Whistle (43 page)

Winch didn’t really care. His overlordship was only theoretical; on paper. And only temporary, at that. Let them die. Somebody had to.

He cared more whether Marion Landers got his ass in trouble. Just as he cared more about damned Bobby Prell. And his mess/sgt, Johnny Stranger.

Winch did not feel that strongly about the other old-company men. Perhaps it was because the rest had already been back awhile and had changed, before he and Strange and the other two had arrived. Or perhaps his life had become entangled with those three, on the long road back.

The three of them meant more to him now than all these other men outside his window, sweating and blowing steam like broken-down, ruined horses in the winter cold.

These others must have problems. And disrupted private lives. And wives, and kids, and maybe parents who lay awake nights worrying over them. Winch didn’t really give a damn.

Prell and Landers and Strange were what was left to him of his real life.

Somewhere down in the deepest part of his mind, in some place he wished neither to investigate nor explore, but consciously knew was there, was a strong feeling, a superstition, that if he could bring Strange and Prell and Landers through, without them dying or going crazy, and make them come out the other side intact, he himself might come through. And Winch’s nightmares had been getting worse and worse, lately.

It angered him into a fury, that Landers would let himself get into a bind at a time like this. Winch did not know whether he ought to get involved or not.

Even Jack Alexander didn’t want to be involved with it. Not right now.

Any fool should know better. Times like this were the times when everybody’s righteousness came into play. Every cheap, mean prick like that Hogan got all puffed up and went looking for a victim, just to make himself some points. Hell, even honest men couldn’t help doing it.

Maybe, probably, it would be good for Landers. Let Landers serve his three months, or six months, and learn a lesson.

That evening, after work at cocktail time, Winch cornered Col Stevens just the same, and held him captive against the bar at the Camp O’Bruyerre officers club.

Stevens knew about Landers and his special court, right enough. And he didn’t think much of it or of Landers. That came out at once, as soon as Winch brought the subject up. Winch did not bring the subject up until he had bought the old man at least three drinks.

Winch had learned long ago how to handle officers in their own terrain. And being a warrant officer, with club membership privileges and the right to mingle on privileged ground and be an equal, was only carrying the old principle one step further.

Respect was the secret. No matter what you really thought. All any old West Pointer wanted from you was the right to be fatherly. The higher the rank, the greater the father. All you had to do was keep on Sir-ing them, and not be cocky because you had moved up into officer country. Cockiness was something they watched for narrowly.

Respect. Not with obsequiousness, either, but with charm. Fortunately, Winch had not been standing behind the door when the charm was portioned out. He used all of it on Col Stevens. As he had been using it on everybody, since moving up into this rarefied atmosphere.

“He was one of your old outfit, I guess. Wasn’t he? On Guadalcanal?” Col Stevens said dubiously. He leaned against the bar familiarly, at his ease. He liked to come out here from town because of all the old West Point buddies he had in Second Army Command.

Winch was not unwilling to lie. When it was absolutely necessary. In a way, lying might be called the history of his life. “Yes, sir. Guadalcanal,” he lied. “But he was hit on New Georgia.”

Stevens nodded. That had to count. “We have a lot of men out there who’ve been hit on some island or some continent,” he added nevertheless, mildly.

“True, sir. And most of them are a little goofy for a while.”

“But not quite like that. Just what is your point, Mart?” Stevens picked up his glass, and smiled at it. “Do you mind if I call you Mart? I’ve heard a great deal about you, here and there.”

“My pleasure, sir,” Winch said promptly, and smiled his most charming smile. Till his jaws ached. “I’ve heard a good deal about you too, sir, or I wouldn’t have approached you. My point is, I hate to lose his ability and his intelligence. That’s it, in a nutshell.”

“Yes, of course there’s that,” Stevens murmured. “And what you tell me carries a lot of weight. I don’t want to do any good man in.” He shook his head. “But I’ve decided that I don’t intend to interfere. I don’t really think it’s my place.”

“Nor would anybody ask you to, sir. Least of all me,” Winch said. “But we all of us know, all us old Regulars, that the good civilian doctor Maj Hogan is—shall we say—a little overzealous.”

