From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [12]
Milton Anthony Warden was thirty-four years old. In the eight months he had been topkicker of G Company he had wrapped that outfit around his waist like a money belt and buttoned his shirt over it. At intervals he liked to remind himself of this proud fact. He was a veritable demon for work; he liked to remind himself of that, too. He had also pulled this slovenly organization out of the pitfalls of lax administration. In fact, when he thought about it, and he often did, he had never met a man who was as amazingly adept at anything he put his hand to as was Milton Anthony Warden.
“The monk in his cell,” he taunted, entering the open one of the double doors. After the brilliant sunlight he had to pause and let his eyes adjust to the windowless Supply Room where two electric bulbs like burning tears dangling from the ends of chains increased the gloom. Ceiling-high cupboards, shelves and stacks of crates closed in heavily on the homemade desk where First-Fourth Leva, wry and bloodless as if the perpetual gloom of his castle had been transfused into his veins, sat, his thin nose greasy in a pool of light from the desk lamp, laboriously typing with two fingers.
“With a suit of sackcloth and a tub of ashes,” said Warden, whom a fond mother had named for St Anthony, “you could get yourself canonized tomorrow, Niccolo.”
“Go to hell,” said Leva, not looking up or stopping. “Has that new transfer showed up yet?”
“Saint Niccolo of Wahiawa,” Warden plagued him. “Dont you ever get tired of this life? I bet you got leather mould all over your balls.”
“Has he showed? or not?” Leva said. “I got his papers ready.”
“Not yet,” Warden leaned his elbows on the counter, “and for my dough I hope he never does.”
“Why not?” Leva asked, innocently. “I hear he’s a damn good soldier.”
“He’s a hardhead,” Warden said, amiably. “I know him. A goddam hardhead. Have you been over to Wahiawa to Big Sue’s lately? Her girls will fix that mould up for you. They got good saddlesoap, homemade.”
“How can I?” Leva said. “On what you people pay me? I hear that this Prewitt is quite a fighter,” he teased, “that he will be a fine addition to Dynamite’s menagerie.”
“That he will be another worthless mouth for me to feed,” Warden said. “Did you hear that too? Why not? I’m used to it. Its too bad he had to wait till February, till the ending of the boxing season. Now he’ll have to wait till next December for his sergeantcy.”
“You poor, poor, unhappy man,” Leva said, “that everybody takes advantage of.” He leaned back and waved his hand at the piles of equipment stacked everywhere and that he had been working on for three days now. “I’m glad I got a nice soft easy well-paid job.”
“A goddam hardhead,” Warden lamented, grinning, “a worthless Kentuckian, but who will be a corporal in six weeks, but who will still be a worthless goddam hardhead.”
“But a good bugler though,” Leva said. “I’ve heard him. A damn good bugler. The best bugler on the Post,” he said, grinning.
Warden banged his fist down on the counter. “Then he should of stayed in the fucking Bugle Corps,” he shouted, “instead of fucking up my outfit.” He flung back the folding countertop, kicked open the plywood door and went inside the counter, threading through the piles of shirts and pants and leggins on the floor.
Leva ducked his head back down to his typewriter and began to poke it, snuffling softly through his long thin nose.
“Have you got this goddam clothing issue stuff closed out yet?” Warden raged at him.
“What the hell you think I am?” Leva asked, still laughing silently.
“A goddam supply clerk, whose job is to get this stuff done instead of gossipping about transfers all the time. You should have had this done two days ago.”
“Tell it to Supply Sergeant O’Hayer,” Leva said, “I’m only the clerk here.”
Warden stopped his raging as suddenly as he had started it and loo