From Here to Eternity (29 page)

get caught?" he asked this dream. "How can I get caught? In the little town in Oregon where I come from nobody but the very rich even venture out as far as Seattle. When I come home wearing all my demure conservative private secretary's clothes and retire, on the modest 'nestegg' I will have, who is to doubt I am and was just what I say I am?" "Nobody, I guess. But why? How did you ever get hold of the idea?" "I had a boyfriend," the apparition said. "I was a waitress, working in the local chain drugstore. He was from one of the richest families in town. Old story, with no new twists. I didnt get knocked up, nothing like that. He just married the girl his parents thought was suitable for his position, after two years of sleeping with me." "Too bad," he murmured to it. Was that the whiskey that was loosening him up so, all through his arms and legs? "Too bad. Rotten." "It does make a pretty story, doesnt it?" the voice smiled. "Maybe they could make a movie from it." "They did," he said. "Ten thousand of them." "But not with the ending this one has. This one does not end with the heroine still devoted, with the heroine going to work for them as maid in their new home, taking care of their children for them, just to be near her beloved, like was in this lovely movie, The Hollow of Intention." "No," he said. "Life aint like that, not very often. Not at all in the sections of life I've seen." "Nor in any other sections of it. No it certainly is not. I left town after the marriage and went to Seattle, as a waitress. There was a bigtime pimp use to come in the store, all the girls pointed him out to me. It wasnt very hard to interest him into making a pass, the hard part was in letting him lay me and making him think I liked it. So that I could work him then, when he thought I loved him, into doing what he meant to do all along. Only, I fixed it so I got sent here, instead of Panama or Mexico; because he loved me, you see, and I loved him. He didnt know that every night after he left my place I'd get up and go and puke my guts out." "Lorene," he said, "Lorene," and he was not sure if he was dreaming this, or saying it out loud. "You've got a lot of guts, Lorene. I'm proud of you, Lorene. I understand you now, Lorene, and I am proud of you, no matter what any other bastard says." "Guts," the voice said. "Guts are nothing. Guts are only good for what you can make them bring you." "You sound hard, Lorene." "If prestige, position, money are what the good men need from their wives, why I will get them. The only way they can be got. With money. "And after I go home with a stocking full of bills, after I build the new home for my mother and myself, after I join the Country Club and take up golf, get in the most acceptable bridge club, read them a book report on The Hollow of Intention for the Tuesday Literary Club - then the proper man with the proper position will find me as a proper wife who can keep a proper home and raise the proper children, and I will marry him. And I will be happy." "Lorene," he dreamed, "I hope you pull it off. By god, I hope you do." "Theres nothing to pull off. Its all there. One, two, three. In black and white. In my town there are many who have done this, except that they were amateur whores, 'mistresses,' instead of professionals. "And then," the voice said softly, "with it all arranged and running like a well oiled clock, the other will fade out and die and be only the memory of one of those dreams you dream, and are always afraid will happen to you in real life, but that never do. Because when you are proper, you are safe." "Lorene," he dreamed, "Lorene. Lorene, I think that I love you, Lorene. You've got guts and beauty and, Lorene, I think thats why I love you, Lorene." "You're drunk," said the voice. "How could a man love a whore? that he met for the first time in a whorehouse? You're drunk and you had better go to sleep." "Thats what I thought you'd say," he grinned slyly at the apparition, at the dream. "I knew you'd say that." "How did you know?" the voice said. "I just knew," he said. "I know you, Lorene. But will he love you, Lorene, this rich guy? Will he love you like I think I do?" "You dont love me," the sleepiness around him said. "You're drunk. And he wont be rich." "But he'll have prestige, position, money, all the things you said, all the things us fucking joes wont never have. But I dont think he'll love you much, Lorene. I just dont think he will, somehow." "He will never know that I was a whore. There is no way in God's world he could ever find it out." "It wasnt that I mean, Lorene." "And for the rest - I'll make him love me. Because by then, I really should know how." "No. No one ever has it all, Lorene. Some that are lucky are allowed to choose, but even then its not a choice. But no one ever has it all, somehow. Theres not even any use to ask for it, or even fight for it. Dont ever expect it either, Lorene. He will never love you, Lorene, this rich guy. Your mind, Lorene, being what it is, aint goin to let him love you. Thats the part you'll never have, thats the part you'll have to pay. No one ever has it all, and what you get from life at all you pay him dearly for, by giving up what you really wanted more, but never knew it, never realized, until after he high pressured you to sign." "Its time you went to sleep," the voice said soothingly. "I know: Because I'm drunk. But its when I'm drunk, Lorene, that I can see the things I cant remember and cant see, when I'm sober. I'm drunk and dreaming, but oh, Lorene, I can see the Truth so plain. I can almost reach out and touch it." Then, it seemed, the long pale dream gowned in the filmy flowing stuff that did not cover up the nipples or the swelling black triangle that he loved to look at reached down to him the plate with the golden bugle on it and the other plate in the other hand with the two cans of C Ration Meat&Beans, and bent over him and kissed him on the lips because he had chosen the wrong one and the cloudy heavens fell. "Now go to sleep." "Why did you kiss me? You think I'm drunk, and that I wont remember. But I'll remember. And I'll come back." "Shush. Shush. Of course you'll come back." "You think I wont. But I will. I'll be back. I'll always be back." "Of course you will, I know you will." "I'll be back Payday Night." "And I'll be looking for you." "And I'll remember everything I saw tonight and explain it to you then. I saw it all so clear, so plain. I know that I'll remember. Dont you think I will remember?" "Of course you will remember." "I must remember. Its important. Dont go away, Lorene. Stay here." "I'll stay here. You go to sleep now." "All right," he said, "all right, Lorene."

