From Here to Eternity: The Restored Edition

by James Jones

  “What the hell’re you doin?” he bawled indignantly. “Why aint you out with the compny? Whats your name?”

  The bellow had not made Prew jump and now he turned his bent head slowly above the cue. “Prewitt. Transfer from A Compny,” he said. “You know me, Warden.”

  The big man was silent, his sudden disconcerting indignation as suddenly and as disconcertingly gone, and ran his fingers through his wildly rumpled hair.

  “Oh,” he said, grinning slyly, then dropping the grin as suddenly as it had come. “To see The Man.”

  “Thats whats the matter,” Prew said, shooting another ball.

  “I remember you,” Warden said darkly. “Little boy bugle. . . . I’ll call you.” Before Prew could answer he was gone.

  Prew went on shooting pool, thinking how typical it was of Warden not to order him to stop, any other topkick would have, but Warden did not work that way. He went on shooting, methodically, first one ball and then another, missing only once. The table clean, he racked the balls and hung up his cue, feeling how the thing had gone flat now. He stood looking at the table for a minute and then switched off the light and went out to the porch.

  They were still going strong in the Orderly Room. Maggio was still concentratedly peeling spuds. From the kitchen came the moist sounds of someone banging pots and pans around. The irregular clacking of the typewriter in the supplyroom had ceased. He seemed suspended in a void of bodyless activity, while G Company’s morning moved on ponderously and implacably all around him, indifferent to this transfer that was so monumental in his life, and of which he was not a part. He was, it seemed like, standing on a high place where all the highways met and there were signposts to all places, and where the variegated colors of the license plates whizzed by and did not see him standing there and none would stop and pick him up.

  The cook, in whites, came out, his face still red. He went into the kitchen slamming the door after first telling Maggio to get the goddam hell out of the road with his goddam can of spuds and things began to move again for Prew.

  “What’d I tell you?” Maggio leered at him.

  He grinned and flipped his cigaret and exhaled, watching the smoke float into the sun where it suddenly became full-bodied, visible in all its unending swirls. That was G Company, he thought, deceptively simple yet in the light full of hidden complex designs, unending meanings, in which he was entangled now.

  Before the cigaret hit the ground Warden bellowed, “All right, Prewitt!” out the window at him. With a grudging admiration Prew felt he had been subtly scored on. How could Warden know that he had left the dayroom? There was an uncanny sardonic insight in The Warden that approached the supernatural.

  Prew slung his hat up on his shoulder with his arm shoved through the strap, so nobody could steal it while he was inside, and entered.

  “Private Prewitt reporting to the Compny Commander as ordered, Sir,” he mouthed the formula, whatever humanness there was inside him falling out, leaving only a juiceless meatless shell.

  Capt Dynamite Holmes, who was a favorite with the Islands sport fans, directed his long, high-foreheaded face with its high cheekbones and eagle’s nose and the hair combed sideways across the just beginning bald spot, sternly at the man before him and picked up the Special Orders that announced the transfer without looking at them.

  “At ease,” he said.

  His desk was right before the door, and at right angles on the left was the First Sergeant’s desk, where Milt Warden sat with folded elbows leaning on it. As he moved his left foot and crossed his hands behind his back, Prew spared him one swift glance. Warden stared back at him, half-gleefully, half-foreboding; he seemed to be poised and waiting for his chance.

  Capt Holmes swung his swivel chair to the right and stared sternly out the window for a moment, offering Prew a profile of the jutting jaw, grim mouth, and sharp commanding nose. Then suddenly he swung back around, the swivel creaking, and began to speak.

  “I always make it a policy to talk to my new men, Prewitt,” he said sternly. “I dont know what you’ve been used to in the Bugle Corps, but in my outfit we run it by the book. Any man who fucksup gets broken—quick and hard. The Stockade is the place for fuckups until they learn to soldier.”

  He paused and stared at Prewitt sternly, and crossed his booted legs whose spurs jangled punctuation to the warning. Capt Holmes was warming to his subject. Here, said the long boned, eagle’s face to Prew, is a soldier who is not afraid to talk to his men in their own language, who does not mince the words, and who understands his men.

