From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [443]
As he beat it back out through the squadroom the men were beginning bitterly to roll full field packs. All except Turp Thornhill, who was still under the bunk and four mattresses in his helmet and underwear; and Private Ike Galovitch, who was lying on top his bunk with his rifle along his side and his head under his pillow.
On the empty second floor, from which men were hurriedly carrying their full field equipment downstairs to roll into packs, at the south end of the porch by the latrine Readall Treadwell was going up the ladder in the latrine-supplies closet to the roof hatch carrying a BAR and grinning from ear to ear.
“First time in my goddam life,” he yelled down; “I’m really goin to git to shoot a BAR, by god. I wount never of believe it.”
He disappeared through the hatch and Warden followed him on up, and out into the open. Across G Company’s section of roof most of G Company’s first-three-graders were waiting to meet the enemy from behind one of the four chimneys, or else down on their knees in one of the corners, the BAR forearms propped on the crotch-high wall, or a chimney top, their muzzles looking eagerly into the sky, and their bottles of whiskey sitting beside them close up against the wall. Reedy Treadwell, who did not have a bottle, was just dropping down happily beside Chief Choate, who did. Two of the first-three-graders had hopped across the wall onto F Company’s roof and were standing behind two of their chimneys. A knot of first-three-graders from F Co were just coming up through their own hatch. They crossed the roof and began to argue violently with the two first-three-graders from G Co, demanding their chimneys. All down the 2nd Battalion roof, and on the 1st and 3rd Battalion roofs, first-three-graders were coming up through the hatches eagerly with BARs, rifles, pistols, and here and there a single MG. There were a few buck sergeants visible among them, but the only privates visible anywhere were Readall Treadwell and the two other BAR men from GCo.
“Throw your empty clips down into the Compny Yard,” Warden hollered as he moved down the roof. “Pass it along. Throw your empty clips down in the Compny Yard. The loading detail will pick em up. Throw your empty—”
A V of three planes came winging over from the southeast firing full blast, and the waiting shooters cheered happily like a mob of hobos about to sit down to their first big meal in years. All the artillery on all the roofs cut loose in a deafening roar and the earth stopped. The argument on F Co’s roof also stopped, while both sides all dived behind the same chimney. Warden turned without thinking, standing in his tracks, and fired from the shoulder without a rest, the bottle clutched tightly between his knees.
The big BAR punched his shoulder in a series of lightning left jabs.
On his right Pete Karelsen was happily firing the little air-cooled .30 caliber from behind the chimney while Mikeovitch and Grenelli hung grimly onto the bucking legs of the tripod laid over the chimney, bouncing like two balls on two strings.
The planes sliced on over, unscathed, winging on down to come back up the other leg of the big figure 8. Everybody cheered again anyway, as the firing stopped.
“Holymarymotherofgod,” Chief Choate boomed in his star basso that always took the break-line of the Regimental song uncontested. “I aint had so much fun since granmaw got her tit caught in the wringer.”
“Shit!” old Pete said disgustedly in a low voice behind Warden. “He was on too much of an angle. Led him too far.”
Warden lowered his BAR, his belly and throat tightening with a desire to let loose a high hoarse senseless yell of pure glee. This is my outfit. These are my boys. He got his bottle from between his knees and took a drink that was not a drink but an expression of feeling. The whiskey burned his throat savagely joyously.
“Hey, Milt!” Pete called him. “You can come over here with us if you want. We got enough room for you and the bottle.”
“Be right with you!” Warden roared. Gradually