special - like for guys that was zigzagging down the streets for shelter- And the bombs kept dropping, too, Frankie said, and you thought you was going nuts.
Frankie and Burke and one other guy made it to the shelter okay. Frankie said that him and Burke was in the shelter for about ten minutes, then three other guys run in.
One of the guys that come in the shelter started telling about what he just seen. He seen three buck privates that just reported to the mess hall for K.P. lock theirselves in the big mess- hall refrigerator, thinking they was safe there.
Frankie said when the guy told that, Burke sudden - like got up and started slapping the guy's face around thirty times, asking him if he was nuts or something, leaving them guys in that there refrigerator. Burke said that was no safe place at all, that if the bombs didn't make no direct hit, the vibration like would kill them buck privates anyhow, on account of the refrigerator being all shut up like.
Then Burke beat it out of the shelter to get them guys out of the refrigerator.
Frankie said he tried to make Burke not go, but Burke started slapping his face real hard too.
Burke, he got them guys out of the refrigerator, but he got gunned by a Zero on the way, and when he finally got them refrigerator doors open and told them kids to get the hell out of there, he give up for good. Frankie said Burke had four holes between his shoulders, close together, like group shots, and Frankie said half of Burke's jaw was shot off.
He died all by himself, and he didn't have no messages to give to no girl or nobody, and there wasn't nobody throwing a big classy funeral for him here in the States, and no hot-shot bugler blowed taps for him.
The only funeral Burke got was when Juanita cried for him when I read her Frankie's letter and when I told her again what I knowed. Juanita she ain't no ordinary dame. Don't never marry no ordinary dame, bud. Get one that'll cry for a Burke.
10. Last Day Of The Last Furlough
TECHNICAL SERGEANT John F. Gladwaller, Jr., ASN 32325200, had on a pair of gray- flannel slacks, a white shirt with the collar open, Argyle socks, brown brogues and a dark brown hat with a black band. He had his feet up on his desk, a pack of cigarettes within reach, and any minute his mother was coming in with a piece of chocolate cake and a glass of milk.
Books were all over the floor - opened books, closed books, best sellers, worst sellers, classic books, dated books, Christmas-present books, library books, borrowed books.
At the moment, the sergeant was at the studio of Mihailov, the painter, with Anna Karenina and Count Vronsky. A few minutes ago he had stood with Father Zossima and Alyosha Karamazov on the portico below the monastery. An hour ago he had crossed the great sad lawns belonging to Jay Gatsby, born James Gatz. Now the sergeant tried to go through Mihailov's studio quickly, to make time to stop at the corner of Fifth and 46th Street. He and a big cop named Ben Collins were expecting a girl named Edith Dole to drive by...There were so many people the sergeant wanted to see again, so many places worth -
"Here we are!" said his mother, coming in with the cake and milk.
Too late, he thought. Time's up. Maybe I can take them with me. Sir, I've brought my books. I won't shoot anybody just yet. You fellas go ahead. I'll wait here with the books.
"Oh, thanks, Mother," he said, coming out of Mihailov's studio. "That looks swell."
His mother set down the tray on his desk. "The milk is ice cold," she said, giving it a build-up, which always amused him. Then she sat down on the foot-stool by his chair, watching her son's face, watching his thin, familiar hand pick up the fork - watching, watching, loving.
He took a bite of the cake and washed it down with milk. It was ice cold. Not bad.
"Not bad," he commented.
"It's been on the ice since this morning," his mother said, happy with the negative compliment. "Dear, what time is the Corfield boy coming?"
"Caulfield. He's not a boy, Mother. He's twenty-nine. I'm going to meet the six-o'clock train. Do we have any gas?"
"No, don't believe so, but your father said to tell you that the coupons are in the compartment. There's enough for six gallons of gas, he said." Mrs. Gladwaller suddenly discovered the condition of the floor. "Babe, you will pick up those books before you go out, won't you?"
"M'm'm," said Babe unenthusiastically, with a mouthful of cake. He swallowed it and took another drink of milk - boy, it was cold. "What time's Mattie get out of school?" he asked.
"About three o'clock, I think. Oh, Babe, please call for her! She'll get such a kick out of it. In your uniform and all."
"Can't wear the uniform," Babe said, munching. "Gonna take the sled."
"The sled?"
"Uh-huh."
"Well, goodness gracious! A twenty-four-year-old boy."
Babe stood up, picked up his glass and drank the last of the milk - the stuff was really cold. Then he side-stepped through his books on the floor, like a halfback in pseudo-slow motion, and went
to his window. He raised it high.
"Babe, you'll catch your death of cold."
"Naa."
He scooped up a handful of snow from the sill and packed it into a ball; it was the right kind for packing, not too dry.
"You've been so sweet to Mattie," his mother remarked thoughtfully.
