From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [475]
“Which one’s on first?”
“I dont know. Let them decide. But I want Rosenberry to get the last shift; he was up with this all the time I was gone.”
“Okay,” Lt Ross said. He went out.
In a few minutes Company Bugler Anderson, sleepy-eyed and tousleheaded, came in looking sullen like a man who bet on red when the black had come up.
“Lost, hunh?” Warden said.
“I should of made him cut the cards,” Andy said. “I never can beat Friday matching.”
“Its midnight. Theres only eight hours left. Take three, give Friday three, and let Rosenberry have the last two,” Warden said. “He was up with it all evening while you guys were banging ear.” He got his rifle out of the corner.
“Okay, Top,” Andy said. He did not look happy, but then you did not argue with The Warden any more than you would have argued with Jesus Christ. Especially when he was in this mood.
“Hey, Top?”
“Yeah?”
“Is that really true about Prewitt?”
“Yeah, its true.”
“Gee. Thats tough,” Andy said. He got his comic book out of his hip pocket and sat down by the switchboard. “Thats really tough.”
“Yeah,” Warden said. “Sure is.”
Outside, in the fresh sea air under the kiawe grove, the late-rising moon was just coming above the mountains back of Koko Head, its silver light making one dark cave of the whole grove. From the wagon, and below him, the ground sloped down sharply through the patchy darkness under the trees of the grove to the bright levelness of the parking lot at the top of the cliff, where he and Karen had parked that time and watched the highschool kids having their picnic.
Feeling very remote, and aware of the weight of the rifle, he picked at random one of the new paths in the sandy soil that were becoming more packed and smooth every day now since Pearl Harbor, and that formed a many-choiced web through the grove amongst the newly placed tents and the old popcorn wagon and two WPA septic-tank outhouses that had been there before. The air felt very good in his lungs and on the outside of his head.
He walked on in the shade-dappled moonlight, feeling something ugly and hard flare up inside his chest. He went up another path toward the scattered tents of the camp.
The Headquarters tent was dark and Friday and Rosenberry were asleep on their cots, and he took still another path toward the supply tent over by the blacktop.
In the supply tent Pete and Maylon Stark were sitting up with Pete’s Schofield bottles, by the light of a blanket-shaded Coleman lantern. On the improvised table of sawhorses and one-by-six planks against the back wall Pete’s portable radio, that he had carefully packed and brought along on The Seventh, was playing dance music.
“It aint hahdly even the same outfit any more,” Stark said gloomily drunkenly.
“Come on in, Milt,” Pete said sympathetically from the cot. He moved over. “We just been talking about how fast the Compny’s changed the last couple of months.”
Warden noted the open bottle was less than half empty. Stark must have started in earlier with one of his own.
“Balls!” he sneered at them. “It aint changin any fastern it ever was.” He unslung his rifle and sat down beside Pete and accepted a canteen cup half full of straight whiskey. He drank it off quick and handed it back for a refill. “Wheres Russell? I thought he’d be in here tellin his story.”
“He’s already been,” Stark said darkly.
“He’s over across the road to the kitchen tent,” Pete said, “tellin the cooks.”
“What’ll he do when he runs out of people to tell?” Stark said.
“Bust, probly,” Pete said.
Behind them the music on the radio stopped and an announcer came on.
“Lucky Strike green has gone to war,” the announcer said. “Yes, Lucky Strike green has gone to war.”
“I aint never seen no outfit change so much in so short a time,” Stark said funereally.
“Say, what the hell is this?” Warden jeered. “I thought this was a party. Its more like a wake.”
“It could be a wake,” Stark said belligerently.
“Then lets liven it up a little. A wake’s supposed to be lively. Lets dial out that