From Here to Eternity (56 page)

there. And I wanted to be a jockstrap. The worst way I wanted to be one. Jim Thorpe was my idol. I use to read everything about him I could find. And I listened to the stories they all told about him. He was a hero to the people. And I thought Jim Thorpe was wonderful, and I wanted to be just like him, see?" Prew nodded. These were things he had never heard before, nor anybody else he knew of. Maybe there was something here, maybe here was - something. Important. Chief emptied off a can with a long swallow and set it back on the table carefully with sausage fingers among the forest. "Well, they kicked him out of the Olympic Game," he said slowly. "After he'd won damn near every medal they had. They kicked him out on a technicality. They wouldnt even let him keep his medals. Then I seen him playin them wild Indians in them western movies. You see what I mean?" Prew nodded, watching the big calm face look off across the yard. "I got bigger," Chief said, "I wanted to go to college and jockstrap. But I dint even have no highschool. And besides, my old man dint have enough dough to keep the fambly in levis. And I couldnt get no scholarship. How could I get a scholarship? "And there was Jim Thorpe, playing Indians in western movies for a livin." He shrugged his great shoulders and it was like a small earthquake in the forest on the table. "He was probly the greatest jockstrap this country ever had," he hazarded shyly. "Well, thats just the way it is. Thats the way things go, see? Thats life. Well, could you see me wearin buckskin pants and warpaint and a big old feather bonnet? runnin around yelling with a tommyhawk? Well, neither could I. I'd feel like a goddam ass. The only gadgets like that I ever even seen was all shipped down from a factory in Wisconsin to the Trading Post to sell to tourists. I'd feel like it was a ... I'd feel ashamed. "So I shipped into the army, where jockstrappin would do me some good and live easy. It dont bother me none. You see what I mean?" "Yeah," Prew said, his grin bitter as the edge of a razor. "Well, with me, thats okay. I got no complaints." Chief looked good-humoredly around the smokedrifting talkhumming lawn. "You know where the words Dogface and Dog Soldier come from?" he said suddenly. 'They come from the old Cheyenne War Society in the Plains Wars, they called themselves Dog Soldiers. The Cavalry took it from them." "No," Prew said. "I didn't know that." "Well," Chief said, "thats where we got them." He looked around the place again. "And I bet not ten men ever know where they came from. "I like to take things pretty much like they come," he said. "Thats the way it is, then thats the way I am, see? I do what I can, and what I cant, I dont worry about. I live easy and I figure I got nothin much to bitch about. "But Warden's differnt. They's something eatin him up inside. Its like he's got a fire in him that burns him up, and ever now and then it'll pop up into his eyes. If you ever watched him, you see it. Warden dont belong in the Army." "Well, why the hell dont he get out then?" Prew said. "Nobody's ast him to get in the Army and stay in it. If he dont like it, whynt he get out and get where he does belong." Chief Choate looked at him levelly. "You know where he belongs?" Prew dropped his eyes. "Okay," he said. "A man knows where he belongs is lucky, way I see it," Chief Choate said. "Warden's a good man, but he just dont belong in the Army. Pete Karelsen's a good man, too, but he dont belong in the Army neither. I dont neither. Dynamite belongs in the Army." "Okay," Prew said again, "okay. But why does he want to ride me so much for. If he was mean, and really had it in for me, I could figure it. But somehow I always feel like he dont have nothing against me really." "Maybe he's trying to teach you somethin," Chief said. "What?" Prew said. "What!" Chief said. "I dont know. How would I know what Warden's tryin to teach you?" he said angrily embarrassedly. His perpetually placid face was still good-natured, but behind his eyes suddenly was the cold flat look of the Reservation Indian toward the white tourists who have come to watch his dances during their two week vacation. "Why the hell dont you ask The Warden, if you want to know so bad? Maybe he'll tell you." Prew grinned, his starched campaign hat pushed back to show his lank black hair that might have come from some forgotten Cherokee among his own Kentucky ancestors. "Snow me," he