From Here to Eternity: The Restored Edition

by James Jones

  “Different,” Culpepper grinned. “Consecrated. Like a nun.”

  “Will I sprout little gold wings, too? To go with the bars?”

  They all insisted on shaking his hand. Even Rosenberry insisted on shaking his hand. And 2nd Lt Cribbage, one of the new ROTC boys, who came in along about then from his new command at Makapuu, insisted on shaking his hand.

  “When are you going to pass out those cigars?” Cribbage grinned. He was a Purdue man.

  “Sgt Warden would never pass out cigars,” Culpepper grinned, “not for a little old thing like a commission. You dont know your man, Cribbage.”

  “Just the same,” Cribbage grinned, “I mean to get a cigar out of this promotion.”

  “Of course, you understand, Sergeant,” Lt Ross grinned, “that this is only in the Reserve Corps. So dont get any big ideas. You’re still my 1st/Sgt until they send you to Active Duty back Stateside someplace.”

  “You lucky bastard,” Culpepper amended, grinning.

  “Amen,” Cribbage, grinned.

  “Oh, Christ,” Lt Ross said. Lt Ross had just opened the other letter.

  “Whats the matter, Ross?” Culpepper said.

  “Look at this, Culpepper,” Lt Ross said. He handed him the letter.

  Watching them, Warden thought again how much it was all like some kind of a club, a young gentlemen’s club, warm, friendly, completely secure, with its own comforting set of rules for parliamentary procedure. The letter went down the chain of command from Ross to Culpepper to Cribbage. Warden was fourth on the list. Rosenberry was last.

  When it got to Warden and he saw what it was, he felt a little bit sick in his thighs. In the envelope was a WD policy circular to the effect that all EM of a certain age who were below the Grade of M/Sgt and were engaged in any form of active combat duty, as distinguished from administrative duty, were to be relieved from the active duty list immediately and their names submitted for the evacuation shipping list along with a request for replacements. And that was the end of Pete.

  Just to clinch it, stapled to the circular was a mimeograph cut of a Regimental Special Order with the names of thirty or forty EM from the Regiment who would be affected, and two of the names.

  S/Sgt Peter J Karelsen, G Co

  Pvt Ike (NMI) Galovitch, G Co

  were underlined in red pencil.

  “Christ, I wont have any platoon left,” Cribbage said, “if I lose Sgt Karelsen.”

  “It’ll sure put a hole in the dyke,” Culpepper said.

  Neither mentioned Ike (NMI) Galovitch.

  “I think I’ll run down and take a look around Position 16,” Lt Culpepper said suddenly. “Then I wont have to go out that way tonight.”

  “I might as well be getting back out to Makapuu,” 2nd Lt Cribbage said, “since theres no mail for me.”

  “They sure got out from under that one quick,” Lt Ross said when they had gone. “Do you suppose if I wrote a letter?”

  Rosenberry was finally reading the order.

  “A letter wouldnt do any good,” Warden said.

  “I suppose not,” Lt Ross said unhappily. “Goddam it, Sergeant!” he exploded. “They cant do this to me! I cant afford to lose Sgt Karelsen! I just cant, thats all!”

  Lt Ross did not mention Ike (NMI) Galovitch either. Lt Ross had been trying to find a way to get Ike transferred ever since he had busted him. Warden had even worked on it some himself. To no avail, because no other outfit on the Post would have him. At any price.

  “God damn the sons of bitches!” Lt Ross said. “They sit on their ass in Washington and cut their orders according to statistics. What do they know about the real situation? What the hell do they care what its going to do to my Company? They dont have to run it. Well? Come on, Sergeant? Think of something.”

  Warden had been thinking of something. He had been thinking of Retirement Row down along Kahala Avenue at the foot of Diamond Head. That was where Snuffy Cartwright had gone, when they retired him out of G Co to make room for Warden. Warden suddenly felt an astonishingly, almost unreasonably, powerful twinge of fear and refusal, for Pete, go all over him. And he did not have any illusions of Pete’s love for G Company, once the sentimentalities of parting were over.

  “Pete’s been in this Compny six years,” Warden suggested. “You might use that.”

  “Sure,” Lt Rose nodded. “Why, it’ll probably break his goddamned old heart. An old man like him.”

  Rosenberry silently laid the order back on the desk without comment.

