by James Jones
“Yes, Sir,” Prew said quickly.
“We have the perfect system to carry out this policy,” Major Thompson said. “You cant beat it. We’ll find out if you really dont want to soldier or not.” He turned in his chair toward the other desk. “Wont we, Sgt Judson?”
“Yes, Sir,” rumbled the man behind the other desk. Prew turned his head to look at him and the butt of the omniscient grub hoe handle immediately thudded into his back in the same place that had grown very sensitive now, nauseating him sickly. He snapped his head back to the front, but not before he had seen an enormous head and hogshead chest with deep concentric layers of fat over the even deeper layers of muscle that made S/Sgt Judson somewhat resemble Porky Pig in the Walt Disney cartoons. S/Sgt Judson was staring at him with the deadest eyes he had ever seen in a human being. They looked like two beads of caviar spaced far apart on a great white plate.
“Theres a few rules,” Major Thompson said. “All of them is designed toward the single objective of seeing how bad a man wants not to soldier. For instance,” he said, “when in the presence of superiors, prisoners move only on command. Especially in this office,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Prew said quickly. “I’m sorry, Sir.” The nausea had come back full force, worse than before, and he wanted to take his hands and knead and massage the place on his back that had become so sensitive now that it seemed to have a mind of its own with which to anticipate the grub hoe handle.
When Major Thompson did not acknowledge his apology but went right on naming off rules, the spot on his back seemed to leap quiveringly in its own private panic for fear he had made another mistake in talking when not asked, but the omniscient grub hoe handle did not fall. He waited for it eternally, while trying to listen to the rules Major Thompson was naming.
“Prisoners are not allowed to have visitors, and they are not allowed to have tailormade cigarets,” Major Thompson said. “Prisoners are issued one bag of Duke’s Mixture a day and any other tobacco, either tailormade plug or pipe, found in the possession of a prisoner earns him an immediate demerit.”
Prew felt he was beginning to learn what a demerit was finally. It seemed to be a very elastic medium that covered a multitude of sins.
“We have barracks inspection daily,” Major Thompson said, “instead of just on Saturday, and any discrepancy of personal equipment earns a prisoner an immediate demerit. Repeated infractions of any rule gets solitary confinement.
“While here,” Major Thompson said, “every internee is called by the title of ‘Prisoner.’ Men serving time in this Stockade have lost their rights to the title of rank, and to the complimentary title of ‘Soldier.’
“S/Sgt Judson here is the second in command. In the event of my absence his decisions will be final. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Sir,” Prew said quickly.
“Then I think thats all,” Major Thompson said. “Any questions, Prisoner?”
“No, Sir,” Prew said quickly.
“Then thats all. Pfc Hanson will take you out to work.”
“Yes, Sir,” Prew said, and snapped out a salute. The butt of the grub hoe handle slammed into the small of his back above the kidney in the same spot with the precision of a clock, the Godlike reprimand of a schoolteacher’s ruler.
“Prisoners do not salute,” Major Thompson said. “Only soldiers have got the right to the mutual compliment of the salute.”
“Yes, Sir,” Prew said thickly through the sickness in his belly.
“Thats all,” Major Thompson said. “Prisoner, about face! Prisoner, forward march!”
At the door Hanson took over and gave him a column right and they were headed for the outside door they had first come in by. Prew’s back hurt sickly all the way down to his knees and his mind was in a delirium of rage. He did not notice where Turnipseed went, or when. Hanson halted him at the tool room, next to the locked weapons room. Another trustee handed him out a 16 pound sledgehammer. Then Hanson stopped him at the weapons room and exchanged his grub hoe handle for a riot gun with the armed sentry who stayed locked inside, before he took him on outside to the 21/2 ton waiting just inside the gate.
“You done pretty fair,” Hanson grinned as they climbed in the thick-dusty back and he signaled the driver. “What was it, only four wasnt it?”
“Just four,” Prew said.
“Hell, thats good,” Hanson grinned. “Ive seen them get as many as ten or twelve, during their first session. Ive even seen a couple of them that clean lost their head and had to actually be carried out finally they got so fuckedup. I think the least I ever seen is two, and that was Jack Malloy who’s a three time loser. You really done exceptional.”
