From Here to Eternity (50 page)

tomorrow." "What the hell has got into you all of a sudden, cookie?" Prew said. "You never act like this before." "I didnt?" the cook said blankly. "Why hell no. What kind of a impression you think you making on the Air Corps? acting like this all of a sudden. And here I been telling what a fine kitchen force we got." "Like hell," the cook said, recovering. "I say no sandwiches. And thats all. You got nerve, coming in here like a goddamned officer and demanding sandwiches. And just for the record, no coffee neither, see? You just had coffee." "What you want to get temperamental for all of a sudden?" Prew said puzzledly. "You never turned us down before." Friday gasped, then coughed. "Yeah?" the cook jeered, not taken in this time. "No sandwiches." "If they want sandwiches," a voice like the clap of doom said thickly from the flap behind them, "give them sandwiches." As one man the three of them turned, even Friday turned, to see what the cook was already staring at so unbelievingly. Maylon Stark stood just inside the flap like the hero of the melodrama come on stage at the last possible second of the last scene of the last act, to save the situation. The deepset purple crescents under his eyes were puffy with sleep, and his face was fat with puffiness. His voice was thick with it and his uniform looked very slept in. Dangling from his right hand was a bottle. "Why hello, Maylon," the cook smiled apprehensively. "What are you doing up at this hour?" "As long as I run this goddam Mess," Stark said thickly to no one, "there will be sandwiches and coffee for night guahds, any time they want it." "And I agree with you, Maylon," the cook said stoutly. "One hundred percent. But these guys aint goin on post nor comin off, they just wanderin around, when they ought to be in bed asleep. One of them aint even from the Company, he's from Hickam Field. 'Howm I ever gonna get any sleep, I got to feed the whole of Hickam Field." "You aint supposed to sleep," Stark said thickly. He looked around solemnly and then marched stolidly sedately as a row of fenceposts to the vacant camp chair and sat down heavily, staring at nothing. A strong smell of raw whiskey wafted through the tent. "You aint suppose to sleep, and you aint going to sleep. You get all day off tomorrow to sleep, because you stayin up all night tonight. You want to work tomorrow, you can sleep now." He turned his head and stared grimly at the cook. The cook did not say anything. "Well?" Stark said solemnly. "What do you say, cookie? You want to sleep. Go on. Turn in. I'll stay up with this the rest of the night. And you can go on shift tomorrow." "I dint say that, Maylon," the cook explained. "All I said was--" "Then shut up," Stark said. "Okay, Maylon. I was only--" "I said SHUT UP." He turned and looked at Prew without seeing him. He appeared to be looking through him at the wall behind him. "You men want sandwiches, you get sandwiches. Men got to eat," he said. "They kin kill each other off all day long, but the ones that left still got to eat. Thats one thing a man can always count on," he said. "As long as they is one man left, he got to eat," he said thickly. Nobody said anything. "Fix these men some sandwiches, you son of a bitch," Stark said to the wall behind Prewitt. "Okay, Maylon," the cook said. "Whatever you say." "Then move, you son of a bitch," Stark said thickly. "We can fix them, Maylon," Prew said soothingly. "He dont need to do it." "He's a greaseball," Stark said to nobody. "He gets paid to fix sandwiches. You want him to fix you sandwiches, he'll fix you sandwiches." "Sure," the cook said. "I dont mind fixing them." "Shut up, you son of a bitch," Stark said. "I just as soon do it myself," Prew said uneasily. "We get us a sandwich and cup a hot coffee and take them up on the embankment with us where we wont bother nobody. Then he can get some sleep." "Fuck his sleep," Stark said. "This is the mess tent. You want to eat in the mess tent, you eat in the mess tent. He say anything I kill the son of a bitch. Need some good cooks for change anyways." "We really rather take them up there," Prew said uneasily. "Okay," Stark said. "Going to play the git-tar, hunh?" he said woodenly. "Yeah," Prew said, from the stove, putting the meat on. "Okay," Stark said