From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [265]
“What you want to get temperamental for all of a sudden?” Prew said puzzledly. “You never turned us down before.”
Friday gasped, then coughed.
“Yeah?” the cook jeered, not taken in this time. “No sandwiches.”
“If they want sandwiches,” a voice like the clap of doom said thickly from the flap behind them, “give them sandwiches.”
As one man the three of them turned, even Friday turned, to see what the cook was already staring at so unbelievingly.
Maylon Stark stood just inside the flap like the hero of the melodrama come on stage at the last possible second of the last scene of the last act, to save the situation. The deepset purple crescents under his eyes were puffy with sleep, and his face was fat with puffiness. His voice was thick with it and his uniform looked very slept in. Dangling from his right hand was a bottle.
“Why hello, Maylon,” the cook smiled apprehensively. “What are you doing up at this hour?”
“As long as I run this goddam Mess,” Stark said thickly to no one, “there will be sandwiches and coffee for night guards, any time they want it.”
“And I agree with you, Maylon,” the cook said stoutly. “One hundred percent. But these guys aint goin on post nor comin off, they just wanderin around, when they ought to be in bed asleep. One of them aint even from the Company, he’s from Hickam Field. Howm I ever gonna get any sleep, I got to feed the whole of Hickam Field.”
“You aint supposed to sleep,” Stark said thickly. He looked around solemnly and then marched stolidly sedately as a row of fenceposts to the vacant camp chair and sat down heavily, staring at nothing. A strong smell of raw whiskey wafted through the tent.
“You aint suppose to sleep, and you aint going to sleep. You get all day off tomorrow to sleep, because you stayin up all night tonight. You want to work tomorrow, you can sleep now.”
He turned his head and stared grimly at the cook. The cook did not say anything.
“Well?” Stark said solemnly. “What do you say, cookie? You want to sleep. Go on. Turn in. I’ll stay up with this the rest of the night. And you can go on shift tomorrow.”
“I dint say that, Maylon,” the cook explained. “All I said was——”
“Then shut up,” Stark said.
“Okay, Maylon. I was only——”
“I said SHUT UP.”
He turned and looked at Prew without seeing him. He appeared to be looking through him at the wall behind him. “You men want sandwiches, you get sandwiches. Men got to eat,” he said. “They kin kill each other off all day long, but the ones that left still got to eat. Thats one thing a man can always count on,” he said. “As long as they is one man left, he got to eat,” he said thickly.
Nobody said anything.
“Fix these men some sandwiches, you son of a bitch,” Stark said to the wall behind Prewitt.
“Okay, Maylon,” the cook said. “Whatever you say.”
“Then move, you son of a bitch,” Stark said thickly.
“We can fix them, Maylon,” Prew said soothingly. “He dont need to do it.”
“He’s a greaseball,” Stark said to nobody. “He gets paid to fix sandwiches. You want him to fix you sandwiches, he’ll fix you sandwiches.”
“Sure,” the cook said. “I dont mind fixing them.”
“Shut up, you son of a bitch,” Stark said.
“I just as soon do it myself,” Prew said uneasily. “We get us a sandwich and cup a hot coffee and take them up on the embankment with us where we wont bother nobody. Then he can get some sleep.”
“Fuck his sleep,” Stark said. “This is the mess tent. You want to eat in the mess tent, you eat in the mess tent. He say anything I kill the son of a bitch. Need some good cooks for change anyways.”
“We really rather take them up there,” Prew said uneasily.
“Okay,” Stark said. “Going to play the git-tar, hunh?” he said woodenly.
“Yeah,” Prew said, from the stove, putting the meat on.
“Okay,” Stark said thickly. “Go on back to sleep, you worthless bastard.”
“I aint sleepy, Maylon,” the cook said.
“I said go back to sleep,” the doom crack voice said.
“Okay,” the cook