grinned. "Snow me some more. Bury me deep." Chief grinned. "I dont know," he said mollified. "I dont know what he's trying to teach you. And I dont think anybody'll ever know, except maybe Warden, and maybe not him. Thats what I think. He's just a wild son of a bitch. He ain't got nothing against you personal, he's the same way with everybody. Old Pete swears onct a week he's gonna move out on him - if he has to sleep in the squadroom even - but he never does." "But if I could only just understand why," Prew persisted. He was beginning to feel disgusted with it now, foolish with it. He wished now he had kept his stupid mouth shut. For a minute he had thought he was going to learn something, something important. But it all sifted through your fingers like sand and left you holding nothing. Chief Choate was looking vaguely out through the lattice toward the dim light of the PX lunchcounter lights across the street. "Warden's one of them men who cant get killed," he said with bearlike gentleness. "He was in the 15th when they seen their action in the Settlement in Shanghai. I heard about it down in PI even. He was just... He got himself a Purple Heart and a DSC out of it, but you never knew it, did you? Aint many does. He's just a wild man, thats all, cant find nothin to pin onto. When this next war comes, Warden will be right in there, standin up on the skyline, trying to get himself killed, but nothin will ever touch him. He'll come right through in spite a hell nor high water, maddern, wildern, craziern ever. Thats just the way he is. Thats all I know. All I know is he's the best soljer I ever saw." Prew did not contradict him. He sat looking at him, feeling something, trying to feel something else. "What do you say we drink some beer?" Chief said. "I like beer." "Thats the best idea yet," Prew said, and hunched himself down over the beer cans Black Jimmy had insisted on setting him up to. It didnt make sense. He knew he would have to see Bloom tomorrow anyway, even if it wouldnt do any good. Something in what Chief Choate'd said, something unspoken in the garbled mess of the conversation, had made him know it. He had to try to explain it to Bloom. Maybe it wouldnt do any good, but he knew he had to try it. The fights got over early. The crowds from the smoker began to swell in through the lattice gates of the Beer Garden before it was even ten o'clock. There had been an unusual number of knockouts. All three of the G Company men had won their bouts, but everybody talked excitedly about Bloom. Bloom had won his main go with a TKO in the first round. Everybody had great hopes of Bloom. He had climbed in the ring with a broken nose, black eye, and unable to talk and scored a knockdown in the first half minute. Doc Dahl, the Regimental surgeon, had not wanted him to go on at all. "That boy knows which side his corporalcy is buttered on," Chief Choate said without enthusiasm. "I'm glad he got to go on, though," Prew said. "And I'm even gladder he won." "He's a horse," the Chief said blandly. "A regular horse. Use to be one myself. He could do the same thing over again right now and not even feel it." "It took a lot of guts though." "Not for a horse," the Chief said. Prew sighed. The beer was spinning brightly in him. "I think I'll take off and go home to bed. I'm sore as a boil, and I feel about as popular as a dildoe in a vigins' convent right now." Chief grinned. "I guess it would make you feel a little self-conscious maybe." Prew managed to laugh, and threaded his way out through the crowd. At the gate he looked back. Chief Choate sat at table as before. The empty cans had grown visibly since Prew came. Chief's eyes were getting a little swimmy now as he raised his hand ponderously slowly to return a greeting. Prew went on out. It was very quiet outside as he crossed the street. The lights were off in all the quadrangles and they were mopping out the Main PX lunchcounter for closing. He walked slow, so as to give the quad plenty of time to be cleared out. He did not want to meet anybody. It looked deserted as he turned in through the truck entrance and the lights were off in the bandstand-ring, but as he walked up the Company walk to the porch a shadow came out from under it moving to meet him. Even in the dark he could recognize the long-armed apeshape. It was Ike Galovitch, drunk and weaving. "Py Gott," Ike bawled. "Ham telling you dis tonight a great night are. Der own into dis night G Gomny and da Captn Holmes have gome," he hollered happily. "Did we taking them toonight or not taking dem. I ask you? Are proud dis gomny to be of or not? 