From Here to Eternity (52 page)

"Got paid out on Monday. Write that down. Then we can start with Monday when the guy gets paid off, and then work right on through each day of the week, until the next Monday when he re-enlists." "Thats fine!" Slade said excitedly. He wrote it down. "Got paid out on Monday. What next?" "Not a dog soljer no more," Andy said softly, still playing. "Swell!" Slade said. He wrote it down. "What next?" "They gimme all that money," Friday grinned, "so much my pockets is sore." "More dough than I can use. Re-enlistment Blues," Prew said. "Fine!" Slade cried. "Swell! Wait'll I get it down. You're going too fast for me." Andy went on playing softly, the same haunting three lines, over and over, as if his mind had gone a way off into them. "How about Went to town on Tuesday?" Slade said. "Say: Took my ghelt," Prew suggested. "Took my ghelt to town on Tuesday. Sounds more like Army," he said, thinking of Angelo Maggio. "It doesnt rhyme," Slade said. "I mean rhythm. You know." "Thats all right," Andy said softly. "You can run the first three words together." "Okay then," Slade said. He wrote that down. "Got a room and a big double bed," Friday said excitedly, suddenly high. They were all high now, pulled up by Slade's excitement. It was like they were four statues standing wide-legged in an electric storm with spatulate spread fingers emitting sparks that jumped from one of them to another, then back again. "Find a job tomorrow," Prew said. "Tonight you may be dead," Andy said softly, playing. "Aint no time to lose, Re-enlistment Blues," Slade laughed delightedly, scribbling faster. "Hit the bars on Wednesday," Prew said. "My friends put me up on a throne." "Found a hapa-Chinee baby," Friday grinned. "Swore she never would leave me alone." "Did I give her a bruise?" Andy said softly, almost sadly. "Re-enlistment Blues!" "Wait. Wait," Slade cried delightedly. "Let me get this down. God damn. Its coming too fast now." They waited while he scribbled frantically. Then they went on, holding themselves up high by the bootstraps of their own creativeness that they had not believed they had, looking at each other a little astonishedly that it could be so easy. They finished two more verses, in rapid fire, before Slade called another halt, his round face and the barrel of his pencil gleaming ecstatically in the light from the flash. "Let me get it now," he pleaded. "Wait'll I get it down. There," he said, "now. Let me read it to you. Before we go ahead. See just what we've got." "Okay, read it," Prew said. He was snapping the fingers of both hands nervously. Andy was still chording the melody softly, as if to himself. Friday had got up and was moving around. "Okay," Slade said. "Here goes. The Re-enlistment Blues--" "Hey, wait a minute," Friday said, looking down toward the bivouac. "Aint that somebody comin up here?" They all turned to look: down the hill, watching like balcony spectators of a drama. The little cluster of lights had appeared again around the deeper blackness of the truck. One of them had detached itself from the cluster and was rocking and bouncing toward them, up the path. "That'll be old Weary Russell," Andy said. "Come to get me to go back to the goddamned CP." "Oh, hell," Friday said anxiously. "Aint we goin to get to finish it?" "You guys can finish it," Andy said. "After I'm gone," he said bitterly. "You can show it to me tomorrow." "Oh, no," Prew said. "We all started it. We'll all finish it. Old Weary wont mind waitin a little." Andy looked at him sourly. "No, Weary wont. But the lootenant sure as hell will." "Thats all right," Prew frowned nervously. "You know how they are. They always hang around for half an hour or so before they take off. Come on," he said nervously to Slade. "Come on, read it." "Okay," Slade said. "Here goes. The Re-enlistment Blues -" He held the notebook and the flash up to his face. Then he dropped the notebook and slapped savagely at his neck. "Mosquito," he said guiltily. "I'm sorry." "Here," Prew said urgently. "Let me hold the flash. Now read it, goddam it. We aint got much time to get it finished." "Okay," Slade said. "Here goes. The Re-enlistment Blues -" He looked around at all of them. "The Re-enlistment Blues." "The Re-enlistment Blues," he