From Here to Eternity (55 page)

on the shitlist for fair now. But you was already on it before. And I dont see how even Dynamite can court-martial you over a fair fight on the green when thats his own policy." "Hell no," Prew said happily. "I dont see how they can do that." "Bloom wount be so bad," Chief said thoughtfully philosophically, "if he just forgit for a while he was a Jew." Prew felt something come up into his mind again. "Hell," he protested. "I dont give a damn he's a Jew." "Me neither," Chief said. "The guys call Sussman Jewboy all the time. He dont care. They call Bloom Jewboy and he wants to beat up on everybody. Hell, they call me Indian, dont they? Well, I am a Indian, aint I? Well, Bloom's a Jew, aint he?" "Thats right," Prew said. He felt the something go back down again in his mind. "Hell, man, I'm French and Irish and German. So what? They call me Frenchy or Mick or Squarehead I wount be mad, would I?" "Thats right," Chief said ponderously. "Thats right," Prew agreed happily. "Course," Chief said, "I know some dumb fucks treat a Jew mean, but not in our Compny." "Sure," Prew said. "Well, look how they treated the Indians." "Thats right," Chief said. "And a man's got to learn who to hit and who not to hit." "Thats right," Prew said. He leaned back expansively, the beer had hit him quicker than usual, and looked around the yelling lattice-fenced triangular plot with its roofed U-shaped bar in the center of the three meeting streets that for the last twenty years had been hallowed ground. Over in one corner a grizzled knot of old master sergeants huddled over their beers excluding the young punks of forty by reminiscing about Villa in Mexico and the Philippine Insurrection when they had taught the Goddam Moros and spiks what was what. Men hollered three deep at the bar. A group of recruits in shiny unfaded suntans were standing with their arms around each other's shoulders singing We're Captain Billy's troopers, We are riders of the night, We are dirty sons of bitches and we'd rather fuck than fight. Over the hubbub now and then came the faint sound of a roar from the quad that told of a knockdown. It was all very permanent, and he knew that he was part of it. He had a place in all of it. "Dont look like the other regmints takin much intrest in our compny smokers," he grinned maliciously. "Why the hell should they?" the Chief said gently. "We aint got a chance of a fart in a whirlwind of takin that trophy back next December, and everybody knows it." Prew looked at the great solid bulk of him, utterly unshakeable, and grinned, loving him for his unshakeability in what in the last month had become an unfounded maelstrom of the whole universe. "Old Chief," he said happily. "Old Chief. The jockstraps," he said. "The fucking jockstraps." "Watch that, Mack," Chief grinned. "I jockstrap a little bit myself." Prew laughed wildly. "Have nuther beer," the Chief said. "Naw sir, my turn to buy one." "Plenty here. Help yourself. You earned it." "No sir," Prew said stoutly. "I'm buying this one. I got money. I always got money, now." "Yeah," the Chief grinned somberly. "I noticed that. You must of really line yourself up quite a deal with that snatch down town." "I aint doin so bad," Prew grinned expansively. "Not bad at all. - Only trouble is," he heard his voice saying, "is the goddam rip wants to marry me." "Well, hell," the Chief rumbled philosophically, "she got that much money you be smart to go ahead and marry her, and let her support you in the style to which you would like to be accustomed." Prew laughed. "Not me, Chief. You know I aint the marrying kind." He walked over to the bar at the north end happily. You liar, he told himself happily, you and your big deals. Well, it was a good deal, a damned good deal, wasnt it? looked at one way. What the hell? A goddam man ought to have the goddam right to goddam dream. "Hey, Jimmy!" he hollered belligerently. "Hey there boy!" big Jimmy hollered at him from down at the other end of the bar. His broad Kanaka face was grinning through the sweat and his hands opening and passing out cans and bottles as fast as he could pull them out of the cooler. At the other end of the cooler stood the Beergarden guard, always a Regimental fighter from first one outfit then another hired to keep order by the manager in compliance with Post orders, wearing his garrison belt and billy, badges of temporary office, and helping himself to can after can from the depths of the cooler while the helpless Jap manager watched him with frustrated pain on his smooth flat face. "Gimme four, Jim," Prew hollered over the rippling field of heads. "Right," Jimmy hollered, a grin flashing dazzlingly out of the dark face. "Four beer for four queer." He brought them down. "Compny smokers you outfit tonight, boy. You no fight?" "Not me, Jim," he grinned happily. "I'm scared I'll git a caulyflower ear." "Boy, you a hot one," Jimmy laughed, wiping his face with a hand like a deep-smoke-cured ham. "You