CHAPTER 18

HE DID REMEMBER. He had been very drunk and very dreamy, but he remembered. All during the time the three heavily hung-over soldiers, looking very chastened but with their faces newly clean of pressure, meekly ate their breakfast in the rich man's mirror encrusted dining room of the Alexander Young Hotel in downtown Honolulu and then after the waffles and fried eggs and ham and bacon and much coffee, all of a fortifying excellence, walked across town through the deserted dew-fresh city streets, of early morning to the Army-Navy Y to catch a cab back and be late for Reveille - all during this he was remembering. All during the thirty-five mile cab trip back he was remembering. His head felt very big and very soft to the touch and it was hard to separate the dream of last night from the reality. But he could remember distinctly that she kissed him, on the mouth. Whores do not kiss soldiers on the mouth, neither do they tell them their life story. But he could remember all the details of her story, and how when she was caught up in the telling of it the carefully educated accent and the meticulous serenity, both probably very painfully acquired, had dropped off of her revealing the real Lorene. A hard Lorene, a cold and brilliant, like a diamond; but real, very real, and alive. This was what clinched it for him. He had gotten under her shell, as men very seldom get under women's shells, as soldiers never get under whores' shells, and he was going back payday night, if he had to steal the money, because, he thought, in this world, any more, with things like they are, the hardest of all hard things was to know the real from the illusion, to meet one other human being breath to breath without the prefabricated sound-proofed walls of modern sanitation always in between and know in meeting that this was this human and not this human's momentary role; in this world that was the hardest, because in this world, he thought, each bee out of his own thorax makes the wax for his own cell, to protect his own private stock of honey, but I have broken through, just once, this one time only. Or, at least, he thought, I think I have. In fact, thinking back about it, the only thing about it all that he could not remember was the old familiar drunken revelation, the moment when he had reached out and grasped the whole of all truth and compressed it into a single sentence that was one single cure-all capsule, easy to swallow, painless to take. Of that all he could remember was that he had done it. He could not remember the sentence. But then, he thought, surely you do not expect to remember that, all your life you have been not remembering that, you should be used to that. They pulled in home (after taking the precaution to walk the last two blocks, just in case Holmes or The Warden might be watching for them) just as the Company was going upstairs after breakfast. He was a little worried and Angelo was very worried, once they were back inside the half-forgotten confines of the Post, but Stark who did not have to stand Reveille formation was not worried at all, arid not above razzing them a little. But worrying at all was needless, this time they were lucky. Chief Choate, still their Corporal, was waiting for them on the porch. Neither Holmes nor The Warden nor S/Sgt Dhom had taken Reveille this morning, the Chief said, 2nd Lt Culpepper had taken it, and the Chief was able to report his squad all present and get by with it, since Sergeant Platoon Guide Galovitch was as stupid as he was zealous, but goddam them, where had they been. Feeling very lucky, they both rushed upstairs, like runners who are safe on a steal at second and then got ready to steal third, and changed from their civilians straight into fatigues. Chief Choate, his deadpan Indian stolidity showing plainly by its walnut blankness that he had not said all there was to say, patiently followed them upstairs, bloodshot-eyed but placid after his customary hard night at Choy's. 'The uniform's been changed," he told them ponderously. "Sidearms and leggins." "Jesus whynt you tell us?" Maggio, who had thought he was all dressed, said angrily. "Aint had a chanct," the Chief said. "Up to now." "We better hurry," Maggio said, and sprinted for his wall locker. Prew was looking at the Chief's moon face which revealed nothing of the startling implications of the order. "Why, that means we drill outside." "You guessed it right. They changed the Drill Schedule early this mornin. Looks like the rainy season's over. You better get your leggins on." Prew nodded and went to his wall locker and Chief Choate lit a cigaret and stared at the knotting string of rising smoke and waited patiently for them to come back. "Old Ike," he said, "is been snoopin all over hell, since before breakfast, lookin for you. I tole him you run over to the PX for a pack of butts." "Thanks, Chief," Prew said. "Thanks nothing," the Chief said. "Thanks hell." Angelo was feverishly finishing up his