From Here to Eternity (86 page)

said the S/Sgt. Well, then that was the way it was then. Okay. Then so be it. He could still work back up and around them. There was only four. And sneak past across the Highway. They wouldnt look for him on the other side of the Highway. And work on east from there. So thats whats the matter. They werent going to take this one back. They'd never take this one back. "Come on, Mack," the S/Sgt said, still shooing half-heartedly. "Lets go." He let the mind, which at a great cost in Kentucky pride had been kept loose and open with the mineral oil of belief, constipate itself and close down into the old, narrow, clear, hard, crystal something which was the trademark of Harlan Kentucky and which was the only gift his father had ever given him in his whole life, and even that unwittingly, or he would probly tried to take it back. "I said take your goddam hands out of your pockets," the Cpl said disgustedly. He jerked his hands out of his pockets, Alma's Police .38 in the right one, and with the left one snatched the S/Sgt's still shooing pistol and threw it sailing heavily across on the other side of the road, and with the right one bent the barrel of the .38 over the jaw of the helmeted Cpl. And Prewitt, feeling airishly free in the arms and legs, without ropes, without handcuffs, without shackles, free to breathe too, without a strait jacket, feeling so free all over he was almost able to believe he was free, was running freely and without restriction into the night, into the levelness, into the darkness, of the Territory of Hawaii's Waialae Golf Course. Treelessness, sand hills, scrubgrass, and all. There was a big sandtrap right around here someplace. Running hard, sprinting, he flashed a look back over his shoulder and saw the two of them still there in the blue light of the headlights. They never should have done that, his mind registered automatically, they should have headed for the darkness first thing, he could shoot them both, even with this gun he did not know. Then, in the middle of the split flash of the glance, he realized they did not know yet he had a gun, and were therefore not technically guilty of. a mistake. At least not a reckless mistake. That made his sense of propriety feel a little less offended. Mistakes in knowledge were at least excusable. But a good soldier should never make: a reckless mistake. Fred the S/Sgt was yelling. "Back down to the corner. Theres a field phone station there." The Cpl, his left hand holding his jaw, was just coming up shakily off his knees and there was the big red merry wink of his .45, before he was even clear up yet. Prewitt quit looking and stopped sprinting and started the skirmisher's zigzag, wanting to grin. They would measure up all right. Except for that one mistake of not getting out of the light, they were doing fine. And doing it fast. Where the hell was that sandtrap? "All the men they got available," Fred the S/Sgt was still yelling. "And alert all the beach positions. This guy wasnt no soldier." The motor of the jeep roared. "No, not now, you fool!" Fred the S/Sgt yelled. "The light, first! The spot. Turn on the spot." Off to his left not far Prew saw the sandtrap. Then the spotlight went on. He stopped and turned around facing them. Almost simultaneously, from the rider's seat of the jeep, Harry's Thompson gun batted its one big eye in a series of winks that had all the false coy merriness of a bloodshot one-eyed bar pickup. Prewitt was standing facing them, almost on the lip of his sandtrap. Maybe it was what Fred the S/Sgt yelled about alerting the beach positions. He had the Infantryman's abhorrence of being shot at by his own outfit. Or maybe it was that about getting out every man available. There was still yet the causeway over the salt marsh and he saw in his mind the blue-lighted jeeps crowding on it waiting, till it looked like a rich man's Christmas Tree in the front yard and he had been running from them a long time now he was out of breath now. Or perhaps it might have been because he felt such a strong affection for them suddenly the way they were handling it, almost proud of them, a confidence in them, they were really handling it well, it was a sound competent piece of work. He could not have done better himself. They were competent. Or, maybe it was just, simply, that last thing the S/Sgt had yelled: "This guy wasnt no soldier." Perhaps it was only a mechanical thing caused by the going on of the spotlight, the instinctive move of the Kentuckian who, unlike the Infantryman, is used to being shot at by friends, but has an almost religious abhorrence of being shot in the back. Anyway, he knew Harry's Thompson gun was winking at him, as he turned around. Standing there, in that couple of seconds, he could have fired twice with the .38 and killed two of them, Fred and the Cpl, standing there in the light of the headlights, they were perfect targets, but he did not shoot. He did not even want to shoot. He hardly