From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [43]
“I am not expecting to be any goldbricks, see? This squad detail every day to clean over the Dayroom the outside porch. After you clean up under you own bunk you get the mops help the porch.
“No man this platoon from fatigue or drill be taking off without I find him gets plenty extra duty.” The little red eyes glared at Prew challenging, almost hoping for some disagreement that would force Old Ike to prove his loyalty to Holmes, Wilson, the Company, and the cause, which might be Better Soldiering; Peacetime Preparedness; or the Perpetuation of An Aristocracy. Nobody could have named the Cause, but then its name was unimportant, as long as the Cause itself remained to levy loyalty.
“And don’ think,” Old Ike went on, “can come over here a fighter everybody beating up on just because are tough guy. Quickest way to Stockade is who tough guy pulls.
“And now is Fatigue Call five minute you fall out for him,” Old Ike concluded, glaring at Prew shortly, looking accusingly at Choate lying back relaxing. Then he clumped back to his own bunk where he took up again his interrupted litany to his unknown god by picking up the shoes he had been shining.
After he was gone, Chief Choate heaved his bulk upright, making the chain springs on the bunk squeak in protest.
“You kin gather what his Close Order Drill sounds like,” he said.
“Yes,” Prew said. “I can. Is the rest of the outfit as bad as that?”
“Well,” Chief said solemnly, “not in the same way as that.” He rolled himself another cigaret slowly and with great care.
“I guess he’s found out that you aint goin to fight for Holmes,” Chief said with slow solemnity.
“How could he have found it out? So soon.”
Chief Choate shrugged. “Its hard to say,” he said unmoved to exaggeration. “But I think he has. If he hant, knowing you was a fighter come to this outfit, he would have offered you the Compny on a silver platter and sucked your ass from here to Wheeler Field.”
Prew laughed but Chief’s round solemn face betrayed no hint of humor, or of any other feeling. He only looked a little surprised to find there was cause for laughter, which made Prew laugh the harder.
“Well,” he said to the big man, “now we got that figured out, you got any more instructions for me before I take the oath and begin me consecrated life?”
“Not much else,” Chief said solemnly. “No bottles in the bottoms of the footlockers. The Old Man doesnt like his men to drink and inspects for them every Sataday, and unless I take them first he takes them.”
Prew grinned. “Maybe I’d better get a notebook and make a note of that.”
“Also,” Chief said slowly, “no women in the barracks after ten o’clock. Unless they’re white. All the others, yellow black and brown, I got to turn in to the Orderly Room, where Holmes gives me a receipt and turns them over to the Great White Father.” He looked at Prew solemnly as the other pretended to write a note down on his cuff.
“What else?” he said.
“Thats all,” Chief said.
Grinning at the Chief, Prew thought about his shackjob at Haleiwa at the mention of the dark-skinned women; it was the third time he’d thought about her since this morning, but strangely, this time the thought did not hurt, and he could think about her freely, believing almost for a minute that there were lovely women standing on each corner, waiting for him to pick them up and be their lover, give them what they wanted, even though he knew it was not so. The warmth of Chief Choate’s slow deadpan friendship had filled an empty spot inside him.
Downstairs the whistle blew, and simultaneously the guard bugler began to blow Fatigue Call in the quad, and he could even listen to the call objectively. It was, he decided, very badly played, not near as good as he could have played it for them.
“Its time for you to fall out,” Chief said solemnly, heaving his great bulk from the bunk. “I think I’ll go take a nap and get a little sacktime.”
“What a prick!” Prew told him, picking