From Here to Eternity

by James Jones

  “You better watch them up there,” Prew said.

  “Hell, if I waited till they got out of sight, I’d wait till the earth looked level.”

  “They probly move off a piece in a little bit,” Prew suggested.

  “Ahh, fuck them,” Berry said disgustedly. “The no good cocksuckers. They too blind to see anything anyway.”

  He took his hammer and followed the Indiana farmboy off about five yards where Francis pointed out two rocks he had selected, two smooth flat-topped ones about six or eight inches apart and three or four inches off the ground. The Indiana farmboy knelt down and laid his left arm out across the rocks with his elbow and upper forearm on one and his wrist out onto the other.

  “This way, you see, it wont break any joints,” he explained affably. “I figured my left arm because I’m righthanded. It’ll be easier to eat with and I can still write letters home to the famly. Okay,” he said. “Hit it.”

  “All right, here goes,” Berry said. He stepped up and measured the swing with the head of his hammer and then swung, back over his head, a full double-armed swing, and hit the arm between the two rocks with all the force and accuracy of an expert axman notching a tree.

  Francis the Indiana farmboy screamed with just as much surprise as if he had not been expecting it, like a man who had been shot by a sniper he didnt see. If there was any sound of bone breaking, the scream smothered it. He stayed on his knees a few seconds, looking whitefaced and faint, then he got up and came over to show it to them. In the middle of his forearm where the line should have run straight there was a kind of square-cornered offset. In the few seconds it took him to cross the five yards it had already started to swell. As they watched it, it swelled until the recessed part of the offset was filled out level again and there was only a big bulge on the bottom.

  “I think its broke in two places,” Francis said happily. “Hell, that ought to get me at least three whole weeks. Maybe more.” He broke off strangledly and got down on his knees, holding his left arm gingerly with his right, and vomited.

  “Boy, it sure hurts,” he said proudly, getting back up. “I sure didnt think it would hurt that much,” he said, with the same astounded surprise that had been in his scream. “Thanks a hell of a lot, Berry.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Berry grinned. “Glad to help out.”

  “Well, I think I’ll go on down and show this to the guard,” Francis said happily. “See you guys later.” He went off down the hill still holding his left arm gingerly with his right.

  “Jesus!” Prew said, feeling an unusually cool trickle of sweat down his back.

  “Man, he can have it,” Jackson said. “I dont want any of that. Not even if it would get me clear out of the Stockade.”

  “What the hell?” Berry grinned. “You hear about criminals operatin on themself all a time to get bullets out. Thats lots worse than this.”

  “I never heard about it anywheres outside of the movies,” Prew said.

  “Me neither,” Jackson said. “I never seen it.”

  “Hell, it was easy,” Berry grinned at them. “There wasnt nothing to it.”

  Between hammerswings they watched the guard on the road make a call in from the box while the Indiana farmboy stood beside him happily, holding his left arm gingerly in his right. Then pretty soon the truck came up for him and he climbed in the back, still holding his left arm gingerly in his right.

  “See?” Berry said. “Easy as pie. Hell, I got a goddam good notion to do it myself.”

  “If two guys showed up with broken arms, they’d sure as hell suspect something then,” Prew said.

  “I know it,” Berry grinned wolfishly. “Thats why I aint. But thats about the only goddam reason.”

  That evening when they came in from work they learned that Francis Murdock the Indiana farmboy was already in the prison ward with a certified broken arm from a fall on the rockpile. It was, however, only broken in one place, instead of two as he had hoped.

  Nothing was said about it and no questions were asked and it appeared as if it had all gone off like clockwork. Evening chow went off just as usual.

  But after chow, shortly before lights out, Fatso and Major Thompson himself came into Number Two with the grub hoe handles and looking madder than hell.

  It was almost like an inspection. They lined them up at attention by their bunks and the two riot-gunned guards stood just inside with the third guard standing outside holding the key to the locked door. Major Thompson looked as if he had just caught his wife in bed with a private.