said again. "Got paid out on Monday Not a dog soljer no more They gimme all that money So much my pockets is sore More dough than I can use. Re-enlistment Blues. "Took my ghelt to town on Tuesday Got a room and a big double bed Find a job tomorrow Tonight you may be dead Aint no time to lose. Re-enlistment Blues. "Hit the bars on Wednesday My friends put me up on a throne Found a hapa-Chinee baby Swore she never would leave me alone Did I give her a bruise? Re-enlistment Blues "Woke up sick on Thursday Feelin like my head took a dare Looked down at my trousers All my pockets was bare That gal had blowed my fuse. Re-enlistment Blues. "Went back around on Friday Asked for a free glass of beer My friends had disappeared Barman said, 'Take off, you queer!' What I done then aint news. Re-enlistment Blues." "There!" Slade said triumphantly. "I dont give a flying fuck what anybody says," he said proudly, "I say thats pretty damn good. What next now?" Prew was still snapping his fingers. "That jail was cold all Sa'day," he said, "standin on a bench lookin down. Make it like that, see? Sa'day. Two syllables." "Okay," Slade said, writing. "Hey!" Friday interrupted. "Thats not Weary!" They stopped, and all of them looked at the figure coming toward them on the path. It was not Weary Russell. Andy kicked the almost empty bottle down over the embankment quickly. Slade brought his flash to bear on the coming figure. The beam reflected back at them from two gold bars on the shoulders. Slade turned questioningly to Prew, not knowing what to do. "Attennsh-Hut!" Prew yelled. It was automatic. "What the hell are you men doing up here at this hour of the night?" asked Lt Culpepper's voice sharply, sharp as his Culpepper nose or his ramrod Culpepper back. "Playing the git-tars, Sir," Prew said. "I surmised that," Lt Culpepper said in a dry droll tone. He came up to them. "What in hell do you mean by turning a flashlight on up here?" "We were using it to copy out some notes, Sir," Prew said. The other three were looking at him as the spokesman. He went on, trying to keep the rage of frustration out of his voice. There would be no more blues writing this night. "There were flashlights on all over the bivouac area, Sir," he said. "We dint think having one on here for a few minutes would hurt anything." "Now you know bette:r than that, Prewitt," Lt Culpepper said in a dry droll tone. "You men are supposed to be on a field problem approximating actual war conditions. That includes a full blackout." "Yes, Sir," Prew said. "Those lights below were inspection lights," Lt Culpepper said. "The only time they are ever used is to inspect the posts." "Yes, Sir," Prew said. "Would they use lights to inspect posts under actual war conditions?" Slade said. His voice was trembling. Lt Culpepper turned his head without moving bis straight Culpepper shoulders or stiff Culpepper back, in the traditional Culpepper military style, developed over many Culpepper generations. "When you address an officer, soldier," Lt Culpepper said crisply, "it is customary to either precede or conclude your question with the title Sir." "Yes, Sir," Slade said. "Who is this man?" Lt Culpepper said, in a dry droll tone. "I thought I knew everybody in the Company." "Private Slade, Sir," Slade said. "17th Air Base Squadron, Hickam Field, Sir." "What are you doing here?" "I came over to listen to the music, Sir." Lt Culpepper turned his light from Prew to Slade. "Are you supposed to be on post, soldier?" "No, Sir." "Why havent you reported in?" "When I'm off post my time's my own, Sir," Slade said in a kind of abortive outrage. "I broke no rules by coming over here when I got off post." "Perhaps not," Lt Culpepper said in a dry droll tone. "But in the Infantry, soldier, we do not allow men from other outfits to hang around our bivouac area. Particularly in the middle of the night. Got it?" he popped. Nobody said anything. "Prewitt," Lt Culpepper popped. "Yes, Sir." "You are the senior man here. I hold you responsible for all this. There are men down in camp trying to sleep. Some of them have to go on post -" he peered at his chronometer, "in thirty-seven minutes." "Thats why we came up here, Sir," Prew said. "Nobody has complained about it that I know of." "Perhaps not," Lt