The Long November

by James Benson Nablo

  It’s dark in here. It’s dark enough to go now, but I’d better give it a few minutes more or that old gal in the corner will get a new spot on her dress and its name will be Joe Mack. The Jerry must be getting awfully impatient out on their cold barricade...our lads haven’t made a move. Maybe they’re waiting for a tank to come up and clean this hole out. What if a tank comes up, eh, Joe? What if it comes and the Jerry’s big AT goes into action? Well, that’s the chance the tank boys take, isn’t it? We all take the same chance. All except Joe...he takes no more chances, he’s signing a separate peace. Like Stanowski declared a separate war. Joe’s through...Joe knows about wars and who wins them, and he knows it isn’t Joe Mack. He’s had his vacation in sunny Italy and he’s washed up. Let Bill or Sanderson or Mullins or any guy that wants it go on fighting. Not Joe...our Joe is no northing hawk, he’s strictly a southing swallow.

  Don’t stir, lads. Lie quietly and sleep. Don’t waken when you hear the thudding sound. It’s only the footsteps, the running footsteps of Joe Mack, late of His Majesty’s Royal Canadian Infantry...Joe Mack and his dark brown smell. He’s running south, back over every mile you fought so hard to gain. Hear them? They grow louder as he approaches and they seem to pound into your brain as he passes overhead. Pound into your brain...into your tired brain that is trying to sleep; tired from trying to solve too many facts. The thudding passes and fades. But don’t let it disturb you...they aren’t all running; no, the others are staying. Only Joe is running south...running again...quitting again. It isn’t only your grave he’s running across; there are others. Two graves in a lonely town in a green and white country. Two graves where a little man and an old man he...look at Joe go! He’s running across their graves, too!

  What should I do, grab myself a hero’s death? Die in this great and glorious cause? Die for sweet democracy? Smarten up, bub—you sound like a curious virgin trying to frighten herself by repeating dirty words. So I’m running? So I’m yellow...okay, call it anything you want. I’ve seen this sweet democracy functioning. I’ve seen those breadlines we’re fighting to preserve. I’ve seen the Granny Gibsons turning people out when it’s cold...the Clare Simpsons toying with people’s lives like a kid bounces a yo-yo...the Morelands lying on warm sand because a guy dies in a cold tunnel...the Mrs. Rutledges and the counts...and the rest of the stinking mess. I’ve seen men die here because no one gave a damn...this is war and those things happen. But, bub, I’ve seen men die there, too, because no one gave a damn...yes, there, in sweet-smelling democracy...in sweet-smelling peace. Don’t try to sell me a hero’s grave, bub, and don’t call it “hero,” call it “chump.”. .

  I’d stay if it meant anything. But how can it mean anything? The rules aren’t laid down that way. You play it the way it says in the book. Eat or be eaten. Clip or be clipped. Pay only what you have to and pay the hard way. Get tough and stay tough. Stay tough, bub, Goddamned tough, and you might survive. I’ll survive...I won’t go overboard for the sentimental guff. Keep it for the heroes. So I am running again, quitting again...what does that mean? It means I was smart enough to haul my ass out of here before I get any more holes punched in it!

  I’m heading south! Back to sweet democracy...back to where they build great piles of stone in God’s name, and close the doors so a guy can’t get in to get warm. Back to where a man has to slug a pansy in an alley so he can eat. Back, if I have to, by God, to the Rosies, the garbage pails, the soup-kitchens. Back to where a mug clips you five bucks a pay before he’ll give you a job.

  Back to where men aren’t killed cleanly and quickly with bullets, but by the quieter and slower methods of peace. The tortuous methods...the slow acids of disappointment and careless handling. Yes, back to the closed churches, closed banks, and crowded employment offices. Back to where our bodies are weights to be carried through a lifetime, a lifetime that seems ten thousand years; back to where our souls are handled by professional Christian bastards who never felt God, but talk about Him ceaselessly.

  They’ll do it again...there’ll be another war. Let them...why the hell should I care? I’ve got three million bucks, and the next time I start shooting will be when some bastard tries to get part of it away from me. Let the rest of the world figure it out for itself. I’ve done my figuring and I’ve looked after Joe...and I’ll he on this plump ass of mine, too. I’ll play it their way. Let it muddle along until another war comes. Then I’ll jump up on a stump and shout, “Someone’s threatening our great land, boys,”...and they’ll come running from the breadlines. “Someone’s threatening our freedom...” and they’ll cheer. Then I’ll spread a little dough around, buy them uniforms, give them some whiskey and women and a hell of a load of hero stuff...and hand them muskets. They’ll be too befuddled to turn as they march away and ask, “Whose land...what freedom? Who does what to who and who gets paid...?” Then I’ll he quietly back until they make it safe for me again. But they’ll think of it later. One of them will think of it when a slug whips through his belly and a dark pit yawns in front of him. It’s too late then, and he’ll know it...he’ll just cry for his mother and die, but I’ll be safe...

