From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [290]
“He sure has,” Chief said happily.
“But I wount want to cut him out of bein able to fight.”
“He’ll fight,” Chief said. “He’s a reglar horse. If he had the kind of mind to go with the rest of him there wouldnt be a heavyweight, even, in the Department could touch him.”
“He’s gunshy,” Prew said.
“Thats what I mean,” Chief said. “He’ll fight. And probly win. They got him matched with a green hand from I Compny. He’ll fight, but I bet he wont talk much for a couple days.”
“By god, I bet he wont,” Prew said happily.
“And he’ll always believe you done it on purpose to screw him.”
“So will Dynamite.”
Chief nodded his great head ponderously, as if it took considerable effort. “You’ll be on the shitlist for fair now. But you was already on it before. And I dont see how even Dynamite can court-martial you over a fair fight on the green when thats his own policy.”
“Hell no,” Prew said happily. “I dont see how they can do that.”
“Bloom wount be so bad,” Chief said thoughtfully philosophically, “if he just forgit for a while he was a Jew.”
Prew felt something come up into his mind again. “Hell,” he protested. “I dont give a damn he’s a Jew.”
“Me neither,” Chief said. “The guys call Sussman Jewboy all the time. He dont care. They call Bloom Jewboy and he wants to beat up on everybody. Hell, they call me Indian, dont they? Well, I am a Indian, aint I? Well, Bloom’s a Jew, aint he?”
“Thats right,” Prew said. He felt the something go back down again in his mind. “Hell, man, I’m French and Irish and German. So what? They call me Frenchy or Mick or Squarehead I wount be mad, would I?”
“Thats right,” Chief said ponderously.
“Thats right,” Prew agreed happily.
“Course,” Chief said, “I know some dumb fucks treat a Jew mean, but not in our Compny.”
“Sure,” Prew said. “Well, look how they treated the Indians.”
“Thats right,” Chief said. “And a man’s got to learn who to hit and who not to hit.”
“Thats right,” Prew said. He leaned back expansively, the beer had hit him quicker than usual, and looked around the yelling lattice-fenced triangular plot with its roofed U-shaped bar in the center of the three meeting streets that for the last twenty years had been hallowed ground. Over in one corner a grizzled knot of old master sergeants huddled over their beers excluding the young punks of forty by reminiscing about Villa in Mexico and the Philippine Insurrection when they had taught the fucking Moros and spiks what was what. Men hollered three deep at the bar. A group of recruits in shiny unfaded suntans were standing with their arms around each other’s shoulders singing We’re Captain Billy’s troopers, We are riders of the night, We are dirty sons of bitches and we’d rather fuck than fight. Over the hubbub now and then came the faint sound of a roar from the quad that told of a knockdown. It was all very permanent, and he knew that he was part of it. He had a place in all of it.
“Dont look like the other regmints takin much intrest in our compny smokers,” he grinned maliciously.
“Why the hell should they?” the Chief said gently. “We aint got a chance of a fart in a whirlwind of takin that trophy back next December, and everybody knows it.”
Prew looked at the great solid bulk of him, utterly unshakeable, and grinned, loving him for his unshakeability in what in the last month had become an unfounded maelstrom of the whole universe. “Old Chief,” he said happily. “Old Chief. The mother-fucking jockstraps,” he said. “The fucking jockstraps.”
“Watch that, Mack,” Chief grinned. “I jockstrap a little bit myself.”
Prew laughed wildly.
“Have nuther beer,” the Chief said.
“Naw sir, my turn to buy one.”
“Plenty here. Help yourself. You earned it.”
“No sir,” Prew said stoutly. “I’m buying this one. I got money. I always got money, now.”