  “Young Murdock broke his arm out on the rockpile this afternoon,” the Major said crisply. “He claimed it was broke by a fall. He went to the hospital with that disposition because we like to keep our fights in the family here. But just between us, somebody broke that arm for him. Murdock and the man who broke it for him are both guilty of malingering. We do not tolerate malingering in this Stockade. Murdock’s sentence is going to be lengthened, and when he comes back from the hospital he’s going to find it pretty tough around here. Now I want the man who broke Murdock’s arm to step forward.”

  Nobody moved. Nobody answered.

  “All right,” the Major said crisply. “We can play hard too. You men are in Number Two because you are recalcitrants. I dont have no sympathy for any of you. You’ve been getting away with murder lately and its about time all of you learned who runs this Stockade. I’ll give the man one last chance to step forward.”

  Nobody moved.

  “All right, Sergeant,” the Major said crisply and nodded at Fatso.

  S/Sgt Judson stepped up to the first man and said, “Who broke Murdock’s arm?” The man was a skinny little old-timer from the 8th Field with a craggy lined face that portrayed absolute cynicism and eyes that stared straight ahead as immovably as two stones. He had been clear over on the other side of the quarry but he already knew the whole story. He said, “I dont know, Sergeant” and Fatso rapped him across the shins with the grub hoe handle and asked him again. The craggy face never moved and the solid stone eyes neither wavered nor flickered. He said, “I dont know, Sergeant” again and Fatso slammed him with the head in the belly and asked him again. He got exactly the same results.

  It was the same way all up and down the line. Fatso started methodically at one end and worked his way diligently down and back up to the other. He asked each man the same question “Who broke Murdock’s arm?” five times. Not a figure moved and not an eye flickered or wavered and nothing but infinite contempt for Fatso’s hard methods and Fatso himself showed on any face. This was not Number Three; this was Number Two. And Number Two was as solidly together as a morticed stone wall.

  Neither the contempt or the unbreakability bothered Fatso. His business was to ask each man the question and hit him if he gave the wrong answer, not to worry about the results, and he did his job thoroughly and methodically. When he had worked his way through the line, he came back to the Major and they both went down the line and stopped in front of Blues Berry.

  “Who broke Murdock’s arm for him?” Major Thompson said.

  Everybody knew they knew, then.

  Berry stared straight ahead without answering.

  Fatso hit him.

  “Did you break Murdock’s arm for him?” Major Thompson said.

  Berry stared straight ahead, at attention, without answering.

  Fatso hit him.

  “Did you break Murdock’s arm for him?” Major Thompson said.

  Berry stared straight ahead, at attention, without answering.

  Fatso hit him.

  “It just happens,” the Major smiled, “that we already know you was the man who broke Murdock’s arm for him.”

  Berry grinned.

  Fatso hit him.

  “Step forward,” Major Thompson said.

  Berry took two paces forward, still grinning.

  Fatso hit him across the bridge of the nose with the head of the grub hoe handle. Berry went down to his knees. He stayed there
several seconds, nobody helping him, before he got back up shakily. Blood was pouring out of his nose, but he did not raise his hands or move his eyes from the wall. He licked his lips with the tip of his tongue and grinned at the Major.

  “I’m going to make an example out of you, Berry,” Major Thompson said crisply. “You’re too big for your pants. I’m going to cut you down till you fit them. You think you’re too tough. I’m going to show these men what happens to a man who gets too big for his pants and thinks he’s too tough. Did you break Murdock’s arm?”

  “Fuck you,” Berry said huskily.

  This time Fatso hit him in the mouth with the head of the grub hoe handle. Berry’s knees went loose but he did not quite go down. His eyes came unfocused but he did not move them from the wall. When he straightened up, he worked his mouth a little and spat two teeth out at Fatso’s feet contemptuously and grinned at him.

  “And I’m going to kill you, Fatso,” he grinned. “If I ever get out of here, I’m going to hunt you down and kill you. So you better get me first. Because if I ever get out, I’ll kill you.”