  “Rosenberry!” Lt Ross cried fretfully. “You dont look so good. You look peakéd. Like you needed some air. Go take yourself a walk someplace, Rosenberry.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Rosenberry said quietly.

  “That boy gets on my nerves,” Lt Ross sighed when he had gone. “He’s too damn quiet. Well, what’re we going to do?”

  They said old soldiers never died. No, they went to live in cottages on Kahala Avenue at the foot of Diamond Head. And bought surf-casting rods and bait-casting rods. To fish with. And used their old Army rifles to hunt some. At least the ones who had money did, like Snuffy Cartwright. Pete had not made the money gambling Snuffy Cartwright had made; or at least not saved it. Snuffy’s wife had saved his for him. Pete did not have a wife. Pete did not even have enough money to buy a middle-aged housekeeper to sleep with, let alone a young wife. Again the astonishingly strong spasm of fear and refusal, for Pete, rolled down over him. Unmarried, sterile from the syph, no gambling savings. No wife no kids no Cadillac. And no prospect of any. Just a lonely old retired ex-soldier. Warden felt, for some obscure reason, he must get Pete out of that.

  “You’ll have to take Pete up to Schofield with you,” he told Lt Ross, “and see Col Delbert personally.”

  Lt Ross, who had been leaning forward eagerly, drew back a little. “Oh, I rather hesitate to do anything that drastic.”

  “You want to keep him, dont you?”

  They would put him to teaching draftees about machine-guns in the States someplace, for a year, maybe two years, maybe even till the end of the war. It would be a nice soft easy job for an old man. The johns would buy an old timer like Pete all the free beer his gut would hold. He could get drunk every night. And know he was helping the War Effort.

  “Well, why dont you go up, Sergeant?” Lt Ross said finally. “You’ve been in the Regiment a lot longer than I have.”

  “Hell, I cant go, Lieutenant. You’re the Company Commander.”

  “Thats right, I am,” Lt Ross said without joy. “You understand, dont you? I want to do whats right, Sergeant. But then how do we know it would do any good?”

  “Its the only chance.”

  “You really think it would work?”

  “It has to.”

  “But if it doesnt work I’m the one that’ll get on the Regimental shitlist,” Lt Ross said. “Not you.”

  “Well, what’re you tryin to do? Run your Compny?” Warden said. “Or make Captain.”

  “Ha,” Lt Ross cried angrily. “For you its easy. You’ll be shipping out of here in a month or so. Ah, piss on it!” he said violently. “Goddam you, Sergeant. You sure talk a great war, anyway.”

  He went to the door and hollered, a look of outrage against fate dark on his swart Jewish face. “Rosenberry! What the fuck are you doing! Why arent you in here? Go find Sgt Karelsen and tell him I want to see him. And get the lead out of your ass!”

  “He’s out at Makapuu, Sir,” Rosenberry, who had been quietly waiting outside, said quietly.

  “Then get a jeep and go the hell after him!” Lt Ross cried. “Dont you think I know where he is? What the hells the matter with you today, Rosenberry?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Rosenberry’s fading voice said quietly.

  “God damn that boy,” Lt Ross said, coming back. He sat down at his desk and scratched his head. “I think I’ll drive the jeep up by myself and leave Russell here. That way there’ll just be the two of us, and I can break it to him gently, on the way up. Dont you
think that would be best?”

  “Yes.”

  Lt Ross got out his notebook and began making notes on what to say to the Colonel. After he made a few, he muttered “Shit!” and began crossing them out.

  “You and your goddam bright ideas,” he said angrily. “I dont know why the hell I let you talk me into these things.”

  “Because you want to do the right thing,” Warden said.

  “Hunh,” Lt Ross said. “Sometimes I wonder who the hell is in command of this outfit. You or me.”

  He was still making notes concentratedly and, between nervous chewings on his pencil, concentratedly crossing them out, when Rosenberry brought Pete in from Makapuu.

  “Come on, Sergeant,” Lt Ross said blackly, putting his notebook away. “You and I got to make a business trip to Schofield.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Pete said formally, and saluted. He was too old a hand not to know an ax was about to fall someplace. He had put his teeth in, the first time he’d had them in since Pearl Harbor, except for meals.

