From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [159]
During the second period which was Old Ike’s close order he was called down twice, first for missing a pivot on a column movement (during which at least the two men in front of him were also out of step), then second for fouling up on a triple rear march-right flanking movement (during which the entire company except for the first two ranks of four became a shambling mob eating its own dust and cursing). Both times Ike called him out of ranks indignantly and read him off, spraying Prew’s shirt with a fine mist of old man’s Slavic spit, and after the second reading off sent him with a noncom across the road to the chemical warfare’s quarter-mile track to doubletime seven laps with his rifle at high port (as was customary with the awkward squad).
When he came back sweating heavily but silent, all the men of the jockstrap faction glared at him indignantly (as was customary with the awkward squad) while the men of the non-jockstrap faction did not look at him at all but intently studied the modernistic outlines of the new chem warfare barracks. Only Maggio threw him a grin. It was really very interesting.
In a close order drill the caliber of this one (for which Ike Galovitch was famous) being told off for such niceties of execution in the midst of so much fumbling was really laughable. So Prew laughed. The whole thing was quite a triumph of imagination over matter. The men slouched through Ike’s close order without snap or smartness, the commands in Ike’s perverted English seldom understandable and often given on the wrong foot, at least a third of them always out of step with Ike’s uneven cadence. Ike, in commanding, seemed to fluctuate between a chaste uncertain modesty and a grotesque and Mussolini-ish rage of self-assurance. Neither of these was conducive to a snappy drill, and to any man who had ever soldiered it was not only agony, it was unbelievable, it was the ultimate prostitution of soldiering, the greatest sin ever perpetrated by a boiler-orderly. And yet this company (who shambled spiritlessly through Ike’s stuttering peregrinations no longer caring, with one thought only: Lets Get The Fuck Out of This) glared at him indignantly for fouling up, and Ike (who as a Sergeant and devout Holmes-man felt it was his duty to help hobble this bolshevik) raged at his inefficiency. It was truly an admirable triumph of imagination over matter, of the ideal over appearances. And very laughable. And very interesting.
For the third period they marched up toward the Packtrain to the big sloping field where the bridle path began, just above the golf course where they would watch several religious foursomes of officers (and a couple giggling atheistic threesomes of officers’ wives) all playing their morning devotional round.
This field was the customary scene of a traditional lecture on cover and concealment given by Sgt Thornhill, during which lying on their bellies in the shade of the big oaks that lined the field the Company gave themselves over to the enchantments of mumblety-peg and the study of the bottoms of the officers’ wives and daughters as they bounced around the field on saddles, and during which this morning Turp Thornhill, a long stringy ferret-headed jawless man from Mississippi with 17 yrs serv, who was not a jockstrap man, or even a non-jockstrap man, gave Prewitt a reading off for inattention. And sent him down with a noncom to the nearest track for seven more laps of the best, at high port.
It was at this time that Maggio’s flair for sympathy cost him seven laps himself, when Ike Galovitch saw him make the holy mystic sign to Prew (the one where you close the fist, extend the middle finger, and jab the air) as Prew was leaving, and being incensed at this disrespect for discipline and justice, sent Maggio along this time too.
It went on. And still on. And then further on. First one noncom then another trying his skill, as if they were all bucking to become recruit instructors to the gook draftees that were beginning to come in now from the peacetime draft.
Even Champ Wilson, the lordly