“Thats good,” Prew said grimly, “I was beginning to think for a minute there I’d failed my first examination.”
“Naw,” Hanson grinned. “I was real proud of you. Four is fine. The saluting always gets one, so it was really only three. Even Jack Malloy got one on the salute, a guy just does it by instinct.”
“That makes me feel better,” Prew said, as he watched the gates close behind them and felt the air and saw the Waianae Range up there at Kolekole where they were going.
“You’ll be all right,” Hanson grinned.
The truck had to pass back down toward the Post and around the golf course to hit the Kolekole black top.
“Look at them sons of bitches,” Hanson said bitterly, sitting on the tailgate. “Did you ever play golf?”
“No,” Prew said.
“Me neither,” Hanson said. “The sons of bitches.”
The truck delivered them to the rockpile a hundred yards below the crest of the pass, where Paluso had hiked him up that time and the prisoners had hooted at him. He found himself hoping some other poor jerk got hiked up there so he could hoot at him back. Hanson turned him over to the guard on the road.
“See you later, bud,” he grinned as he climbed up in the cab with the driver.
Prew watched the truck roar away back down the grade. Schofield Barracks was spread out like a map down on the plain below him.
“Over there,” the guard said, “anywhere.” He waved his riot gun. “Just keep that hammer going.”
The rockpile was a halfmoon surface quarry that had been worked back maybe forty yards into the hillside. There were two other guards besides the one on the road, one up on top looking down into the arena below, the other off to the right where the cleft petered out into the thin woods that led back toward the wilderness of Mount Kaala, elev 4030 ft and the highest peak on Oahu. At least over there he would be that near to the free wilderness of the mountain.
Prew moved over toward that side, carrying the sledge. A gray rock-dust-grimed gnome rested its hammer, looking like one of the Mountain People out of Rip Van Winkle, or one of Richard Wagner’s smithy-dwarfs grimy from deep caves in the hidden mountain fastnesses. It put a hand against its back and straightened itself and grinned at him feverishly, teeth and eyes wolfish white in the gray seams of the face.
“Hello, you son of a bitch,” Angelo Maggio said. “How are you?”
“My back hurts,” Prew grinned.
“Ha. You should have seen mine, buddy,” Angelo grinned wolfishly. “Blacknblue for two weeks. Every time I took a piss I thought I had the clap for sure.”
Prew laughed and set down his hammer and they shook hands.
“You son of a bitch,” Angelo said. “You no good bastard you. I been wonderin when the hell you’d turn up. Goddam you,” he said, “goddam you.”
“You’re lookin good yourself,” Prew said. “What I can see of you under that dust.”
“Hey you!” the guard yelled up from the road. “What’re you guys passin back and forth up there?”
“Shakin hands,” Maggio yelled back wolfishly. “Ever hear of it? A gesture, done between two civilized men of Christian society, used to denote friendship and long time no see. Or did you?”
“Can that lip, you Maggio!” the guard yelled, “you’re buckin for th
e Hole. You better watch your step, with me goddam you, I wont take your crap. Swing the hammer and shake the hand later. You know you aint supposed to talk up here.”
“Okay, chickenshit,” Maggio yelled. Some of the hammer-swingers around him looked up and laughed wolfishly, but he did not see them.
“Goddam,” he said; “goddam but you look good, goddam. I never seen a uglier face.”
“I love you too,” Prew grinned.
“Come on,” Angelo said, “make like you’re workin.” He picked up his hammer and bent his back and let the hammer fall once of its own weight on the rock. “Come on,” he invited, “plenty room on this rock for two.” He looked up at the recently blasted slab, measuring it with his eyes as if estimating an enemy. “I aint greedy,” he said, “you can have half.” He raised the hammer and let it fall once more of its own weight on the rock.
“Thanks,” Prew said, getting into position. “Dont do me no favors.”
Angelo leaned forward to peer where he had hit. “This here seems to be an unusual hard rock,” he said.
“Get to work,” the guard yelled from the road, “up there, you two.”