  “I have,” he said, “a damned fine smoothrunning outfit. I do not allow anything to bitch it up. But—if a man does his work, and keeps his nose clean, does as I say, he’ll get along. Plenty of room for advancement here, because in this organization there is no favoritism. I make it my business to see that each man gets just what he earns. No more, no less.

  “You start with a clean slate, Prewitt. What you do with it is up to you.

  “Understood?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Prew said.

  “Good,” said Capt Holmes, and nodded sternly.

  Milt Warden, at his own desk, was watching the progress of this conference that was not new to him with acumen. Crap! cried the king, he thought, and twenty thousand royal subjects squatted and strained, for in those days the king’s word was law! His face straight, he grinned at Prew with his eyebrows, and a devilish pixy peered out from behind his face with unholy glee.

  “To get a rating in my Company,” Capt Holmes was saying sternly, “a man has got to know his stuff. He has to soldier. He has to show me he’s got it on the ball.” He looked up sharply.

  “Understood?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Prew said.

  “Good,” said Capt Holmes. “Understood. Its always important for an officer and his men to understand each other.” Then he pushed his chair back and smiled at Prewitt, handsomely. “Glad to have you aboard, Prewitt,” he smiled, “as our colleagues in the navy say. I can always use a good man in my outfit and I’m glad to have you.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Prew said.

  “How would you like to be my Company bugler, temporarily?” Holmes paused to light himself a cigaret. “I saw your fight with Connors of the 8th Field in the Bowl last year,” he said. “A damned fine show. Damned fine. With any luck you should have won it. I thought for a while in there, in the second round, you were going to knock him out.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Prew said. Capt Holmes was talking almost joyously now. Here it comes, Prew told himself; well, bud, you asked for it, now figure it out. Figure it out yourself, he thought. Better yet, just let him figure it out.

  “If I’d known you were in the Regiment last December when the season started I’d have looked you up,” Holmes smiled.

  Prew said nothing. On his left he could feel, not hear, The Warden snorting softly with disgust as he began to study a sheaf of papers with the elaborate I’m-not-with-him air of a sober man whose friend is drunk.

  “I can use a good bugler, Prewitt,” Holmes smiled. “My regular Company bugler hasnt the experience. And his apprentice only has his job because he’s such a fuckup I was afraid he’d shoot somebody on a problem.” He laughed and looked at Prew, inviting him to join it.

  Milt Warden, who was the one who had suggested Salvatore Clark for the apprentice bugler, after Clark almost shot himself on guard, went on studying his papers, but his eyebrows quivered.

  “A Pfc rating goes with the job,” Holmes said to Prew. “I’ll have Sergeant Warden post the order, first thing tomorrow.”

  He waited then, but Prew said nothing, watching the dry ironic sunlight coming through the open window, wondering how long now it would take him to catch on, unable to believe that they had not heard it all before, and feeling how his uniform that had been fresh at eight o’clock was damp and musty now with sweat, beginning to be soaked.

  “I realize,” Holmes smiled indulgently, “a Pfc isnt very much, but our TO quo
ta of noncoms is all filled up. We have two noncoms who are shorttimers though,” he said. “They’ll be leaving on next month’s boat.

  “Its too bad the season’s almost over or you could start training this afternoon, but the schedule ends the last of February. But then,” he smiled, “if you dont fight Regimental this year, you’ll be eligible for Company Smokers in the fall.

  “Have you seen any of our boys in the Bowl this year?” he asked. “We’ve got some good ones, I’m confident we’ll keep the trophy. I’d like to get your opinion on a couple of them.”

  “I havent been to any of the fights this year, Sir,” Prew said.

  “What?” Holmes said, not believing it. “You havent?” He stared at Prew a moment curiously, then looked at Warden knowingly. He picked up a freshly sharpened pencil from his desk and studied it. “Why is it,” Capt Holmes said softly, “that you’ve been in the Regiment a whole year, Prewitt, and nobody knew a thing about it? I should have thought you would have come around to see me, since I am the boxing coach and since we’re the Division champions.”

