From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [108]
“I dont know,” future Corporal Bloom said disapprovingly. “Prewitt had first choice and he choosed them. It doesnt matter now, what matters is you’re late, Treadwell. You make it hard on everybody when you’re late. Your sink’s half full of plates already.”
“You think I’m late?” future and forever Private Readall Treadwell said. “You just dont know. Usually I don’ git here till the sink’s plumb full. You jist happen to be lucky.”
“Personally,” future Corporal Bloom said, availing himself of the FMs’ morale psychology, “I’d rather work with you than Prewitt, anyway. You and me can really slick them up, Treadwell. But you got to get on the ball, Treadwell. You got to hustle up and show some pride.”
“I’m happy,” forever Private Treadwell grunted. “You’re unhappy. But I’m happy.”
The pots and pans kept piling up on Prewitt puzzlingly. Never in his life had he seen a crew of cooks use so many pots and pans so quickly and so often. It took him quite a while to catch on to what Willard was pulling on him. It was so outlandish that for a while he thought it was his imagination, inflamed and offended by the rotten muckiness that covered every pore of him, that it was exaggerating in a wild effort to help him keep his pride. But it was obvious, as the stacks kept getting higher, that no cook ever used that many pans, even for an officers’ banquet at the Club, ladies invited.
It was not until the middle of the morning, however—when Maggio had lovingly sent his table waiters off to drill and got his tables all scrubbed, when Bloom and Treadwell had finished up their dishes, the three of them settling down disgustedly with no morning break to peel the spuds for dinner (but working, Prew noticed enviously from his steaming greasy sinks, with the raw spuds crisp and solid in the hands in cool clear water that did not film the arms with grease)—it was not till then that Stark noticed anything was wrong. Willard being far too shrewd to ever complain that Prew was slow.
“Kind of slow with the pots and pans today, aint you, Prewitt?” Stark said, stopping by the sink and looking at the crotch-high stacks of pans stacked all around him. “You should be done by now.”
“I guess I’m just slow,” Prew said.
“The cook’ll need them pans to cook in pretty soon.”
“They probly need them now, since I already washed some of them three times already.”
“Cooks got to have pans to cook in.”
“They dont need them to spit in though, do they? They always taught me a good cook never used more pans than he had to, that a good cook tried to save his KPs work.”
“Thats what they supposed to do,” Stark said, getting out his sack of Golden Grain and making one, keeping his eyes on it with that self-effacing, almost shamed look good cops and noncoms always have when they have to use their rank.
“Then I guess you better put me on report then. I cant do them any faster than I am.”
“I never like to put a man on extra duty less I have to,” Stark said noncommittally, with a reluctant but real understanding that made Prew so warm inside he forgot that it was Stark who told him Willard would not bother him.
“You want to hear my side?”
“Sure,” Stark said. “I awys want to hear both sides. Whats your side?” he said, looking up, eyes withdrawn into authority but very clearly discerning.
“My side is Willard’s using all the pans he can, deliberately, so as to foul me up, because I didnt suck his ass this morning. Thats my side.”
“That sort of leaves you suckin hind tit,” Stark said, “dont it?”
“It sure as hell does,” Prew said. “If you dont believe me, look at him there. Just look at him,” he said, “the fat two-faced mother fucker.” Willard was wa