even thought about shooting. They were the Army, too. And how could a man kill a soldier for just simply doing a sound competent job? It was still the rottenest word in the language. He had killed once. It did not do any good. Even though it was justified, and he did not regret it, it still did not do any good. Maybe it never did any good. The other still went right on. And if he could not kill the other, he would kill nothing. You could kill and kill and kill. He would not become a Disciple of the Word. And these were the Army, too. It was not true that all men killed the things they loved. What was true was that all things killed the men who loved them. Which, after all, was as it should be. Three somethings rent their way agonizingly through his chest in echelon and he fell over backwards into the sandtrap and Harry's Thompson gun ceased its short burst that had been going on for what seemed such a long time. Well, I learned it, Jack. I learned it. The sandtrap was deep and the slope was steep and he had fallen on a downhill lie and had bounced over onto his face in the sand of the bottom. His chest hurt numbly, but it was not especially uncomfortable. But he could hear them coming up, and he did not want them to see him like this. Not facedown in the sand. His legs would not work, but using his elbows a little he managed to roll himself over downhillwards onto his back and to pull himself on down out onto the sand where it was level. Then he was done. Well, Jack, I learned it. He would look better this way. And he could look up at them. I bet you never thought I'd learn it, did you, Jack? "He just stopped," Harry's voice was saying, still shocked, as they came on up. "He just stopped. I wasnt firing at nothing special. I was just firing. Then the light went on. And he just stopped." He was glad he had been able to roll himself over and get down level onto the sand. And so this was it, this was the one. He remembered his mother lying on the cot. Well, you got something to shoot at there, kid. You always wondered just how it would come. You always thought it would somehow be special. What you couldnt imagine was how it would have this just everyday quality. Like taking a crap. Or getting your socks off. Or rolling a smoke. Just common, ordinary, every day. You sweated and sweated it out, and waited and waited on it, all your life you waited on it, and then finally it came, and all the time you had hoped you would be able to do it well, and then it came, and there it was, and now you would see if you would do it well. You did not guess it would be everyday, though. It would have been a lot easier to do well if it had been special. He felt glad when he saw their heads come over the rim of the sandtrap and watched them sliding down the slope. It would be a lot easier to do it well when you had an audience. "Jesus," the Cpl said. "Those Thompsons sure mess them up." "You know I didnt mean to shoot him," Harry said. "He just stopped. It makes you feel pretty shitty." Thats what they call passive resistance, soldier. Aint that right, Jack? He was sliding down a long skislide of long snow, like. And he could feel himself beginning to go clear out of himself. And the cord he had seen that time in the Stockade that looked like it was made of come kept stretching and stretching as he coasted. Then he slowed and stopped coasting, delicately like, as if something hadnt quite made up its mind yet, and then began to come back in a little. So this was the way it was, hunh. Who would of guessed it was like this. He was glad he had been able to get off his face in the sand. "Is he dead yet?" the Cpl said. "Not yet," Fred said. "Look," the Cpl said. "He had a gun. In the sand there. He didnt fire it?" "He just stopped," Harry said. "You want me to take a look now?" the Cpl said. "Wait a while," Fred said. That Fred. He was a good boy. He understood. It was like the having them find you with your face in the sand. He wanted to say something, to do something, something good, a joke maybe, that would show them how well he was going to do it. But when he tried to speak he found he couldnt. Cant even speak. Cant move now either. Can just lay and look at them. No audience after all. Well, it wont be so long. It'll just be for a little while. He wished he'd got a chance to read the rest of those books. And he hated to see the ones he had read be wasted. Somehow he had felt they would be used. The worst was to think how it would all go right on afterwards. Alma. And Warden. Maggio, somewhere. All go right on. He was selfish. He did not want it all to go right on. You wouldnt think it would take so long. Even all tore up, it took so long. My body's all tore up. My body. He did not want his body to be all tore up. You can let go if you want to. They'd never know. You cant speak. You cant move. And its taking too long. And my body's all tore up. Tore to pieces. Tore all up. Its a shame. And they'd never know. But you'd know. You got to do