From Here to Eternity (87 page)

said. "You realize, of course," the Lt Col said, "that my men are in no way responsible for what has happened. They were acting in the line of duty. That will all come out at the inquest." "Yes, Sir," Warden said. 'The man is obviously a deserter," the Lt Col said. "When my men tried to bring him in he broke and ran. Then when they fired, the man stopped and turned and turned back directly into the line of their fire. I wish we could have had an officer out here. You tell your Company Commander to stop in the Provost's office and see me tomorrow. Lt Col Hobbs. All right, sign here, Sergeant. For those effects. I do no know, of course, what verdict the inquest board will bring in. You will be informed." "For the sake of the man's relatives, Sir," Warden said, "it might be better if they could just simply make it Killed in Line of Duty. The names of your men could be left out, and that way there would be less of an incident all the way round." The Lt Col looked at him a little curiously. "That's an excellent idea. I was just going to mention it myself, as a matter of fact." "Yes, Sir," Warden said. "Still, of course," the Lt Col said carefully, "you realize I have absolutely no sayso with the board's verdict." "Oh, no, Sir," Warden said. "Well, I guess that about covers it, Sergeant. We will take the body down to the mortuary, of course." "Which mortuary, Sir?" "The customary one," the Lt Col said. "I forget the name. Yo'u know the one I mean. The same one that used to do all the Army's business before the war." "Yes, Sir." "He will be interred here, of course. Probably the Red Hill cemetery. That will all be taken care of later." "Sir," Warden said formally, "I would like to make formal request that this body be buried in the Army's permanent cemetery at Schofield Barracks." The Lt Col looked at him again. "Upon what authority, Sergeant?" "None, Sir," Warden said. "Except that I'm sure my Company Commander would prefer it. Our Company has other men buried there." 'The Schofield cemetery is a permanent cemetery," the Lt Col said. "I thought you said this man had relatives. Since the Pearl Harbor attack all temporary interments have been made in the new Red Hill Cemetery." "Yes, Sir," Warden said. "But it will be some time before any bodies can be shipped home, Sir. Probably until after the end of the war. And this man was a Regular Army soldier. He had at least eight years service," he lied. "Oh," the Lt Col said. "Well," he said finally, "I believe I can attend to that for you. I'm an Old Army man myself, Sergeant." "Yes, Sir," Warden said. The Lt Col made a note in his pocket notebook. "Now. If you will just sign for these effects, please. There is nothing but this wallet, a small pocketknife, this obsolete SP Card, and a keychain with one key. Sign here, please." "These are all, Sir?" Warden said. "Except the pistol. I shall have to confiscate that, of course. And the cartridges." He extended his pen. "Now sign here, please." Warden did not take it. "I want to be sure its everything, Sir." "Sergeant, I told you it was." The Lt Col looked around frowningly. "Now if you will just -" "Begging the Colonel's pardon, Sir." The S/Sgt in charge of the patrol detail stepped up to them and saluted. "Yes, Sgt Dixon," the Lt Col said impatiently. "What is it?" "Sir, I believe there was another item that is not on the list." "There was?" the Lt Col said. "And why wasnt I told of this before, Sergeant?" he said sternly. "I guess it just slipped past in the confusion, Sir." "What was the item, Sergeant?" "A small black pocket notebook, Sir," the S/Sgt said. "The last time I saw it it was lying on the seat of our jeep there." "Then I am forced to beg your pardon, First Sergeant," the Lt Col said. "Thats quite all right, Sir," Warden said. "I'll get it for you, Sergeant," the S/Sgt "said. "I'll go with you," Warden said. At the jeep they had to turn on the flashlight to look for it. It had fallen off the seat down into the floor well of the rider's seat. "Here you are, Sergeant," the S/Sgt said. As he picked it up a paper fell out of it onto the jeep floor. "Just a minute, Sergeant," Warden said. He borrowed the flash and got the paper. "I didn't see it," the S/Sgt apologized. "Its all right." Warden opened the paper and held the flash on it. It looked like short lines of rhymed verse, a poem. At the top was the title printed in capitals. THE RE-ENLISTmENT BLUES. He did not try to read it. He folded the paper and