by James Jones
It was not the same public hall as before. This hall was some sort of private official chamber, where the public was not allowed. But the public could be heard shouting, outside the building.
It all seemed very Romanesque, to Strange. The robes, the columns, the windowless window openings, the huge drapes, the statuary. Roman, or maybe Greek.
Here, the judge did not sit on a huge plinth as before. He sat on a long raised dais against one wall, behind a long wooden table, which had many official-looking objects and documents lying on it. Once again the judge was shrouded, in a long white robe, that covered his head and hid his face, so that nothing of him showed except his huge, powerful, white hands.
But this judge was not, Strange knew, the same judge of before. An appeal had been made, Strange knew. And this judge, in the privacy of the official chamber, was a much greater authority than before.
Strange watched the shrouded arm and huge white hand come up as before, pointing. Then in a great powerful voice, a huge basso held down to gentleness, to mildness, so as not to shatter all the listening eardrums and shred the heavy fabric of the great drapes, the faceless figure said, “No, my son. You may not stay.”
Desolate, Strange turned to walk out of the great hall. Outside, as the word was passed, the shoutings of the crowds grew louder.
Then he was back in the hands of the anesthetist and his assistant, both of whose shoutings suddenly grew softer, as Strange opened his eyes.
Curran was stripping off his mask and his gloves. Under the gauze, he was grinning. There was a feeling of great elation all over the surgery. The anesthetist was grinning. All the assistants were grinning.
Curran himself was in the grip of such an expansiveness he seemed hardly able to contain it.
“I think we’ve done you a pretty good job of work,” he said downward.
“Sure have,” the anesthetist grinned.
Strange, who was looking at Curran, managed to lower one eyelid in a slow wink. Then he shut his eyes. As before, he was still so full of the dream that the actual people did not seem real.
What in the hell did it all mean? Where was it he could not stay? What was it he must go back to? It was unbelievable that it could be a continuation like that, like a movie sequel. Where did it all come from? Was it all just lying there waiting for him, every time he had sodium pentothal? What if he never had another operation? Would it just stay there? He would never know the end of the story. And what would happen to it then? He could remember the faces of people he saw in the second hall, whom he had seen in the first hall. It was so real. More real than the operation.
Under him, he could feel them moving him onto the rolling table. His hand was a huge bundled-up package of gauze. He lay still, his eyes still shut, and let them roll him. By the time they moved him from the rolling table onto his own bed in the ward’s private room, he was ready to go sound asleep. He woke only for a moment.
The operation was a huge success, apparently. Or so the surgical team seemed to think. Well, he would wait and see. Reserve judgment. They never really knew, till later. It was his last thought before heavy sleep.
The first time he woke it was evening, just at supper time. By then the real pain had begun. They doped him up for it and he went back to sleep, without eating. The second time he woke was in the middle of the night, around three in the morning, and he was hungry. Ravenous. In spite of the pain. The night man was prepared for that, fed him, and gave him more dope for the pain. By the middle of the next morning they were ready to get him out of bed and on his feet. And to hell with his pain. All told, they kept him laid up with it without any passes for a week. The bad pain receded after four days. But on the second day they let him have visitors.
The first visitor was Landers. The first question Strange asked was about Frances. Then, secondly, he asked about Winch. Still high on the dope, groggy in his head, Strange wondered woozily if his putting Winch after Frances meant he was losing interest in the old-company men, in the same way he was losing interest in the battles and the war. If so, that was terrible.
Landers had news of Winch. Winch’s orders to leave for Camp O’Bruyerre had come in on the same morning Strange was operated on. By some weird, strange stretch of fate, as Landers put it. Winch had left that afternoon, unable to say good-by to Strange, who was still knocked out and sleeping.
That part had been okay. Unavoidable. But Landers felt Winch had acted odd. The 1st/sgt, now warrant officer junior grade, had packed his small bit of gear and then come around to make his expected good-bys to the other old-company men. But instead of going to see each man, he had designated Landers and Corello to collect them, and then met them all together sort of formally, in the snack bar. That meant that Landers had to go see each man separately, since Corello was so notoriously irresponsible.