  That’s quite a speech, Joe, and some of it’s right. But there’s another thing you can do with a war, you can lose it, Joe. Those guys didn’t die to win a war...they died so they wouldn’t lose one. You’re right about some of the things at home, too, Joe, but with all its rotten smells you still want to get back to it, don’t you? It isn’t perfect...maybe it won’t ever be...it’s just better than it was. It’s a slow fight, Joe, a long, hard fight...but it’s a sure fight, Joe. Like the war in Italy has been, always northing, always up. Always rolling back the pressure from the top. A hundred years ago, Joe, a hundred years ago, and Freddie Miller would have been shot as an agitator. A hundred years ago and there was no income tax. Moreland could have kept every cent he had and stayed in Canada. Not now, Joe, now they have to run to silly little sandbars and exile themselves in silly little societies. It’s slow, Joe, but it’s sure...like each hill in Italy. Maybe it’s over the next hill and maybe it isn’t, but it’s somewhere ahead...and it’s a great day, Joe. Quit if you want, but you’re quitting more than a winning army...more than a winning team. You’re quitting mankind...going over to the other side to save your lousy hide and your stinking dough. Live, Joe...go on south, Joe...live, but you’ll live to face a tougher fight than this and you won’t be on the winning side. You’re quitting mankind, Joe...and mankind is starting to win.

  Joe Mack is signing a separate peace! He’s going over to the enemy. Those bastards out on the barricade may not win the war, but they’ve won a sweeping victory over Joe. Those guys are the ones who’d shoot Jake Levinsky. Sure, Joe, for no other reason than that he’s Jewish. Remember Jake, remember Sarah and the sofa...and the liverwurst and salami? Remember...or don’t you want to? Listen then, Joe, listen...listen to the wild music...use your ears instead of your nose. It’s strange music...strange and wonderful. It’s been growing louder for centuries but only recently has it grown into a chorus...listen, Joe, it’s the music of decent people, climbing in a great, swelling note, and the mean little things soon won’t be heard in this great music...it’s the music of God. Upward, Joe, upward and louder...louder, Joe, louder and sweeter...sweeter, Joe, sweeter.

  Joe can’t hear the music...he can’t hear the music because he’s smelling the dirt. He got shot today...just a pinprick, but it scared hell out of him. He’s going to use that pinprick to get himself home; he’ll infect it if he has to rub it in a festering corpse. He’ll spread a little dough around in the right places...“What good is it,” says Joe, “if I don’t use it.” He doesn’t care what’s over the next hill; he knows what was over the last. He isn’t listening for music, he’s sniffing for smells...and he’ll find them. There’ll be smells for a long time. There are no sweeping victories, no great clean-ups...there’s only the pressure of an ever-louder chorus, but Joe can’t hear it. He’s afraid to hear it...he might hear Freddie Miller’s v
oice reminding him of a punch he promised to throw.

  I’ve been here three hours. Three hours with smells. Three hours to add up thirty-one years...and it only adds up to a dirty old whore standing in the corner. Well, I’m in pretty important company, eh, old woman? You’re quite a girl...you’re more than that...you’re a great champ. You’ve won every war since the beginning of time...and your name is Death. What a girl! What a winner! What a champ! But you don’t get Joe today...

  I’m leaving now, old woman. I’m blowing...and you’ve wasted a lot of time. But you’ve seen a lot of people here today, haven’t you? So have I...some good, some bad...some lovely. And you’ve seen a goddess...I’m leaving now...I’m sorry I’ve called you all those names...I guess you’re not so bad. Anyway, I’m not frightened of you now...I know you’re nothing but a shadow. A chair or table in a dark corner. I’ll prove to you I’m not frightened. Look, old woman, I’ll walk over and touch you...see? You’re nothing but a table with a bag of grenades on top of you. Nothing but a table with a bag of grenades...nothing...Jesus! Oh Jesus Christ Almighty! Sanderson’s grenades!

  What if you did find a bag of grenades, Joe? Forget about them...if Sanderson ever mentions them, say you didn’t see them. You aren’t fighting in this war any more, Private Mack...you’re Mr. Mack now...forget about the grenades. What could you do with them except work your way across the roofs until you were above the Heinies’ barricade. Sure, you could blow it all to hell...and get yourself killed by that sniper. Home, Joe...southward to home. To Steffie, leaves, clover, pine...the nice smells. A bath, Joe, and a white bed, and a slim, blond girl. Food and decency...no more killing. To hell with the tank when it comes up...they take that chance, don’t they? You don’t know the guys inside it anyway. What if the big AT lets go? What if a guy should fall out of the tank...Oh Christ, what if he should look like Freddie Miller?

  It’s moldy. It’s damp and dirty...but somewhere it’s shining clean, somewhere there’s great music swelling...somewhere...somewhere. Oh Christ, what do I do now?

  CHAPTER 13

  Steffie, I’ve had to stop a minute to think. I guess I’ve been kidding myself for a long time here. I’ve tried to sort it out, but it just won’t make sense. I know I can’t come home...not now, anyway. I can’t because that’s our deal, isn’t it? No more tricks...no more angles. But there’re some other reasons, too, only I can’t get them straight. I’ve got to go up on the roof and throw some eggs. It’s like gathering nuts in May, Steffie...I knock them down and an old woman gathers them up. There are no nuts in May—but it isn’t May, honey—and there are lots of nuts in November.

  I won’t get hurt...not Joe. I’ll blow the bastards all to hell. Don’t worry about me...I’ll be all right, darling, but I’m scared...scared as hell. They can’t hit me, can they, Steffie? It’s warm and safe near you...they can’t hit me if you’re near...stay by me, Steffie...and wait for me. Keep an eye on a star, Steffie...there are two kids on it. Wait for me...wait for me...

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