  Prew moved his weight from one foot to the other and took one deep breath. “I was afraid you’d want me to go out for the squad, Sir,” he said. There it is, he thought, its out now, you’ve got it now. Now he can carry the ball. He felt relieved.

  “Of course,” Holmes said. “Why not? We can use a man as good as you are. Especially since you’re a welterweight. We’re poor in that division. If we lose the championship this year, it will be because we lost the welterweight division.”

  “Because I left the 27th because I had quit fighting, Sir,” Prew said.

  Again Holmes looked at Warden knowingly, this time apologetically, as if now he could believe it since he’d heard it from the man himself, before he spoke. “Quit fighting?” he said. “What for?”

  “Maybe you heard about what happened with Dixie Wells, Sir,” Prew said, hearing Warden lay his papers down, feeling Warden grinning.

  Holmes stared at him innocently, eyes wide with it. “Why, no,” he said. “What was that?”

  Prew went through the story for him, for both of them, standing there with his feet one foot apart and his hands clasped behind his back, and feeling all the time he spoke it was superfluous, that both of them already knew all about the deal already, yet forced to play the role that Holmes had set for him.

  “Thats too bad,” Holmes said, when he had finished. “I can understand why you might feel that way. But those things happen, in this game. A man has got to accept that possibility when he fights.”

  “Thats one reason why I decided I would quit, Sir,” Prew said.

  “But on the other hand,” Holmes said, much less warmly now, “look at it this way. What if all fighters felt like that?”

  “They dont, Sir,” Prew said.

  “I know,” Holmes said, much less warmly still. “What would you have us do? Disband our fighting program because one man got hurt?”

  “No, Sir,” Prew said. “I didnt say . . .”

  “You might as well,” Holmes said, “say stop war because one man got killed. Our fighting season is the best morale builder that we have off here away from home.”

  “I dont want it disbanded, Sir,” Prew said, and then felt the absurdity to which he had been forced. “But I dont see,” he went on doggedly, “why any man should fight unless he wanted to.”

  Holmes studied him with eyes that had grown curiously flat, and were growing flatter. “And that was why you left the 27th?”

  “Yes, Sir. Because they tried to make me go on fighting.”

  “I see.” Capt Holmes seemed all at once to have lost interest in this interview. He looked down at his watch, remembering suddenly he had a riding date with Major Thompson’s wife at 12:30. He stood up and picked up his hat from the IN file on his desk.

  It was a fine hat, a soft expensive unblocked Stetson, with its brim bent up fore and aft, its four dents creased to a sharp point at the peak, and it bore the wide chinstrap of the Cavalry, instead of the thin strap authorized for the Infantry that went behind the head. Beside it lay his riding crop he always carried. He picked that up, too. He had not always been an Infantryman.

  “Well,” he said, with very little interest, “theres nothing in the ARs that says a man must be a boxer if he doesnt want to. You’ll find that we wont put any pressure on you here, like they did in the 27th. I dont believe in that sort of thing. If you dont want to fight we dont want you on our squad.” He walked to the door and then turned back sharply.

  “Why did you leave the Bugle Corps?”

  “It was a personal matter, Sir,” Prew said, taking refuge in the taboo that says a man’s, even a private’s, personal matters are his own affair.

  “But you were transferred at the Chief Bugler’s request,” Holmes told him. “What kind of trouble was it you were in, over there?”

  “No, Sir,” Prew said. “No trouble. It was a personal matter,” he repeated.

  “Oh,” Holmes said, “I see.” That it might be a personal matter he had not considered and he looked uneasily at Warden, not sure of how to approach this angle. But Warden, who had been following everything with interest, was suddenly staring unconcernedly at the wall. Holmes cleared his throat, but Warden did not get it.

  “Have you anything you wish to add, Sergeant?” he had to ask him, finally.

  “Who? me? Why, yes, Sir,” exploded Warden with that sudden violence. He was, quite suddenly, in a state of indignation. His brows hooked upward, two harriers ready to pounce upon the rabbit.

  “What kind of rating you have in the Bugle Corps, Prewitt?”

  “First and Fourth,” Prew said, looking at him steadily.

