by Gore Vidal
On the last night they dined in a restaurant particularly recommended for those who wanted native food without diarrhea. Walls bright with primitive scenes of volcanoes, conquistadores, flowers, lakes. Rooms loud with the noise of a small marimba band. Tourist couples danced.
All during dinner Jim felt reckless and glad, like a child let out of school.
They drank Chilean wine and even Maria was gay. But toward the end of dinner, when the music grew sad and sentimental and they had all drunk too much white wine, they became sad and sentimental, too. But it was the sort of sadness that is closely related to happiness. Each was now secure in his own failure. Doubt was gone. Boundaries had been drawn and accepted.
“It’s too sad,” said Maria as the band rattled “La Paloma.” “We’ve lived such a long time together. And played so many games.”
“True.” Sullivan was moody. “But it’s also a relief to have things end.”
“Some things.” Maria twirled her wineglass in her hands. “I think love is always a tragic thing, for everyone, always.”
“But that’s what makes life interesting. How can we value anything until it’s gone?”
“No light without dark?”
“Yes. And no pain without pleasure.”
“What a curious way to put it.” She looked at him, almost aware of his secret.
“Even so,” he said quickly, “there are other things in life than being in love. Look at Jim. He’s never in love, are you?”
“Of course I am. With what I want.” Jim thought of Bob.
Maria was puzzled. “What do you want?”
Sullivan answered for him. “What he cannot have, like the rest of us.” He turned to Maria. “Have you ever found what you wanted?”
“For a time, certainly.”
“But not for long.”
“No, not for long. I’ve failed, like everyone else.”
“Why?”
“I suppose I may want more than any man cares to give. And sometimes I give more than any man wants to take.”
“Shaw was like that,” said Jim suddenly. “I mean he thought he was that way.”
“Shaw was an idiot,” said Sullivan.
“We all are,” said Maria sadly, “at the end.”
They were silent. The marimba clattered in the room.
They drank more wine. At last Sullivan got up and went to the men’s room. For the first time since they had come to Guatemala, Jim was alone with Maria. She turned to him. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“You’re not coming with us?”
“No. I’m not strong enough. You know, sometimes I believe that there is a God, a vindictive, self-righteous God who punishes happiness. I was happy with you when I thought…” She could not finish. “Anyway, it will be years before you can love a woman. I haven’t the time to wait.”
“But you know how I feel about you.”
“Yes,” she said, and there was no more emotion in her voice. “I know how you feel.” She stood up. “I’m going back to the hotel.”
He stood up too. “Will I see you before you go?”
“No.”
“In New York?”
“Perhaps.”
“I’ll be able to see you then. I’ll want to see you. I don’t want to lose you, too.”
“When I’m happier, we’ll see each other. Good night, Jim.”
“Good night, Maria.” She left the restaurant quickly, the black lace of her dress rustling about her legs.
Sullivan came back. “Where’s Maria?”
“She’s gone to the hotel. She was tired.”
“Oh? Well, let’s have another drink.” They drank.
Though sad, Jim was relieved to have a temporary end to emotion. He had been exhausted by these two people, taken out of his depth. Now he looked forward to freedom. Released by the fact of war, he would soon be resolved by action. He could not wait for his own life to begin.
CHAPTER
7
I
JIM AND SULLIVAN ARRIVED in New York in mid-December. Almost immediately Sullivan obtained a job with a news syndicate, while Jim enlisted in the Army. Neither saw Maria Verlaine; she had disappeared.
Jim went first to a reception center in Maryland, where he was put to work tending fires while the Army decided what to do with him. Bad weather and petty tyranny kept him so angry that he had no time for self-pity, as he moved stolidly through the black days, acknowledging the existence of no one else.
Waking up late one afternoon, after an all-night vigil at the coal furnaces, Jim wandered into the recreation room of the company barracks. A dozen new soldiers watched the afternoon pool game, played by two members of the permanent company. Lonely, Jim decided to break his long silence. He turned to the soldier next to him, a man of forty, hopelessly civilian, with a small mustache and sad eyes.