'Ey?" "Hello, Ike," he said. "Who that is?" Ike Galovitch stopped grinning and the long lippy jaw came out as he leaned forward drunkenly to peer. "That not is Prewitt? What that is?" "Prewitt that is, all right," he grinned back tightly. "Gott am," Ike exploded. "A lot of guts you got your face around here heven showing, Prewitt. In dese barricks it is no right heven have a traitor like you to be sleeping." "Thats right, but till transfer me out they do sleep here I got to notwithstanding." He stepped out to go around but Ike stepped across in front of him. "Transfer you to da Stockade," Ike growled. "Dat bites de hand dat feeds it dey shoot dogs for. Heven a Commonist is batter. Dan to stabbing in da back da best frien any man ever having hafter da breaks da Gaptn Holmes having giving you. Infortunately, ony dogs dey are allowed to shoot not men." "And you'd sure like to see them change the laws, wouldnt you I bet, Ike, hunh?" Prew grinned. He stood passively, he had tried once, he would not try to go around again. "For you, hyes," Ike raged. "For mad dogs shooting is too good. Dis Harmy only strong has weakest links. It is da rebel ones like you making da Fascisti over der I leave for come dis country. Bolsheviki like you har should not heven be allow dis country. Should be run out dis country." "If you've had your say now, old man," he said, "get out of my way and I'll go to bed." "Had my say!" Old Ike raged on. "Not heven an Hamurican you are. Not heven enough be grateful for tings good men like da Gaptn Holmes are willing do for you. What you need is lesson teach you to respeck your betters when they nice enough are to do tings for you." "And theres nothin you'd like better than to have the job," he grinned, "right? Listen, I stepped around you once. I aint going to step around you again. See me tomorrow during duty hours, when I cant talk back. But right now get the fuck out of my way so I can go to bed." "Yeah?" Ike said. "And maybe I just take da job, laws or laws not. Has done everting for you can one man do, da Gaptn Holmes. You are grateful?" he hollered furiously. "Like shit. Fine man offer you chance do something, do you do? No. Not you. Maybe I give to you da lesson by myself, since da Gaptn Holmes too nice to do him. How you like den?" "Fine," he grinned. "When do we start? Tomorrow at drill?" "Drill hell. Py Gott am you, I show you dont need drill or sargint ratting." Cursing drunkenly, Ike Galovitch, American, pulled his knife out of his pocket. It was not the professional knifer's snap blade job like Sgt Henderson's, but Ike opened it almost as quickly, thumbnailing the slot to raise the point out of the cradle far enough to catch it on his pantsleg as he ripped it up one handed, all in one movement too fast to see, and the blade was out and bare throwing oily glints of light. Prew watched him almost happily. Here, at last, was the enemy. The real enemy. The common enemy. When Ike Galovitch, American, lunged drunkenly with his knife, he stepped to meet him, parrying the wrist and arm outside him with his left hand, and stepped in again turning on the balls of his feet deftly. Ike went off balance sideways and was already falling when he swung with his right hand, putting his whole weight and everything he had behind it viciously. It was a Sunday shot and he timed it perfectly and the pain shot up his swollen hand into his wrist. Ike Galovitch, American, moved backward off the walk still holding out the knife, his feet going backward very fast across the grass. His heels hit the kitchen sidewalk on the other side and he skidded the last three feet on his rump and came up against the concrete garbage rack platform, his head lolling back in the drippings. Prew stood on the walk and watched him, rubbing his hand. Ike did not move, and he walked over and put his ear to the old man's mouth. Ike Galovitch, American, was sleeping peacefully and breathing regularly and stinkingly, an ugly, seamed-faced, beat-up and battered, tired old man who had come all the long way from Yugoslavia to Hawaii to find an idol he could worship. This was no common enemy, this was only a foul-breathed, rotting-toothed, repulsively ugly old Slav of a peasant whom nobody on this earth, not even Dynamite Holmes least of all his mother, had ever given a damn for if he lived or died. How would