Culpepper said in a dry droll tone. "But that does not alter the fact that it is against regulations generally, and against my orders specifically, as of right now. It also does not change the fact that you were up here on the skyline with a lighted flash during a total security blackout." Lt Culpepper turned his light from Slade back to Prewitt. Nobody said anything. They were all thinking of the unfinished blues that were still in Slade's hand, and that might not ever be finished now, that you could not just run off like a mimeograph, that you had to get the mood right for, and that the right mood for might not come again soon. They all felt Lt Culpepper was to blame for this. Still, they did not feel like saying anything. "Now if there are no more arguments or discussions," Lt Culpepper said in a dry droll tone, "I suggest we end this interview. You may use your light going down the path, if you wish," he said. "Yes, Sir," Prew said, and saluted. Lt Culpepper returned it formally. Andy, Slade and Friday saluted too then, as if suddenly remembering. Lt Culpepper returned them formally and collectively. He waited until they had gone on ahead and followed them down the path at a distance with his light. They did not turn their light on. "God damn," Slade muttered thickly. "God damn. They always make you feel like a schoolboy who has had his hands slapped with the ruler." "Forget it," Prew said loudly. "How do you like the Infantry now?" He said it bitterly. His little farce was over. Nobody else said anything. Weary Russell met them at the truck. "I dint have a chance," he whispered. "He started right up as soon as he seen the light. I couldnt even give you a yell. I couldnt do a thing." "Yeah?" Prew said dully. "Ats all right. Forget it. What the hell are you whispering for?" he said angrily. Lt Culpepper came up behind them to the truck. "And Prewitt," he said in a dry droll tone. "I thought I'd tell you it wont do you any good to plan to go back up after we are gone. I've already given the corporal on duty orders to keep an eye out up that way." "Yes, Sir," Prew said, and saluted. "I think we're all through anyway, Sir," he said. It sounded very pompous, He cursed himself. Lt Culpepper grinned. Lt Culpepper climbed in the truck. "Wheres the First Sergeant, Russell?" he said. "Dont know, Sir," Weary said. "I guess he aims to stay over here." "How'll he get back?" "I dont know, Sir," Weary said. "Well," Lt Culpepper grinned happily, "thats his tough luck, isnt it? He has to be back for Reveille. I guess he'll have to walk. Come on, Anderson, lets go. Lets get the hell out of this sinkhole," he said to Russell. "Yes, Sir," Weary said. The truck backed and turned and pulled out, leaving a large empty hollow behind it. They stood by the opening through the wire and watched the truck pull out grindingly over the rough ground. In the light from the headlights they could see Andy sitting in the back holding his guitar. Friday laughed, trying to fill the hollow. "Some fun, hey? A good time was had by all." "Here," Slade said. He handed Prew the sheets of paper from his notebook. "These are yours. You'll want them." "Dont you want a copy?" Slade moved his head. "I'll get one from you some other time. I guess I better get going. I've got to walk back to the Field." "Okay," Prew said. "Take it easy." "You better watch it," Friday said, "after this. Not let him catch you over here no more." "I know it," Slade said. "You dont have to tell me. I'll see you all, sometime." He started off across the truck tracks to the road. "You think he'll transfer in?" Friday said. "No; I dont," Prew said. "What do you think? Would you? Here," he said, and thrust the papers at him. "These are Andy's. Its his tune." "We'll finish it sometime," Friday said, taking them and buttoning them down in his pocket carefully. "We'll finish it later. When we get back in garrison." "Yeah," Prew said. "Sure." "We could finish it now," Friday said eagerly. "You and me. Do it in the kitchen tent. We wont need no music now." "Do it yourself," Prew said. "I think I'll take myself a little walk." He went out through the gap in the wire and across the truck tracks toward the road. "But dont you want to do it now?" Friday called eagerly after him, "finish it now?"