first leggin, half hitching the string end. "I always know this guy was chickenshit," he grinned. The Chief looked at them stolidly. "This is no twobit ass eating, kid. This here is serious. Or maybe you dint hear me? When I said Drill moves outside?" "No, I dint," Angelo said. The Chief ignored him. "The word's gone out already," he said to Prew. "From now on its no holts barred. They goin to have practicly a free hand with you, in the field." Prew slipped his toe in through the leggin strap and worked it back, not saying anything. There was nothing to say. He had known for a long time it was coming, but he had not expected it to come. It was like with dying. "Another stunt like missin Reveille," the Chief said, "and you gone. I went out on a limb for you this morning. I wont do it again." "I wouldnt expect you to," Prew said. "Not now." "I cant afford to," the Chief said, placidly, factually, no guilt in his face or voice. "Maybe you think I let you down, because you and me been friends." "No." "I'm lettin you know now where I stand, so you Wont think I doublecrossed you if I got to turn you in." "Okay. I got it." "I got pull with the Colonel," the Chief explained factually, "but I aint got that much pull. I help you out along, what little bit I can, but no more goin out on limbs. I lucky to keep what I got and I aint goin to jeopardize it. I like this outfit." "So do I," Prew said. "Thats funny aint it?" "Yes," the Chief said. "Very funny. Ha, ha. Ho, ho." "Big joke," Prew said. "On me." "You buckin a big organization, when you buck the fighters in this outfit. They run this outfit. They maybe damn near run the Regmint. And they mean to see you go out for fightin, if they got to wear you down to a flyweight to do it." "Tell me somethin I dont know." "Okay. I thought you want the tip. But you tough. You a hard man. They cant touch you." He made as if to get up. "Wait," Prew said. "Not as long as I keep within the ARs, within the Law, I dont see how they can. As long as I dont break no Laws." "Maybe not. But they want that Division Championship next winter bad, Dynamite wants it bad." "I dont see what he can do, long as I break no Laws." "Dont kid me," the Chief said, "dont snow me. You no reecroot. You been in quite a while. I guess you aint never seen a bunch get together and give a man The Treatment." "I've heard about it" "Whats The Treatment?" Maggio wanted to know. The Chief ignored him. "Maybe they aint got it developed to a science, like the boys have at The Point, or VMI, or KMI, or Culver," he said to Prew, "but its effective. Theirs nothin in this world will bring a man into line quicker. Or else kill him. I seen it just once, in PI. The guy deserted, went back in the hills and married a Moro. When they caught him he got twelve years. He ended up a federal lifer." "I'm too smart for that," Prew grinned. "And I dont kill easy, Chief," he added, grinning stiffly, feeling the stiffness spreading clear up to his forehead like slow setting plaster, drawing these lips back tight on these teeth and cutting gashes in under these cheekbones, not him doing it, the stiffness doing it, as it always did this stiffness that came over him, over his face, in the ring when a man was trying to hit him, in a drunken brawl when a man drew a knife on him, any time there was fight, any time there was threat, always when there was this word, this kill word, which was the rottenest, foulest stinking word there was, but which some men used so freely and so proudly. Chief Choate just looked at him stolidly, untouched, but Maggio who was watching him too was touched. Something like Humphrey Bogart, Maggio thought, something like a skull, more like a skull, a lipless cheekless deathshead skull. "I can take everything they hand out," Prew grinned, "and ask for more." "Yas," Maggio said, "and me too." "Do you want a busted head, kid?" Chief Choate asked him seriously. "No," Maggio said. "Then keep your big yap shut. This is serious. And if you smart, you keep your big nose out altogether. This is his fight. You ony make it worse on him by gettin in." "Thats right, Angelo," Prew grinned, feeling the stiffness soften as he looked at the furious narrowshouldered little Wop. "I hate to see somebody get screwed," Maggio said. "Then you might as well get use to it," the Chief said. "You probly be seein it often before you die. "I dont see why you want to do it," he said to Prew. "You ony makin it hard on yourself. But thats your business, its none of my affair. I hate to see you fuck.up, is all." "You refused to fight for Dynamite yourself, once." "Yas, but with me I knew what was the story. I had enough pull in Regmint I could make it stick. You cant." "Maybe not. We'll see. I aint never refused a order yet, when its official duty. But I dont think they got the right to order me what to do outside of duty hours." "It aint a question of right or wrong, its a question of fack. But there is awys been a question if there is any outside duty