by James Jones
That was the end of Andy’s story.
Nobody said anything for quite a while.
“Thats the kind of a story I like,” Slade said finally. “That poor lonely queer. All that money and nobody he could talk to.”
“Queers never have anybody they can talk to,” Prew said bitterly, remembering Maggio. “They like it like that. Poor little rich boy,” he said bitterly. But still, it was the kind of story Prew liked too, weird and unreasonable and senseless, almost occult, yet with a thread of hope still running always through it that maybe his theory that all men were basically alike, all hunting the same phantasmal mirror, was true.
“You dont know where I could find some of them records, do you?” Andy asked.
“I wish I did,” Slade said. “I wish I could help you. All I know about him is his name,” he told them guiltily. “I didnt know it meant so much to you. I lied to you a while ago, I’ve never even heard any of the records.” He looked at them anxiously. Nobody said anything.
“Gimme a drink,” Andy said finally.
“I’m sorry,” Slade said. “Listen,” he said, “play that blues again, will you?”
Andy wiped his mouth and played it.
“Jesus,” Slade said. “Hey, listen,” he said embarrassedly. “Now that you’ve got the melody for them, why dont you write your blues right now?”
“Oh, he’ll remember that all right,” Prew said. “We can always do it some other time, when we get back in garrison. He wont forget the tune, will you, Andy?”
“Oh, I dont know,” Andy shrugged disconsolately. “It aint much good anyway, is it?”
“No!” Slade said. “No, listen. If you put it off, it’ll end up just like your story about Django. A half forgotten memory,” he said, “of something you were going to do once, when you were young.”
They all of them looked at him.
“Never put things off,” Slade said, almost frantically. “You’ll wake up and find them gone.”
“We aint got no paper nor pencil,” Prew said.
“I got a notebook and a pencil,” Slade said eagerly, getting them out. “Always carry them. To write down thoughts, you know. Come on, lets write it now.”
“Well, hell,” Prew said embarrassedly. “I dont know how to start.”
“Figure it out,” Slade said eagerly. “You can figure anything out. Its about the Army, aint it? Its about re-enlisting. Look,” he said. “Start it with the guy getting discharged, paid off.”
Andy picked up the guitar and began to play through the minor melody slowly thoughtfully. Slade’s almost frantic enthusiasm was catching. He was high and pouring out the energy on them, like Angelo Maggio used to work himself up to when he wanted to win at poker, Prew thought.
“Here,” he said, “give us your flash so we can see.”
“You think its all right to have a light?” Slade said.
“Sure,” Prew said. “Hell. The lootenant and them all had their lights on, dint they?” He trained the light down on the notebook.
“How’s this for a start?” Prew said. “Got paid out on Monday. Write that down. Then we can start with Monday when the guy gets paid off, and then work right on through each day of the week, until the next Monday when he re-enlists.”
“Thats fine!” Slade said excitedly. He wrote it down. “Got paid out on Monday. What next?”
“Not a dog soljer no more,” Andy said softly, still playing.
“Swell!” Slade said. He wrote it down. “What next?”
“They gimme all that money,” Friday grinned, “so much my pockets is sore.”
“More dough than I can use. Re-enlistment Blues,” Prew said.
“Fine!” Slade cried. “Swell! Wait’ll I get it down. You’re going too fast for me.”
Andy went on playing softly, the same haunting three lines, over and over, as if his mind had gone a way off into them.
“How about Went to town on Tuesday?” Slade said.
“Say: Took my ghelt,” Prew suggested. “Took my ghelt to town on Tuesday. Sounds more like Army,” he said, thinking of Angelo Maggio.
“It doesnt rhyme,” Slade said. “I mean rhythm. You know.”
“Thats all right,” Andy said softly. “You can run the first three words together.”
“Okay then,” Slade said. He wrote that down.
“Got a room and a big double bed,” Friday said excitedly, suddenly high.