  The two of them, Ross gloomily, Pete inscrutably formal, took off in silence, complete with gas masks, rifle belts, helmets, and their carbines, and Warden went back to work and settled down to wait for the outcome. He was still waiting for them to come back when the call had come in about Prewitt.

  And when he and Weary got back from the identification of Prewitt’s body, the other jeep still was not in the motor pool. Which meant that Ross and Pete still were not back yet.

  Weary delivered him to the popcorn wagon and then hurried off to bed down the jeep so he could start circulating with the story. Inside the blacked out wagon Rosenberry was sitting in a fog of cigaret smoke at the single panel switchboard working methodically at his latest crossword book.

  “Any calls, kid?”

  “Not a thing, Sir.”

  “Good,” Warden said. “And God damn you, Rosenberry, you son of a bitch, quit calling me sir!” he said murderously. “I am not a goddam Officer! I am a goddam enlisted 1st/Sgt!”

  “Yes, Sir!” Rosenberry said pop-eyedly. “I mean, okay, Sarge! I’m sorry, Sarge!”

  “If you dont quit calling me sir, Rosenberry, I’ll tear your fucking heart out by the roots with my bare hands and feed it to you,” Warden said in a low vibrant voice that sounded as if he actually hungered to do just exactly that.

  “Okay, Sarge,” Rosenberry said soothingly. “I’m sorry, Sarge. I dont mean nothing. Its just a habit. Was it really Prewitt, Sarge?”

  “Yas, it was Prewitt. Deadern a goddam mackerel. In a sandtrap. And his chest scattered all over the goddam fairway. By a Thompson gun. Now get the fuck out and lee me a lone.”

  When the kid was gone, he spread the stuff out on his desk. It was a hell of a lot to show for one man’s life.

  He got the ten-cent notebook and the folded paper out of the other pocket and added them to the pile.

  Then he picked up the paper and opened it again and smoothed it out on the desk. He read the printed title at the top. THE RE-ENLISTMENT BLUES, and then he read the nine hand-written verses. Then he looked at the whole thing again, and then he smoothed the paper out on the desk again, and then he read the whole thing through again.

  It was another hour, almost eleven, before they got back from Schofield. When he heard the jeep grind up outside, he refolded the paper, carefully, along its already worn creases, and together with the ten-cent notebook locked it up in his little Art-Metal lockbox.

  He could see by their faces, when they came in, that it had not worked with Col Delbert at Schofield.

  “Well,” Lt Ross said. He threw his helmet viciously at the bare cot in the corner. A puff-cloud of dust rose from the cot. “All I can say is its a great fucking war,” Lt Ross said bitterly, and leaned his carbine carefully against the desk. Then he sat down and rubbed a grimy hand over his dusty face.

  “The traffic’s still terrific, even this late at night. I bet it took us four hours to get down here.”

  Pete Karelsen, his carbine slung on his shoulder, stepped forward and came to attention in that big-butted-like-a-round-bottomed-doll way of his and made his wide-swinging, sweeping old timer’s salute.

  “Sir, Sgt Karelsen wishes to thank the Company Commander for what he has done.”

  “I didnt do anything,” Lt Ross said. “All I did was to get my ass on the Great White Father’s list.”

  “Sir, the Company Commander tried. Thats what counts.”

  “No, its not what counts either!” Lt Ross cried violently. “The only thing that counts”— He managed to bring his voice back down to normal. “—in this world is results. I failed,” he said, “utterly and miserably.”

  “Sir, the Company Commander did everything he could,” Pete said.

  “For Christ’s sake, Sgt Karelsen!” Lt Ross said, “quit talking to me in the third person like I was somebody else! At ease. Rest. Relax. You dont have to be formal with me.”

  Pete moved his foot twelve inches to the left and clasped his hands behind his back. “Sir, I wish the Company Commander to know that I appreciate everything he did,” Pete said emotionlessly, his face still rock-hard like a soldier at attention. “I will never forget it, Sir.”

  Lt Ross looked at him a moment, and then rubbed his hand over his face again. “You might as well sleep here the next couple of days, Sgt Karelsen,” he said. “Till they call you in. You might as well be comfortable. Tell Sgt Malleaux I said give you a cot, and set it up in the Headquarters tent. The Weapons Platoon may as well start getting along without you right now.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Pete said. “Thank you, Sir.” He came back to attention slowly and with style, bending forward a little bit from the waist, and made that slow wide-sweeping snap of a salute again. It was a beautiful salute.