  Fatso was as unmoved by this as he had been by the general contempt and uncooperativeness. He raised his grub hoe handle again, methodically, diligently, impassively, but Major Thompson stopped him.

  “Take him down to the gym,” the Major said. “I dont want to dirty the barracks up any more than necessary. Some of you men clean this mess up.”

  Fatso took Berry by the arm and started to lead him to the door but Berry jerked his arm loose and said, “Keep your fat paws off of me. I can still walk,” and walked to the door by himself. The guard outside unlocked the door. Berry walked through it. Fatso and the Major and then the two guards followed him.

  “The crazy son of a bitch,” Jack Malloy said contortedly. “Thats not the way to handle them. I told him thats not the way to handle them.”

  “Maybe he’s tired of handling them,” Prew said narrowly.

  “He’ll be tireder,” Malloy said unforgivingly. “They’re serious.”

  It was the first time any of them had ever heard a man scream when he was in the gym getting a work out. The fact that it was Blues Berry whom they heard screaming proved they were serious, that this time the Major and Fatso were out to make it or break it, showdown or else. In Number Two they cleaned up the floor and settled down to wait. It was already after nine-thirty, and the fact that the lights were still on showed this was really going to be an occasion. They managed to find out from Pfc Hanson who passed by the door under arms hurriedly, that it was one of the guards up on the cliff who had seen him.

  It was eleven-thirty when Major Thompson, wearing his sidearms, came for them with the guards. There were ten guards, each wearing sidearms and carrying a riotgun.

  They were lined up in a column of twos and marched down to the gym. The guards were spaced along the walls with their riotguns at port arms. More guards lined the walls of the gym. Apparently, every guard on the place had been called out tonight. The column from Number Two was marched into the gym and distributed around three of the walls with the guards in back of them.

  Blues Berry stood against one of the side walls in his GI shorts under the lights, still trying to grin with a mouth that was too swollen to do more than twist. He was barely recognizable. His broken nose had swollen and was still running blood in a stream. Blood was also flowing out of his mouth, whenever he coughed. His eyes were practically closed. Blows from the grub hoe handles had torn the upper half of both ears loose from his head. Blood from his nose and mouth, and the ears which were not bleeding much, had spotted his chest and the white drawers.

  “He’s dead,” somebody whispered behind Prew with finality.

  Fatso and two other guards, Turnipseed and Angelo Maggio’s old friend Brownie, all looking exhausted, stood near him. Major Thompson, wearing his sidearms, stood off by himself near the corner.

  “We want to show you men what happens to men who think they can run the Army,” he said crisply. “Sergeant,” he nodded.

  “Turn around,” S/Sgt Judson said. “Put your nose and toes against the wall.”

  “You better kill me, Fatso,” Berry whispered. “You better do a good job. If you dont, I’ll kill you. If I ever get out of here, I’ll kill you.”

  S/Sgt Judson stepped up and drove his knee up into Berry’s testicles. Berry screamed.

  “Turn around,” S/Sgt Judson said. “Put your nose and toes against the wall.”

  Berry turned around and put his nose and toes to the wall. “You son of a bitch,” he whispered, “you fathog son of a bitch. You better kill me. If you dont, I’ll kill you. You better kill me.” It was as if it was the one solitary idea he had left and he had fixed his mind on it to keep something with him. He said it over and over.

  “Did you break Murdock’s arm for him, Berry?” S/Sgt Judson said.

  Berry went on whispering his passion to himself.

  “Berry, can you hear me?” S/Sgt Judson said. “Did you break Murdock’s arm?”

  “I can hear you,” Berry whispered. “You better kill me, Fatso, thats all. If you dont, I’ll kill you. You better kill me.”

  “Brown,” Fatso said. He nodded at Berry. “Take him.”

  Cpl Brown stepped into position like a man stepping into the batter’s box at the plate and swung his grub hoe handle with both hands into the small of Berry’s back. Berry screamed. Then he coughed, and some more blood splashed down from his mouth.