They were all high now, pulled up by Slade’s excitement. It was like they were four statues standing wide-legged in an electric storm with spatulate spread fingers emitting sparks that jumped from one of them to another, then back again.
“Find a job tomorrow,” Prew said.
“Tonight you may be dead,” Andy said softly, playing.
“Aint no time to lose. Re-enlistment Blues,” Slade laughed delightedly, scribbling faster.
“Hit the bars on Wednesday,” Prew said. “My friends put me up on a throne.”
“Found a hapa-Chinee baby,” Friday grinned. “Swore she never would leave me alone.”
“Did I give her a bruise?” Andy said softly, almost sadly. “Re-enlistment Blues!”
“Wait. Wait,” Slade cried delightedly. “Let me get this down. God damn. Its coming too fast now.”
They waited while he scribbled frantically. Then they went on, holding themselves up high by the bootstraps of their own creativeness that they had not believed they had, looking at each other a little astonishedly that it could be so easy.
They finished two more verses, in rapid fire, before Slade called another halt, his round face and the barrel of his pencil gleaming ecstatically in the light from the flash.
“Let me get it now,” he pleaded. “Wait’ll I get it down. There,” he said, “now. Let me read it to you. Before we go ahead. See just what we’ve got.”
“Okay, read it,” Prew said. He was snapping the fingers of both hands nervously. Andy was still chording the melody softly, as if to himself. Friday had got up and was moving around.
“Okay,” Slade said. “Here goes. The Re-enlistment Blues——”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Friday said, looking down toward the bivouac. “Aint that somebody comin up here?”
They all turned to look down the hill, watching like balcony spectators of a drama. The little cluster of lights had appeared again around the deeper blackness of the truck. One of them had detached itself from the cluster and was rocking and bouncing toward them, up the path.
“That’ll be old Weary Russell,” Andy said. “Come to get me to go back to the goddamned CP.”
“Oh, hell,” Friday said anxiously. “Aint we goin to get to finish it?”
“You guys can finish it,” Andy said. “After I’m gone,” he said bitterly. “You can show it to me tomorrow.”
“Oh, no,” Prew said. “We all started it. We’ll all finish it. Old Weary wont mind waitin a little.”
Andy looked at him sourly. “No, Weary wont. But the lootenant sure as hell will.”
“Thats all right,” Prew frowned nervously. “You know how they are. They always hang around for half an hour or so before they take off. Come on,” he said nervously to Slade. “Come on, read it.”
“Okay,” Slade said. “Here goes. The Re-enlistment Blues— ” He held the notebook and the flash up to his face. Then he dropped the notebook and slapped savagely at his neck.
“Mosquito,” he said guiltily. “I’m sorry.”
“Here,” Prew said urgently. “Let me hold the fucking flash. Now read it, goddam it. We aint got much time to get it finished.”
“Okay,” Slade said. “Here goes. The Re-enlistment Blues—” He looked around at all of them. “The Re-enlistment Blues.”
“The Re-enlistment Blues,” he said again.
“Got paid out on Monday
Not a dog soljer no more
They gimme all that money
So much my pockets is sore
More dough than I can use. Re-enlistment Blues.
“Took my ghelt to town on Tuesday
Got a room and a big double bed
Find a job tomorrow
Tonight you may be dead
Aint no time to lose. Re-enlistment Blues.
“Hit the bars on Wednesday
My friends put me up on a throne
Found a hapa-Chinee baby
Swore she never would leave me alone
Did I give her a bruise? Re-enlistment Blues!
“Woke up sick on Thursday
Feelin like my head took a dare
Looked down at my trousers
All my pockets was bare
That gal had Mowed my fuse. Re-enlistment Blues.
“Went back around on Friday
Asked for a free glass of beer
My friends had disappeared
Barman said, ‘Take off, you queer!’
What I done then aint news. Re-enlistment Blues.”
“There!” Slade said triumphantly. “I dont give a flying fuck what anybody says,” he said proudly, “I say thats pretty damn good. What next now?”