no kid me, boy. I hear you just take at big Jewboy white hope over, eh?" "Is that the story?" he grinned. "Way I heard it, he took me over." He could feel through the back of his neck several men pausing to look. Somebody whispered something. It must have spread fast. He did not look around. "Hah," Jimmy grinned. "Listen, boy, I see you fight em last year in a Bowl. You good boy. At Jewboy big an he hit hard but he no got the heart. Jewboys never got the heart. You got the heart, eh?" "Is that the way it is?" he grinned modestly. "How about my four beers." "Right here, boy. Sure, way it is," Jimmy said. "Those Jewboy they better learn who to pick on, eh? I fight again next mont downtown myself, kid." The other men were still watching. "Where at?" Prew said happily, feeling very esoteric. "The Civic?" "Ats it. Six round semi-windup. Win at one, get a main go. Win a main go, take big trip Stateside to fight. What you think of him, eh? Quit this goddam job." "Another regular Dado Marino, eh?" Prew grinned. Jimmy exploded in laughter and swelled his big chest that almost filled up the bar. "Ats me. Make good flyweight-bantamweight, eh?" he laughed. "No," he said seriously. "Go Stateside, like grandfather. Last name Kaliponi, you know? Jimmy Kaliponi. Name for grandfather take big trip Stateside in old days. Hawaiian language, no f, no r. Cant say California, say Kaliponi. Got to win fight, go Kaliponi like grandfather, live up to game, see it over there, no mo hila-hila, eh?" he grinned. "I like at Stateside, boy, what I hear about em." "I'll come down and see you lay him out," Prew grinned. "Good old Civic," Jimmy said. "Lots of fight. Old Dixie use to fight Civic all a time. Remember old Dixie? My good frien, Dixie. Plenty good boy, eh?" Prew felt a big hollow open up suddenly under the happiness and suck it down out of him. He reached for the beers. "Yeah," he said, "plenty good boy." Jimmy was shaking his head, the big laughing face suddenly sad. "Too plenty bad about Dixie go blind like that." It was the first time he had ever mentioned it to Prew. "You have tough time, boy, tough luck. You good frien like that. Too plenty dam bad, boy." "Yeah, yeah, too bad," Prew said. "Gimme my beers." "Here you go." Jimmy shoved them to him. "No pay. On me this time." The big sad face was just as suddenly laughing again. "I sure glad to see you take at white hope Jewboy over, eh? Godam Jews bad as godam Germans. Just the same. Try to own whole world. But us America no take at stuff, eh? We got the heart. Jewboys and Germans no got the heart." "Yeah, yeah," Prew said, backing out of the press with the beers. "Jewboys and Germans no got the heart," he said, repeating it in a low voice, as if to himself. Jewboys and Germans, and Wops, and Spiks, and Boston Irishes, and Hunkies, and Guinies, and Niggers, no got the heart. He turned back toward the table feeling a little sick now in the hollowness of his stomach. He didnt fight Bloom because Bloom was a Jew. Why did they always have to make a racial issue of it all the time? Behind him he heard Jimmy holler, "Right! Two beer for two queer." It was Jimmy Kaliponi's favorite joke. Wait till Jimmy Kaliponi got to go Stateside, if he won his main go, and found that niggers no got the heart either, Stateside. Would that surprise him, Jimmy Kaliponi. Maybe he would even try to explain the difference between niggers and Hawaiians to them, eh? You explain, eh? You tell them, eh? Or maybe he would come back home quick, Jimmy Kaliponi, where only Jewboys and Germans no got the heart. Walking to the table across the carpet of rich grass, he knew he would have to look Bloom up and explain to Bloom he did not fight Bloom because Bloom was a Jew. He would do it tonight, right now, except Bloom would be waiting in the gym to go on for his fight. After the fights, then. Only Bloom would be pooped and in the yelling gym right up until he went to bed, or else out celebrating with some of the punchies, if Bloom won. Tomorrow then. He would do it tomorrow. He would explain it to Bloom. He had fought Bloom because he had had to fight somebody, or else bite himself and go mad, the same reason Bloom had fought him, two men who were on edge and ridden raw, and they got in a fight for the amusement of all concerned, except themselves, and fought each other, and that was all, him and Bloom who probably had more in common than any other two men in the Company, except maybe Angelo Maggio, fighting each other, because it was so much easier than trying to find the real enemy to fight, because the real enemy the common enemy was so hard to find since you did not know what it was to look for it and could not see it to get your hands on it, so you fought each other, which was easier, and also made it easier to put up with the real enemy the common enemy, whatever it was, that you could not find, but not because Bloom was a Jew or you a something else. He had not thought about Dixie Wells for a long time now. He had