Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [38]
We stood there leaning on our shovels, each in his own way. Some tucked the end of the handle under their armpits, others within folded hands that propped up their chins, still others holding them at arm’s length. Some stood with legs spread apart, others with one foot resting on the shovel blade—all of us balanced, idle, laconic, waiting for the truck to start off again.
Our chests were still heaving from the exertions of the last truckload, the sweat pouring off our bodies, our pants sopping, dripping wet. Our brogans were so full of perspiration we made sloshing noises with every limping, staggering step. All of us were dizzy and exhausted. Everything was blurred, shadowed and out of focus, a whole herd of wild bears wandering among the bushes, ready to pounce upon us at any moment, furry visions climbing up our backs to hug us tight with mammoth arms.
But the farther we went the closer we came to Oakland. And the quicker the truck could return with its load. It became too much for us. We couldn’t possibly keep up. So on the second morning out there we were joined by the little Bull Gang and in the afternoon both Patch Squads came out. The next day even some of the trustees were given shovels. Everybody was there. The champions of the whole camp faced each other in an open skirmish line on opposing sides of the road.
You do not know the things that can be done with a shovel, the distance that dirt can be pitched, the accuracy, the speed. And during this week the project became a tournament. For the one remaining way in which we can still show our defiance of the great, golden authority that hovers above us all is to do even more than is demanded, to show our contempt by working faster, better and harder, to serve its omnipotence willingly and with inspiration, enjoying it even.
So the old slogans and the war cries began to snap out in the heat and the flying dust. The Silent System was broken. We were out in the wilderness where there were no Free People and no one really cared much if he were to be put in the Box. It would be almost a break, even a privilege.
Partnerships were formed, little cliques, pairs and quartets. Cool Hand Luke, Dragline and Koko formed a working team that challenged anyone and everyone on the other side of the road, racing, trying to see who could finish a sector first and then move on up to the head of the line to begin another. The old rule was suspended and we were no longer required to yell out, “Gettin‘ on up here, Boss!” And now the Terrible Trio even began to run in its eager impatience to move forward and begin shoveling again.
The clumps of dirt spun through the air to explode on the road in a barrage of spraying sand and splashing asphalt, the air crisscrossed with hurtling, twisting projectiles. And the whoops were yelled back and forth in defiance and challenge, those old, old phrases, those bravuras of the Chain Gang.
Go hard, bastard! Go hard!
When it gets rough, get rough with it!
Yahoo! Let the Good Time roll!
If you hadn’t stole, you wouldn’t hafta roll!
Mud! Mud! Gimme some gawd damn mud!
The Free Men very nearly had to trot to keep up with our pace. They advanced through the orange trees, the weeds and bushes beside the road, knowing there was a dangerous mood in the air and that anything at all might happen. At the point of the advancing column two guards were walking backwards, one on either side of the road. Two more brought up the rear. Others were spread out behind our backs, boxing us in, their guns ready and on the alert.
Boss Kean chewed his quid, squinted and looked worried. Boss Paul’s smile was fixed and eternal. Boss Shorty smoked his pipe, the shotgun across his