buttoned it down in his shirt pocket carefully and looked at the notebook. There was nothing in it but a long list of books under the printed caption: TO READ. Somehow, even in the midst of all this, he felt an apart aloof moment of vague surprise, to find a list of books like that in Prewitt's effects. Most of them, he had read himself, at one time or another. But he did not expect Prewitt to have wanted to read them. "You know," the S/Sgt said as Warden buttoned the notebook into his other shirt pocket, "we feel pretty bad about this, Sergeant." He looked around him, and then went on in a low voice. "Harry Temple, he's a Pfc, the one who did the shooting, is all busted up over it. Its not like a Jap or something like that. I guess you think we're lying. But that was what he actually did. He turned right back into our fire." "What did he do?" Warden said. "Nothing," the S/Sgt said. "He was running. Cpl Oliver, he's my second in command, he fired two or three times. But he kept running. Then Harry Temple opened up with the Thompson. Just firing. Then the light went on. And your man just suddenly stopped and turned around right into the fire. He had that .38 in his hand, but I dont think he even raised it. We found it in the sand later. You know how those Thompsons are. They spray all over. He was right on the edge of that sandtrap. He could have jumped down in it. I guess you think I'm lying?" "No," Warden said. "Was he a friend of yours?" "No," Warden said. "Not a friend." "Well, I wanted you to know we were all awfully sorry." "Everybody's always very sorry," Warden said. "Afterwards." "Thats right," the S/Sgt said. "He was tryin to get back to his Compny. I could have let him gone. But I didnt. I didnt know. I wasnt sure. This sand," he said vaguely; then he said it again, viciously, "this sand. This goddam sand. Its like a goddam fuckin desert." "Its all in the game," Warden said. "The whole thing was all in the cards. It wasnt your fault. Forget it." "I'm going to put in for relief," the S/Sgt said, "from this place. And request another beat on the other side Of town. I dont like this goddam sand." "You cant get away from sand in Hawaii." "Well, I just wanted you to know, Sergeant," the S/Sgt said. "Okay," Warden said. He put his hand on the boy's shoulder. 'Thanks a lot, Sergeant." He went on back over to the jeep by the trap, where Weary was still talking earnestly to the two men from the patrol, and signed the receipt for the effects'that was still lying on the hood. Then he found the Lt Col and saluted. "Is that everything now, Sir?" "Have you signed for the effects?" "Yes, Sir." "Then I think that is all. You found the notebook?" "Yes, Sir." "I must apologize again for the oversight, Sergeant," the Lt Col said formally. "Thats quite all right, Sir," Warden said formally. "I do not like things like that to happen," the Lt Col said. "Well, you're free to leave any time, Sergeant." "Thank you, Sir." He saluted, and went over to the trap. "Weary! Come on, lets go." After they had got back on the Highway and Weary had put the jeep back into high range, Warden turned in the seat and looked back at the dwindling cluster of lights. All he seemed able to think about was how there wasnt even going to be any boxing season this year at all now, anyway. "It gives me the creeps," Weary said. "You'd think he would of at least jumped down in the trap." Warden swung back around in the seat. At least he had been able to do those two things for him, anyway. That of the Service Record, and the getting of him buried in the permanent cemetery at Schofield. Which was where he would have been buried anyway, if the Provost's Lt Col had known he didnt have relatives. Once they had him in the ground they would never bother to move him. "Remember that time at Hickam?" Weary said. "When you and him got all drunked up and passed out in the middle of the road and I nearly ran over both of you?" Warden did not answer. There was still the third thing. He knew he ought to go down and see Lorene. She would want the key to her house back, if nothing else. But then, he could mail the key with the letter if he took the keychain off it. "Boy, you were both of you sure drunk that time," Weary said. "Yeah," Warden said. He would rather take a beating, than to have to go down and see her. But he knew he would go. "What the hell do you suppose made him do it?" Weary said. Warden did not answer because he was wondering why did it always all seem to come in bunches?

