Boys and Girls Together: A Novel

by William Goldman

  A figure had appeared by the lectern at the front of the room. An ape clad in the costume of a master sergeant.

  “Welcome to X Company. The X, for the curious, stands for experimental, but more of that in a moment. My name is Sergeant Terry. Please call me that: Sergeant Terry. Not ‘sir,’ not ‘Sarge.’ Sergeant Terry. That is my name. Clear?”

  When the man began to speak, Aaron experienced a sudden shudder of recognition—the voice was low, rough, harsh. Aaron leaned forward, studying. Sergeant Terry was of less than average height, incredibly broad. His shirt strained at the shoulders, the fabric taut. The front of the shirt was covered with ribbons; the sleeves were covered with stripes and bars. The trousers were perfectly pressed. His face was simian, small eyes, thick nose, thick lips, narrow forehead. His hair was short and reddish brown, tightly curled. Yet the man did not appear stupid. Why? Aaron leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. Why? Suddenly he knew. It was the eyes. The small eyes. The eyes were alive.

  “Would you all please stand up now?” Sergeant Terry requested. The men rose. “I want you each to tell me your name. Say it loud and clear. As soon as you’ve done that, you may sit down. Begin here.” He pointed to the front row. In five minutes they were all seated again. “This is called getting acquainted,” Sergeant Terry said. “You know my name. Now I know yours.” He began pacing behind the lectern, his thick hands clasped behind his back. “You are without question the most incredible group of recruits ever assembled in the Army of the United States.” There was a burst of nervous laughter. Sergeant Terry stopped pacing. “I do not jest. Take a look at yourselves. Go on. Examine each other. You have sixty seconds.” Aaron looked around at the other men. They were staring at one another, laughing, talking. The boy next to Aaron was uncommonly fat. The one in front had thick glasses. Aaron’s eyes moved faster. They were all of them defects. Wheezers, droolers, gaspers; thin, fat, too tall, too short. Aaron felt suddenly at home.

  “Did I exaggerate?” Sergeant Terry’s voice cut through the laughter, dousing it. “You see? You’re rejects. Every one of you. I trust you feel more at home now. We all feel at home with our own kind, isn’t that so?” There was general nodding. “And here we all are in X Company. The question is why? The answer is simple.” He paused. Good, Aaron thought. The proper time to pause. Whet interest. The man was a good speaker—light, casual, direct. And of course the voice helped him. The low, rough voice.

  “In this great freedom-loving land of ours,” Sergeant Terry said, “everyone’s a slob. We found that out. By ‘we,’ I mean the Army. It was true in both World Wars. It simply didn’t matter how low we set the physical standards, people kept getting rejected. So we had to use able-bodied men for desk work. Now, if only there were some way to free them for combat duty, the advantages would be obvious. And you, gentlemen, are the experiment to see if that way can be found. Gentlemen, each and every one of you got the shaft. I feel for you. Ordinarily, you would have been classified 4F. But now you have the supreme privilege of serving your country as guinea pigs. Don’t blame me. It isn’t my fault.”

  “Son of a bitch,” somebody said.

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Sergeant Terry nodded. “We will now have fifteen seconds in which you may swear. Please feel free.” He waited a moment. “All right. Consider my position. I, gentlemen, am going to shepherd you through the easiest basic training in history. My comrades in arms will sneer at me. ‘Here comes Terry with the nuts,’ they’ll say. You, gentlemen, are the nuts. I don’t like it any better than you do. Our commander, Captain Apple, is at the present time trying to talk his way into a different assignment. He is already the laughingstock of the Officers’ Club. He will be around from time to time. You can tell him by the twin bars on his shoulders and the look of humiliation on his face. Be kind to him in his time of trouble. Are there any questions thus far?”

  There were none.

  “Training starts tomorrow. We travel by bus, no marching. This indignity—”

  “Catch the big words,” a boy in front of Aaron said. Too loud.

  Sergeant Terry dropped his voice. “All right. Stand up.” He snapped his fingers. “You know who I’m talking to. Stand up now.”

  The boy stared innocently ahead.

  Suddenly Terry vaulted down among them, screaming. “Stand up, goddam you! I’m talking to you, Winkler, Martin P. Stand up!”

  Martin P. Winkler stood up.

  Sergeant Terry breathed deeply a moment, staring at him. “I don’t like being derided,” Sergeant Terry said, his voice under control. “All of you. Remember that. Never deride me. Never deride me. You see, I know all your names now. I told you that before. I’m good at names. Names and faces I remember.” He continued staring at Winkler. “I’ve got to punish you. You understand that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes who?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Terry.”

  Terry nodded. “All right. What’s your disability, Winkler?”

  “Bad feet. I got bad feet.”

  “Then I can’t make you run, can I? That would be cruel. How are your arms, Winkler?”

  “All right, I guess.”

  “Your shoulders?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then dig me a hole, Winkler. Go get a shovel and dig me a hole.”

  “A hole?”

  “Good work, Winkler.”

  “How big a hole?”