  “Sir, if the Company Commander will excuse the Sergeant, the Sergeant will retire,” Pete said.

  “Go ahead,” Lt Ross said.

  Pete did a slow, precise, perfect aboutface and started off for the door at a solid 120 per.

  “Whats that stuff?” Lt Ross said, pointing at the little pile of effects.

  “Wait a minute, Pete,” Warden said from his chair. “You’ll want to hear this, too.” He separated the effects and spread them out and told them about Prewitt.

  “Well,” Lt Ross said. “Thats fine. Thats wonderful. That makes it a grand slam. We’re batting a thousand.”

  “When did it happen, Milt?” Pete said from the door, his voice genuinely human for the first time. There was a kind of a heartsick note in it that made a dull anger flare up in Warden.

  “About eight o’clock,” he said impassively.

  He told them the story just as the MP Sgt had related it to him. Then, for Lt Ross’s benefit, he went back and sketched in the rest of it from the beginning when Prewitt quit the Bugle Corps.

  He left out a few things. For instance, he did not say anything about the late S/Sgt Fatso Judson. And he did not mention how with Baldy Dhom’s initial shove he had covered up for him on the Morning Report for a week or so. Also, he did not mention Lorene of the New Congress.

  “Well,” Lt Ross said when he finished. “That boy had a pretty good batting average himself. He managed to violate just about every AW in the book. He managed to just about ruin the reputation of my organization; and I dont even remember ever having seen the man, to recognize him.”

  “Sir,” Pete said from the door, “if the Company Commander will excuse me now, I will leave. I can be of no further use to the Company Commander and 1st/Sgt in this matter.”

  “Sure. Go ahead, Sergeant,” Lt Ross said. “Get some sleep. We both need it.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Pete said. “Thank you, Sir.” He came back to his slow precision of attention, making that same beautiful salute as he did so, and aboutfaced slowly and perfectly.

  As he went out through the blackout flap, he whispered to Warden.

  “I got a couple bottles up at Schofield, today, Milt. They’re extra. Come down to the tent after.�
��

  “What the hells the matter with him,” Lt Ross said when he had gone. “He dont have to be formal with me. Hell, I did the best I could for him.”

  “You dont understand him,” Warden said.

  “I sure as hell dont.”

  “He’s being a soldier,” Warden said. “He’s proving he’s still a soldier. Its got nothing to do with you, Lieutenant.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever understand any of you guys,” Lt Ross said. “Or the Army.”

  “Dont push it,” Warden said. “You try to push it too hard. You got plenty time yet.”

  He leaned back deep in his chair and began to brief him about Lt Col Hobbs of the Provost’s office, and how he had fixed it so all Ross had to do was keep his mouth shut and look agreeable.

  “But I thought Prewitt didnt have any relatives?” Lt Ross said.

  “He dont. But it will make it easier all the way round, this way. And in addition,” Warden said pointedly, “you will not have any mention of a dead deserter on your Company’s records, Lieutenant.”

  “I see,” Lt Ross said. “You can count on me.” He rubbed his hand over his face again. “This is sure going to make a swell report to send in to Col Delbert; after today. I think its just about as well we’re finally rid of this man Prewitt.”

  “Just about,” Warden said.

  “I guess you think thats calloused?” Lt Ross said quickly.

  “No.”

  “My first responsibility is to this Company as a whole,” Lt Ross said. “Not to the individuals in it. And any individual who threatens the security of the whole threatens my responsibility. I still say, I think its just as well we’re finally rid of him.”

  “You dont have to justify yourself to me, Lieutenant,” Warden said.

  “No, but I have to justify myself to myself,” Lt Ross said.

  “Well, then just dont use me as your punching bag then, will you?”

  “You thought a lot of this Prewitt, didnt you, Sergeant?”

  “No. I thought he was a good soldier.”

  “Yes, he sure as hell sounds like it,” Lt Ross said bitterly.

  “I think he was nuts. He loved the Army. Anybody who loves the Army is nuts. I think he was crazy enough to have made a good paratrooper, if he wasnt so small, or commando. He loved the Army the way most men love their wives. Anybody who loves the Army that much is nuts.”