From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [38]
Prewitt knew the G Company buglers by sight. He put down his cards and watched them cross the squadroom. He had seen and listened to them playing their guitars evenings around the quad; they were much better on the guitars than they were on the bugle. . . .
The instinctive judgment swept him with the air and atmosphere of the Corps and he felt a sudden wave of unbearable homesickness. The smell of the ball diamond bleachers during the morning drill period with the sun shining brightly on the weathered wood. The heavy bleats from the different-pitched bugles, drifting up to the golf course on the wind, rolling metallically into the edge of the woods. The many bugles conflicting, the calls begun in confidence and then left hanging doubtfully unfinished. And now and then the rare well-executed phrase, rising over all, sharp, insistent, catching the moment and the mood and carrying them to distant unseen ears. He felt a hunger for the acrid smell of metal polish that hung about his bugle as he played.
Almost enviously he watched the two men pass between the rows of bunks. It was eleven and the Corps had been dismissed. They were through for the day. It was a standing joke in the Corps about the way these two watched the clock. They were always the first to leave the bleachers and sprinted back to the barracks so they could have an hour alone to practice before the Company came in from drill.
But bugling meant nothing to them, except as a means to escape straight duty and to get more time to practice on guitars. They wanted to play guitars, but there were no chairs for guitars in the Regimental Band. These two possessed the things that Prewitt valued, but they wanted something else instead. It seemed the very fact they did not want what they had led life to conspire to help them keep it; and he who loved to bugle had to give it up because he loved it. It was not right.
Anderson stopped when he saw Prewitt. He seemed to be debating whether to go on or to go back out. He made up his mind, and passed by without speaking, his deepset eyes sullenly on the floor. Clark stopped when Anderson stopped and looked at his mentor to see what he would do. When Anderson went on he followed, but he could not disregard Prewitt’s eyes. He nodded embarrassedly, his long Italian nose almost hiding his shy smile.
They dragged out their guitars and began to play furiously, as if by putting their souls into it they could dispel the alien presence. After a while their playing tapered off and finally stopped and they looked in Prewitt’s direction. Then they went into a huddle.
Listening to them play Prewitt realized for the first time how good they really were. He had never paid much attention to them before but being in their Company suddenly made him aware of them as individuals. Even their faces were subtly changed, were the faces of different men, no longer indistinct. It was a thing he had noted before: how you could live beside a man for years and have no positive picture of him, until you were suddenly thrown into his company to find that he was not just a vague personality but an individual with an individual’s life.
Anderson and Clark came out of their huddle and put their guitars away. They passed by Prewitt again, without speaking, and went on into the latrine at the end of the porch. They were deliberately avoiding him. Prewitt lit a tailormade cigaret and stared at it impassively, acutely aware of being the stranger.
He was sorry they had stopped playing. They played his kind of songs—blues songs, and hillbilly music—the kind of music the ex-bums and field laborers and factory workers who had tried