CHAPTER 53

MILT WARDEN had, that morning, received the confirmation of his appointment as a Second Lieutenant (Infantry) in the Officers' Reserve Corps. In the same batch of dispatches was another letter, from Regiment, informing G Company of the impending removal of its Weapons Platoon Sergeant, Peter J Karelsen. But they did not know about Pete until later. Lt Ross opened Warden's appointment first. It was a War Department letter, addressed to the CO of G Company for approval, and it had a long string of endorsements on it. It must have been kicking around channels on the Island since clear before Pearl Harbor. The effect upon Warden, when Lt Ross (with studied indifference) tossed it over onto his desk, was that of a man surprised red-handed in a guilty act. His first, instinctive, reaction was to tear it up quickly and stuff it down in the bottom of the waste basket before anybody saw it. Then he thought about Karen Holmes. Anyway, Lt Ross had already opened it and seen it first. At Hanauma Bay, during the first five days after the bombing, they had set up the CP in the popcorn vender's wagon under the grove of kiawe trees. Then when they got the tents from Schofield they still left it in there anyway, ostensibly for camouflage, but in reality because it had a wood floor and was up off the ground. It was not very big in there and there were four of them, plus the field phone switchboard to the Positions, crowded into it when the Message Center truck delivered the G Company dispatch bag that morning. Him and Rosenberry and Ross, and Culpepper; since Pearl Harbor Culpepper had been promoted to lst/Lt and been made the Company Exec. And when Warden looked up, they were all three grinning at him. It was, he had thought sourly looking at them, the same half-assed foolish grin that everybody always got knowingly when some jerk passed out cigars because his stupid wife had a goddam baby. We know how you did it, the grins always implied slyly, we know what was required. Then the stupid jerk blushes; and if his wife is anywheres around she blushes; and if the goddam baby wasnt red as a beet it would probly blush too. I baptize thee in the name of the Grin, the Blush, and the Holy Twitchett; thou art born of woman; let us kneel, brothers, and all blush together before God; somebody had a baby. "There'll be some papers to sign yet," Lt Ross grinned at him happily, when he handed it back. "And the oath to take. But to all intents and purposes you are now an Officer in the US Army, Sergeant. My congratulations." "Army of the US, Ross," Culpepper corrected grinning. "How do you feel, Sergeant?" "How the hell I supposed to feel?" "Different," Culpepper grinned. "Consecrated. Like a nun." "Will I sprout little gold wings, too? To go with the bars?" They all insisted on shaking his hand. Even Rosenberry insisted on shaking bis hand. And 2nd Lt Cribbage, one of the new ROTC boys, who came in along about then from his new command at Makapuu, insisted on shaking his hand. "When are you going to pass out those cigars?" Cribbage grinned. He was a Purdue man. "Sgt Warden would never pass out cigars," Culpepper grinned, "not for a little old thing like a commission. You dont know your man, Cribbage." "Just the same," Cribbage grinned, "I mean to get a cigar out of this promotion." "Of course, you understand, Sergeant," Lt Ross grinned, "that this is only in the Reserve Corps. So dont get any big ideas. You're still my 1st/Sgt until they send you to Active Duty back Stateside someplace." "You lucky bastard," Culpepper amended, grinning. "Amen," Cribbage, grinned. "Oh, Christ," Lt Ross said. Lt Ross had just opened the other letter. "Whats the matter, Ross?" Culpepper said. "Look at this, Culpepper," Lt Ross said. He handed him the letter. Watching them, Warden thought again how much it was all like some kind of a club, a young gentlemen's club, warm, friendly, completely secure, with its own comforting set of rules for parliamentary procedure. The letter went down the chain of command from Ross to Culpepper to Cribbage. Warden was fourth on the list. Rosenberry was last. When it got to Warden and he saw what it was, he felt a little bit sick in his thighs. In the envelope was a WD policy circular to the effect that all EM of a certain age who were below the Grade of M/Sgt and were engaged in any form of active combat duty, as distinguished from administrative duty, were to be relieved from the active duty list immediately and their names submitted for the evacuation shipping list along with a request for replacements. And that was the end of Pete. Just to clinch it, stapled to the circular was a mimeograph cut of a Regimental Special Order with the names of thirty or forty EM from the Regiment who would be affected, and two of the names S/Sgt Peter J Karelsen, G Co Pvt Ike (NMI) Galovitch, G Co were underlined in red pencil. "Christ, I wont have any platoon left," Cribbage said, "if I lose Sgt Karelsen." "It'll sure put a hole