Winch had not given much of a performance in the snack bar. Afterward, he had called Landers off and said good-by to him alone. That wasn’t much of a performance, either. But he had sent good-bys to Strange, and said to tell him he would be in touch as soon as he got settled. Strange should not hold his breath, though, he said with a snarly grin, because getting settled might take him some time.
“He seemed so distant,” Landers said. “He didn’t seem like he cared much of a shit, one way or the other.”
“You don’t understand him,” Strange said woozily, from where he lay propped up on bed pillows in the tiny room. “It hurt him too much, to say good-by. It hurt him so much he sluffed it off.”
“Maybe,” Landers said, obviously not agreeing.
“He’s at his best when somebody needs him,” Strange insisted. “I know him. Then he’s great. But now nobody needs him, and there’s nothing to do.”
“He didn’t send any good-bys to Prell.”
“Naturally,” Strange grinned.
Landers obviously disagreed but he let it drop. And went on to Frances.
In his woozy head, Strange noted that Landers had given the news of Winch first, although the first question had been about Frances. He knows what’s important, Strange thought to himself, even if I don’t.
The news Landers had to give about Frances was that there had been no news of Frances at all. She had disappeared from both Strange’s suite and the suite of the Navy flyers. In the two days there had been no sign of her anywhere. She had not been in the bar downstairs, or anywhere visible in the Claridge. At least not to the knowledge of anyone of either group who knew her. On the other hand, there had been no police coming around, or MPs. That was all the news of her Landers had to give.
Strange felt his heart sink in him, but did not let Landers realize this. Well, maybe she was just resting up, he rejoined. Letting the swelling go down. After all, it was the weekend now. She would have until Monday before she had to go back to work. The swelling might be almost normal by then, mightn’t it?
Landers raised an eyebrow wryly, and didn’t answer.
“Well, mightn’t it?” Strange said.
Landers did not answer. Landers had not mentioned the nose-breaking to anybody, and had cautioned Trynor not to either. In the two days since Strange’s absence Landers had by a kind of consensus become the administrative head of Peabody Suite 804. Or Strange’s Suite, as it had come to be called by all of them. Fortunately Landers’ own money had come in, and he was able to lay out what sums were necessary.
“No, no. No, no,” Strange said with great upset, rearing up in the bed and then falling back as his right arm twinged. “I mean, you can’t do that. This is my thing.”
“Shit on it,” Landers smiled. “Fuck it.” He passed across a sour, hard, unreadable look. “I guess if I want to get rid of my money too, I can.”
Landers had been forced to forbid the other old-company men from inviting just any soldier up to the suite. They none of them seemed to have any real judgment of people, and they wanted to show off. He had been forced to lay down the law after last night that any stranger who was invited up to the parties must
first be screened by Landers himself.
“Last night we had a couple of meanies, mean drunks,” he said. He had had to punch them and throw them out bodily.
Strange looked at him tiredly from the pillows. “You’ve become a leader,” he said.
Landers gave him the bitter look again. “Yeah.” He didn’t smile. “It’s funny, aint it? Right after I’ve chucked the whole thing. Now the Army’ll never be able to use it,”
“Maybe they will,” Strange said.
“No. The Army doesn’t want my kind of leadership. The Army doesn’t want imagination. They don’t even like a limited imagination.”
“Don’t be too sure of that.”
“I’m pretty sure,” Landers said equably.
To Strange’s woozy head it seemed pretty clear Landers had made some decision about something, had moved from one plateau of thinking to some other.
“What do you mean, chucked it?” Strange said.
“I’ve chucked it,” Landers said. “Given up on it. From now on I’m only going to do exactly what I’m told to do. No more and no less. And as little of that as I can get by with safely.”
“Then you’re officer material,” Strange grinned. “You should put in for OCS.”