  “Ah, now that’s the problem, isn’t it, Winkler? How big a hole? Firestone!”

  Aaron jumped. “What? What?”

  “How tall are you?”

  “Six four and a half. Six five.”

  “There’s your answer, Winkler. Dig me a hole big enough to bury Firestone. Clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyplace in that field across the road will do, Winkler. Pick your own spot. I like to give my men initiative. Firestone?”

  “What?”

  “Do you find my order macabre?”

  “No, Sergeant Terry.”

  Terry looked at Aaron. “Good,” he said. “However, I am, from time to time, macabre.” He moved back to the lectern. “All right, gentlemen, if there are no questions, we can adjourn.”

  There were no questions.

  “Tomorrow, as I said, we start. You have the rest of the day to get ready. Relax. Sleep well. Fear not. Think of me as your security blanket and we’ll all live forever.”

  With that, Sergeant Terry was gone.

  He reappeared several hours later. Aaron was lying on his bunk, listening as a dozen other recruits exchanged Army experiences. The front door of the barracks opened and Sergeant Terry entered. The recruits quieted.

  “I need a volunteer,” he said.

  Nobody moved.

  “Gentlemen, you must have faith,” Sergeant Terry said. “Nothing hideous is going to happen. I need some typing done. Now. Who can type?”

  Nine boys stepped forward.

  “Wonderful,” Sergeant Terry said. “I’ve never seen such get up and go. All right, Phillips,” this to the nearest boy “How fast?”

  “Thirty words a minute.”

  “That is not what I call typing.”

  “Forty-five,” another said.

  “Fifty.”

  “Fifty-five.”

  “Going once,” Sergeant Terry said. “Going twice.”

  “One hundred words a minute,” Aaron called out.

  Sergeant Terry looked at him. “Firestone, I’m impressed. I bow to talent.” He bowed. “All right. Get your shoes on and come along.”

  Hurriedly, Aaron did as he was told. They left the barracks together and turned left, heading for the orderly room. Up ahead, five men stood clustered, talking. Two were fat, one was very short and two were myopic.

  “Ye gods,” Sergeant Terry muttered. “It’s a zoo.”

  As he passed them the five men saluted.

  Sergeant Terry sighed. “That’s quick thinking, gentlemen,” he began. “But please don’t do it again. I
’m not an officer. Officers have insignia on their shoulders. That’s how you tell them from enlisted men. Officers have insignia on their shoulders. Say that.” Raising his thick hands like an orchestra conductor, he gave a downbeat.

  “Officers have insignia on their shoulders,” the five men said.

  Sergeant Terry nodded. “I’ll put you all in for promotion.” Sighing again, he commenced to walk. “I was born for better things,” he muttered as he neared the orderly room. “Tell me, Firestone; what’s your trouble? Neuralgia?”

  “My legs. I was run over when I was little.”

  “That was thoughtless of you.”

  “Yes,” Aaron said. “It was.”

  Sergeant Terry opened the orderly-room door. “Sit there.” He pointed.

  Aaron sat at a desk.

  “This is the company typewriter,” Sergeant Terry said, carrying it over to Aaron. “Like all of us, it has seen better days. There’s paper in the top desk drawer.”

  Aaron got out two sheets of paper and inserted them into the aged machine.

  “I’ll give you one minute, Firestone. Type me a hundred words.” He moved close to Aaron, standing over him, his arms folded across his chest. “Ready, set, go.”

  Aaron typed.

  “Stop,” Sergeant Terry said a minute later. Yanking the paper from the machine, he studied it a while. “This is beautiful work, Firestone. Really first rate.” He shook his head. “But I needed someone who could type in English.”

  “Are there that many mistakes?”

  Sergeant Terry squinted at the paper. “It looks like Urdu.”

  “I was nervous.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t like people standing over me.”

  “That the only reason?”

  “Why else?”

  “I don’t know, Firestone. Why else?”

  Aaron shrugged. “Let me try again.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Suit yourself.” Aaron stood.

  “You want the job?”

  “What job?”

  “Clerk.”

  “What would I do?”

  “Little.”

  “Then I want it.”

  “Then it’s yours.”

  “Where would the Army be without you college boys?” Sergeant Terry mused, sitting crouched, apelike, at his desk. He glanced out the window. It was after lunch three days later, and the troops were forming; uneven lines in the company street.

  “What did I do wrong this time?” Aaron asked.

  “Nothing. Not a thing. No sarcasm intended, Firestone.” Quickly he moved to the orderly-room door and shouted. “Straight lines, gentlemen. Get even with each other. Three straight lines. Try and do it right. Surprise me.” He moved back to his desk and picked up his cap.

  “You ever go to college?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Pigeon-livered, Firestone. I lacked gall. I intended to once upon a time. But I was too old when the war was over. Old and decrepit. Anyway, I like the Army.”

  “To each,” Aaron said.

  “It has its advantages.”

  “What?”

  “The chance to associate with superior people, Firestone. People like yourself. You do consider yourself superior?”

  “Damn right.”