in the dyke," Culpepper said. Neither mentioned Ike (NMI) Galovitch. "I think I'll run down and take a look around Position 16," Lt Culpepper said suddenly. "Then I wont have to go out that way tonight." "I might as well be getting back out to Makapuu," 2nd Lt Cribbage said, "since theres no mail for me." "They sure got out from under that one quick," Lt Ross said when they had gone. "Do you suppose if I wrote a letter?" Rosenberry was finally reading the order. "A letter wouldnt do any good," Warden said. "I suppose not," Lt Ross said unhappily. "Goddam it, Sergeant!" he exploded. "They cant do this to me! I cant afford to lose Sgt Karelsen! I just cant, thats all!" Lt Ross did not mention Ike (NMI) Galovitch either. Lt Ross had been trying to find a way to get Ike transferred ever since he had busted him. Warden had even worked on it some himself. To no avail, because no other outfit on the Post would have him. At any price. "God damn the son!) of bitches!" Lt Ross said. "They sit on their ass in Washington and cut their orders according to statistics. What do they know about the real situation? What the hell do they care what its going to do to my Company? They dont have to run it. Well? Come on, Sergeant? Think of something." Warden had been thinking of something. He had been thinking of Retirement Row down along Kahala Avenue at the foot of Diamond Head. That was where Snuffy Cartwright had gone, when they retired him out of G Co to make room for Warden. Warden suddenly felt an astonishingly, almost unreasonably, powerful twinge of fear and refusal, for Pete, go all over him. And he did not have any illusions of Pete's love for G Company, once the sentimentalities of parting were over. "Pete's been in this Compny six years," Warden suggested. "You might use that." "Sure," Lt Rose nodded. "Why, it'll probably break his goddamned old heart. An old man like him." Rosenberry silently laid the order back on the desk without comment. "Rosenberry!" Lt Ross cried fretfully. "You dont look so good. You look peaked. Like you needed some air. Go take yourself a walk someplace, Rosenberry." "Yes, Sir," Rosenberry said quietly. "That boy gets on my nerves," Lt Ross sighed when he had gone. "He's too damn quiet. Well, what're we going to do?" They said old soldiers never died. No, they went to live in cottages on Kahala Avenue at the foot of Diamond Head. And bought surf-casting rods and bait-casting rods. To fish with. And used their old Army rifles to hunt some. At least the ones who had money did, like Snuffy Cartwright. Pete had not made the money gambling Snuffy Cartwright had made; or at least not saved it. Snuffy's wife had saved his for him. Pete did not have a wife. Pete did not even have enough money to buy a middle-aged housekeeper to sleep with, let alone a young wife. Again the astonishingly strong spasm of fear and refusal, for Pete, rolled down over him. Unmarried, sterile from the syph, no gambling savings. No wife no kids no Cadillac. And no prospect of any. Just a lonely old retired ex-soldier. Warden felt, for some obscure reason, he must get Pete out of that. "You'll have to take Pete up to Schofield with you," he told Lt Ross, "and see Col Delbert personally." Lt Ross, who had been leaning forward eagerly, drew back a little. "Oh, I rather hesitate to do anything that drastic." "You want to keep him, dont you?" They would put him to teaching draftees about machineguns in the States someplace, for a year, maybe two years, maybe even till the end of the war. It would be a nice soft easy job for an old man. The johns would buy an old timer like Pete all the free beer his gut would hold. He could get drunk every night. And know he was helping the War Effort. "Well, why dont you go up, Sergeant?" Lt Ross said finally. "You've been in the Regiment a lot longer than I have." "Hell, I cant go, Lieutenant. You're the Company Commander." "Thats right, I am," Lt Ross said without joy. "You understand, dont you? I want to do whats right, Sergeant. But then how do we know it would do any good?" "Its the only chance." "You really think it would work?" "It has to." "But if it doesnt work I'm the one that'll get on the Regimental shitlist," Lt Ross said. "Not you." "Well, what're you tryin to do? Run your Compny?" Warden said. "Or make Captain." "Ha," Lt Ross cried angrily. "For you its easy. You'll be shipping out of here in a month or so. Ah, piss on it!" he said violently. "Goddam you, Sergeant. You sure talk a great war, anyway." He went to the door and hollered, a look of outrage against fate dark on his swart Jewish face. "Rosenberry! What the fuck are you doing! Why arent you in here? Go find Sgt Karelsen and tell him I want to see him. And get the lead out of your ass!" "He's out at Makapuu, Sir," Rosenberry, who had been quietly waiting outside, said quietly. "Then get a jeep and go the hell after him!" Lt Ross cried. "Dont you think I know where he is? What the hells the matter with you