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By Root 14038 0

in the chair, it was odd how there were no ages in the Army. Back in his hometown Stark, who was twenty-four, would have been of a different generation, a newer crop, than himself who was thirty-four; but here they both were contemporaries of Niccolo Leva, who was forty, and of Prewitt, who was only twenty-one. Here they were all the same, of a certain similarity, of a certain common knowledge, of a certain deep unshakeable very flexible something that was in the bony structure of their faces and in the shaded halftones of their voices. But they were not contemporaries of Maggio or Mazzioli or Sal Clark, who were still punk kids. And they were not, either, the contemporaries of guys like Wilson, Henderson, or Turp Thornhill, or O’Hayer. Lets not be romantic now, he thought. But still, with all the romance put aside, there really was this similarity, this difference, this contemporariness, that was not in the others. You could feel it. Chief Choate had it too. Sometimes even Pete Karelsen had it, but not very often. Usually he only had it when he got real mad. Or drunk. Pete had it drunk. It was a thing you felt, even though you could not name it and no word ever said it. He was still mulling this illumination over, trying vainly to find a name for it, when Capt Holmes came in.

By the time the Customary interview and peptalk for new men was ended, that other part of Warden’s mind knew quite definitely what he meant to do about the kitchen situation.

Maylon Stark stood in the Orderly Room during the whole of Capt Holmes’s lecture, after he and Holmes had shaken hands and Holmes had beamed his pleasure at him, with his hands easily behind his back, his campaign hat dangling from them, staring at Holmes reflectively. He expressed his gratitude perfunctorily and said nothing else. At the end of the lecture, still staring reflectively at his new commander, he saluted precisely and withdrew immediately.

Maylon Stark was medium-built and husky. That was the only word to fit him, husky. He had a husky face, and the nose on it was badly bent and flattened huskily. His voice was husky. His head sat huskily on his neck, the way a fighter carries his chin pulled in from habit. It was the huskiness of a man who hunches up his shoulders and hangs on hard with both hands. And with it Maylon Stark had a peculiar perpetual expression, like that of a man who is hanging hard onto the earth to keep it from moving away, out from under him. The line from the right side of his flattened nose to the corner of his mouth was three times as deep as the same line on the left side; his mouth did not curl, but the deepness of this line made him look like he was about to smile sardonically, or cry wearily, or sneer belligerently. You never knew which. And you never found out which. Because Maylon Stark never did any of them.

“He’s a good man, Sergeant Warden,” Holmes insisted, after Stark had left. There was a puzzled, not quite satisfied look on his face. “I can always tell a good man when I see one. Stark’ll make me one damn fine cook.”

“Yes, Sir,” Warden said. “I think he will.”

“You do?” Holmes said, surprised. “Well. Well, its like I say, real soldiers dont grow on trees, and you have to look hard before you find one.”

Warden did not bother to answer this one. Dynamite had said the same thing about Ike Galovitch, when he made him sergeant, except that he had not looked puzzled.

Capt Holmes cleared his throat and reset his face and began to dictate next week’s Drill Schedule to Mazzioli, who had come in while the lecture had been on. Mazzioli stopped his filing to type the Drill Schedule for the Captain. The Captain walked back and forth, his hands behind his back, his head thrown back thoughtfully, dictating slowly so Mazzioli could get it with the typewriter.

Mazzioli typed disgustedly, knowing that later The Warden would haul out his FMs and change the schedule all around and then he would have to type it up again. And Dynamite would sign it without noticing the difference.

As soon as Holmes was gone, Warden beat it out to the cooks’ room,