From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [112]
“Cooks got to have pans to cook in.”
“They dont need them to spit in though, do they? They always taught me a good cook never used more pans than he had to, that a good cook tried to save his KPs work.”
“Thats what they supposed to do,” Stark said, getting out his sack of Golden Grain and making one, keeping his eyes on it with that self-effacing, almost shamed look good cops and noncoms always have when they have to use their rank.
“Then I guess you better put me on report then. I cant do them any faster than I am.”
“I never like to put a man on extra duty less I have to,” Stark said noncommittally, with a reluctant but real understanding that made Prew so warm inside he forgot that it was Stark who told him Willard would not bother him.
“You want to hear my side?”
“Sure,” Stark said. “I awys want to hear both sides. Whats your side?” he said, looking up, eyes withdrawn into authority but very clearly discerning.
“My side is Willard’s using all the pans he can, deliberately, so as to foul me up, because I didnt suck his ass this morning. Thats my side.”
“That sort of leaves you suckin hind tit,” Stark said, “dont it?”
“It sure as hell does,” Prew said. “If you dont believe me, look at him there. Just look at him,” he said, “the fat two-faced mother fucker.” Willard was watching them from the other end of the kitchen, leaning forward slyly while he pretended to work, his head on one side, listening hard.
“Willard,” Stark said. “Come heah! Now! This man’s hot as a forty-five shootin downhill,” he said when Willard came up. “Claims you deliberately usin pans to make more work and get him in bad. What about it?”
“If I’m goin to cook right I got to use pans.”
“Dont stall me, Fatstuff,” Stark said.
“Hell,” Willard said. “Do I got to count how many pans I use? So a goldbricking KP who’s afraid to work?”
“What do you want me to do?” Prew said violently. “Grow couple more arms?”
“All I ask,” said Willard dignifiedly, turning on him, “is that you keep the pans washed up, so they’re there, clean, when I need them. In order that I am allowed to cook the kind of food I ought to cook, the kind of food required for men who work hard all day and who need good nourishing food to get their nourishment.”
“Piss on that noise,” Stark said.
“All right,” Willard said, “okay. You asked me. Any time, just any old time, you want my job why . . ?” he left it up in the air.
“Watch out, Fatstuff,” Stark said. “I might take you up on it.”
“All right,” Willard said. “If you think I’m a rat . . ?”
“I think you’re a fat cook,” Stark said, “who cant cook. Because he’s too busy makin sure the KPs respect his rank. What I want you to do is get your ass back there and cook, and quit using so goddam many pans, because I’ll be watching you.”
“All right,” Willard said. “If thats the way you feel about it.” He left them, disdainfully and with great dignity.
“Thats how I feel,” Stark said after him. “He wont bother you no more,” he said to Prew, “or if he does you come tell me about it. But that wont help you get these ones thats already dirty done,” he said, looking at the stacks of pans. “Come on. I’ll help you do them up. I’ll wash and you rinse and wipe.”
He flipped the cigaret end into Prew’s garbage pail and grabbed the spatula and began to scrape one of the worst ones with the deftness and economy of a great kitchen stylist, that Prew could only watch admiringly, feeling warmer inside now than he had felt for a long time.
“This’ll kill Willard,” Stark grinned lopsidedly, “the Mess Sergeant helpin a KP do pots and pans. Back home, when we use to divide our kitchen work up into White and Colored work; pots and pans was Colored work.”
“There wasnt any niggers in my home town,” Prew said, having to work very hard to keep up with Stark the stylist, but feeling very wonderful and friendly and very high, knowing that all the cooks and even the KPs were secretively watching this because Stark sometimes helped the KPs peel the spuds but pots and pans was something else again.