It was funny how you could pump yourself up till you fell into their way of talking; their language. It was just a different way of saying things. Less direct. But you had to be careful then not to overdo it, and let them catch you.

Stevens had smiled, then broken into an unwilling laugh, and now he blushed a little, embarrassedly. Cleared his throat.

“Hogan’s certainly not a Regular,” Winch said. “Nor does he know how to handle Regulars.”

“Your man Landers is not a Regular, either, I think, is he?” Stevens smiled.

“No, sir. He’s not. And as a matter of fact, he’s a three-and-a-half-year college student. That’s another reason I hate to see us lose him. But he acts more like a Regular than a draftee.”

“I don’t know what to make of a man like that,” Col Stevens said, his brows knitted. “He ought to be putting his shoulder to the wheel. Especially at a time like this.” He eyed Winch, narrowly.

“He probably doesn’t even know anything unusual is going on, sir,” Winch said.

“Everybody knows,” Stevens said. “Even my wife knows.” He bit his lip, then exploded. Politely. But his gray eyes, which matched his hair, flashed. “I’ve only had two courts-martial since I’ve been out there. And both were only summaries.”

“Well, there’s another way you could do it. You could bust him down to private, sir.” Stevens’ glass was on the bar, empty, and Winch signaled the enlisted barman for another. Stevens held up his hand and shook his head, demurring. Winch motioned the barman to bring the whiskey anyway. “If you don’t want it, somebody else will, sir.”

“You’re not drinking, yourself?”

“No, sir,” Winch said cheerily. “I’m not. I can’t. The doctors won’t let me. But don’t let anybody tell you it isn’t missed. I miss it like hell.”

The old man snorted his laughter softly.

The glass delivered, Winch suddenly stood away from the bar and held his arm out toward the room. It was getting more crowded now, more smoke-filled. “I’m not keeping you, am I, sir? I didn’t mean to do that,” Winch lied.

“No, no. No, no,” Stevens said. “Go ahead. I want to hear your point out.”

“Well, it wasn’t much, sir. I just thought that you could bust him to private,” Winch said. “He’s a buck sergeant, you know. I made him myself. He was my company clerk for a while. Before my battalion colonel stole him to make him his communications sergeant.” He smiled again. Winch did not wink, but he did something with his eyes that was almost that. To clinch it, he added, “That was only a few days before he was hit. The battalion colonel didn’t even have time to promote him.”

“I’m afraid busting him is beyond the authority I have,” Stevens said faintly. “These men are all transit casuals, you know. I don’t have unit authority over them. It would have to go all the way to Washington.”

“It would still be better than a court-martial, sir,” Winch said.

The colonel smiled. “I suppose it would at that,” he admitted. “But the point. You haven’t made any point, Mister Winch.”

“I don’t have any point, sir. At least, no point except the one I made, which is to save the man.” Winch studied his half-finished glass of ice cubes and grapefruit juice on the bar. “It did seem a little strange to me though that the first lieutenant who was involved, the other man in the fight, did not think it worthwhile to prefer charges himself.”

Stevens was staring at him, and continued to stare. “That’s true. You’re right. He didn’t, did he?” he said after a moment.

“Did you talk to him at all, sir?”

“No. No, I didn’t. Perhaps I ought to talk to him.”

Winch picked up his lousy grapefruit juice and drained the glass to the ice, staring straight ahead. “It might be worth a shot, sir,” he said as he set the glass down. “Under the circumstances.”

That was the way they left it. Winch knew when to quit. Col Stevens offered a promise that he would talk to the 1st/lt patient who was involved, tomorrow. Then he smiled a slightly crooked smile, before he spoke.

“You know something, Mart? I would be pleased to have had a commanding officer like you. I did have one, for a while once.”

“Why, thank you, sir,” Winch said, and put up all that he could raise of the humility they thought you were supposed to have, into his most loving, most respectful smile. All he could think of at the moment was how quick he could get the fuck out of there.

“Did you ever think of trying for a commission?” Col Stevens asked.

“No, sir. I didn’t. I’m not sure my health would be up to it,” Winch smiled cheerily. “Anyway, why should I start taking orders from everybody as a second lieutenant, when as a w/o I can give them.”

