From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [462]
“Its all right, Harry,” said the bigger one, a little more confidently. “He’s a GI.”
Well, at least there was that, anyway.
The man standing up staring at him over the Thompson gun sat back down, and there was an unheard sound of a great relaxing, like a vast sigh of relief.
“Douse that spot,” called the bigger one. In the dimmer light the two of them came up to him.
“What the hell you doin out here, Mack?” said the bigger one indignantly. He was a S/Sgt. The other was a Cpl. “You like to scared the livin shit out of us. We get a call from Position Sixteen somebody movin aroun out on the golf course and we think we got a whole battalion of parachutists in our lap.”
He understood it then. Somebody had seen his silhouette against the blue headlights of the patrol car he had stood in the golf course and watched. Somebody from G Company. But you’d think a goddam man who claimed to be such a hotshot Infantry soldier would have remembered that.
“I’m going back to my position,” he said.
“Yeah. What position.”
“Number Eighteen. Down the road.”
“Eighteen, hunh. What outfit.”
“G Company, —th Infantry.”
The S/Sgt relaxed a little bit more. “Dont G Company —th Infantry know theres a goddam curfew on?”
“Yes.”
“Then what the hell you doin off your position?”
“I’m just goin home from seein my wahine. She lives right over there,” he nodded across the golf course.
“You got a pass?”
“No.”
“No pass,” said the other one with finality. “Come on, lets take him in and get it over with.” He was being tough. He had relaxed some too now. He had been bad scared and now he was being tough. He had put his pistol back in the holster.
“Just hold your horses, Corprl Oliver,” said the S/Sgt.
“Its immaterial to me,” said the Cpl.
“Who’s in charge of Position Eighteen, friend?” said the S/Sgt.
“S/Sgt Choate.”
The two MPs looked at each other.
“You know who’s in charge of Eighteen, Harry?” the S/Sgt called back to the jeep.
In the jeep there was a consultation. “No,” Harry said. “But we can sures hell find out in a minute.”
“Okay,” said the S/Sgt. “Lets run him down there.”
“Its immaterial to me,” said the Cpl. “But I say take him down to the Station. I dont like his looks, Fred. Look at that uniform. Its garrison, and starched neat as a pin. Whats he doin in a garrison uniform? There aint no barricksbag press on that uniform. That uniform aint seen the inside of a barricksbag since it was last to the cleaners.”
“It wont hurt to run him down there,” said the S/Sgt.
“Its immaterial to me,” the Cpl said. “But it might hurt a lot. If he taken off on us.”
“How the hell is he goin to taken off on four of us, for Chrisake?”
“What if he just happen to of stole that nice clean uniform?” said the Cpl. “He might be a sabatoor. And his buddies waitin down the road to cut us down. Its immaterial to me. But how do we know he tint a spy or something?”
“How about that, friend?” said the S/Sgt. “You got buddies waitin down the road to cut us down?”
“I aint no spy, for Christ’s sake. Do I look like a spy?” That was one he had not anticipated. To be taken in for a possible spy. That would really be good.
“But how the hell we know you aint a spy?” said the Cpl. “Its immaterial to me.”
“Thats right,” said the S/Sgt. “You might be Tojo for all we know.”
“Maybe he’s gettin ready to blow up the Governor’s Mansion,” said the Cpl. “Or something. Its immaterial to me. But I say take him down to the Station. Then it aint our responsibility.”
“Ah, he aint no spy,” said the S/Sgt disgustedly. He had not put his pistol away, but it was hanging down at arm’s length by his side. “You got any identification on you, Mack? So we could tell who you are?”
“No.”
“Aint you got nothing?”
“No?”
“Then I’m afraid we’ll have to taken you in, friend,” the S/Sgt said. “You ought to have some kind of identification. I hate to do it. But then we just cant let every son of a bitch and his brother go runnin around all over at night without no identification like they was generals, either.