CHAPTER 33

WHEN HE reached the gravel, Prew stopped. He could hear Friday still talking to himself eagerly, behind him. Slade had already disappeared out of both sight and sound. Pretty soon Friday would disappear too, if be walked far enough. He turned north toward the Main Gate on the gravel. The other way south, led past the junk yard where Slade's relief would be on post. Slade's relief would challenge him. Then finding it was an EM Slade's relief would want to pass the time of day. He did not want to talk to anybody. He did not want to make any more new friendships tonight either. He turned north. One new friendship a day was about all any one strong man could take. He walked very slow, so he would not catch up to Slade. He walked along the road in the darkness. The deep gravel grated under his field shoes. The unreleased energy of the whiskey was fuming up through him like whiffs of laughing gas. He wished he had more whiskey. He would get stinking, rotten, blind. It seemed you could not only not bugle but you could not even write a stinking lousy blues, about the Army. He had already had the whole next verse in his head, when the Culpepper family had arrived. The next verse was Saturday, and he had had it. That jail was cold all Sa'day Standin up on a bench lookin down He thought as he walked along the road in the darkness. Through them bars I watched the people All happy and out on the town Look like time for me to choose, them Re-enlistment Blues. - They had stood on the benches of the bull pen on the second floor of the city jail in Richmond Indiana and watched the Saturday night crowds. They had had to stand on the benches because the windows were so high. There were four of them. That time. All booked as vags. They kept them a week, then turned them loose. There had been too many vags for the jail space. That had been in '35 - It was like with the bugle, you had to do the things yourself before you could put the ring of truth in them, and he had had it all in his head, ready for Slade to write down. None of the rest of them could write that verse because they had never been in jail. Now maybe it would never be written down. He did not have; a pencil and paper to write it down now, and if he did have he would not write it down anyway. He would tear the paper up and throw the pencil away. He felt bitterly happy at having denied the world something. What was the world anyway? but a lot of Culpepper families? They had you by the balls from the minute you were bornd. He walked along the deserted gravel road in the darkness, filled with a great rending pity for all the Prewitts of this world, thinking about the blues they had not finished and would not even have begun if it had not been for Slade's asinine enthusiasm for the Infantry. There was a good one for you. And even then, if Slade had not felt guilty over lying about Django's records and wanted to do something to square it, he would not probably have bludgeoned them into starting it. There was a better one for you. It was laughable. The voices of Friday arguing with Friday had disappeared too now, and he was alone in a private world whose radius was ten feet of gravel. That was what he had wanted. Now he did not want it. This world kept pace with him with all the inexorableness of a spotlight following a dancer. He ran a little ways. He could not outrun it. He could not outrun this world any more than he could outrun the world of Culpepper families. He slowed down and walked on, wondering if the blues would ever be finished now. Probably not, unless Slade transferred to Schofield to inspire them. Slade could appreciate the Infantry because he was in the Air Corps. He laughed out loud, bitterly happily. "Halt!" Prew stopped, and stepped dead. There was not supposed to be a sentry along here, Still, you did not argue with a challenge. Not when it might contain a guard with a loaded pistol. "Who goes there?" the voice demanded. Something moved just outside the ten foot gravel world, and he caught a glint of light on what looked like a pistol. "A friend," Prew said, in the prescribed manner. "Advance, friend, and be recognized," the voice boomed. Prew walked forward slowly, in the prescribed manner. "Halt!" the disembodied voice boomed instantly. Prew stopped dead. This was not in the prescribed manner. "Who goes there?" the voice boomed again. "A friend, goddam it." "Advance, friend goddam it, and be recognized." Prew started forward. "Halt!" the voice boomed instantly, waving the oily glint. Prew halted. "Say, what the hell is this?" "Quiet!" the figure roared, shaking the glint at him. "At ease! Rest! Fall Out! About Face! Right Dress! Who goes there?" "Private Prewitt, Company G, - th Infantry," Prew said, a suspicion growing in his mind. "Advance, Private Prewitt, Company G, - th Infantry, and be executed," the figure bellowed. "Up yours, Warden," Prew said, advancing. "Boom!" the figure yelled, backing off. It shook the glinting