“Not me,” Landers said briskly. “I’m not going to tell some poor son of a bitch under me to go get killed.”
Strange only laughed. But the whole thing set him to thinking, and to fretting, about Landers. And about the change in Landers. Whatever it was, and Landers did not say what, it had changed Landers in some very basic way. He had a lot more authority. And a lot less dedication and commitment, to go with it. In town, he went on spending his own money, over Strange’s protests. And he also went on administering the minor problems of Strange’s Suite 804. He also became Strange’s eyes and ears in town, for the week that Strange was laid up.
Everything that happened in the suite, or around the suite in the hotel, or around the hotel in the town, was reported to Strange by Landers. Landers reported in such detail that it was about as good as Strange being there himself. Sometimes Strange thought it was even better. Not participating had a lot of points in its favor. The reportorial sessions took place usually just before Landers went off to town, right after lunch.
Lunch was what they both called it now. After so much going to town on day passes, Landers had dropped the Army meal designations of dinner and supper, and had gone back to lunch and dinner. Strange had followed his example, almost unconsciously.
But sometimes Strange wondered what Linda Sue called her midday meal, now. Had she stayed with the old, family and country names of dinner and supper? Or had she gone on to lunch and dinner, like her “aeronautical genius” from Long Island must call them?
Linda had not telephoned Strange since he left Cincinnati with the money. And certainly Strange had not called her. Strange wondered sometimes if she was perhaps waiting for him to call, first? If she was, that was tough shit. He wasn’t that interested. He was much more interested in Frances Highsmith.
But repeatedly, day after day, the only news Landers brought about Frances was that she had disappeared. Nobody had seen her in any of the places where the men of the two suites hung out. Neither in the low-down bars, nor the high-class. She had not shown up at any Navy suite parties. He and Strange discussed this, but could come up with no answer of what to do.
Another of the things they discussed at great length was the frequency with which Landers was getting into fights.
Since the day of the breaking of Frances’ nose, Landers had averaged a fight a day with somebody. It seemed to Strange, as Landers said it had to him, that the first fight with the two Navy chiefs and their bunch in the Peabody bar presaged a period of fighting for them both. Landers felt that Strange’s hitting Frances and breaking her nose was part of the same syndrome. Landers said he had felt it, though he hadn’t done it, as far back as his furlough home when he had become enraged at the Air Force sgt on the train.
Strange was inclined to agree. Though he had no answer as to why, any more than Landers had. Strange pointed out one thing, which was that they were both in better physical shape now, more nearly healed, and so were able to fight. At least he himself had been, until his new operation. Landers nodded at this, and accepted it. Landers pointed out that also they were both much closer to going back to duty and combat, probably in Europe, with their accurate foreknowledge of what that implied. Maybe that affected them.
Landers said that he himself did not like to fight and did not want to, but that he was constantly becoming enraged. Landers had never been much of a fistfighter or brawler, and had not wanted to be, though he had learned a little boxing. But he used to go out of his way to avoid a fight, walk around it. Now, the slightest thing, and Landers was not only ready to fight. A fight was just about guaranteed. All they had to do was show the slightest lack of respect for himself, or for any of his overseas buddies, or for his old outfit, or for his branch of service even. And Landers didn’t even care that much, about the Army. Nevertheless, a kind of intense, awful rage that tinged everything in sight with red would leap out from some unknown place in Landers and demand retribution. Landers did not know where it came from, or what was causing it.
One day, for example, Landers had gone alone across the street to the little hashhouse restaurant opposite the Peabody. The suite upstairs had been empty and Landers had wanted something to eat in the presence of other people, without bothering with the goddamned room service. A quick little quiet bite. Standing in the line to go through the cafeteria counter, he had had three soldiers come in behind him.
The leader of the three was a small, muscular man with a cocky, cruel face. Landers had disliked him immediately and turned away. But the small man marched right up to him, and tapped him condescendingly on the shoulder, twice.
