From Here to Eternity (12 page)

now as it had the grass all day, protecting the philandering prodigal now as it had its daughter's greenness, until he drank his whiskey, thinking some about The Warden and the Company, the jockstrap Company, but mostly about Violet and the fact that a man could never move without finding boxes to pack the curtains and the canned goods. It was all one to the tree, him or the grass, since being female all it needed was a thing it could protect. He added the two bottles to the others on the grass and caught a ride home, to the crowded loneliness of the barracks - home, to the separateness of the squadroom where there is no solitude - home, with a 13th Field Artillery truck taking swimmers back from Haleiwa, and went, drunk, to bed. And when the end of the month and Payday came, he took his last pay as a First and Fourth, the money that was to have set Violet up in Wahiawa, and with a fitting sense of irony, blew it in the gambling sheds, determined to start even. He lost it all across the crap table at O'Hayer's in fifteen minutes, and he did not even keep out enough to buy a bottle or to buy a piece of ass. It made a lovely gesture, and the large bets he faded created quite a furor.

BOOK TWO

The Company CHAPTER 9

THE RAINY SEASON was the nearest thing to winter in Hawaii. Perhaps, in the winter months, the sky would be a little duller, more hazy and less blue, and the sun not quite so dazzling. But winter in Hawaii was never more different from summer than was our late September. The temperature remained the same, and the lack of winter in the great red plateau of pineapples where Schofield Barracks lay was the same in winter as in summer. There was never any cold to suffer in the winter in Hawaii. But neither was there any persimmon-flavored air of fall's October, nor any sudden awakening to the warmth and quickened thighs of spring's young April. The only time there was ever any cosmic change, in Hawaii, was in the rainy season and so its change was always welcomed by the ones who could remember winter. All, that is, except the tourists. It did not come all at once, the rainy season. There was the usual feeble storm or two in waning February, like a man who feebly kicks and struggles just before he dies, but bringing promise and a breath of chill, saying there was water near, hold on a while. Then the early storms gave up, after the thirsty earth had taken all the moisture in them, and they ran away before the onslaught of the sun which dried the mud to dust again, leaving only a caked cracked memory that crumbled underneath the round-toed bluntness of the GI shoes. But in early March the times between the rains got shorter and the rains themselves got longer, until finally there were no times between, but only rain, of which the earth would avidly drink its fill and then, like a man dehydrated in the desert who cant keep from drinking too much, vomit all the rest it could not assimilate, down the streets and down the hills, along the flumes and irrigation ditches that webbed the carmine earth of the plateau and now were torrential rivers. Until at last the whole earth and everybody on it, like a honeymooning bride, begged for thirst again. It was then that Schofield moved indoors. Field problems were replaced by lectures on the various armament nomenclatures in the Dayrooms, Close Order and Extended Order were made to step down for dry-run target exercises on the porches and for the hoary venerated triggersqueeze. All, in their monotony, having to compete with the exciting luxury of being under shelter while the rain beat down outside. Raincoats, of two kinds - the rubberized kind that absorbed the water like a blotter, and the slicker kind that shed both air and water until the wearer was so bathed in sweat he might as well have worn the other kind, appeared from out of hiding in the combat packs hung on each bed foot. And on those evenings when the rain would cease long enough for men to go back to their restless midnight walks the newly issued gadgets called "field jackets" would appear upon the streets and roads. And now, in the rainy season, when the groups of men moved in on the roofed over Boxing Bowl behind the old Post Chapel, coming from all over, radial spokes about a hub, they carried blankets, both to spread out on the cold concrete that brings down the piles and to wrap around them. And perhaps a hidden pint for extra warmth, if they had been able to sneak it in without the MPs getting wise. And here in Hawaii's autumnal March, under the roof of Schofield's Boxing Bowl where two nameless ciphers fought each other in the ring, football, apples, and October and all the thousand little towns across the nation with their little highschool football teams hovered low above the Bowl, brought momentarily alive again by an illusion. With three Smokers still to be run off in the Bowl in the second week in March the Hawaiian Division Championship had already been decided. Dynamite Holmes's "Bearcat Cubs" had lost, by thirty points to the 27th Infantry, twice as much as they could hope to pick up in the last three Smokers, and the great gold ring with its golden fighters in it had been removed from its case of honor in the sallyport to be ready for its presentation to the winner when the season ended. Dynamite could be seen moving around the Post with sa'gging shoulders and an