From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [61]
“Hell no,” Holmes said happily. “Or Reveille either, probably. I told Culpepper to take them both for me if I dont show up. If he doesnt show up, you take them.”
“Yes, Sir,” Warden said.
Holmes was walking back and forth across the office, displaying an uninhibited joy and anticipation Warden had seldom seen in him. Under the burning lights that flickered out the window oilily upon the gloomy rainy day, Holmes’s normally florid face was flushed a deeper hue of happiness.
“All work and no play,” Holmes said, and winked. It was a male wink, implying the turgid weighted pendulum that must be relieved, and it flung a momentary bridge across the gulf of caste that always separated them. “You ought to take a day off yourself,” Holmes said. “All you do is sit around this gloom sweating over this paper and that. There are other, happier things in this world besides administration.”
“I’ve been considering it,” Warden said thinly, exchanging the papers in his hand for some on his desk and picking up a pencil. This was Thursday, the maid’s day off, it was just as good a time as any. He watched the beefy happiness on Holmes’s face narrowly, surprised that now at this time he should like him better than he ever had.
“Well,” Holmes said. “I’m going. I’m leaving it in your care, Sergeant.” There was great trust and feeling in his voice, and in his suddenly powerful emotion he clapped his hand on Warden’s shoulder.
“It’ll be here when you get back,” Warden said. But he was only playing out the role, and his voice was dead.
You’ve got nothing to go on but your woman’s intuition, Milton, Warden told himself, you better play it safe, you better really have it figured out. He watched Holmes leave and sat down at his desk to wait for Mazzioli to come back, because even now, in this big moment, he would not leave the Orderly Room with nobody but the CQ to run it.
It began to rain again before the clerk came back, and Warden occupied himself with cleaning up some odd jobs that had been accumulating. There were a number of letters he had to write out for Mazzioli to copy up for Holmes to sign, and then he made out in the rough the next week’s drill schedule, looking up the Field Manuals for the authorization.
Alone in the damp air, he worked savagely, taking out his hatred on the paper, forgetting everything else but this before him, throwing himself headlong at it like a hopped-up Jap attacking a machinegun, and the power of his energy filled the room to bursting.
Mazzioli, the company clerk, was dripping wet when he came in and trying to protect a half a dozen manila envelopes from the water.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, looking at Warden with his sleeves turned back. “Its cold enough outside. Shut that window before we both freeze to death.”
Warden grinned at him slyly, his eyes squinted up. “Is the poor little delicate baby cold?” he said. “Is him freezin?”
“Aw,” the clerk said. “Can it, will you?” He put his folders down and stepped to push it shut himself.
“Leave it open!” Warden roared.
“But its cold,” the clerk protested.
“Then freeze,” Warden grinned. “I like it open.” Suddenly his face hardened. “Where the hella yah been all goddam day?” he snarled.
“You know where I’ve been,” the clerk said primly. “I’ve been over at the personnel section in Regiment.” Having attended a business college on the outside, he exercised his right to intellectual superiority; to this end he prided himself on his good grammar and always sat in on the discussions held by the clerks in Choy’s. Now and then he even held a discussion with Pop Karelsen, the sergeant of the weapons platoon, who rumor had it once had been a rich man’s son. “I’ve been working with Sgt/Maj O’Bannon,” Mazzioli added bitterly, with a prissy mimic. “If I ever saw an old maid . . .”
“Grant went to the hospital today,” Warden interrupted bluntly. He picked the Sickbook up and opened it and held it under Mazzioli’s nose. “Did you know Grant was interned? He’s got the clap. Know what that is?”
The clerk stepped back, his armor pierced, looking guilty.
Warden grinned sourly.