you like to look at that face in the mirror every morning and know yourself as so repulsive? Only just wait till he wakes up, he thought, and the mind begins to work again, what then? He might easily have killed you, he would have if he could. He stood looking down at the incredibly innocently sleeping patheticness, then he took the knife and snapped the well honed blade off in a deep crack in the concrete of the platform and put the bladeless handle back in the open palm and went upstairs to bed. He did not see the two figures of Sergeant Henderson and Sergeant Wilson that weaved out from under the shadow of the porch to where Ike lay, after he was gone, and he would not have cared much then if he had. It was a flashlight in his face that woke him. His watch said midnight. He was still a little drunk. All he could think of was it was another sabotage alert. "Here he is," a voice whispered, and an arm with corporal's stripes reached inside the cone of light that he could not see beyond and shook him by the shoulder. "Come on, Prewitt, lets rise and shine. Drop your cocks and grab your socks," the voice chanted automatically. "Get up out of there." "Whats the matter?" he said out loud. "How about gettin that goddam light out of my eyes." "Goddam it, be quiet," the voice whispered. "You want to wake up the whole goddam Compny? Come on. Get up." It was Cpl Miller's, the CQ's, voice. He knew what it was. In the last month he had pictured the whole thing many times. Now, he wanted suddenly to laugh, at the cautious solicitude for the
Compny's rest. He had not pictured that. "What is it?" he said. "Get up," the CQ whispered. "You're under arrest." "What for?" "I dont know. This is him, Sergeant," the CQ said. "This is the man you want." "Okay, Corporal," said the second voice. "You can go on back to bed. I can handle it from here." The voice paused and changed its angle of direction. "This is the man, Sir," it said. "Private Prewitt. I think the man's still drunk." "Very well then," the third voice said boredly. "Rout him out and get some clothes on him. I havent got all night. The OD must inspect the posts, you know. Lets rout him out." "Yes, Sir," the guard sergeant said. The same arm with the corporal's stripes came inside the cone at him again. He's surely working hard, he grinned to himself. "Come on, lets go," the CQ said. "Get up. Get some clothes on. You heard what the OD said." The arm gripped his naked shoulder. He moved his shoulder out from under it. "Keep your goddam hands off of me, Miller. I can get up by myself. Just take it easy." The leather of the sergeant's billy thong squeaked. "Lets have no trouble, Private," the OD's bored voice said. 'The more trouble you make the harder it will go with you. We are quite able to take you in by force, if necessary." "I dont want no trouble, only just keep your hands off me. I wont run. Whats the charges against me?" "Say Sir, when you speak to an officer, buddy," the sergeant said. "Whats the matter with you?" "Never mind," the OD said. "Just get him dressed. I havent got all night. The OD must inspect the posts, you know." He slid himself up from between the sheets by force of habit, leaving the bunk needing only to be tightened, before he remembered. The flashlight followed him as he climbed out nakedly. "Would you mind takin that goddam light out of my eyes? So I can see my clothes? What am I being taken in for?" "Never mind," the OD said. "Just do as you're told. You'll have plenty of time to find that out. Move the light, Sergeant." "My wallet's in my footlocker," Prew said, when he was dressed. Around them in the squadroom men were sitting up watching, their eyes very big reflecting the light of the flash. "Never mind the wallet," the OD said impatiently. "You wont need it. Your equipment will be taken care of. You men there," he said. "Go back to bed and go to sleep. This is none of your affair." As one man the lights reflecting from the eyes went out. The bunks squeaked as they lay down and rolled over in silence, away from the light. "Theres money in it, Sir," Prew said. "If I dont take it with me, it wont be here when I get back." "All right then," the OD said impatiently. "Get it then. But hurry up." He was already shaking the footlocker key out from the bottom of his pillowslip. The Sgt led him down the stairs with the OD behind him and the CQ bringing up the rear. "I aint going to take off on you," Prew grinned. "Dont I know it," the Sgt said. "Never