object. "Boom! Boom! Gotcha, gotcha! You're dead! Boom!" "Cut the comedy, Warden," Prew said disgustedly. He could make out the glinting object now. It was a bottle. "Well, well," Warden giggled drunkenly. His face lit up mischievously. "Fooled you, dint I? Hello, kid. What ever are you doin out all by yourself? Dont you know you're liable to get shot wanderin around in the dark like that?" "I'm takin a walk," Prew said belligerently. "Well, well," Warden said hollowly. "A walk. The lootenant kind of broke up your little party, din ee?" "The son of a bitch," Prew said. "Ah-ah," Warden said, raising a finger. "Is that any way to talk about a Culpepper? Dont you know theres been a Culpepper serving his country in every war since Zachary Taylor took California away from Mexico? How would you like it if this country didnt have no California? What would you do for movies then, I guess? Where you think this world would be? without the Culpeppers?" "To hell with the Culpeppers," Prew said. "Tsk-tsk," Warden said owlishly. "No education. No feeling for world good. Not even no refinements, even. You're better off executed. Boom!" he said. "Boom! Boom! You're dead. Gotcha. What do you think of my new gun,'kid?" He held out the bottle. Prew reached to take it. Warden drew it back. "Ah-ah," he said. "Watch out. Its loaded." "So are you," Prew said. "Have a drink," Warden said. "I can get liquor," Prew said. "I dont need yours." Warden was studying his bottle-gun. "Its loaded," he said. "Loaded for bear. Boom!" he said. "Have a bear?" He flipped the bottle up and caught it. "I'm a shooter, kid. How would you like to shoot with me sometime, kid?" he grinned. "What're you doin, braggin?" Prew said. Warden, along with Pete Karelsen, was only just the best shot in the Regiment, was all. Both of them had star gauge '03s that they worshipped. Along with Regimental Personnel Sergeant Major O'Bannon and Capt Stevens of B Company, they were the Regimental rifle team. No matter what any poor son of a bitch seemed to be able to do, Warden always seemed to be able to do it better. It wasnt even fair. "Naw," Warden grinned, "I aint braggin. I hear you're a hotshot shooter. I hear you showed the boys some tricks with a rifle on the combat range last month. So I figure you like a little match with some real competition." "Okay," Prew said. "Any goddam time you say, Warden." "Reglar match competition," Warden said. "Make a little side bet. Say about a hundred bucks?" "Even money?" Prew said. "I ought to give you a little odds." "I thought maybe you'd want me to give you odds." "Naw," Warden grinned slyly. "I wouldnt cheat you." "Where'U we shoot?" Prew said. "Shoot now?" "Shoot on the range," Warden grinned. "Reglar match competition. Range season comin up in a month or so." "Hell," Prew said. "I thought you meant tonight." "Aint got no gun. Except my baby here. Have to do it range season." "Even money?" Prew said, "and we both use your BC scope?" "Sure." "I may not be here during range season," Prew said. "By god, thats right." Warden ducked and snapped his fingers. "I clean forgot. You'll be in the Stockade by then, wont you? Aw hell," he said unhappily. "What're you doin?" Prew said. "Backin down?" "Sure," Warden grinned at him slyly. "Always back down." He sat down in the middle of the gravel road and crossed his legs. "Here, old buddy. Have a lil drink." "Okay." Prew took the bottle. "I dont mind drinkin your liquor any morn I'd mind drinkin Culpepper's." "Ats fine," Warden said. "I dont mind havin you drink it any morn I would havin Culpepper drink it." The liquor mingled hotly with the fumes already boiling in his belly. Prew sat down beside him and handed back the bottle and wiped his mouth. "This is a helluva fuckin life, you know it?" "Miserble," Warden nodded loosely. He drank. "Perfeckly miserble." "Guy cant have any fun." "Ats right," Warden nodded. "No fun a tall. Now you've got yourself on Culpepper's shitlist too." "I'm on everybody else's. I might as well be on his too." "Ats right," Warden said. "Make it a royal flush. Make it a full house." "Make it five of a kind," Prew said. "Joker kicker." "You're the joker," Warden said. He handed him the bottle. "Right?" "Right." "I went and got myself on Stark's list too. Probly have to buy all my meals out now. Who am I to talk to you?" "How'd that happen?" Prew said conversationally. He drank and gave the bottle back. In front of them and in back of them, the light yellow of the road stretched away to dimness that became invisibility, running like a trail of moonlight across a blackened sea. "Never mind," Warden said slyly, "never mind." "Oh," Prew said. "You dont trust me. I trust you." "We're talkin about you," Warden countered. "Not me. What for do you want to go and fuck up for all the time, Prewitt? What do you want to be a bolshevik for?" "I dunno," Prew said disconsolately. "I been tryin to rigger that out fer years. I guess I was just born that way." "Horshit," Warden said. He took