by James Jones
He walked along the road in the darkness. The deep gravel grated under his field shoes. The unreleased energy of the whiskey was fuming up through him like whiffs of laughing gas. He wished he had more whiskey. He would get stinking, rotten, blind. It seemed you could not only not bugle but you could not even write a stinking lousy blues, about the Army.
He had already had the whole next verse in his head, when the Culpepper family had arrived. The next verse was Saturday, and he had had it.
That jail was cold all Sa’day
Standin up on a bench lookin down
He thought as he walked along the road in the darkness.
Through them bars I watched the people
All happy and out on the town
Look like time for me to choose, them Re-enlistment Blues.
—They had stood on the benches of the bull pen on the second floor of the city jail in Richmond Indiana and watched the Saturday night crowds. They had had to stand on the benches because the windows were so high. There were four of them. That time. All booked as vags. They kept them a week, then turned them loose. There had been too many vags for the jail space. That had been in ’35—
It was like with the bugle, you had to do the things yourself before you could put the ring of truth in them, and he had had it all in his head, ready for Slade to write down. None of the rest of them could write that verse because they had never been in jail. Now maybe it would never be written down. He did not have a pencil and paper to write it down now, and if he did have he would not write it down anyway. He would tear the paper up and throw the pencil away. He felt bitterly happy at having denied the world something.
What was the world anyway? but a lot of Culpepper families?
They had you by the balls from the minute you were bornd.
He walked along the deserted gravel road in the darkness, filled with a great rending pity for all the Prewitts of this world, thinking about the blues they had not finished and would not even have begun if it had not been for Slade’s asinine enthusiasm for the Infantry. There was a good one for you. And even then, if Slade had not felt guilty over lying about Django’s records and wanted to do something to square it, he would not probably have bludgeoned them into starting it. There was a better one for you. It was laughable.
The voices of Friday arguing with Friday had disappeared too now, and he was alone m a private world whose radius was ten feet of gravel. That was what he had wanted. Now he did not want it. This world kept pace with him with all the inexorableness of a spotlight following a dancer.
He ran a little ways. He could not outrun it. He could not outrun this world any more than he could outrun the world of Culpepper families.
He slowed down and walked on, wondering if the blues would ever be finished now. Probably not, unless Slade transferred to Schofield to inspire them. Slade could appreciate the Infantry because he was in the Air Corps. He laughed out loud, bitterly happily.
“Halt!”
Prew stopped, and stopped dead. There was not supposed to be a sentry along here. Still, you did not argue with a challenge. Not when it might contain a guard with a loaded pistol.
“Who goes there?” the voice demanded.
Something moved just outside the ten foot gravel world, and he caught a glint of light on what looked like a pistol.
“A friend,” Prew said, in the prescribed manner.
“Advance, friend, and be recognized,” the voice boomed.
Prew walked forward slowly, in the prescribed manner.
“Halt!” the disembodied voice boomed instantly.
Prew stopped dead. This was not in the prescribed manner.
“Who goes there?” the voice boomed again.
“A friend, goddam it.”
“Advance, friend goddam it, and be recognized.”
Prew started forward.
“Halt!” the voice boomed instantly, waving the oily glint.
Prew halted. “Say, what the hell is this?”
“Quiet!” the figure roared, shaking the glint at him. “At ease! Rest! Fall Out! About Face! Right Dress! Who goes there?”
“Private Prewitt, Company G, —th Infantry,” Prew said, a suspicion growing in his mind.
“Advance, Private Prewitt, Company G, —th Infantry, and be executed,” the figure bellowed.
“Up yours, Warden,” Prew said, advancing.
“Boom!” the figure yelled, backing off. It shook the glinting object. “Boom! Boom! Gotcha, gotcha! You’re dead! Boom!”
“Cut the comedy, Warden,” Prew said disgustedly. He could make out the glinting object now. It was a bottle.
“Well, well,” Warden giggled drunkenly. His face lit up mischievously. “Fooled you, dint I? Hello, kid. What ever are you doin out all by yourself? Dont you know you’re liable to get shot wanderin around in the dark like that?”