“Yes, Sir,” Maggio yelled. “Thank you, Sir.”
“I dont suppose they’ll let you take your shirt off up here?” Prew asked him.
“Ha,” Maggio said. “No. Nor your hat neither. The shirt has the P on the back which is the mark of the prisoner and also a very good target. The hat they throw in extra for free. Well,” he said, “well goddam. What’d they finally get you for?”
Prew told him the story.
“Well, well,” Angelo said happily. “Joy, joy. So you whipped old Bloom’s ass.”
“It was about even,” Prew said. “Maybe I had a little edge.”
“But he couldn’t fight could he. That night, in the Smoker. He wasnt able to fight was he.”
“Yeah, he fought. The main go. And won TKO in the first.”
“The son of a bitch,” Angelo said bitterly. “Well, hell,” he said philosophically, “a man cant have everything, can he? A man had everything he wount have nothing to hope for, would he? And so then you busted Old Ike when he drew his knife?”
“Yeah.”
“And all that for ony Three Months and Two-Thirds,” Angelo said incredulously. “Why, its worth double that. For double that I’d do it myself, right now, and do that extra time standin on my head holdin my breath with my dick in one hand,” he said.
“In Macy’s window at high noon on Sataday,” Prew said. “Old Angelo.”
“Did you meet Father Thompson yet?” Angelo said. “Yeah, you must of,” he answered himself, “you said your back was sore. But did you meet old Fatso yet?”
“You mean S/Sgt Judson.”
“Thats him. In person. The man, the right hand man, who carries out the orders to the best of his ability—and then even volunteers a few ideas of his own. How’d you like him?”
“He dint seem to be too much inclined toward friendliness,” Prew said. “But maybe he’s just bashful.”
“Friendliness,” Maggio grinned at him wolfishly. “Fatso is the orignl man who burned the orignl book that had that word in it. Whatever you do, stay away from Fatso. If Fatso tells you to eat a plate of shit, you eat it, and whats more, you like it, hear?”
“I may eat it,” Prew said, “but I wont like it.”
“If its Fatso,” Angelo grinned wolfishly, “you’ll like it. He’ll even have you back for seconds just to prove it.”
“What barracks you in?” Prew said. “I’m in the west one.”
“I’m in the middle one,” Angelo grinned.
“Oh,” Prew grinned, “a fuckup.”
“Thats me,” Angelo grinned happily. “I guess I talk too much. They got on me right after that queer investigation down town, remember? Remember Brownie? Brownie turned me in on that. That started it. They rode me and I talked some more and got three days in the Hole. Man,” he said, “wait till you see the Hole.”
“I aint anxious.”
“Listen,” Angelo said eagerly, and his eyes lit up feverishly. “I got a plan, see? I—”
He stopped and looked around nervously, at where the other prisoners toiled endlessly in the blue fatigues with the great white Ps on the back. Automatically he placed the position of all three of the guards. The working prisoners were carrying on, out of the corners of their mouths, grinning wolfishly, the conversations that could never be entirely stamped out. The guards were trying to keep all of them working, and at the same time stay far enough back out of the dust to keep their uniforms and riotguns clean. None of them were paying any attention to Angelo Maggio, but Angelo glared at them wildly and still shook his head warily and nervously.
“Too many stools,” he said cautiously. “I’ll tell you later on. But I got it all planned out, see? I figured it out myself, and Jack Malloy says its a lead pipe cinch for me. Nobody knows anything about it but me and him. I’ll tell you, but I aint taking no chances, see?” he said with a sly cunning. “They got stools spotted all over the joint, but they aint pulling that on Angelo Maggio.”
Watching him, Prew seemed to see him change subtly into a totally different man, as if he had drunk the magic potion and was pulling a Jekyll and Hyde. He was like a man gloating secretly over a jewel that he knew everybody was trying to steal and he even stared at Prew calculatingly suspiciously, as if he had learned the hard way that even friendship was suspect before so great a temptation. Then slowly he changed back, becoming the old Angelo that Prew knew again.