thickly. "Go on back to sleep, you worthless basrad." "I aint sleepy, Maylon," the cook said. "I said go back to sleep," the doom crack voice said. "Okay," the cook said. He lay back down on his table as silently and unobtrusively as possible. Stark did not look at him. He did not look at any of them. He raised his right hand with the bottle in it and unscrewed the cap with his left hand and took a long drink and screwed the cap back and let his arm fall back down dangling outside the chair arm. He did not say another word. When Prew had them done he handed them around and they poured their coffee nervously in the screaming unbreakable silence that rose like mist from Stark. Then they tiptoed out gladly, like eVacuees leaving the ominous stillness before a hurricane that is more frightening than any storm. Prew turned back at the flap to thank him. Stark did not move or look around. "Men got to eat," he said gravely, heavily, like an unbeliever trying to convince himself by taking an oath in church. From the top of the embankment Hickam Field made a glow on the night sky. They were having night flying training every night and the hangars were lit up like empty theaters. Red and blue and green lights winked high overhead from the flying planes, and from around the hive that was the tower. Now and then a searchlight fingered the bellies of the clouds. A hundred yards inside the road, the B 18s, ultimate and ungrateful purpose of all this regulated life that had been rolled out to give the problem realisticness, squatted like sullen birds in the nest of their revetments, looking like they resented being used as decoys for reality. Far down to the left they could just barely pick out Slade's relief moving on the road. "What you think of our mess sergeant?" Prew said, chewing and swallowing ravenously in the clear sharp still air. "I told you he was a good man." "He wasnt quite what I expected," Slade said, cautiously. "He runs that kitchen like a dictator," Prew said. "I could see that," Slade said. "Course, he had a couple drinks tonight," Prew said. "He didnt seem very happy," Slade said charily. "Happy?" Prew said. "He's the happiest man I know." "How about Thousand Mile Blues?" Friday said, tuning the guitar. "While we wait for Andy." "I'll buy that," Slade said eagerly and relievedly. "I'm a blues man." "Then Andy's your boy," Friday said. "He'll be here soon." The truck turned off its lights as soon as it turned in off the road, and then they could hear the low gear grinding in through the gap. A little cluster of lights formed around a central blackness, and all moved off bobbing toward the kitchen. "I thought you said it was a blackout," Slade said. "Thats the lieutenant," Prew said. "Oh," Slade said. One of the lights came away from the tent, looking tiny and alone now by itself, and started up the path. It became Andy, carrying the other guitar. "Was Stark in the kitchen?" Prew said. "Yeah," Andy said. "Did he have a bottle?" "Hell no. At least it wasnt showing. He was sound asleep. At least his eyes was shut." "He aint so drunk," Prew said. "Neither am I," Andy said. "But look what I got." He opened his shirt and pulled a bottle out of it. "Hey," Friday said. "Where'd you get it?" "Oh, I got angles," Andy said. "Come on," Prew said. "Where'd you get it?" "I dint get it," Andy grinned. 'The Warden got hold of it some someplace. I bought it off of him. That sumbitch could find whiskey on a desert island. He come over with them in the truck, drunkern hell." "Dint the lieutenant say anything?" "Hell, you know the lootenant never says nothing to The Warden. About nothing." "Who's The Warden," Slade said. "The first sergeant," Prew said. "Name's Warden." He introduced Slade to Andy and appropriated the bottle for the Air Corps man. "Thats them now," Andy said, pointing to the lights coming from the tent and starting off to make the rounds of the posts. "Theres only three. I guess The Warden aint with them." "Well, we got at least an hour yet," Prew said. "Gimme the pitch," Andy said to Friday. "Gimme the bottle," Prew said to Andy. "Here, Slade. You want a nuther drink?" "Christ," Slade said happily. "Christ. You fellers really have the life." "You think so?" Prew said. "It aint so bad, is it? "I wonder what The Warden come over for," he said.