another drink and peered at him owlishly. "I say horshit. Pure plain unadulterated horshit. You disagree with me? Come on, disagree with me." "I don't know," Prew said disconsolately. "Horshit, I say," Warden said rhetorically. "Nobody's bornd that way. Look at me. Here," he said. "Have a drink." He peered at Prewitt slyly as he drank. "Aint this a fuck of a world?" he said. "Here you are going right straight to the Stockade and here I am goin right straight to gettin busted someday. And here we both are sittin in the middle of this crummy road. What if a truck was to come along and run over us?" "That'd be awful," Prew said. "We'd be dead, wouldnt we?" He could feel the raw whiskey mingling in him smokily explosively with the other, Andy's whiskey, that was already there. Dead, he thought, dead dead dead. "And nobody to give a damn," Warden said. "Nobody to even mourn. Hell of a note. You better not sit there any more. You better get up and move over to the side of the road." "What about you?" Prew said, handing back the bottle and looking off down the yellow road for the truck. "You got more to live for than I have. You got to take care of your goddam compny." "I'm old," Warden said, taking a drink. "Dont matter if I die. My life's behind me," he said, "all behind me. But you're young. Your life's ahead of you." "But theres nothing in it to look forward to," Prew said stubbornly. "While your life's important. Hitler said if it wasnt for our noncoms we wouldnt have no Army, dint he? We got to have a Army, dont we? What would all the Culpeppers do? if we dint have a Army? No, sir," he said stubbornly. "Its you should get up." "No, by god!" Warden bellowed. "My life is over. I'm an old man. Nuther five years I be like ole Pete. You cant talk me out of it. You get up." "No," Prew insisted "You get up." "I wont do it!" Warden hollered. "Well neither will I. I'll sit here as long as you do, by god. I wont let you kill yourself." Warden handed him the bottle. "You're crazy, kid," he said kindly. "You're insane, You cant save an old man like me. And a young man like you has so much to live for. It'd be a shame, thats what it'd be. A crying shame. Please, kid, please get up. Do it for my sake, if you wont think of yourself." "No sir," Prew said bravely. "Not Prewitt. Prewitt never deserted a friend in need. I'll stay to the bitter end." "Oh, what have I done?" Warden hollered, "what have I done?" "Nobody cares," Prew said. "Nobody gives a damn. To hell with it. I'm better off dead." Tears rose up in his eyes and made the big crosslegged Buddha that was Warden shimmer. "So am I," Warden choked. He sat up straight and squared his shoulders. "Then we'll both die. Its better that way anyway, its more tragic. Its more like life." "I dont think I could stand up anyway," Prew said sleepily. "Me neither," Warden said. "It is too late. Good by, Prewitt." "Good by, Warden." They shook hands solemnly. Bravely they choked back the unmanly tears of parting and sat straight as soldiers, staring proudly down the yellow ribbon from which the doom would come. "I just want you to know," Warden said, "that I never had a better friend." "That goes for me too," Prew said. "No blindfold," Warden said contemptuously, tossing back his head. "Do you think we're boys? Save it to wipe your ass on, you son of a bitch." "Amen," Prew said. They shook hands solemnly again, for the last time, split the last drink in Warden's bottle between them, threw the bottle in the weeds, squared their shoulders, and quietly passed out and went peacefully to sleep. They were still there at two o'clock, stretched out in the middle of the gravel, when Weary Russell came ramming his weapons carrier down the road to take The Warden home. Weary slammed on his brakes hard, fighting the topheavy little truck hard in the loose deep gravel, skidding sideways back and forth across the road fighting the wheel with all his skill to keep it out of the ditch. He got it stopped about three yards from Warden's oblivious feet. He climbed out and looked at them. "Jesus Christ!" he whispered awfully. "Jesus Christ." Warden was clear out, sleeping peacefully happily, but he managed to shake some life back into Prewitt. "Come on. Wake up, goddam it. You crazy bastard. Come on, you cant snow me, I know you aint dead. You got to help me load him in the back so I can get him back to the CP. If Dynamite ever found out about this he'd bust him sure." "Dynamite cou'nt bust him," Prew said vaguely. "He couldnt, 'ey?" "Hell no," Prew scoffed. "Who'd he get to be First Sarnt?" "I dont know," Weary said thoughtfully. "Maybe he could - Aw, to hell with that," he snarled. "Help me to get him loaded. What would you crazy dumb screwballs of done if it was someone else who come along? Why, I might of run over you and killed you both," he raged. "Come on, will you?" he pleaded disgustedly, "help me get him loaded." "Ats right," Prew said stoutly. "Done want nothing happen to my friend Warden." "Your