From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [171]
The next day even Holmes had forgotten all about it, under the stress of more recent things.
It was not, The Warden considered carefully, that he gave a good goddam whether the punk got three weeks’ restrictions or not. The fact was, three weeks’ restriction would probably do Prewitt some good. Especially since, as Stark had told him, the kid had gone dippy over this snooty whore at Mrs Kipfer’s. Three weeks at home for Prewitt would be just about long enough to get him over it. The Warden was sorry now that he had posed this condition on himself that he get Prewitt off scot free or it did not count. He did not feel sorry for him. Prewitt asked for everything he got. Falling for a hard nosed whore at Mrs Kipfer’s. That was just about that punk’s goddam speed. Prewitt not only asked for everything he got, he begged for it on bended knee. The Warden snorted disagreeably.
Prewitt was relieved to find Holmes was not around when they got back the second time. Paluso was relieved too. He released Prewitt quickly and took off for the PX, to be out of sight. Neither one of them understood that it was over. Prew limped upstairs and unmade the pack and put the stuff away and showered and changed to clean clothes and stretched out on his bunk, and waited for the OD or the Sergeant of the Guard. When they had not come for him by chowtime, he knew then they were not coming. He had been waiting for an hour and a half.
When the chow whistle blew, he knew something had interposed itself between himself and fate. The only possible answer was The Warden, who had seen fit to take a hand for one of those obscure screwy reasons of his own. I dont know what the hell business it is of his, he thought angrily, as he limped downstairs for chow. Why cant he keep his big nose out of things?
After chow, he stretched out on his bunk again, laying the tiredness of his legs out heavily on the blankets. That was when Maggio came over and congratulated him.
“Man, I’m proud of you,” said Angelo. “I ony wish I had of been there to see it. Thats all. If it wasnt for that son of a English-butchering bitch Galovitch, I would of been there too. But I’m still proud of you, man. Just the same.”
“Yeah,” Prew said wearily. He was still trying to grasp where he had got off. He had not only offered them the chance to give him extra duty Payday, which he still might get, he had also given the best opportunity they could have asked for to send him to the Stockade, express. In spite of all the great resolutions about being the perfect soldier and the high plans to make them do all the work. And this, mind you, he told himself, not after a month, not after a week, not even after two days of The Treatment—but on the afternoon of the very first day. It was not, he realized, going to be as easy as it looked. There were apparently hidden subtleties to The Treatment. Apparently it had been devised to gear itself to human nature more cunningly than he had suspected. And he had either woefully underestimated their ability to apply it, or else which was worse, grossly overestimated his own strength of will to fight it. The Treatment, apparently, concentrated all its power on a man’s strongest point—his pride in himself as a man. Could it be that that was also his weakest point?
Remembering it, a kind of terror at his own utter inadequacy overwhelmed him, overwhelmed even the fear he had of the Stockade when he was not keeping himself pumped full of outrage.
He fell out for drill next day a sadder but a wiser man. He had given up entirely the idea of curing them or teaching them a lesson. He no longer hoped for or expected instantaneous victory. When The Treatment started right where it had left off yesterday, and he went right back into the role of perfect soldier, he was only fighting a holding action, and under the slow smouldering silence of the self-generated hate that was his one defense was