hours for a soljer, whether the soljer has the right to be a man." "And its gettin more and more that way lately, in this world all over." "And not ony in the Army," Maggio put in, and Prew could see that Angelo was remembering Gimbel's Basement. "Thats right," Chief Choate said. "And so what?" "So this duty stuff is okay, maybe," Maggio said, "for wartime. In wartime a soljer's awys under orders. But not in peacetime." "Been wartime," Chief Choate said, "ever since I enlisted. And thats thirteen years ago. For an army, its awys wartime." "Thats right," Prew said. "There aint no peacetime army. But what I dont believe, is that the Regimental Boxing Squad, or fighting for the Regimental Boxing Squad, is essential to the perpetual war effort." "You ast Dynamite what he thinks," the Chief said, "and see what he says." "Hell," Angelo Maggio said. "Thats no problem, Mr. Anthony. Dynamite's so full of West Point propaganda it runs out of his ears an leaves a yellow stream behind him." "Maybe," the Chief said, "but he's the Compny Commander." From out in the quad the guard bugle sounded Drill Call imperatively and Chief Choate got up from the bunk, looking at Prew blankly searchingly. "Well," he said. "Well, I see you." "In the Stockade," Prew grinned, and watched the big man dogtrotting lumberingly graceful down the aisle to his end bunk, to get his equipment on. Then he picked up the bayonet scabbard he had forgotten and worked a hook into the wide length of cartridge belt under the old third pocket. "Nice homecoming gift," he said. "To hell with them," Angelo Maggio said. "All of them. They cant do nothing. What can they do?" "Sure,'1 Prew said and hooked in the other hook and shook them down into the belt, watching the Chief buckling into field training harness, the bayonet that became a toothpick when it hung on him, the light pack that looked like a matchbox on his back, the big hefty Springfield '03 like a Woolworth imitation of itself for small boys when the big fist picked it up. "Him too," Angelo said. "A fine pal." "No, he's all right." When times changed, you accepted it. The days of Jeb Stuart and the plumed hats and the highwayman came riding, riding up to the old inn door; that was the Civil War, that wasnt now. The days when the Emperor was nourished through hardship and the long walk home from Moscow by the full hearted devotion of the Old Guard and the Young Guard who still loved him in defeat, that wasnt now either but even earlier, they didnt have gas warfare then, why, they didnt even kill the enemy, in those days, if they could help it. Times change is all, or maybe those were only stories, maybe only dreamed up afterwards, because they would have liked it to have happened that way. "Just because he use to eat breakfast with me in Choy's, does that make him owe me something? The Chiefs a damned good man." "Sure," Angelo said. "So was Pilate." "Oh, balls. Can it, will you? You dont understand it. Stick to things you understand." "Okay," Angelo said and stuffed his cigaret pack and book of matches into a cartridge pocket. "We'll need these. Jesus, my head. And that goddam Stark layin out down in the cooks' room sleepin up a fog. We better be gettin outside?" The guard bugle in the quad sounding the repeat answered him and from downstairs S/Sgt Dhom's big voice boomed up through the screens, sounding very like a soldier. "All right, up there, you men. Outside for drill. Everybody outside. Lets jerk that lead. Outside. Drill Call." "Lets go, my squad," Chief Choate bellowed. "Grab your hats and grab your bats, this war is on." He lumbered gracefully light footed down the stairs singing Drill Call in a natural basso that carried far, "Fall out for drill, like hell I will, I aint had no chow. I said Fall out for drill, you bet I will, the compny commander's here now." "But he can sing," Angelo said grudgingly. All over the big squadroom men were moving, picking up their rifles and heading for the stairs. "Well. Lets cut this cake," Prew said, picking up the long wood, clean steel, solidness of his own. From the third floor porch he could look down out over all of it, the whole ritual of drill call, the first call after the rainy season. He stopped to watch it. Angelo stopped too, waiting for him, indifferent to the picture. It was a good picture though, a soldiering picture, like the Pall Mall ad (they pronounce that Pell Mell, dont they, like the bloody English peerage. I like Pall Mall better though, its American, even if it aint highclass) that he still had scotch-taped to the inside of his footlocker top, a fine picture, if you were a thirty year man. The quadrangle was alive with men in blue fatigues and the khaki almost faded white of belts and leggins and the sharp-brimmed olive drab campaign hats, pouring out the walks and lining up in their companies, very soldierly, the kind of soldierly that wins a war, he thought proudly, any war, but all those other companies were remote, even the bugle