almost forgotten Dixie Wells. Who would ever have thought he could have ever forgotten Dixie Wells! He would have to explain to Bloom. Then he knew, hollowly, that he could not explain to Bloom. Because Bloom himself would always firmly believe it was because he was a Jew. And nothing he could ever say or do would ever convince Bloom it was not because he was a Jew, and because Prewitt hated Jews. And it was pointless to try to explain to Bloom, tonight, or tomorrow, or the next day, or any other time. He looked down at the Chief who was peering up at him out of the forest of bottles and cans like a platoon scout peeking out of the woods, the big mild moonface that was rocklike in unshakeability and that was redblack with layer after layer of tropic burn from every foreign Department of the US Army, laid over the dark Choctaw blood that was there from the beginning, the same face that all over the world where US soldiers congregated to discuss sports was always mentioned with reverent awe, that held alike indifferently the former heavyweight championship of Panama and the current still unbroken Philippine record for the 100 yard dash and that was running down into beerfat now, but still as well known and idolized by Islands sports fans as Lou Gehrig was back in the States, and who was now steadily and efficiently drinking himself into his regular nightly stupor. What would his ecstatic worshippers at the YMCA say if they could see him now? He sat down at the table with the beers, looking at the great ponderous frame, so cumbersome in the frail chair but that could be so swift and accurate on the ball diamond or basketball floor or track field or football gridiron. How many times had he watched with the thrill of seeing a Pacific sunset as the big figure leaned lithely into a throw from shortstop to beat the runner at first by a fraction? "Chief," he said urgently. "Chief, whats the story?" "Hunh?" Chief Choate grunted blandly. "What story? Story on what?" "I dont know," Prew shrugged. He was embarrassed He hunted frantically in his mind. "The story on Warden," he said lamely, as if that were the only thing that could explain it. "Whats the deal with The Warden, Chief? I cant figure him. What makes him like he is, anyway?" "Warden?" Chief Choate said. He looked out at the dark street through the white screen of latticework, as if fumbling in his mind clumsily for what the other wanted. "Warden? I dont know. Nothing especial I know of, why?" "Oh, I dont know," Prew said, lamely, beginning already now to curse himself for a fool. "I cant figure him, thats all," he said. "He was our Staff in A when I was in the Corps, before he got his First. I seen him around a lot then. He can be the meanest man I ever seen, and next minute he stick his neck clear out to get you out of a jam he helped to get you into." "Yeah?" said Chief Choate awkwardly, "he does, dont he?" He was still staring out. "He's a hard one to figure, all right, I guess. All I know, he's the best kicker in the Regmint. I wouldnt be surprised he's the best one on the Post. You dont see many Firsts like him no more." Chief Choate grinned bitterly. "They are a vanishing race," he said. Prew nodded eagerly lamely. "Thats what I mean," he persisted, now that he was into it.."Sometimes I feel like I could understand a lot of things if I could understand The Warden. Sometimes I - If he was a plain out and out son of a bitch like Haskins in E, you could figure him. I know a rotten top like that when I was in Myer; meanest bastard living; liked to hurt people; like to see them squirm. I clerked for him a while and finally quit and transferred out." "Yeah?" Chief Choate said with easy interest. "I dint know you ever pushed a pen, Prew." "Not many people do," Prew said shortly. "I got it kept off my Service Record and Form 20 with the clerk in that outfit, so nobody'd know and draft me back into it ever." He paused. "I learnt myself typin out a book in the Post Liberry, I guess I was huntin, lookin around for somethin," he said. Then doggedly he came back:. "But you see what I mean. This guy I'm tellin you about was just mean through and through. He couldnt handle men and he hated them because he cou'nt, see? You can figure him. He got his rating ass kissing, and he was always scared there was a browner nose than his around someplace. Easy to figure." "Yeah," Chief Choate said. He nodded his great head slowly, listening respectfully, trying hard. "I know guys like that when I come here. I know them here." "But that aint the story with The Warden, though," Prew said. "I dont feel he's bein mean. I got a kind of funny feelin about him. A kind of - weird feelin, you know?" Chief nodded. "Some guys is just bornd unlucky," he said slowly. "I personally figure Warden is one of them guys." "How do you mean, unlucky?" "Well, its hard to explain," Chief Choate said restlessly. Prew waited. "You take me," Chief said, "for instance. I was a kid on the reservation. Bornd and raised