“I’m takin a walk,” Prew said belligerently.
“Well, well,” Warden said hollowly. “A walk. The lootenant kind of broke up your little party, din ee?”
“The son of a bitch,” Prew said.
“Ah-ah,” Warden said, raising a finger. “Is that any way to talk about a Culpepper? Dont you know theres been a Culpepper serving his country in every war since Zachary Taylor took California away from Mexico? How would you like it if this country didnt have no California? What would you do for movies then, I guess? Where you think this world would be? without the Culpeppers?”
“To hell with the Culpeppers,” Prew said.
“Tsk-tsk,” Warden said owlishly. “No education. No feeling for world good. Not even no refinements, even. You’re better off executed. Boom!” he said. “Boom! Boom! You’re dead. Gotcha. What do you think of my new gun, kid?” He held out the bottle. Prew reached to take it. Warden drew it back. “Ah-ah,” he said. “Watch out. Its loaded.”
“So are you,” Prew said.
“Have a drink,” Warden said.
“I can get liquor,” Prew said. “I dont need yours.”
Warden was studying his bottle-gun. “Its loaded,” he said. “Loaded for bear. Boom!” he said. “Have a bear?” He flipped the bottle up and caught it. “I’m a shooter, kid. How would you like to shoot with me sometime, kid?” he grinned.
“What’re you doin, braggin?” Prew said. Warden, along with Pete Karelsen, was only just the best shot in the Regiment, was all. Both of them had star gauge ’03s that they worshipped. Along with Regimental Personnel Sergeant Major O’Bannon and Capt Stevens of B Company, they were the Regimental rifle team. No matter what any poor son of a bitch seemed to be able to do, Warden always seemed to be able to do it better. It wasnt even fair.
“Naw,” Warden grinned, “I aint braggin. I hear you’re a hotshot shooter. I hear you showed the boys some tricks with a rifle on the combat range last month. So I figure you like a little match with some real competition.”
“Okay,” Prew said. “Any fucking time you say, Warden.”
“Reglar match competition,” Warden said. “Make a little side bet. Say about a hundred bucks?”
“Even money?” Prew said.
“I ought to give you a little odds.”
“I thought maybe you’d want me to give you odds.”
“Naw,” Warden grinned slyly. “I wouldnt cheat you.”
“Where’ll we shoot?” Prew said. “Shoot now?”
“Shoot on the range,” Warden grinned. “Reglar match competition. Range season comin up in a month or so.”
“Hell,” Prew said. “I thought you meant tonight.”
“Aint got no gun. Except my baby here. Have to do it range season.”
“Even money?” Prew said, “and we both use your BC scope?”
“Sure.”
“I may not be here during range season,” Prew said.
“By god, thats right.” Warden ducked and snapped his fingers. “I clean forgot. You’ll be in the Stockade by then, wont you? Aw hell,” he said unhappily.
“We can go down to old Mom�
��s shooting gallery on Hotel Street,” Prew said, “after we get back in garrison.”
“That old whoor?” Warder said. “Anyway, you wouldnt have no more chance ther’n you would on the range.”
“What’re you doin?” Prew said. “Backin down?”
“Sure,” Warden grinned at him slyly. “Always back down.” He sat down in the middle of the gravel road and crossed his legs. “Here, old buddy. Have a lil drink.”
“Okay.” Prew took the bottle. “I dont mind drinkin your liquor any morn I’d mind drinkin Culpepper’s.”
“Ats fine,” Warden said. “I dont mind havin you drink it any morn I would havin Culpepper drink it.”
The liquor mingled hotly with the fumes already boiling in his belly. Prew sat down beside him and handed back the bottle and wiped his mouth. “This is a helluva fuckin life, you know it?”
“Miserble,” Warden nodded loosely. He drank. “Perfeckly miserble.”
“Guy cant have any fun.”
“Ats right,” Warden nodded. “No fun a tall. Now you’ve got yourself on Culpepper’s shitlist too.”
“I’m on everybody else’s. I might as well be on his too.”