  Warden looked at Holmes and raised his eyebrows eloquently.

  “You mean,” he said, astounded, “you took a bust from First-Fourth to transfer to a rifle company as a buckass private, just because you like to hike?”

  “I didnt have no trouble,” Prew said stolidly, “if thats what you mean.”

  “Or,” Warden grinned, “was it just because you couldnt stand to bugle?”

  “It was a personal matter,” Prew said.

  “Thats up to the Compny Commander’s discretion to decide,” Warden corrected instantly. Holmes nodded. And Warden grinned at Prewitt velvetly. “Then you didnt transfer because Mr Houston made young Macintosh First Bugler? Over you?”

  “I was transferred,” Prew said, staring at the other. “It was a personal matter.”

  Warden leaned back in his chair and snorted softly. “What a helluva thing to transfer over. Kids in the Army we got now. Someday you punks will learn that good jobs dont grow on trees.”

  In the electric antagonism that flashed between the two of them and hung heavy like ozone in the air Capt Holmes had been forgotten. He broke in now, as was his right.

  “It looks to me,” he said indifferently, “as if you were fast acquiring a reputation as a bolshevik, Prewitt. Bolsheviks never get anywhere in the Army. You’ll find that straight duty in this outfit is considerably tougher than SD in the Bugle Corps.”

  “I’ve done straight duty before, Sir,” Prew said. “In the Infantry. I dont mind doing it again.” You fucking liar, he told himself, like hell you do not mind it. How is it that people make you lie so easily?

  “Well,” Holmes said, pausing for the effect, “it looks as though you’ll get a chance to do it.” But he was no longer jocular. “You’re not a recruit and you should know that in the Army its not the individual that counts. Every man has certain responsibilities to fulfill. Moral responsibilities that go beyond the ARs’ regulations. It might look as though I were a free agent, but I’m not. No matter how high you get there is always somebody over you, and who knows more about it all than you do.

  “Sergeant Warden will take care of you and get you assigned to a squad.” Nothing more was said about the Company bugler’s job. He turned to Warden. “Is there anything else for me to take care of today, Sergeant?”


  “Yes, Sir,” Warden, who had been listening to this abstract conversation, said violently. “The Compny Fund Report has got to be checked and made out. Its due tomorrow morning.”

  “You make it out,” Holmes said, undisturbed by the regulation that says no one but an officer may touch the Company Fund. “Fix it up and I’ll be in early tomorrow to sign it. I havent time to bother with details. Is that all?”

  “No, Sir,” Warden said vehemently.

  “Well, whatever it is, you fix it. If theres anything that has to go in this afternoon, sign my name. I wont be back.” He looked at Warden angrily and turned back to the door, ignoring Prewitt.

  “Yes, Sir,” Warden raged. “Ten-nsh-HUT!” he bawled, bellowing it at the top of his lungs in the smallness of the room.

  “Carry on,” Holmes said. He touched his crop to hat brim and disappeared. A moment later his voice came in the open window.

  “Sergeant Warden!”

  “Yes, Sir!” Warden bellowed, jumping to the window.

  “Whats the matter with this outfit? This place needs policing. Look there. And there. And over by the garbage rack. Is this a barracks or a pigpen? I want it policed up! Immediately!”

  “Yes, Sir!” bellowed Warden, “Maggio!”

  Maggio’s gnomelike body bobbed up in its undershirt before the window. “Yesser.”

  “Maggio,” said Capt Holmes. “Wheres your goddam fatigue blouse? Get your blouse and put it on. This is no goddamned bathing beach.”

  “Yessir,” Maggio said. “I’ll get it, Sir.”

  “Maggio,” Warden bellowed. “Get the other KPs and police the goddam area. Dint you hear what the Compny Commander said? It’s disgraceful. Disgraceful.”

  “Okay, Sarge,” said Maggio resignedly.

  Warden leaned his elbows on the sill and watched Holmes’s broad back move through the midst of Dog Company, called to attention by their duty sergeant. “Carry on,” Holmes thundered. After Holmes had passed, the blue-dressed figures sat back down to go on with their stoppage drill.