it right. It wont take very long. Just a minute more now. And you want to do it good. Even if nobody will know it. Just another minute. Then it will end. Then it will be over. He lay, feeling sweaty, and made himself look at it. At its being over. Looked it in the face, feeling sweaty. I'm scared. If you could just say something. Just a word. If you could just even move a little. If you could just do anything, besides just lay and look at them, and look at it. Christ, but the world was a lonesome place. But then, as if in a way he was seeing double, he realized that it wasnt really going to end after all, that it would never end. There wasnt even that consolation, he thought sweatily. What he had thought once a long time ago, he thought, that day in Choy's with old Red. How that there was always an endless chain of new decidings. It was right after all. That made him feel good, the being right. "Man, those Thompsons sure do make a mess of them," Cpl Oliver said. "Aint he dead yet?" "I cant understand why he stopped," Harry said complainingly. "Or why he didn't shoot. It makes you feel like an awful son of a bitch. Hell, I didnt know. I was just firing. Honest, I didnt know a tall. Fred, listen?" Harry Temple was crying nervously. "Fred; Fred; listen?" "Shut up," Fred Dixon said. "Honest, Fred? Fred, listen?" "I said shut up," Dixon said. He slapped him. "Take it easy, now." "I might as well look him over," Tom Oliver said. "Go over there and sir. down, Harry," Dixon said. "Oliver, what'd you mid?" "Nothing yet," Tom Oliver said. "I knew he's no soljer. Hey, wait a minute. Look at this. Heres an old SP Card. Dint I tell you that uniform looked funny? He's over the hill, thats what he is." "Yeah," Fred Dixon said. "What outfit does it say?" "Pvt Robt E L Prewitt... G Company, 4th Infantry," Oliver said. "Well. So he is a soljer, after all." "Yeah," Dixon said. "Tryin to get back to his outfit. Well, we better get in touch with them and have somebody come out and identify this body. Come on, Harry. Tom, you stay here. We'll drive up the field phone station." Warden was in the orderly tent when the call came in over the field phone. He sent Rosenberry over to get Weary Russell and went himself. Lt Ross was gone to Schofield with Pete Karelsen for the day to see the Colonel to try and get Pete re-instated, and they were not back yet. Warden was glad they were not back yet. "You're in charge, Rosenberry, till we get back," he said. "Make a note of any calls not emergency. Emergency calls relay right on in to Battalion." "Yes, Sir," Rosenberry said quietly. "Come on, Weary. You got the jeep?" "So old Prewitt's dead," Weary said when they were on the road. "You really think its Prewitt, First?" "I dont know. We'll know pretty soon. Its right this end of the golf course," he told him. He did not say anything else during the rest of the ride, till they got there. "There it is," he said. There was quite a cluster of blue headlights and flashlights alongside the road. They couldnt have missed it. It was about forty yards back in off the road. "Pull right on in there with them," Warden said. "Right," Weary said, and put her in low range. There was the patrol jeep, two other jeeps, two captains, one major, and one lieutenant colonel. All of them clustered around the sandtrap. "You are the Company Commander of G Company, - th Infantry?" the Lt Col asked him as he and Weary climbed out. "No, Sir. I'm the first sergeant." "First sergeant!" the Lt Col said. He looked at his chevrons. "Wheres your Company Commander?" "He's out on a mission, Sir." "Well, where are your other officers?" "They're all out on missions, Sir." "Thats incredible!" the Lt Col exclaimed. 'They cant all be out on missions!" "Sir, we have a ten or fifteen mile stretch of beach positions that have to be inspected." "Of course," the Lt Col said. "But what we need here is an officer. This is a serious matter." "Sir, I am authorized to act in any contingency if the Company officers are absent." "You have written orders to that effect?" "Yes, Sir," Warden said. "But not with me." "Well," the Lt Col said. Then he said, "Did you know this man personally, Sergeant?" "Yes, Sir." Weary Russell was down in the sandtrap, squatting on his hams talking to two of the patrol detail. "Well," the Lt Col said. "Go ahead and identify him then." Warden stepped down into the sandtrap and looked at him. One of the patrol detail turned on a blue flashlight. "Thats Prewitt, Sir. He has been absent without leave since the 20th of October." 'Then you identify him," the Lt Col said. "Officially." "Yes, Sir." He came back up out of the trap. "I wish we could have had an officer," the Lt Col said. "A thing like this is serious. Very well," he said, and moved with a paper into the blue lights of one of the jeeps. He was a tall spare man. "Sign here, Sergeant. "Thank you. Now here are the man's effects. I had them itemized. You'll have to sign for those too, please." "These are all, Sir?" Warden