“Ats right,” Warden said. “Make it a royal flush. Make it a full house.”
“Make it five of a kind,” Prew said. “Joker kicker.”
“You’re the joker,” Warden said. He handed him the bottle. “Right?”
“Right.”
“I went and got myself on Stark’s list too. Probly have to buy all my meals out now. Who am I to talk to you?”
“How’d that happen?” Prew said conversationally. He drank and gave the bottle back. In front of them and in back of them, the light yellow of the road stretched away to dimness that became invisibility, running like a trail of moonlight across a blackened sea.
“Never mind,” Warden said slyly, “never mind.”
“Oh,” Prew said. “You dont trust me. I trust you.”
“We’re talkin about you,” Warden countered. “Not me. What for do you want to go and fuck up for all the time, Prewitt? What do you want to be a bolshevik for?”
“I dunno,” Prew said disconsolately. “I been tryin to figger that out fer years. I guess I was just born that way.”
“Horshit,” Warden said. He took another drink and peered at him owlishly. “I say horshit. Pure plain unadulterated horshit. You disagree with me? Come on, disagree with me.”
“I don’t know,” Prew said disconsolately.
“Horshit, I say,” Warden said rhetorically. “Nobody’s bornd that way. Look at me. Here,” he said. “Have a drink.”
He peered at Prewitt slyly as he drank. “Aint this a fuck of a world?” he said. “Here you are going right straight to the Stockade and here I am goin right straight to gettin busted someday. And here we both are sittin in the middle of this crummy road. What if a truck was to come along and run over us?”
“That’d be awful,” Prew said. “We’d be dead, wouldnt we?” He could feel the raw whiskey mingling in him smokily explosively with the other, Andy’s whiskey, that was already there. Dead, he thought, dead dead dead.
“And nobody to give a damn,” Warden said. “Nobody to even mourn. Hell of a note. You better not sit there any more. You better get up and move over to the side of the road.”
“What about you?” Prew said, handing back the bottle and looking off down the yellow road for the truck. “You got more to live for than I have. You got to take care of your goddam compny.”
“I’m old,” Warden said, taking a drink. “Dont matter if I die. My life’s behind me,” he said, “all behind me. But you’re young. Your life’s ahead of you.”
“But theres nothing in it to look forward to,” Prew said stubbornly. “While your life’s important. Hitler said if it wasnt for our noncoms we wouldnt have no Army, dint he? We got to have a Army, dont we? What would all the Culpeppers do? if we dint have a Army? No, sir,” he said stubbornly. “Its you should get up.”
“No, by god!” Warden bellowed. “My life is over. I’m an old man. Nuther five years I be like ole Pete. You cant talk me out of it. You get up.”
“No,” Prew insisted. “You get up.”
“I wont do it!” Warden hollered.
“Well neither will I. I’ll sit here as long as you do, by god. I wont let you kill yourself.”
Warden handed him the bottle. “You’re crazy, kid,” he said kindly. “You’re insane. You cant save an old man like me. And a young man like you has so much to live for. It’d be a shame, thats what it’d be. A crying shame. Please, kid, please get up. Do it for my sake, if you wont think of yourself.”
“No sir,” Prew said bravely. “Not Prewitt. Prewitt never deserted a friend in need. I’ll stay to the bitter end.”
“Oh, what have I done?” Warden hollered, “what have I done?”
“Nobody cares,” Prew said. “Nobody gives a damn. To hell with it. I’m better off dead.” Tears rose up in his eyes and made the big crosslegged Buddha that was Warden shimmer.
“So am I,” Warden choked. He sat up straight and squared his shoulders. “Then we’ll both die. Its better that way anyway, its more tragic. Its more like life.”
“I dont think I could stand up anyway,” Prew said sleepily.
“Me neither,” Warden said. “It is too late. Good by, Prewitt.”
“Good by, Warden.”
They shook hands solemnly. Bravely they choked back the unmanly tears of parting and sat straight as soldiers, staring proudly down the yellow ribbon from which the doom would come.
“I just want you to know,” Warden said, “that I never had a better friend.”
