From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [167]
“Corporal Paluso,” Holmes roared, in his battalion close order voice, which was the best in the Regiment.
“Yes, Sir,” Paluso said, and jumped up as if stabbed.
“Take this man upstairs and have him roll a full field pack, a complete full field, extra shoes helmet and all, and then take a bicycle and hike him up to Kolekole Pass and back. And see that he hikes all the way. And when he gets back, bring him to me.” It was a pretty long speech for his battalion close order voice that had been developed more for short commands.
“Yes, Sir,” Paluso said. “Come on, Prewitt.”
Prew climbed down meekly off the board without a word. The Warden turned around and disgustedly went back inside. Paluso led him to the stairs and a still-shocked silence reached out after them from the corridor like a cloud.
Prew bit his lips. He got his envelope roll out of the wall locker and the combat pack off the bed foot. He laid them on the floor and opened the light pack. Everyone in the squadroom sat up and watched him silently and speculatively, as they might watch a sick horse upon whose time to die they had gotten up a pool.
“Dont forget the shoes,” Paluso said apologetically, in the voice one uses in the presence of a corpse.
He got them off the rack under the footlocker and had to unroll the roll to put them in and then build the whole thing up from scratch in the deadness of the silence.
“Dont forget the helmet,” Paluso said apologetically.
He hung it under the snap of the meat can carrier, and picked the whole solid-heavy mess of straps and buckles up and shouldered into it and went to get his rifle from the racks, wanting only to get out of this sad, shocked silence.
“Wait’ll I get a bike,” Paluso said apologetically, as they came down the stairs.
He stood in the grass and waited. The sixty-five or seventy pounds of pack dragged at his back, already starting to cut in on the circulation of his arms. It was just about five miles to the top of the pass. In the corridor the great silence still reigned.
“Okay,” Paluso said, using his clipped official voice because they were downstairs now. “Lets shove.”
He slung his rifle and they went out the truck entrance, still followed by the silence. Outside of the quad the rest of the Post moved busily, just as if there had not been a cataclysm. They passed Theater #1, on past the Post gym, past the Regimental drill field, and went on up the road, into the sun, Paluso riding embarrassedly beside him, the front wheel wobbling precariously at the slowness of the pace.
“You want a cigaret?” Paluso offered apologetically.
Prew shook his head.
“Go ahead and have one. Hell,” Paluso said, “theres no reason to be mad at me. I dont like this any better than you do.”
“I aint mad at you.”
“Then have a cigaret”
“Okay.” He took a cigaret.
Paluso, looking relieved, started off ahead on the bike. He cut capers on it and looked back grinning with the big murderous face, trying to make him laugh. Prew grinned weakly for him. Paluso gave it up and settled down to the monotony, wobbling along beside him. Then he had another idea. He rode a hundred yards ahead and then circled back, riding fast, a hundred yards behind, waving as he went by, and then circled back up, pumping as hard as his legs would go, to skid the brakes and slide alongside Prewitt. When this bored him he got off and walked a while.
They passed the golf course, went on past the officers’ bridle path, past the Packtrain, past the gas chamber, last outpost of the Reservation, and Prew plodded on concentrating on the old hiking