Prew was still snapping his fingers. “That jail was cold all Sa’day,” he said, “standin on a bench lookin down. Make it like that, see? Sa’day. Two syllables.”
“Okay,” Slade said, writing.
“Hey!” Friday interrupted. “Thats not Weary!”
They stopped, and all of them looked at the figure coming toward them on the path. It was not Weary Russell. Andy kicked the almost empty bottle down over the embankment quickly. Slade brought his flash to bear on the coming figure. The beam reflected back at them from two gold bars on the shoulders. Slade turned questioningly to Prew, not knowing what to do.
“Attennsh-Hut!” Prew yelled. It was automatic.
“What the hell are you men doing up here at this hour of the night?” asked Lt Culpepper’s voice sharply, sharp as his Culpepper nose or his ramrod Culpepper back.
“Playing the git-tars, Sir,” Prew said.
“I surmised that,” Lt Culpepper said in a dry droll tone. He came up to them. “What in fuck do you mean by turning a flashlight on up here?”
“We were using it to copy out some notes, Sir,” Prew said. The other three were looking at him as the spokesman. He went on, trying to keep the rage of frustration out of his voice. There would be no more blues writing this night. “There were flashlights on all over the bivouac area, Sir,” he said. “We dint think having one on here for a few minutes would hurt anything.”
“Now you know better than that, Prewitt,” Lt Culpepper said in a dry droll tone. “You men are supposed to be on a field problem approximating actual war conditions. That includes a full blackout.”
“Yes, Sir,” Prew said.
“Those lights below were inspection lights,” Lt Culpepper said. “The only time they are ever used is to inspect the posts.”
“Yes, Sir,” Prew said.
“Would they use lights to inspect posts under actual war conditions?” Slade said. His voice was trembling.
Lt Culpepper turned his head without moving his straight Culpepper shoulders or stiff Culpepper back, in the traditional Culpepper military style, developed over many Culpepper generations. “When you address an officer, soldier,” Lt Culpepper said crisply, “it is customary to either precede or conclude your question with the title Sir.”
“Yes, Sir,” Slade said.
“Who is this man?” Lt Culpepper said, in a dry droll tone. “I thought I knew everybody in the Company.”
“Private Slade, Sir,” Slade said. “17th Air Base Squadron, Hickam Field, Sir.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came over to listen to the music, Sir.”
Lt Culpepper turned his light from Prew to Slade. “Are you supposed to be on post, soldier?”
“No, Sir.”
“Why havent you reported in?”
“When I’m off post my time’s my own, Sir,” Slade said in a kind of abortive outrage. “I broke no rules by coming over here when I got off post.”
“Perhaps not,” Lt Culpepper said in a dry droll tone. “But in the Infantry, soldier, we do not allow men from other outfits to hang around our bivouac area. Particularly in the middle of the night. Got it?” he popped.
Nobody said anything.
“Prewitt,” Lt Culpepper popped.
“Yes, Sir.”
“You are the senior man here. I hold you responsible for all this. There are men down in camp trying to sleep. Some of them have to go on post—” he peered at his chronometer, “in thirty-seven minutes.”
“Thats why we came up here, Sir,” Prew said. “Nobody has complained about it that I know of.”
“Perhaps not,” Lt Culpepper said in a dry droll tone. “But that does not alter the fact that it is against regulations generally, and against my orders specifically, as of right now. It also does not change the fact that you were up here on the skyline with a lighted flash during a total security blackout.” Lt Culpepper turned his light from Slade back to Prewitt.
Nobody said anything. They were all thinking of the unfinished blues that were still in Slade’s hand, and that might not ever be finished now, that you could not just run off like a mimeograph, that you had to get the mood right for, and that the right mood for might not come again soon. They all felt Lt Culpepper was to blame for this. Still, they did not feel like saying anything.
“Now if there are no more arguments or discussions,” Lt Culpepper said in a dry droll tone, “I suggest we end this interview. You may use your light going down the path, if you wish,” he said.