“Looks like a GI messhall, don’t it, Mack?” he demanded in a truculent voice.
“Don’t put your hands on me, Mack,” Landers said. His voice had hardened instantly, and down deep inside him he felt the red tickle begin to grow. He swung half around. He hadn’t yet picked up a plate.
“Don’t call me Mack, Mack,” the small man snarled, and leaned his head forward with a sort of eager, mean, fighting smile. “I don’t let people call me Mack.”
Landers hadn’t answered. There didn’t seem to be any point. He completed his swing around, bringing his right hand around in a sort of tight, rising right hook that hit the man perfectly on his thrust-out jaw.
The man went down. Landers immediately went on top of him, the peculiar red tide rising in his ears with the noise of an ocean breaker, and tingeing everything that peculiar red. He had hit the man six or eight times in the face and sides of the head before one of the man’s buddies and some stranger soldier pulled him off. The little man was hardly conscious. His face was bleeding, his nose was broken, three of his teeth were out, and one ear was torn loose where a punch had grazed it.
Around them the civilian customers had scrambled out of the way, looking horrified and talking about soldiers. Landers stuffed in his khaki shirttail and blew out his cheeks. But the red rage in him had not receded. It wanted more.
“You want some of it?” he said to the other two.
But fortunately neither of them was as truculent as their leader. They backed away holding up their friend, one of them carefully picking up his three teeth, and left.
Landers did not know why he had done it. Telling it to Strange, he said it seemed stupid to give the other guy the first shot. Then thinking deeply, Landers added that the guy was obviously a mean, cruel, petty guy. Used to bullying people. But Landers was sorry about the teeth.
Another time, at the Plantation Roof on top the hotel Landers had, personally and all alone, beaten up three warrant officer pilots from the Army Ferry Command. It was the same stupid kind of a story.
Landers had gone up there alone, mainly to get away from the crowd and noise in the suite. He hadn’t taken a woman, b
ut had taken a bottle. In the customary brown sack. The huge place was crowded but by now Landers knew the headwaiter, who knew Landers tipped well and gave him an empty four table with a “reserved” on it. It was about then Landers noticed the three young warrant officer pilots, sitting at a table nearby and watching him. Perhaps because he had an expensive table all to himself.
The table was a good one down near the dance floor and Landers sat at it alone watching the dancers and getting steadily more drunk, and feeling lost, and lonely, and blue. With a kind of irascible self-pity, as he later said to Strange. There was one of those huge revolving mirror balls, with tiny minors that flashed spectrum lights in his eyes.
It was no time to have a woman with you, and Landers was glad he had not brought one. But he enjoyed watching the dancing couples, as they moved through the colored lights spraying the floor. It was near to closing, and the band as was customary was playing a set of sentimental numbers. Songs like “As Time Goes By,” and like “Red Sails in the Sunset,” and “Harbor Lights,” and like “We’ll Meet Again.”
Landers found them all so in keeping with his mood that it was unbelievable. At that moment there wasn’t anything in the world Landers hated, or detested. Everybody suffered. That was one thing you could count on. Stray, wispy shreds of thought ran through his head before he could catch their tails. About honor, and death, and tragedy, and love. Misguided honor, searched-for death, tragedy that was embraced, love that was hopefully lost. Everybody died; some younger, a part of his mind said, as Landers later told Strange, and someday all of us would look back on these lovely sweet darling times and remember all these songs. Yeah. Yeah, the other part of Landers’ mind said, as he explained to Strange, those of us who survived would. But at least he wasn’t mad at anybody.
At closing, which was one o’clock, they played “The Star-Spangled Banner,” as they always did. Landers did not get up. It was almost force of habit by now, since so many of the wounded out at the hospital did the same thing. The general, if perhaps irreverent, joke out at the hospital was that the wounded did not need to stand for the national anthem. There had been talk of fights over it, but Landers had not seen any. But Landers had always been with a group when he did it.