Stevens smiled. “I suppose you’re right, at that.”

“I think so, sir,” Winch smiled, with the same cheery smile.

Outside, he walked to his little Dodge through the cold winter rain. It was still falling. The Dodge was in the middle of the big new asphalt parking lot for the club. Winch felt as though he had expended as much energy as if he had played the full sixty minutes of a football game, and his knees were shaking. In the car he turned on the windshield wipers and just sat a minute. Grateful he did not have to compose his face into a cheery smile, again. The lights from the club, where he could not stand to be, shone out at him and glinted across the wet asphalt, and prismed through the rain-smeared windshield glass, sardonically promising comfort where he already knew there was none. He could not remember ever having felt so desolate. He would have given everything he had ever owned for a drink, right now.

Out in the air the rain had felt good on his face but in the car he was chilled. He was wearing his new $150 tailored trench coat and one of those brimless overseas caps which were required by regulations now (called
cunt cap
by the troops, because of what the seam across the top made them think of). Ruefully Winch thought about the old campaign hats of before the war, and wished he had had one in the rain. The trench coat had a longer skirt than was usual and was green, the color that was “in,” now. The Dodge was the result of a deal Jack Alexander had engineered for him. In town in Luxor was a cozy apartment Alexander had known about, and Carol Firebaugh should be waiting for him there, soon. He should be saving his money, and not spending it on all this ritzy shit, Alexander had told him, or else how could he buy in on anything? Any of the deals?

After a while, he started the car and the heater and drove home to his quarters. In the tiny room he drank the two remaining glasses of white wine in a bottle he had there, and without taking off any of his clothes except the trim winter blouse, fell on the bed and went sound asleep.

He was awakened by the phone, ringing. He woke confused, thinking it was the sound-power field phone from the battalion command post; Col Becker. He was out in the big open field again. And fuck Col Becker. Col Becker couldn’t help. Col Becker couldn’t even see them, from where Becker was. The mortars were falling on them fore and aft, again. He could see that from where he stood. He was shouting and waving at them frantically and screaming again, “Get them out of there! Get them out of there! Can’t you see what they’re doing? They’re bracketing in on them! Get them out of there!” He bit it back with his teeth, as he sat up and looked at the ordinary, everyday phone as if it were some foreign, alien object on the little bedside stand. Even from this far away, he could see the great white eyes of the platoons, white-white in their muddy faces, looking back at him. For help.

When he picked up the black phone out of its cradle, and cautiously asked who it was, clearing his throat so it would not sound husky, it was Jack Alexander.

He had not cried out. He was sure he hadn’t. As long as he didn’t cry it out loud, the sentence, as long as he didn’t tell anybody about it, or need to tell anybody about it, as long as nobody knew, he would be all right, he was sure he would be.

“Well, what do you want?” he said, more sharply than he had meant to say it.

“Don’t bite my head off,” the thick voice said. “I just called up to congratulate you. I don’t know what you said to the Old Man but you sure sold him.”

“I got him to promise to talk to that lieutenant,” Winch said.

“Yes. No, I don’t mean about Landers. I mean about you. I don’t know what you said, but he came away thinking you’re about the greatest guy that ever lived,” the voice said dryly.

“I didn’t tell him anything about me,” Winch said.

“I of course did not tell him the truth,” the heavy voice said coyly, in a ponderous try at a joke.

Winch tried to get hold of himself. “Yeah. I’m glad you didn’t give me away.”

Alexander didn’t waste breath on any laugh. “I’m to get hold of that lieutenant tomorrow. The Old Man even called me at home. But I’m on call to him all the time, anyway. So we’ll talk to the lieutenant tomorrow. Things are looking a good deal better for your boy Landers.”

“But what we’ve got to do is to get Hogan to withdraw all those charges. That’s the main thing.”

“That asshole,” Alexander said. “He’s so anxious to get in good with Stevens, he’ll squat and strain if Stevens hollers ‘shit.’ Don’t worry about him.”

“Well, then it looks pretty good.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it does. Say, listen, are you coming on into town tonight? Because—”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Winch said cautiously.

“There’s a couple of guys from out of town going to be here,” Alexander said. “Important guys. It would be a good thing for you to meet them.”