CHAPTER 31

MILT WARDEN did not exactly know just what he was doing over here himself. He had left the CP on drunken impulse with the first outgoing vehicle, because he did not like the CP and because he was tired of looking at Capt Holmes's increasingly less aristocratic and more moon-like face. And he had found himself in this godforsaken mosquito infested hole with young Lt Culpepper. Looking at Lt Culpepper, Milt Warden could not make up his mind which was worse. Back at the CP he had felt for some time that Capt Holmes had been secretly laughing at him, as if Holmes knew some terribly amusing private joke on him. Milt Warden had not wanted to fall in love with Capt Holmes's wife, all he had meant to do was to get even with Capt Holmes for being a goddamned officer. The other part had slipped up on him, and recently he had acquired a ridiculous but increasingly insistent tendency to hold Capt Holmes personally responsible. If the son of a bitch had only taken care of his own wife like any decent man ought to, none of this would ever happened. And Milt Warden, instead of being deeply in love, would still be able to enjoy life. Milt Warden had seen Karen Holmes twice more since Payday. The first time they spent the night in the Moana again. The second time they had spent the night in the Alexander Young downtown, on the theory that it was best to keep moving around. Both times had ended in a big argument over what they were going to decide to do about it. Both of them agreed they could not go on like this. Both of them agreed they could not stop being in love. Finally, Karen advanced the solution that Milt should take one of the extension courses that had come into prominence with the peacetime draft and become an officer. If he was an officer, she said, he would automatically be shipped back to the States to a new command where none of the EM knew him, and she could follow. If he was an officer, she could divorce Holmes and marry him and let Holmes have his heir. But it was a cinch she could not do that as long as he was an EM, especially an EM in her husband's company. Milt would, Karen thought, make a truly fine and remarkable officer. Milt Warden was not only deeply shocked, he was humiliated. It was not that he was not willing to do anything within reason, but he felt that this was asking too much. And so, for the seventh time, he had made up his mind not to see her any more. That was one of the reasons he was drunk. "Lets eat," Lt Culpepper commanded, as Pfc Russell turned off the ignition, and switched on his flash. This was the signal for the others to switch on their flashes. "What a miserable fucking place to have to inspect posts in," Lt Culpepper said bitterly. "You'd think it was about time we got in some junior officers, what with this expansion." Warden climbed out, grinning at him savagely. Lt Culpepper looked the other way and started toward the kitchen tent. He did not know what the hell the 1st/Sgt wanted to come over here for anyway. He did not like to be around lst/Sgt Warden, it made him uncomfortable. Sometimes he had an awkward suspicion that Milton Anthony Warden was mad. He did not seem to give a damn for anything. Warden waited until Lt Culpepper and Anderson had gone on, and grabbed Pfc Weary Russell by the arm and pulled him back. "Listen, you son of a bitch," he whispered fiercely. "If I dont show up to go back on the truck with you bastards, you are to come back here and pick me up at two o'clock, see?" "But Jesus Christ, Top!" protested Weary Russell, picturing a night of wakefulness sitting in his tent with his watch. "No back talk," Warden said. "You heard me." "What the hell're you going to do over here?" Weary Russell said. Warden grinned at him slyly with his eyebrows. "Theres no women nor nothing," Weary said. Warden merely grinned at him. "Well, at least gimme a drink then," Weary conceded. Warden got the bottle out from under the seat where he had hidden it. "I may be right here to ride back with you," he said as Weary drank. "This is just in case I aint, see? But if I aint, and you dont come back for me, I'll cut your fucking heart out, see?" He clamped a big hand down on Russell's arm for punctuation. "Ouch! Okay," said Weary Russell wearily. "I said okay, dint I? Heres your bottle." "Okay," Warden grinned. "Dont forget, hear? Now take off," he said, and slapped him hard on the rump to start him. He waited till Russell was out of sight, before he hid the bottle between the roots of a keawe tree and followed. Stark was sitting in the camp chair when he and Russell came in through the flap. The cook was at the stove with the lieutenant fixing sandwiches for them. Stark did not get up and offer the seat to the lieutenant. "Hello," Warden grinned at him ferociously. "Hello," Stark said dully. He did not say another word all the time they were there. He did not look at anybody and he did not move his arms from where they dangled over the wood arms of the chair. Andy left