  “Ah, the confidence of youth,” Sergeant Terry said. “You are young, aren’t you, Firestone?” He put on his cap and pushed through the screen door, letting it bang shut behind him. Aaron stood and moved to the doorway, listening.

  “All right now, gentlemen,” Sergeant Terry began. “Let me have your attention. This is going to be one of our more grueling afternoons, so brace yourselves. It’s the trench-foot movie today, so I suggest you close your eyes during the gory sections.” Two buses rounded the corner of the company street. “Any of you with foot fetishes may be excused from going at all.” He paused. “No foot fetishes? Wonderful.” The buses stopped. “All aboard, gentlemen. We’re off to see the wizard.” The troops got on the buses. Sergeant Terry turned and nodded. Aaron nodded back. Then the buses drove away.

  Aaron stretched. The company was quiet now. Captain Apple was up playing his afternoon golf match, so the orderly room was deserted. Aaron lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Placing the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he sat at his desk. He had a little more typing to do and he would be through for the day. Wheeling the typewriter into position, he began to work.

  A few moments later there was a knock at the orderly-room door. “Yes,” Aaron called, continuing to type.

  “Can I come in?”

  Aaron looked up. “Come on.”

  A pudgy, balding figure marched into the room, stopped in front of his desk and saluted. “Sir, Private Branch Scudder reporting for duty as ordered, sir.”

  Flustered, Aaron returned the salute.

  “I’m new in the company,” Branch Scudder said.

  “I gathered.”

  “Here are my orders.” He handed a file of papers to Aaron. “What do I do now?”

  “Relax,” Aaron said. “I’m a recruit too.”

  “I thought so,” Branch said. “But you can’t ever be sure. What’s your name?”

  “Aaron Firestone.”

  “I’m Branch Scudder.”

  Branch held out his hand. Aaron paused, then took it.

  “Where is everybody?”

  “Gone. They’ll be back.”

  “What about me?”

  “You’ve got the afternoon off. Get some sheets from the supply room. Around to the left.” He pointed.

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “You’re sure? I won’t get in any trouble?”

  “No. No trouble.”

  Branch turned, walking toward the door. Then he stopped. “Around to the left, you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “O.K. Thanks. Thanks a lot. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “De nada,” Aaron muttered, watching as the other boy hurried out the door. When he hurried, Aaron noted, he jiggled. All over. His ass jiggled and the flesh above his hips jiggled. Everything. Baby fat, Aaron thought and he resumed his typing.

  In ten minutes he was finished. Carefully filing the papers away, he lit another cigarette and got out his notebook. The afternoon was his now. To write. He had notified his mother to send his book of stories down to him, but while he was waiting its arrival he kept busy. Sketches, odd thoughts. Opening the notebook, he paused a moment, looking at the title page. The Journals of Aaron Fire. When he got around to his autobiography, he would call it that. The Journals of Aaron Fire. It had an almost Biblical ring. He turned the page and began to write. “Scudder jiggles. He is losing his hair while keeping his baby fat, which may be the neatest trick of the week. He appears to be boneless. Barbecued, he would undoubtedly prove tender.” Drivel, Aaron thought. Crap. He flipped to another page. “Terry,” he wrote. “Terry the Ape.” He erased it, then lit another cigarette. He had been trying for two days now to write about Terry and as yet he had nothing. Why was that? What stopped him? It had something to do with Terry’s eyes. They were too bright. He could not see past them. Not yet. Scudder was easier to write about. Aaron turned back a page. “Scudder was probably a beautiful baby but now the beauty is gone. He didn’t grow; he simply enlarged. He ...”

  “I made my bed.”

  Aaron looked up. Scudder stood in the doorway.

  “I got the sheets like you said. My bed’s all made.”

  Aaron nodded.

  “There’s no one in the barracks at all. I ... uh ... felt like talking to somebody.”

  Aaron tilted his head to one side. Scudder had a speech peculiarity he hadn’t noticed before. Either he talked too quickly or too slowly; no middle ground. “I made my bed” sounded like one word. This last sentence was filled with unnecessary syllables. “I ... uh ... felt ... like ... uh ... talking to somebody.”

  Aaron said nothing.
<
br />   “Am I ... uh ... bothering you?”

  “Yes, frankly.”

  “You’re working?”

  “Trying to.”

  Branch jiggled over to Terry’s chair and sat. “What kind of work?”

  Aaron shrugged.

  “I watched you through the screen door. You were writing. Are you a writer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you writing a book or a play?”

  “Listen, Scudder—”

  “If you write a play I’ll produce it. I’m a producer. I will be. When I’m done with the Army.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “You know the saying, ‘Those who can, write; those who can’t, teach’? Well, it’s different in the theater. In the theater it’s ‘Those who can, write; those who can’t, produce.’ ” He laughed lightly. It was warm in the room and Aaron was sweating, but Scudder’s skin was dry. “What were you writing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on. You can tell me.”

  “You don’t sweat, do you?”

  “Not very much. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  “That’s one way to tell a writer. By how perceptive they are. You’re very perceptive. I just know it. I’ll bet your writing is that way too. Read me something.”