“Yes, Sir,” Prew said, and saluted. Lt Culpepper returned it formally. Andy, Slade and Friday saluted too then, as if suddenly remembering. Lt Culpepper returned them formally and collectively. He waited until they had gone on ahead and followed them down the path at a distance with his light. They did not turn their light on.
“God damn,” Slade muttered thickly. “God damn. They always make you feel like a schoolboy who has had his hands slapped with the ruler.”
“Forget it,” Prew said loudly. “How do you like the Infantry now?” He said it bitterly. His little farce was over.
Nobody else said anything.
Weary Russell met them at the truck.
“I dint have a chance,” he whispered. “He started right up as soon as he seen the light. I couldnt even give you a yell. I couldnt do a thing.”
“Yeah?” Prew said dully. “Ats all right. Forget it. What the hell are you whispering for?” he said angrily.
Lt Culpepper came up behind them to the truck. “And Prewitt,” he said in a dry droll tone. “I thought I’d tell you it wont do you any good to plan to go back up after we are gone. I’ve already given the corporal on duty orders to keep an eye out up that way.”
“Yes, Sir,” Prew said, and saluted. “I think we’re all through anyway, Sir,” he said. It sounded very pompous. He cursed himself. Lt Culpepper grinned. Lt Culpepper climbed in the truck.
“Wheres the First Sergeant, Russell?” he said.
“Dont know, Sir,” Weary said. “I guess he aims to stay over here.”
“How’ll he get back?”
“I dont know, Sir,” Weary said.
“Well,” Lt Culpepper grinned happily, “thats his tough luck, isnt it? He has to be back for Reveille. I guess he’ll have to walk. Come on, Anderson, lets go. Lets get the hell out of this sinkhole,” he said to Russell.
“Yes, Sir,” Weary said.
The truck backed and turned and pulled out, leaving a large empty hollow behind it. They stood by the opening through the wire and watched the truck pull out grindingly over the rough ground. In the light from the headlights they could see Andy sitting in the back holding his guitar.
Friday laughed, trying to fill the hollow. “Some fun, hey? A good time was had by all.”
“Here,” Slade said. He handed Prew the sheets of paper from his notebook. “These are yours. You’ll want them.”
Slade moved his head. “I’ll get one from you some other time. I guess I better get going. I’ve got to walk back to the Field.”
“Okay,” Prew said. “Take it easy.”
“You better watch it,” Friday said, “after this. Not let him catch you over here no more.”
“I know it,” Slade said. “You dont have to tell me. I’ll see you all, sometime.” He started off across the truck tracks to the road.
“You think he’ll transfer in?” Friday said.
“No; I dont,” Prew said. “What do you think? Would you? Here,” he said, and thrust the papers at him. “These are Andy’s. Its his tune.”
“We’ll finish it sometime,” Friday said, taking them and buttoning them down in his pocket carefully. “We’ll finish it later. When we get back in garrison.”
“Yeah,” Prew said. “Sure.”
“We could finish it now,” Friday said eagerly. “You and me. Do it in the kitchen tent. We wont need no music now.”
“Do it yourself,” Prew said. “I think I’ll take myself a little walk.”
He went out through the gap in the wire and across the truck tracks toward the road.
“But dont you want to do it now?” Friday called eagerly after him, “finish it now?”
Chapter 33
WHEN HE REACHED THE gravel, Prew stopped. He could hear Friday still talking to himself eagerly, behind him. Slade had already disappeared out of both sight and sound. Pretty soon Friday would disappear too, if he walked far enough.
He turned north toward the Main Gate on the gravel. The other way south, led past the junk yard where Slade’s relief would be on post. Slade’s relief would challenge him. Then finding it was an EM Slade’s relief would want to pass the time of day. He did not want to talk to anybody. He did not want to make any more new friendships tonight either. He turned north. One new friendship a day was about all any one strong man could take. He walked very slow, so he would not catch up to Slade.