first, carrying his guitar in one hand and a second sandwich in the other. Then the lieutenant left with Russell and the corporal to inspect the posts. Warden stayed in the tent. The cook lay back down on the table. "Hey, you," Stark said. "Who, me?" the cook said, sitting up. "Yas, you," Stark said. "Who the hell you think I mean?" "Now what?" the cook said. "What now?" Stark jerked his bead. "Get out," he said. "Take off. You make me sick lookin at you." "Well, where'll I go?" the cook said. "Go to bed and sleep," Stark said. "You look half dead. I cant stand to look at you. I'll run the rest of this shift. I'd ruther do that than have to look at you." "But what about my day off tomorrow?" the cook said. "You'll get your goddam day off," Stark said. "You lazy bastard. Get the fuck out." Okay," the cook said, trying to sound unhappy. "If you say so, Maylon." He was out and gone before anybody could say another word. "Whats the matter with you?" Warden said. "Nothing," Stark said ominously. "Whats the matter with you?" "You're one hell of a glutton for punishment," Warden said. 'To stay up all night when you dont have to." "Maybe I like it," Stark said. "Whats it to you?" "You're drunk," Warden said. "So're you," Stark said. "Sure," Warden grinned savagely. "And about to get drunker. Wheres your goddam bottle?" "Maybe I had a reason for gettin rid of him," Stark hinted darkly. He leaned back in the chair and pulled the bottle out from between a utensil chest and the tent wall, and tossed it up to Warden. "Wheres your bottle?" he said. "Back at the CP," Warden lied. "Empty." "Yeah?" Stark said broodingly. "Well have a drink of mine then." "Thanks," Warden said. "I will." "You're going to need it," Stark said. "I want to talk to you." "Save it," Warden said, around the bottle. "I'm on vacation. And not in no mood to listen to greaseball complaints. You and your goddam kitchen like a couple dry hole old maids. I dont feel like talking official." He handed back the bottle. 'This aint official," Stark said ominously. 'This is private. I hear you got yourself a new girl friend," he said. Warden was on his way to the meatblock to sit down. He did not stop. He did not even pause. He went on and sat down casually, thinking it was just as if somebody had flipped on the dial of a radio. He could feel the old wide angle range tuning in his mind come on and begin to warm up and give off signals, but it was having a hard fight with the static of the red mist of outrage that had been in his brain all evening. He lit himself a cigarette, wondering abstractedly which would win. After he sat down and got himself all comfortably fixed and crossed his legs, he said, "Yeah? Where'd you hear that?" Stark was still staring at him broodingly. "Oh," he said mellowly, "I got ways of findin things out." "Yeah?" Warden said. "Well suppose you utilize them same ways to find out how to mind your own fucking business." "Suppose I dont want to," Stark said. Without getting up he moved his right arm and tossed the bottle. Warden caught it. "Suppose you have to," Warden said. He looked at the long brown bottle dubiously, then upended it and drank. Then he screwed the cap back on and tossed it distastefully. "How'd you find all this out," he said. Without moving in the chair Stark raised his right arm languidly and caught the bottle. He let his arm fall dangling over the chair arm and let the bottle sit on the ground. "Nem-mine how I found it out," Stark said. "Nem-mine that. The thing is I know it. The thing is its a wonner the whole damn post dont know it. I tole you once to watch out for that stuff or you would get burnt. I tole you all about it. I know all about that stuff, I had some of it at Bliss." "Was it good?" Warden asked him thoughtfully. "No," Stark said. "Yes. I dont know. Fack is, I dint know enough then to be able to judge. But that aint the point. The point is -" He stopped and shook his head. "I thought you was a smart man," he said. Warden got up from the meatblock that was beside the chair and stepped around the chair and bent to get the bottle. There was a way to handle this. There was a way to handle everything. All you had to do was be careful. But then, you got so tired of always going around always being careful. "I want to know how you found it out," he roared suddenly, with unexpected violence, almost in Stark's ear. "I seen you down to the Alexander Young Hotel," Stark said placidly. "Lessn a week ago. Probly ten thousand other dog soljers from Schofield seen you too. You must be nuts." "Probly," Warden grinned at him savagely. He stepped back with the bottle hanging from his hand, his left hand. "And just what the fuck do you propose to do about it? Or have you decided yet?" "So!" Stark said. "You dont deny it, do vou?" "Why the hell should I? You seen me, dint you?" Stark drew himself up drunkenly formally in the camp chair and stared at the other woodenly. "I done already got my mind made up. What to do about