"Good kid," Babe said.
"What did the Corfield boy do before he was in the Army?"
"Caulfield. He directed three radio programs: I Am Lydia Moore, Quest for Life, and Marcia Steele, M.D."
"I listen to I Am Lydia Moore all the time," said Mrs. Gladwaller excitedly. "She's a girl veterinarian."
"He's a writer too."
"Oh, a writer! That's nice for you. Is he awfully sophisticated?"
The snowball in his hands was beginning to drip. Babe tossed it out the window. "He's a fine guy," he said. He has a kid brother in the Army who flunked out of a lot of schools. He talks about him a lot. Always pretending to pass him off as a nutty kid."
"Babe, close the window. Please," Mrs. Gladwaller said.
Babe closed the window and walked over to his closet. He opened it casually. All his suits were hung up, but he couldn't see them because they were enveloped in tar paper. He wondered if he would ever wear them again. Vanity, he thought, thy name is Gladwaller. All the girls on a million busses, on a million streets, at a million noisy parties, who had never seen him in that white coat Doc Weber and Mrs. Weber brought him from Bermuda. Even Frances had never seen it. He ought to have a chance to come in some room where she was, wearing that white coat. He always felt he looked so homely, that his nose was bigger and longer than ever, when he was around her. But that white coat. He'd have killed her in that white coat.
"I had your white coat cleaned and pressed before I put it away," his mother said, as though reading his thoughts - which irritated him slightly. He put on his navy-blue sleeveless sweater over his shirt, then his suede windbreaker. "Where's the sled, mom?" he asked.
"In the garage, I suppose," his mother said.
Babe walked past where she still sat on the footstool, where she still sat watching, loving. He slapped her gently on the upper arm.
"See ya later. Stay sober," he said. "Stay sober!"
Late in October you could window-write, and now, before November was through, Valdosta, New York, was white - tun-too-the-window white, take-a-deep-breath white, throw- your-books-in-the-hall-and-get-out-in-it white. But even so, when the school bell rang at three o'clock these afternoons the passionate few - all girls - stayed behind to hear adorable Miss Galtzer read another chapter of Wuthering Heights. So Babe sat on the sled, waiting. It was nearly three-thirty. C'mon out, Mattie, he thought. I don't have much time.
Abruptly, the big exit door swung open and about twelve or fourteen little girls pushed and shoved their way into the open air, chattering, yelling. Babe thought they hardly looked like an intellectual bunch. Maybe they didn't like Wuthering Heights. Maybe they were just bucking for rank, polishing apples. Not Mattie though. I'll bet she's nuts about it, Babe thought. I'll bet she wants Cathy to marry Heathcliff instead of Linton.
Then he saw Mattie, and she saw him at the same instant. When she saw him, her face lit up like nothing he ever saw before, and it was worth fifty wars. She ran over to him crazily in the knee-deep, virgin snow.
"Babe!" she said. "Gee!"
"Hiya, Mat. Hiya, kid," Babe said low and easy. "I thought maybe you'd like to go for a ride."
"Gee!"
"How was the book?" Babe asked.
"Good! Did you read it?"
"Yep."
"I want Cathy to marry Heathcliff. Not that other droop, Linton. He gives me a royal pain," Mattie said. "Gee! I didn't know you were coming! Did mamma tell you what time I got out?"
"Yes. Get on the sled and I'll give ya a ride."
"No. I'll walk with you."
Babe bent down and picked up the drag rope of the sled; then he walked through the snow toward the street, with Mattie beside him. The other kids, the rest of the Wuthering Heights crowd, stared. Babe thought, This is for me. I'm happier than I've ever been in my life. This is better than my books, this is better than Frances, this is better and bigger than myself. All right. Shoot me, all you sneaking Jap snipers that I've seen in the newsreels. Who cares?
They were in the street now. Babe took up the slack of the drag rope, attached it out of the way and straddled his sled.
"I'll get on first," he said. He got into position. "Okay. Get on my back, Mat."
"Not down Spring Street," Mattie said nervously. "Not down Spring Street, Babe." If you went down Spring Street you coasted right into Locust, and Locust was all full of cars and trucks.
Only the big, tough, dirty-words boys coasted down Spring. Bobby Earhardt was killed doing it last year, and his father picked him up and Mrs. Earhardt was crying and everything.
Babe aimed the nose of the sled down Spring and got ready. "Get on my back," he instructed Mattie again.
"Not down Spring. I can't go down Spring, Babe. How 'bout Randolph Avenue? Randolph is swell!"
"It's all right. I wouldn't kid you, Mattie. It's all right with me."
Mattie suddenly got on his back, pushing her books under her stomach.
"Ready?" said Babe.
She couldn't answer him.
"You're shaking," Babe said, finally aware.
"No."
"Yes! You're shaking. You don't have to go, Mattie."