irritated brow and it was rumored that he would be shipped down, relieved from boxing, and for the first time in several years G Company had two court martials in a single month and sent two men to the Stockade. But in the big octagonal hole in the ground with its serrated scalloped concrete sides it was not important, to the spectators, who was fighting, or who would win. It was only important that the winy air and excitement of anticipated conflict be enjoyed, bringing back the distant continent of home where all the grave young highschool athletes who, despite their coaches with their turned-up topcoat-collars and conflicting visions of Knute Rockne movies and jobs they feared to risk, fought frantically with the magnificent foolishness of youth as if the whole of life depended on this game, and who were still young enough to cry over a defeat, an illusion that their coaches never shared, a thing that like Santa Claus they themselves would lose all too soon before the widening range of vision and the knowledge that their loyalty was a commodity and could be shifted easily, and a thing that the men who perched on the concrete of the Boxing Bowl remembered fondly in their own hunger for a return to innocence. The Regiment did not suffer over its defeat near as much as Dynamite, or as much as Dynamite thought it did. Its loyalties had been shifted from one outfit to another too many times, and its depression lasted exactly the time it took to walk home from the Bowl and get a small change crapgame started in the latrine. The bright light of the boxing squad faded rapidly. Payday was much nearer than next year's season, and there were rumors that half the houses between River Street and Nuuana Avenue had got in shipments of new girls. But if the honor of the Regiment had no other exponent except Dynamite, it had a great one there. After his interview with Col Delbert and the securing of his borderline reprieve, he collected his charts and maps and began the planning of next year's campaign which was to be the greatest yet, and would bring the trophy back where it belonged. "It shall return," he said, and even before the last Smoker had been played out he had begun to make his overlays and gather up his forces. Milt Warden was standing in the corridor doorway when Holmes loosed the thunderbolt of the transfer of the cook, Stark, from Ft. Kamehameha. It was raining hard that day and from the doorway he watched his commander come striding through the silver curtain, oblivious of the muddy quad, his tailored belted topcoat with its collar up around his ears flapping soddenly, but still smartly, around his booted legs, and shamefully there was none of the traditional, cheerful adoration in The Warden's heart. Something about the striding figure told him this was not a routine trip to see that everything was running right and he was afflicted with a sense of foreboding ill. "Boots and saddles," he sneered out loud defiantly, but not loud enough for Holmes to hear, and turned his back upon the coming Captain and went inside, to prove his independence to himself. "I want these fixed up right away," Holmes said, coming dripping into the Orderly Room and pulling papers from inside his coat. "Wheres Mazzioli?" "Over at Personnel," Warden said, without enthusiasm. "Sgt/Maj O'Bannon called for all the clerks this morning." "Then you'll have to fix them," Holmes said, handing him the papers. "I want an endorsement, you know; and a good letter of recommendation. "This man Stark served with me at Bliss and I've already talked to Col Delbert about him. He wrote Department Hq to get his request through channels safely." Holmes took off his Cavalryman's hat and swung it vigorously, scattering the water on the floor. "My God," he said, "its wet. He's a damned fine man. I always like to do everything I can for my old men." "Yes, Sir," Warden said, and went on studying the papers. "I want it sent out today," Holmes said happily. "I'll wait and mail it myself. Theres some other things I want to talk to you about anyway. We've got a Pfc rating open, havent we?" "Yes, Sir," Warden said, and went on studying the papers. "Are you listening to me?" Holmes said. "Yes, Sir," Warden said. He raised the papers up, as if displaying them. "We got a full staff of cooks, Capn," he made it casual. "You'll have to bust somebody to make room for this guy. Have you talked to Sgt Preem about it yet? He aint kicked about his present cooks as far as I know of." But he didnt make it casual enough. Holmes's face lost its roundness of happiness and became severe, all planes and angles. "I dont think Sgt Preem will contest my decision, Sergeant." "Not," Warden said, "if you give him a bottle of lemon extrack." "What?" Holmes said. "I said," Warden said, "not if he wants to keep on the right track." Holmes stared at him disbelievingly. "Preem and Stark cooked together in Bliss. And I have never yet found it necessary to bolster my judgment with the advice of subordinates." "Yes, Sir," Warden said, staring back at him. "I know what I'm doing, Sergeant. Just let me handle it. When I want advice I'll ask for it." "Yes, Sir," Warden said, still staring at him. Holmes would never get a better first sergeant, and Holmes knew it, and Warden knew he could get by with it. Holmes stared back long enough to let himself feel he had not been intimidated, and then he dropped his eyes