“Anyway,” he said, “when I come out of the Hole they threwn me in Number Two, right along with all the tough boys. I was scared at first, but hell, we got the best bunch of guys in the joint. More fun than a barrel of monkeys. Jack Malloy’s in Number Two. You got to get yourself in with us as soon as you can.”
“How do I do it?” Prew said.
“Best ways to complain about the food. That always works. Thats how Jack Malloy got back in, first thing he did was bitch over the food to get back in Number Two. They may let you off the first time because you’re new maybe. But the second time they’ll sock it to you, give you a couple days in the Hole, then throw you in Number Two.
“Jack Malloy’s in Number Two,” Angelo said. “He’s my buddy. Wait’ll you meet him. He’s a three time loser and the smartest joe in this hockshop. You wait, you’ll like him. Jack Malloy’s your kind of a guy.”
“Who the hell is this Jack Malloy anyway?” Prew said testily. “All I hear since I came here is this Jack Malloy. He seems to be the number one topic of conversation. That guard Hanson who brought me out here talked about him all the time, too.”
“Sure. They all talk about him,” Angelo grinned wolfishly. “Because he’s too tough for them and too smart for them both. He makes them eat it and like it.”
“You sure he aint Superman in disguise now,” Prew said irately.
“I know he’s the squarest, straightest, fairest joe I ever met in my life,” Angelo said glowingly.
“He is, hunh?” Prew said irritably. He could sense his own jealousy. You dont want Angelo to have another hero, do you, Prewitt? You sure did him a lot of good when you were his hero, didnt you? “Well, he’s beginning to get in my hair,” he said.
Angelo looked a little shocked. “And I know he’s the smartest operator I ever met, too,” he said coolly, “if that means anything to you.”
“It dont mean nothing to me,” Prew said. “Why aint he out here with the rest of the fuckups, if he’s so tough?”
“He was a mechanic by trade,” Angelo said, “and he works in the Stockade motorpool. When he aint in the Hole. Thats why he aint out here: He says they got so now they always keep his old job back for him because he’s the only guy they can get to fix up their trucks.”
“He must be quite a guy,” Prew said. “Has he got a halo?”
“If I was the Pope,” Angelo said without hesitation, “he would have.”
“But you aint the Po
pe,” Prew told him, “and so Jack Malloy aint no saint. Okay, then what the hell is he then?”
Angelo laughed feverishly between swings of his hammer. “He says he’s the Rockpile.”
“The what?” Prew said, stopped momentarily. “The rockpile?”
“Yeah.” Angelo laughed again harshly. “This heres the rockpile for the prisoners, see? Well, Jack Malloy says he’s the Rockpile where Father Thompson and Fatso and all the rest of them are condemned to for hard labor the rest of their natural lives,” he said, looking at Prew to make sure he got it. When he saw he had, he laughed again. “He had to explain it to me, too,” Angelo said.
“Thats pretty good,” Prew admitted reluctantly, unable to escape a twinge of interested curiosity about any man who could conceive of a thought like that one.
“You wait till you meet him,” Angelo promised triumphantly.
“I will,” Prew said.
“And you’ll meet him,” Angelo went on. “You wouldnt be able to stay in Number Three with the punks and the ass kissers if you wanted to. And you wont want to, not after you find out what our bunch of guys in Number Two is like.”
“It sure sounds like I got some complainin to do,” Prew grinned at him.
Angelo nodded. Then he shook his head and grinned wolfishly. “It wont be pleasant,” he warned. “You never know just what they’ll do, especially if Fatso’s in on it. They play rough. Whatever it is, you can bet it wont be pleasant. But it’ll be worth it to you after.”
“And it sounds like Number Two’s the place to be,” Prew said.
Angelo grinned back at him with that feverish wildness, his white eyes narrowing in the gray dust of his face. “I knew you wount give a damn,” he said proudly. “I knew you’d know the score.” He dropped the head of his hammer down to the ground and leaned on the shaft. “Goddam,” he said. “Goddam. You old son of a bitch you. So you took Old Ike and Bloom both.”
“Old Angelo,” Prew said. “Old Fuckup Angelo. Get to work, you social parasite you.”