"No, I'm not. Honest."
"Yes," said Babe. "You are. You can get up. It's all right. Get up, Mat."
"I'm okay!" Mattie said. "Honest I am, Babe. Honest! Look!"
"No. Get up, honey."
Mattie got up. Babe stood up, too, and banged the snow free from the runners of the sled.
"I'll go down Spring with you, Babe. Honest. I'll go down Spring with you," Mattie said anxiously.
"I know that," said her brother. "I know that." I'm happier than I ever was, he thought. "C'mon," he said. "Randolph is just as good. Better." He took her hand.
When Babe and Mattie got home, the door was opened for them by Corp. Vincent Caulfield in uniform. He was a pale young man with large ears and a blanched scar on his neck from a boyhood operation. He had a wonderful smile, which he used infrequently. "How do you do," he said, dead-pan, opening the door. "If you've come to read the gas meter, you two, you've come to the wrong house. We don't use gas. We burn the children for heat. Always have. Good day."
He started to close the door. Babe put his foot in the doorway, which his guest proceeded to kick violently.
"Ow! I thought you were coming on the six o'clock!"
Vincent opened the door. "Come in," he said. "There's a woman here who'll give you both a piece of leaden cake."
"Old Vincent!" Babe said, shaking his hand.
"Who's this?" asked Vincent, looking at Mattie, who looked slightly frightened.
"It's Matilda," he answered himself. "Matilda, there's no use in our waiting to get married. I've loved you ever since that night in Monte Carlo when you put your last diaper on Double-O. This war can't last - "
"Mattie," Babe said, grinning, "this is Vincent Caulfield."
"Hiya," said Mattie, with her mouth open.
Mrs. Gladwaller stood bewildered by the fireplace.
"I have a sister just your age," Vincent told Mattie. "She's not the beauty that you are, but she's probably far brighter."
"What's her grades?" Mattie demanded.
"Thirty in arithmetic, twenty in spelling, fifteen in history and zero in geography. She can't seem to bring her geography grades up with the others," Vincent said. Babe was very happy, listening to Vincent with Mattie. He'd known that Vincent would be nice with her.
"Those are terrible grades," Mattie said, giggling.
"All right, you're so smart," said Vincent. "If A has three apples, and B leaves at three o'clock, how long will it take C to row five thousand miles upstream, bounded on the north by Chile?...Don't tell her
, sergeant. The child must learn to do things by herself."
"C'mon upstairs," Babe said, slapping him on the back. "Hiya, mom! He said your cake was leaden."
"He ate two pieces."
"Where're your bags?" Babe asked his guest.
"Upstairs, the pretties," said Vincent, following Babe up the stairs.
"I understand you're a writer, Vincent!" Mrs. Gladwaller called before they had reached the top.
Vincent leaned over the banister. "No, no. I'm an opera singer, Mrs. Gladwaller. I've brought all my music with me, you'll be glad to hear."
"Are you the guy that's in I Am Lydia Moore?" Mattie asked him.
"I am Lydia Moore. I've shaved off my mustache."
"How was New York, Vince?" Babe wanted to know, when they were relaxed in his room and smoking.
"Why are you in civilian clothes, sergeant?"
"Been indulging in athletics. I went sledding with Mattie. No kidding. How was New York?"
"No more horsecars. They've taken the horsecars off the streets since I enlisted." Vincent picked up a book from the floor and examined the cover. "Books," he said contemptuously. "I used to read 'em all. Standish, Alger, Nick Carter. Book learning never did me no good. Remember that, young feller."
"I will. For the last time, how was New York?"
"No good, sergeant. My brother Holden is missing. The letter came while I was home."
"No, Vincent!" Babe said, taking his feet off the desk.
"Yes," said Vincent. He pretended to look through the pages of the book in his hand. "I used to bump into him at the old Joe College Club on Eighteenth and Third in New York. A beer joint for college kids and prep school kids. I'd go there just looking for him, Christmas and Easter vacations when he was home. I'd drag my date through the joint, looking for him, and I'd find him way in the back. The noisiest, tightest kid in the place. He'd be drinking Scotch and every other kid in the place would be sticking to beer. I'd say to him, 'Are you okay, you moron? Do you wanna go home? Do you need any dough?' And he'd say, 'Naaa. Not me. Not me, Vince. Hiya boy. Hiya. Who's the babe' And I'd leave him there, but I'd worry about him because I remembered all the crazy, lost summertimes when the nut used to leave his trunks in a wet lump at the foot of the staircase instead of putting them on the line. I used to pick them up because he was me all over again." Vincent closed the book he was pretending to look through. With a circuslike flourish he took a nail file from his blouse pocket and started filing his nails. "Does your father send his guests away from the table if their nails aren't tidy?"
22 Out-of-print J. D. Salinger Stories Page 8