it. Nothing you can say will change me. Its useless to try." "I aint tryin yet," Warden said. "Wont do you any good," Stark said. "You might as well give up. If you cant take care of yourself, Firs Sarnt, somebody got to take care of it for you. And it looks like I'm elected. "You aint leavin this heah tent tonight, Firs Sarnt," Stark said solemnly, folding his arms to pronounce the sentence, "until you promise me on your word of honor as a soljer you wont have nothin more to do with that slut." "Haw!" Warden snorted. "My word of honor as a soljer, 'ey? Wont leave this tent, 'ey?" "Aint you got no self respeck lef a tall?" Stark said. "Dont you respeck the organization yore servin in? Dont you respeck the un'form of yore country you wornd for so many yeahs? You ought to be ashamed. Yore a dis-grace to the chevrons on yore arm, Firs Sarnt." "Piss on that," Warden snarled. Stark shook his head. "Ats my last word. I got my mind made up. You aint leavin this tent till you promise. Ats my last word, Firs Sarnt." Warden snorted. "Last word, 'ey? Threatening me, 'ey?" "Dont you know what she is?" Stark hollored violently. He aved his arms. "Cant you see what she's doin to you? She's terrible!" he hollered, "she's awful. Oh, you dont know her like I do, Firs Sarnt. She's a rotten goddam whoor, she's worse than a whoor, she's - She's a goddam rich man's daughter of a degenerate, thats what she is. Why, she would -" He clamped his mouth shut and folded his arms. "But I wont let her," he said. "You'll promise like I said, Firs Sarnt, or else." "Or else what?" Warden said. "Take care," Stark said. "Dont trifle with me, Firs Sarnt. I know you backwards and forwards. Preem warned me about you, Firs Sarnt, before he left. But I know how to handle you. Theres only one way to handle men like you. And I know how to do it." He settled his folded arms into an even more final finality. "I'm waiting for you to promise," he said. Warden was still looking at him thoughtfully. Stark was drunk, and tomorrow he would forget all about it. And tomorrow Milt Warden would also still be seeing the same triumphant face he had seen hanging on" the stairway wall the time he hurt his hand. "Promise!" he roared suddenly. "I'll give you promise, you son of a bitch. You cant talk about the woman I love like that!" He stepped in happily, putting all of his weight behind it joyously, and hit Stark sitting with folded arms in the camp chair as hard as he could hit him. The folded arms flailed out sideways as the chair went over backward, shooting Stark out onto the back of his neck on the ground between the meatblock and the utensil chest, already scrambling and kicking to get back up, almost before he hit the ground. He bounced back up like a rubber ball, hoisting himself with his hands on the meatblock and the chest and trying to disentangle his feet from the canvas of the chair, his mouth open roaring inarticulately. He wrenched the cleaver out of the meatblock and advanced on Warden like a slow thunder storm, his mouth hanging wide open bellowing. Furious, senseless, outraged, his roars filled the tent like gas fills an airtight balloon. Warden stepped back happily and threw the bottle still hanging from his left hand. Stark ducked without even batting his bulging eyes or closing his mouth, and came on. The bottle crashed and exploded into fragments against the side of the meatblock. Warden skipped out through the flap and hit running, hear ing the cleaver hit the tent wall behind him and tear through it with a sound like a zipper being yanked open. He ran on down the path, a full dead run in the darkness, until he hit a tree branch the height of his forehead and felt his legs go right on running out from under him. Then he was flat on his back on the ground, trying to pull air into the empty paralyzed lungs. He could hear Stark bellowing and cursing and fumbling on the dark ground for his cleaver. Warden crawled, like a rifleman working in under fire, back in under the bushes behind him off the path. Now you've done it, he told himself as soon as he could breathe again, now you've cooked it, the only man in the outfit who would even make a cook let alone a good mess sergeant. But he could not stop himself from laughing. He had looked so stupidly surprised, standing there, with the cleaver in his hand and bellowing like a castrated bull. He lay in the bushes, trying to stifle his laughing, listening to Stark wandering vaguely up and down the paths looking for him, bellowing and cursing and smashing at the branches of trees with his cleaver. He sounded like Old Pete with his teeth out. "No godam good," Stark bellowed to the darkness. "Worshn fuggin whoor. Shno fuggin good. Ruinm whole fuggin life. L show im. No godam good for nothin no more. Whersh ee at? Cant even get a hard on thout bein drung. Whert ee go? L kill im. L show im. Sombishes. Whersh ee?" Warden listened to it fade away, silently shaking with the bottled laughter. What would the drunken