today, Rosenberry?" "Yes, Sir," Rosenberry's fading voice said quietly. "God damn that boy," Lt Ross said, coming back. He sat down at his desk and scratched his head. "I think I'll drive the jeep up by myself and leave Russell here. That way there'll just be the two of us, and I can break it to him gently, on the way up. Dont you think that would be best?" "Yes." Lt Ross got out his notebook and began making notes on what to say to the Colonel. After he made a few, he muttered "Shit!" and began crossing them out. "You and your goddam bright ideas," he said angrily. "I dont know why the hell I let you talk me into these things." "Because you want to do the right thing," Warden said. "Hunh," Lt Ross said. "Sometimes I wonder who the hell is in command of this outfit. You or me." He was still making notes concentratedly and, between nervous chewings on his pencil, concentratedly crossing them out, when Rosenberry brought Pete in from Makapuu. "Come on, Sergeant," Lt Ross said blackly, putting his notebook away. "You and I got to make a business trip to Schofield." "Yes, Sir," Pete said formally, and saluted. He was too old a hand not to know an ax was about to fall someplace. He had put his teeth in, the first time he'd had them in since Pearl Harbor, except for meals. The two of them, Ross gloomily, Pete inscrutably, formal, took off in silence, complete with gas masks, rifle belts, helmets, and their carbines, and Warden went back to work and settled down to wait for the outcome. He was still waiting for them to come back when the call had come in about Prewitt. And when he and Weary got back from the identification of Prewitt's body, the other jeep still was not in the motor pool. Which meant that Ross and Pete still were not back yet. Weary delivered him to the popcorn wagon and then hurried off to bed down the jeep so he could start circulating with the story. Inside the blacked out wagon Rosenberry was sitting in a fog of cigarette smoke at the single panel switchboard working methodically at his latest crossword book. "Any calls, kid?" "Not a thing, Sir." "Good," Warden said, "And God damn you, Rosenberry, you son of a bitch, quit calling me sir!" he said murderously. "I am not a goddam Officer! I am a goddam enlisted 1st/Sgt!" "Yes, Sir!" Rosenberry said pop-eyedly. "I mean, okay, Sarge! I'm sorry, Sarge!" "If you dont quit calling me sir, Rosenberry, I'll tear your fucking heart out by the roots with my bare hands and feed it to you," Warden said in a low vibrant voice that sounded as if he actually hungered to do just exactly that. "Okay, Sarge," Rosenberry said soothingly. "I'm sorry, Sarge. I dont mean nothing. Its just a habit. Was it really Prewitt, Sarge?" "Yas, it was Prewitt. Deadern a goddam mackerel. In a sandtrap. And his chest scattered all over the goddam fairway. By a Thompson gun. Now get the fuck out and lee me a lone." When the kid was gone, he spread the stuff out on his desk. It was a hell of a lot to show for one man's life. He got the ten-cent notebook and the folded paper out of the other pocket and added them to the pile. Then he picked up the paper and opened it again and smoothed it out on the desk. He read the printed title at the top. THE RE-ENLISTMENT BLUES, and then he read the nine hand-written verses. Then he looked at the whole thing again, and then he smoothed the paper out on the desk again, and then he read the whole thing through again. It was another hour, almost eleven, before they got back from Schofield. When he heard the jeep grind up outside, he refolded the paper, carefully, along its already worn creases, and together with the ten-cent notebook locked it up in his little Art-Metal lockbox. He could see by their faces, when they came in, that it had not worked with Col Delbert at Schofield. "Well," Lt Ross said. He threw his helmet viciously at the bare cot in the corner. A puff-cloud of dust rose from the cot. "All I can say is its a great fucking war," Lt Ross said bitterly, and leaned his carbine carefully against the desk. Then he sat down and rubbed a grimy hand over his dusty face. "The traffic's still terrific, even this late at night. I bet it took us four hours to get down here." Pete Karelsen, his carbine slung on his shoulder, stepped forward and came to attention in that big-butted-like-a-roundbottomed-doll way of his and made his wide-swinging, sweeping old timer's salute. "Sir, Sgt Karelsen wishes to thank the Company Commander for what he has done." "I didnt do anything," Lt Ross said. "All I did was to get my ass on the Great White Father's list." "Sir, the Company Commander tried. Thats what counts." "No, its not what counts either!" Lt Ross cried violently. "The only thing that counts" - He managed to bring his voice back down to normal. "- in this world is results. I failed," he said, "utterly and miserably." "Sir, the Company Commander did everything he could," Pete said. "For Christ's sake, Sgt Karelsen!" Lt Ross said, "quit talking to me in the third person