“How long you been here?” asked Jim.
The man looked at him gratefully, a little surprised. “Why, almost a month.” The voice was educated, unlike the guttural barks of so many of the new soldiers, recruited from slums and deep country. “And you?”
“Two weeks. I enlisted in New York. Where are you from?”
“Ann Arbor, Michigan. I was with the university.”
Jim was impressed. “A teacher?”
The man nodded. “Professor of history, associate professor.”
“Then what’re you doing here? I thought people like you got to be majors.”
The professor laughed nervously. “So did I. But I was wrong. In the age of Demos, only yokels like our first sergeant rise to the top.”
“Did you enlist?”
“Yes. I’m married, have two children, but I enlisted.”
“Why?”
“I had some strange idea that I’d be useful.”
For the first time since Jim had enlisted he was able to feel sorry for someone else. He was pleased at this manifestation of good character. “Rough deal,” he said. “What do you think they’re going to do with you?”
“Classify me as a clerk. That seems to be my fate.”
“Won’t you get to be an officer?”
“Perhaps. I have friends in Washington. But I seem to’ve lost all faith in this business. Of course things were even worse in the Army of the Potomac. The Civil War,” he added apologetically.
“Worse in combat now, too.” They had all heard horror stories about the Philippines, where American troops had been badly defeated.
“Perhaps,” said the professor, “but I find it hard to believe. This seems like hell, in a way, or a nightmare with no way out of it. We are governed by madmen.”
Two large, red-faced country boys approached. They were clumsy and good-humored. “Hey there, Professor, you look like you shot your wad. They gettin’ you down?”
“Hello, boys. No, they haven’t got me down just yet. I’m simply converting from peace to war at my own slow pace.”
One of the boys made a joke about the word peace, and the professor laughed as loudly as they did, eager to be their butt. Jim was sad to see him play the buffoon. It was important to remain oneself. Even though he could not acknowledge what he was, he refused to pretend that he was just like everyone else. It hurt him now to see another man sacrifice his pride, particularly when it was not necessary.
The professor kept the red-faced boys laughing by telling them funny stories about his trials on twenty-four-hour KP. They occasionally glanced at Jim to see if he was laughing. But he did not respond and they disapproved. Fortunately, he was larger than they.
The first sergeant, a short man of fifty, came into the room and there was silence except for the click of billiard balls. “I want two men,” he said. “I want two volunteers to clean out the goddamn latrine. Some son of a bitch fouled it up and I want two men.” Suddenly he swooped down
on Jim and the professor. “You two,” he said.
“Certainly, Sergeant,” said the professor, jumping to his feet. “Always happy to volunteer!”
It took them two hours to clean the latrine, during which time Jim learned a good deal about American history and the tyranny of democratic armies.
II
IN FEBRUARY JIM WAS transferred to Georgia. For the next three months he was busy with his basic training. The physical side of Army life appealed to him; he enjoyed being active, although the minor humiliations continued to annoy him.
In May he was sent to the Air Corps as a general duty man (the usual classification for the unskilled), and shipped out to an air base in Colorado, where he was assigned to the headquarters of a wing which in turn was part of a command which in turn was part of the Second Air Force, devoted largely to training pilots and bombardiers. Of the two hundred men in his unit, most were headquarters personnel. Older than the average soldier, those of noncommissioned rank usually lived off the post with their wives in Colorado Springs.
Jim and his fellow infantrymen were received by the first sergeant, a tall emaciated man who had once been a salesman of household appliances.
“You’re in the Air Corps now.” He tried to sound ominous. “You may have heard stories that we aren’t as tough as some branches, but that’s just a crock. You hear me? You hear what I say? We got discipline here, a lot of it. Because this is a pretty important headquarters and don’t ever forget it. We got a tough general. So you keep on the line and do your job and you’ll be OK.”