mind," the OD said. "And shut up," the Sgt said. Downstairs in the corridor the CQ's light was on, the mosquito netting still hastily thrown back from his bunk beside the little desk, and in the light Prew could see them. The OD was 1st Lt Van Voorhees of Battalion Headquarters, tall and big-nosed and flat-headed, three years out of the Point. The sergeant was a man he didn't know by name but he recognized his face. Cpl Miller he had soldiered with for months. They were strangers. "Hold it up, you," the Sgt said and turned to Miller. "You got this on your report yet?" "No," Miller said. "I was just going to ask you." They stood by the desk talking in low secret voices. Prew listened to them reciting the names and numbers that went on the report. He felt peculiar. Lt Van Voorhees stood by himself at the door tapping his fingernails in succession on the jamb. "Lets hurry it up, Sergeant," Lt Van Voorhees said. "Yes, Sir," the Sgt said. "Well, thanks a lot, Corporal," he said. "Sorry we had to wake you up. You can go back to bed now." "You're very welcome," Miller said. "Any time I can be of help. You sure theres nothing more I can do?" "Nope," the Sgt said. "Its all done now." "Okay," Miller said. "Just ask me though." "No," the Sgt said. "Thanks though. We appreciate your help." "Any time," Miller said. Prew turned to Lt Van Voorhees. "Whats the charges, Sir," he said, "on me." "Never mind," the Lt said impatiently. "You'll have plenty of time to find that out tomorrow." He looked at his watch impatiently. "But I've got a right to know the charges against me," Prew said. "Who preferred charges?" Van Voorhees peered at him. "You dont have to inform me of your rights, soldier. I know what they are. Capt Holmes preferred the charges. And I dont like guardhouse lawyers. Are you finished, Sergeant?" The Sgt nodded busily. Prew whistled. "They sure worked fast," he grinned, "whoever it was. Must of got him up out of bed." As a joke, it did not come off very well. "Well, lets get gone then," Van Voorhees said to the Sgt, as if nobody else had spoken. "I've got work to do." "Shut up, Mack," the Sgt said to Prew. "The more you pop off, the harder you make it on yourself. Come on, lets go. You heard what the OD said." In the long low corrugated-iron Regimental guardhouse across the street they gave him a blanket and sent him back through the row of bars that separated the lockup from the office. They did not shut the door of bars hinged onto the wall of bars. "We dont lock the door," the OD said from behind the desk, "on account of the members of the guard are back there. And you'd better not wake them up, by god. But there will be someone here all night awake and armed. Okay, thats all. You can go on back there and go to sleep." "Yes, Sir," he said. "Thank you, Sir." He took the blanket down through the double row of cots and huddled sleeping figures of the guard until he found an empty one. He sat down on it and took his shoes off. (he was not new to this feeling of having crossed the line of bars into another heavier world of heavy air and heavy water he was not new to jails he knew that you would get used to breathing the heavy air eventually and then your lungs would no longer threaten to collapse on you because the heavy air did not want to go into them you just had to get acclimated that was all he knew all about jails jails were just as intimate to his life and heritage as being on the bum or soldiering he had learned to breathe the heavy air and drink the heavy water they were the same in every jail whether in Florida or Texas or Georgia or in Richmond Indiana he had learned jails even before he learned the Army in fact they kind of seemed to go together one way it just took a little time was all) He lay down on the cot and pulled the blanket over him. Under the panic, that was fading, he thought: It must be because of Galovitch, it had to be that. If Wilson and Henderson, he thought, had not tried to help the police dog to mount Bloom's dog Bloom would not have tried to thank me. If I, he thought, had not fought Bloom Old Ike would not have tried to knife me. It was very complex and that tended to make it confusing, somewhat. But then, he knew the real thing did not lie in these circumstantial coincidences. The real thing lay underneath that. He knew that. It was hard to remember, though. As he dropped off to sleep he could hear the OD and the Sgt still sitting at the lighted desk talking in low voices.