to his sharp-peaked hat and shook it again to get the water off, unable to face the thing in Warden that just did not give a fuck. "My God," he mumbled. "Its wet." "Yes, Sir," Warden said. Watching Holmes sit down at his desk and begin to doodle, feeling he had triumphed momentarily, he decided to beard the destiny once more, while he had the advantage. "Can this thing wait a couple days, Captain? Leva is way behind in his supply reports and I've been helping him out. I've got work to do thats imperative; and this thing can be fixed up any time." In a couple of days he might cool off and forget his altruism. He had done it before. Holmes laid his pencil down emphatically. "Whats the matter with Sgt O'Hayer?" he said. "He's the supply sergeant isnt he?" "Yes, Sir!" Warden said. "Well then. Let him do it. Thats his job." "O'Hayer cant do it. Sir. He's too goddam busy running his goddam gambling shed." "What do you mean he cant do it? He's the supply sergeant. He has to do it. Are you questioning my judgment, Sergeant?" "No, Sir!" "All right then. Let O'Hayer do his own job. Thats what he's paid for. As long as I'm Company Commander of this outfit every man will do his own job, and it will be run as I say. And I want those papers made out now." "Yes, Sir," Warden said violently. "I'll make them out right now, Sir." And the supply and all the rest of it can go to hell, he thought. Now there would be five boys from Bliss to hamstring the outfit. He sat down at his desk and went to work, ignoring Holmes, and in the work belittling him. "By the way, Sergeant," Holmes interrupted coolly. "About that open Pfc. I want you to have Mazzioli make out a Company Order giving it to Bloom." Warden looked up from his typewriter, his eyebrows quivering. "Bloom!" "Yes," Holmes said tranquilly, "Bloom. Bloom's a good man, he's got the makings of a good noncom in him. Sgt Galovitch tells me he works harder and has more initiative than any private in the Company." "Not Bloom," Warden said. "Why, yes," Holmes said, satisfaction in his voice. "I've had my eye on him for quite a while. I keep my finger on the pulse of this Company much more than you think. Good athletes, I've found, always make the best soldiers," he said maliciously. "Bloom won four of his fights in the Bowl this year. Its not impossible that we'll make a Division Champion out of Bloom next year. Sgt Wilson is going to work with him." Holmes waited, looking at him, demanding an answer with his eyes. "You have Mazzioli do that tomorrow, will you?" he insisted gently, but firmly. "Yes, Sir," Warden said without looking up. "Yes-sir, I'll do that." 'Thanks," Holmes said. He picked his pencil up triumphantly. Warden finished up the papers, wondering if Holmes really believed the things he said or just said them for the effect; aware, as he handed the papers to Holmes, that he had just witnessed the beginning of the complicated mental process that had elevated over half the noncoms in the Company to their present rank. Holmes looked the papers over with an air of profound well-being. "I suppose these are in good order?" "Sir?" exploded Warden. "I make them out they're always in good order." "Now, now, Sergeant," Holmes said, raising his hand as if he were a bishop. "I know you're a good first sergeant. I just want to-be sure theres no slip on this transfer." "I made it out," Warden told him. "Yes," Holmes smiled, "but your mind was too much on Leva and the supplyroom. If you'd quit worrying about Mess and Supply and trying to do their work in addition to your own, we'd have a lot more efficiency, and a much better outfit." "Somebody has to worry about it, Sir," Warden said. "Now, now," Holmes laughed. "It cant be that bad, Sergeant. You look for things to worry about. "Oh by the way, how is this new man Prewitt making out with straight duty now?" "Doing fine. That boy is a good soldier." "I know he is," Holmes said. "Thats what I'm counting on. I never saw a good soldier who liked to do straight duty as a private. I'm expecting to see him out for Company Smokers this summer. Theres an old saying that they tame lions in the Army." "I think you're wrong," Warden said bluntly. "I dont think you'll ever see him out for boxing." "Wait until the rainy season's over, Sergeant, before you be so sure. We've got a lot of field work coming up this summer." He winked at Warden knowingly and picked up his rain-dark hat; at the moment he was sure, because Prewitt had been included in the plans of his campaign, and how could he not be on the squad if he was in the plans? Warden watched him plowing his way back across the rain-swept deserted quad, realizing suddenly why he hated Holmes. It was because he had always feared him, not him personally, not his physique or mind, but what he stood for. Dynamite would make a good general someday, if he got the breaks. Good generals ran to a certain type, and Dynamite was it. Good generals had to have the type of mind that saw all men as masses, as numerical groups of Infantry, Artillery, and mortars that could be added and subtracted and understood on paper. They had to be able to see men as abstractions that they worked on paper with. They had to be like Blackjack Pershing who could be worried about the morality of his troops in France so much he tried to outlaw whorehouses to save their mothers heartache, but who was proud of them when they died in battle.