But the Air Corps was by no means as tough as the infantry. Discipline was spasmodic. The clerks were just like clerks anywhere and Jim was contemptuous of them. Though the wooden tar-papered barracks were gloomy and the food was bad, the life was not unpleasant. For the first months he and the other infantrymen did not associate with the Air Corps clerks; they kept their identity proudly, but inevitably they were absorbed.
One day was very like another. In the early morning a record of reveille was played over the loudspeaker. As the men yawned and swore, the first sergeant charged through the barracks, bellowing at those still asleep. Then they ran through the icy air to the latrine twenty yards away; then came breakfast in the mess hall. Jim downed the greasy food perfunctorily, unaware of what he was eating. Afterward the first sergeant would have a number of jobs for the general-duty men to do. The work was often hard—building barracks, loading garbage trucks, repairing runways. Hard work but not much of it. Jim often had whole days to himself when he would go down to the long runways and watch the B-17s and the B-24s take off and land. The bomber crews were obviously fascinated by what they were doing, unlike the rest of the men, who were listlessly engaged in pointless tasks. Jim was particularly struck by one of the pilots, a roaring boy with blond hair who was particularly popular with the ground crews. He sang popular songs in a loud toneless voice, indulged in horseplay, and generally gave pleasure. Once Jim found himself face to face with him. Jim saluted, but the pilot only grinned and clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Hi!” One boy to another. Jim was dazzled. And that was all. Rank separated them. It was sad.
Jim made no friends. He avoided the nightly bull sessions in the barracks. Instead he saw movies and read books, among them a novel by Sullivan, which seemed to him to be the work of a perfect stranger; no doubt it was. Occasionally he visited Colorado Springs, where he was very much aware of those alert-looking soldiers, forever searching for a response. But Jim ignored them; he had no interest in sex.
Eventually Jim was reclassified. One of the personnel officers, noting that he had been a tennis instructor, put him in Special Services as a physical-training coach. His life improved. He got along well with Captain Banks, the Special Services officer, a football player who had been a pilot, grounded for reasons of health. Captain Banks moved dreamily about his office, signing necessary papers, unaware of what he was doing. Like so many base officers, he had abdicated all authority to his sergeant.
Sergeant Kervinski was a slim dark man who wore a large diamond ring on his little finger and talked quickly, blushing often. His delight when Jim was added to the section was plain even to an innocent eye. Trouble ahead, thought Jim.
The Special Services detachment consisted of those who ran the post theater and library, staged plays and radio programs, edited a newspaper. Along with these mercurial types there were a half-dozen quiet youths who were physical-training instructors. But since all efforts at group discipline were invariably sabotaged by the clerks, Jim had a very easy time of it. Hardly anyone reported for calisthenics, and the instructors had the gymnasium to themselves, which suited them well since they were all dedicated bodybuilders.
Agreeable though the life was, Jim longed to be sent overseas, even though he knew that in modern armies there is seldom much action except for line troops and combat pilots. Nevertheless, he was excited by the thought of danger. He wanted release. A few of the general-duty men longed for the same thing. They too hated routine and inactivity, but they were not in the majority. Each headquarters clerk had at least one officer friend pledged to keep him from being sent overseas or, if sent, shipped to a reasonably safe place like England. The clerks were not heroes and they were honest about it. Only Sergeant Kervinski was different. It was his dream to be sent to a languorous island of white beaches and no women. When Jim asked to be put on the first overseas shipment list, Kervinski told him of this paradise, adding, “I know what you mean, honestly I do, and I’ll put you on the list. Perhaps we’ll ship out together, to the South Seas. Come on, let’s go to supper.”
They stood in line together to collect the usual heavy food. Then they sat down at one of the long wooden mess tables. A calendar with a picture of a heavy-breasted woman hung just above Kervinski’s head. He glanced at it with distaste. Then he turned to Jim and made an exploratory move. “Some woman!”
“Some woman,” Jim repeated flatly.