“That goes for me too,” Prew said.
“No blindfold,” Warden said contemptuously, tossing back his head. “Do you think we’re boys? Save it to wipe your ass on, you son of a bitch.”
“Amen,” Prew said.
They shook hands solemnly again, for the last time, split the last drink in Warden’s bottle between them, threw the bottle in the weeds, squared their shoulders, and quietly passed out and went peacefully to sleep.
They were still there at two o’clock, stretched out in the middle of the gravel, when Weary Russell came ramming his weapons carrier down the road to take The Warden home.
Weary slammed on his brakes hard, fighting the topheavy little truck hard in the loose deep gravel, skidding sideways back and forth across the road fighting the wheel with all his skill to keep it out of the ditch. He got it stopped about three yards from Warden’s oblivious feet. He climbed out and looked at them.
“Jesus Christ!” he whispered awfully. “Jesus Christ.”
Warden was clear out, sleeping peacefully happily, but he managed to shake some life back into Prewitt.
“Come on. Wake up, goddam it. You crazy bastard. Come on, you cant snow me, I know you aint dead. You got to help me load him in the back so I can get him back to the CP. If Dynamite ever found out about this he’d bust him sure.”
“Dynamite cou’nt bust him,” Prew said vaguely.
“He couldnt, ’ey?”
“Hell no,” Prew scoffed. “Who’d he get to be First Sarnt?”
“I dont know,” Weary said thoughtfully. “Maybe he could— Aw, to hell with that,” he snarled. “Help me to get him loaded. What would you crazy dumb screwballs of done if it was someone else who come along? Why, I might of run over you and killed you both,” he raged. “Come on, will you?” he pleaded disgustedly, “help me get him loaded.”
“Ats right,” Prew said stoutly. “Done want nothing happen to my friend Warden.”
“Your what?” Weary asked with outraged astonishment. “Your what did you say?”
“You heard me,” Prew said indignantly. “I said my buddy Warden. Whad you think I said? My good friend Warden that I done want nothing to happen to is what I said. You heard me.”
He struggled up, with Weary’s arm around him. “Wheresee? Oh, theree is. Leggo me. I’m awright. Mon,�
�� he said, “talk later. Mon, help me get my buddy Warden in a fuggin truck. Got to take care of him, see? Got to look out for Warden. Best fuggin soljer ina Compny.” He paused thoughtfully. “Ony fuggin soljer ina Compny,” he amended.
Weary let him go and watched disgustedly as he wavered over to the sleeping Warden and leaned over to take hold of him and fell on him.
“Ohh,” Prew said. “A’m drunk.”
“No stuff,” Weary said disgustedly.
He helped him back to his feet. Between them they managed to half-carry half-drag the big man’s lax body that was slippery as an eel around to the back of the truck. Twice they dropped him; Warden fell like a stone. They heaved and pushed and shoved and finally got him in the truckbed. As soon as he was in Warden opened his eyes and grinned at them slyly. “Is that Russell?” he mumbled vaguely.
“Yeahr,” Weary said disgustedly. “Russell the nursemaid. Russell the goat.”
“En listen to me, Russell,” Warden said. “I want you da zu sompin. I mean za du sompin. See?”
“Yeah?” said Weary learily. “What?”
Warden reared half up and looked around. Prewitt was already lolling in the rider’s seat, asleep again. “I tell you,” Warden whispered with all the quiet of a hissing locomotive. “I want you to drive ziz man home tiz bivouac.”
“Okay,” said Weary wearily. “But quit talkin in z’s and playin drunk. You fooled me once, actin passed out so I’d put you in the truck. You aint drunk. You aint as drunk as he is.”
Warden laughed. “I sure did, dint I?” he giggled. “But that aint all: when you get him home, I want you to tell his corprl of the guard the Firs Sarnt says he is relieve from duty the rest of the night. For halping the Firs Sarnt on a private reconnaissance.”
“But you cant do that, Top,” Weary said wonderingly.
“I cant, ’ey?” Warden said. “I already done it. You heard what I said, dint you?”
