Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [104]
He felt like joining in the battle. But, hell, it was only playing at war, and he wasn’t a kid in short pants any more. And they wouldn’t take him in the army. A lot of nerve that goddamn sergeant had had.
And then when he’d gotten home, with an awful bellyache, he had all that trouble. They never made any least effort to try and understand him. His old lady still nagging him to study for the priesthood. And Fran, a great big pain she was. And the old man! Let him yell. He’d told them he didn’t want to go to school. Now they knew. Father Mahin from Loyola had called up to ask what had happened that he hadn’t been to school for so long, and the old man had also learned about his having blown in the tuition money. All the damn yelling they’d done over it. And just when he had that bellyache.
He felt like blowing, going on the bum. He could just hop a freight and enlist in some other town. Then when he went to war, and they’d learned that he’d died a hero’s death, how’d they like that? The old man would be plenty sorry, and it would serve him right. And Father Gilhooley would say a solemn high mass for him at St. Patrick’s, and they’d all be there in tears, and maybe his old man would even cry. And then, maybe Lucy Scanlan would be proud she’d known him, and maybe she’d cry too.
But he didn’t want to die. Well, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d enlist and become a hero, and not get killed but would return as Lieutenant, or Major or Colonel Lonigan with medals all over his chest. And his picture would be in the paper, and when he came back they’d be pretty goddamn proud to see him.
Led by Ralph Borax, the enemy in the farther trench spread out in No-Man’s-Land in front of their earthworks, and kept up a steady tin-can barrage, permitting Le Gare and O’Neill to get into position and heave their trench mortar. It smashed sand and wood down in upon the punks in the nearer trench. Andy jumped up and down, yelling with idiotic glee that he was smashing the German line. Dick Buckford plopped him on the ear with a can.
Studs laughed, but he couldn’t keep his mind off that trouble at home. Anyway, the cat was out now. That was a relief. The worst that could come would be better than having that dark cloud of fear always hanging over him. The old man would probably cool off. He’d said plenty already about it being dishonorable. And the old lady had cried and babbled that they were disgraced, and that she’d never again be able to hold her head up, and that they’d have to move out of the neighborhood, because she could never again face the neighbors and parishioners. And Fran sticking her nose in too, as if it was her business. If she wasn’t his sister, he’d kick her teeth in for her. And when he’d said he never wanted to go to school, and that he’d told them so that night he’d graduated, that hadn’t meant anything. It was always the same. They all acted as if they were always right.
The punks argued shrilly. He laughed, forgetting his own troubles. Fat Malloy jumped up from his trench and yelled in his bullying loud-mouthed way:
“All right, you birds! Play square. We said the side that lost the toss-up had to be the Germans. And who lost? Tell me that! Who lost? . . . If we lost we’d have been the Germans. Play square.”
“You guys ain’t got any sportsmanship,” Young Horn Buckford said, wiping his nose with his sleeve.
“You cheated in that toss-up, and we won’t be no Germans,” Andy yelled.
“If you guys was patriots you’d want to be the Germans anyway because you’re getting licked. You wouldn’t want the Americans to be licked,” yelled O’Neill in a loud, squeaking voice.
“Come on over and try and make us be the Germans,” yelled Andy.
They drove him under cover with tin cans. In the midst of the battle, he popped up and shouted:
“You guys would cheat your own mother. ”
Young Horn tried to rearrange the battered