“I guess you never had the time to get yourself a woman, a wife,” said Kervinski brightly. “I mean with your traveling around so much.” He knew something of Jim’s story.
“No, I never had time.” The approach was made even more depressing by the sergeant’s unattractiveness.
“Well, they say there’s nothing like a wife. But not for me. After all, it’s a lot cheaper to buy milk than keep a cow! Isn’t it?”
Jim grunted.
“What was Hollywood really like?” Kervinski looked at him eagerly.
“Just like anyplace else.” Jim had once shown some of the clerks the movie magazine with his picture in it. They had been sufficiently impressed to dislike him afterward; he had learned his lesson, and now never mentioned the past.
“I understand,” said Kervinski, blushing, “that you knew Ronald Shaw and a lot of other stars. What was he like?”
The entire underworld knew about Shaw. “I didn’t know him well.” Jim was evasive. “I just played tennis with him a few times.”
“Well, I hear a lot of strange stories about him but I don’t see how they could be true.”
“Oh? What sort of stories?” Jim was malicious.
The sergeant turned scarlet. “Oh…just stories. The kind you always hear about Hollywood people. I don’t see how they could be true.”
“People always talk.”
“By the way,” said Kervinski, examining a piece of green, watery cabbage, “I understand that ratings will be open this month.”
“That so?”
“I’ve recommended you to the captain for a PFC stripe.” The sergeant put the cabbage in his mouth.
“Thanks a lot,” said Jim, fearing the worst.
Kervinski chewed thoughtfully. “We should have dinner some evening, in town. I know a wonderful restaurant out near the Broadmoor. We bachelors should stick together,” he added with a little laugh.
“That would be fine,” said
Jim, hoping that when he eventually said no that Kervinski would not be too upset.
“Then,” said Kervinski, “there are some girls I know. They’re very nice and I’m sure you’d like them. Do you know any girls in town yet?”
Jim shook his head.
“Well, you certainly haven’t given these Colorado girls a break! Where’s that Southern chivalry?”
Jim played Southern idiot. “Well, I just don’t go out much at all, I reckon.”
“Just between us, neither do I. These girls here aren’t half as attractive as the ones back home.” He winked and Jim was disgusted. Although it was impossible for anyone in the Army to be honest about such things, at least there were more straightforward ways of going about a seduction. At his present rate, it would take the sergeant weeks to come to the point; probably just as well. Jim promised the sergeant that he would have dinner with him soon; then he excused himself and went back to the barracks, where he found a group of men sitting on his bunk. Most were clerks and not young; a bull session was in progress. Though Jim made a friendly motion, the men moved to other bunks. Jim took off his shirt and lay down. He said nothing. The bull session continued. As always, the dominant note was one of complaint. Apparently, each was losing an extraordinary amount of money while in the Army; and of course all officers were unjust and all women unfaithful.
Jim lay back on the coarse brown blanket and looked at the dark rafters. The barracks was always dark; there never seemed to be enough light or heat. He turned toward the coal stove and saw that there was a new man in the barracks, a young corporal, who sat on the bunk nearest the stove, listening politely, obviously aware that if a man wants to be accepted by a barracks, he must listen to a great deal of talk about a very few subjects, and he must accept as a law of nature that, whenever a point is made, it will be repeated a hundred times, often in the same words, rather like part-singing.
One of the more important sergeants (secretary to the personnel officer) was telling them about the general. “He’s a real Section Eight case. Why, the other day he came into our office and he said to me, ‘Sergeant,’ he said, ‘how many men’ve we got at Weatherley Field?’ ‘None,’ I said, ‘we lost them all to the fighter wing yesterday.’ He didn’t know that one of his own bases had been transferred the day before. Well, he tried to get out of it by saying he thought the transfer hadn’t taken place yet. But that gives you some idea how his mind works, if it works. He’s always thinking up ideas to discipline the men. As if we didn’t have enough work running his wing for him. Didn’t know about Weatherley being transferred!”