  There are two kinds of grub hoe handles, curved ones and straight ones. The straight ones are longer and heavier than the curved ones. A pick handle is longer and heavier than any ax handle, and a grub hoe handle is longer and heavier than a pick handle. A straight grub hoe handle is about four inches longer than a pick handle and around a pound heavier in weight and can be recognized by the double hump at the head end. The steel head of a grub hoe, which is like the mattock half of a pick-mattock with the pick half left off the other end, fits between these two humps on the handle and makes the grub hoe a fine tool for clearing brushy root-matted ground.

  “Did you break Murdock’s arm?” Fatso said.

  “Fuck you,” Berry whispered. “You better kill me. If you dont, I’ll kill you. You better kill me.”

  They kept them there fifteen minutes. Then they marched them back between the lines of guards to the barrack and turned off the lights. The occasional screams from the gym did not stop however, and there was not much sleep. But in the morning they were got up at 4:45 just the same.

  At chow they learned that at one-thirty Blues Berry, unable to urinate and with his ears knocked half loose from his head, had been taken up to the prison ward of the Station Hospital for treatment of a fall from the back of a truck.

  He died the next day about noon, “from massive cerebral hemorrhage and internal injuries,” the report was quoted as stating, “probably caused by a fall from a truck traveling at high speed.”

  Prew did not tell Jack Malloy what he intended to do until after Berry had died. He knew what he was going to do before Berry died, but he waited till then to tell Malloy.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Prew said. “I’m going to wait till I get out of here and then I’m going to hunt him up and kill him. But I’m not going to be stupid like Berry was and go around advertising it. I’ll keep my mouth shut and wait till I get my chance.”

  “He needs to be killed,” Malloy said. “He ought to be killed. But it wont do a damned bit of good to kill him.”

  “It’ll do me some good,” Prew said. “It’ll do me a lot of good. It may even make me into a man again.”

  “You couldn’t kill a man in cold blood,” Malloy said. “Even if you wanted to.”

  “I dont aim to kill Fatso in cold blood,” Prew said. “He’ll get an even break. Theres a bar he hangs out at downtown all the time; I’ve heard some of the guys talk about it, and about how he always carries a knife. I’ll kill him with a knife. He’ll have as good a chance at me with his knife as I’ll
have at him with mine. Only—he wont kill me; I’ll kill him. And nobody’ll ever know who did it and I’ll go on back home to the Compny and forget it just like you forget other carrion.”

  “It wont do any good to kill him,” Malloy said.

  “It would have done Berry some good.”

  “No it wouldnt. Berry would have got what he got eventually anyway. Berry was slated for it from the day he was born in a shack down on the wrong side of the tracks in Wichita Kansas.”

  “Fatso was born on the wrong side of the tracks, too.”

  “Sure he was,” Malloy said. “And he might have been Berry, and Berry him, just as easy. You dont understand him. If you want to kill something, kill the things that made Fatso what he is. He doesnt do what he does because it is right or wrong. He doesnt think about right or wrong. He just does what is there to be done.”

  “So do I. I’ve always done what is there to be done. But I’ve never done anything like Fatso’s done.”

  “Yes, but you have a strong sense of right and wrong. Thats why you got in the Stockade in the first place, same as me. But if you asked Fatso if he thought what he did was right, he would probably look surprised as hell. Then, if you gave him time to think, he would say yes it was right; but he would be saying it simply because he had always been taught that he ought to do what is right. Therefore, in his mind, everything he does must be right. Because he did it. And because he knows he had been taught it is wrong to do what is wrong.”

  “You’re only talking now,” Prew said. “You’re not saying anything. Fatso’s wrong. Too wrong. And there will be plenty of guys go through this Stockade after you and me are out.”

  “Did you know Fatso was a Life Scout once?”

  “I dont give a damn if he was President.”

  “If it would do any good to kill him, I’d say go ahead, kill him. But all that will happen will be they will get somebody else just like him to take his place. Why dont you kill Major Thompson?”

  “They’d just get somebody like him to take his place, too.”